#like the song goes‚ her world is burning down around her

[wazzi2ya]

Art for the portraits in Sinsmas by jigokuhana89

[bring-forth-his-sac]

Not sure if this is too far but maybe some dads best friend mixed in with close calls and very rough stuff if ya know what I mean 😏

Stained

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings/Tags:  rough sex, degrading name calling (slut), mentions of a facial, cheating (soz Lucille), alcohol consumption, hair pulling, semi-public sex

It happened again.

By now, Negan knows the routine. Argue. Say shit neither one of them can take back. Lucille kicks him out or else Negan reaches his limit and storms out. Make up later. It’s their pattern.

But tonight is different. 

They were supposed to go to a friend’s house for dinner, which threw a wrench in their usual routine. A part of Negan still wanted to go. Sure, he dreaded the tension-filled conversation, Lucille throwing in her usual passive-aggressive digs, but there was a silver lining: he could vent afterward. He needed to. To someone who’d actually get it, without the sugar-coating.

Negan has been friends with your dad for years, long enough to know they could trade a few sharp words and move on without it turning into some dramatic scene. Sometimes, Negan could really use that kind of blunt, no-nonsense talk with another guy. 

But hell, he wouldn’t mind shooting the shit with you either. You always got his humor and honestly, you were the only one who could make him laugh without trying so damn hard.

Instead of your home, he finds himself at a bar. Lucille was quick to call dibs on going solo to your parents house, not wanting to deal with Negan in front of friends. 

He left without another word, driving to the local watering hole like a man on a mission.

The bar is the usual kind of dimly lit place that doesn't ask questions. Negan doesn’t need questions tonight. What he needs is a drink and a distraction.

He settles onto a chair by the bartop and orders a whiskey, the burn of it going down smoother than he expected.

Lucille’s parting words echo in his head, the sharpness of her dismissal stinging all over again. The way she had shut him down so easily, almost like telling off a child. Negan can feel the frustration creeping back in. He could’ve used a laugh tonight but instead, he’s stuck here. 

Alone, as usual.

On a typical night, Negan hates how quiet the bar is. He can’t stand silences, everything about it gets on his nerves. The patrons are too tight to even cough up a quarter to play a song on the jukebox. It always feels like the kind of place where the air is thick with nothingness and every minute stretches on longer than the last.

Negan doesn’t have the luxury to brood over that on this particular night. Instead, the loud chattering of a group of girls fills the bar, cutting through the silence like a chainsaw.

Just a handful of them crowd around a table, all bright-eyed and wide smiles, laughing as though the weight of the world hasn’t yet found them.

His brow furrows as he watches them out of the corner of his eye. They’re not doing anything wrong but the racket they’re making feels invasive in the normally subdued space. 

Every time they laugh, the sound hits him like a hammer to his skull, ringing in his ears. It’s like a constant, steady hum of disruption. Negan can appreciate a little noise and some new life in the place, but tonight?

Tonight, it’s too much. It’s frustrating him. He takes another swig of his whiskey but it doesn’t quite block out their high-pitched, frantic laughter. 

One of the girls spills a drink, and the others burst into a fresh round of giggles, the kind that seems to echo through the entire room. 

He’s about to look away when another girl quickly picks up the drink and continues to say something. She's sitting across from the others, leaning forward and talking animatedly, her hands flying through the air with each word. 

One of her hands subtly goes to her thigh and she tries to discreetly yank down her dress. 

Negan wonders if women know they don’t need to wear tight mini dresses or the crop tops to get laid. But he supposes that’s the joy of being a  youngster. They do stupid shit, wear stupid shit, drink stupid shit. Some grow out of it while others still say stupid shit and end up drinking alone at a bar.

His eyes flicker over her figure. Negan can’t see her face, the angle of her head and the way her body is half-turned away from him hides it. 

Negan doesn’t mind. He can still appreciate her thighs and the curve of her ass from his seat at the bar. Her hair and back covers most of her upper body too so Negan can’t appreciate any titty action just yet.

His fingers drum against the bar and he catches himself, realizing that he’s staring. He quickly looks away, taking another drink of his whiskey as if the liquid will wash away whatever was just stirred up inside him.

In a way, Negan’s glad you’re not like that. You’re pretty without all the extra shit. Since elementary school, you've never been the type to crave attention or stand out in a crowd. Yet you're not the kind of introvert who keeps completely to yourself either.

You fall somewhere in the middle, comfortable with who you are without needing to put on a show for anyone.

There’s been plenty of times you’ve been the most entertaining thing to Negan at your parent’s dinner parties. He loves the witty remarks you toss his way and how you both quietly poke fun at the evening while the others remain oblivious. Those little moments are the highlight of his night.

But, of course, there are also those other times. When a careless comment from your father or mother hits a nerve and you retreat into yourself, disappearing into the background. Negan can always tell when that happens; the sharpness in your eyes dulls and the sarcastic remarks you usually offer him vanish. 

He wonders if you’ll be disappointed tonight, when it’s only Lucille who arrives for dinner. You make the dinners bearable for him but surely you reciprocate that feeling. Both of you are as thick as thieves in your own subtle way.

The woman he’s been checking out stands, saying one more quick thing to her friends before she turns and heads for the bar.

Maybe it’s because you’re already clouding his thoughts that seeing you in person hits him even harder. He’s imagined you a thousand times, with your quiet demeanor and the casual clothes you wear that make you almost invisible.

The mental image of you is so vivid, it’s like you’ve been etched into his mind… yet here you are, so different than that.

You do the same action that you did earlier, yanking down the end of your dress as it threatens to ride up your thigh. Negan lets out a gulp, not sure how he feels at the fact that he’s been checking out his friend’s daughter.

Turning back to say something to your friends, you let out a laugh as you clog along in your high heels to the bar. 

This is exactly what you needed. A night away from all your worries and stresses… and your parents. 

Besides, you're an adult now. You’re allowed to have fun! Whether that be crazy golf, drinking until you need your stomach pumped or smoking whatever. No matter how much guilt or pressure your parents try to put on you, tonight is yours. You’re no longer bound by their expectations. You can take a break from being the person they want you to be and just be.

Maybe that’s why the words “Lydia found out her boyfriend cheated so everyone was going to go over to hers and cheer her up!” came out of your mouth when you told your parents you couldn’t stay for dinner instead of “We all want to go out and down tequila shots!”.

Whether your actual reasoning would’ve worked or not, it doesn’t matter because they let you out with no more than a remorseful look as you left to help your heartbroken friend.

“Get more salt sachets!” a giddy Lydia calls out as you clip-clop up to the bar. 

You’re so caught up in your own little bubble of excitement that you barely notice the guy at the bar. You wait beside him, leaning on the counter and waiting until the bartender comes over. When you feel his eyes linger, you glance his way, wondering if you’ve found some fun for the night. 

You look over, pre-emptively batting your eyes lashes everything seems to slow down. There, standing just a few inches away, is Negan. Your dad’s friend. 

You freeze for a moment, excuses caught in your throat, as you realize that it’s not just the familiarity of his face that’s throwing you off. It’s the way he's looking at you. Negan’s expression is unreadable but the way his gaze lingers has a weight that catches you off guard.

You try to swallow the sudden lump in your throat. What is he thinking? How long has he been standing there? And why, of all people, did it have to be him?

You hate it. On one hand, you want to ignore him. Maybe give him a nod of acknowledgment before pretending like you’re not in front of someone you’ve known since you were a kid. 

But on the other hand, you know what Negan’s like and the last thing you want is for him to loudly draw attention to your… friendship? 

Ushering yourself closer, you hurriedly whisper “What are you doing here?!”.

Negan struggles to maintain his composure, forcing himself to keep his eyes on your face instead of letting them wander. 

“What am I doing here?” His jaw clenches as if readying himself to barrage you with questions “What are you doing here, dressed like that? Are you drunk? Do your parents know you’re here? I swear….”.

You scoff defensively, glancing down at the glass of whiskey in front of him. “Oh so I can’t go out with friends but you’re allowed to drown your sorrows?”.

Negan doesn’t even entertain your question, immediately waving it off. “That’s not the damn point,” he hisses “I’m not the one with my tits out and stumbling around a bar!”. 

He shoots some other patrons a glare as they try to eavesdrop, making sure they keep their eyes to themselves. You gasp, putting a hand on your chest. Maybe your dress is a lower cut than what you’d usually wear but your boobs aren’t about to pop out of the thing!

“You— you can’t talk to me like that!” despite how your face flushes, you stand your ground. You’ve always known Negan to be raunchy but not once has he ever spoken to you like this before.

"Can't talk to you like what?” Negan doesn’t give you the time to ponder that rhetorical question, crossing his arms as he continues to lecture you.

“You think you look appropriate right now? You think your parents would approve of this outfit?" his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“I’m out with friends, not at dinner with my parents!” You defend, deciding to add in your own jab “Besides, I thought you were at theirs tonight, having dinner with Lucille… not drinking alone”.

Negan can’t keep still. He’s too antsy, wanting to shake some sense into you but trying to stay cool in public.

With an elbow propped up on the bar, Negan points a finger at you “Watch it, before I haul your ass outta here”.

This is the closest you’ve ever seen Negan to real anger. Whenever he’s been at your house, it’s always been the aftermath of it you’ve witnessed. His sullen mood and Lucille’s small comments at him whenever the conversation allowed; both of them handling their simmering frustration in their own way. 

To not only witness his anger first hand, but to have it directed at you… you’re not sure if you want to pout or get on your knees right then and there.

You scoff, trying to seem unbothered. “Enjoy your drink, I’m going back to my friends,” you say it with just enough sass, turning to retreat back to your table.

You know it’s a pointless endeavour. 

Negan won’t allow it. And you know it.

His hand snakes around your upper arm, his grip firm but not painful. "Oh no you don't,” he tugs you back, urging you to face him again “we’re leaving. Now”.

You were hoping for a little more time here, a bit more back-and-forth, rile him up before hopefully breaking down those stubborn walls. 

“You can leave, but I’m not!” you snap, digging your heels in.

He leans in close, his anger flaring back to life as his voice drops into a dangerously low growl. “I’m not asking you, sweetheart, I’m telling you” the pet name slips out like a command, making something tighten in your chest. 

“You’re drunk, you’re dressed like a goddamn slut and you’re not staying in this bar another second”.

Is it bad you can feel the heat between your legs as he degrades you? How is it your dad’s friend, someone you kinda considered your own friend too, is calling you a slut so easily? And why does he keep trying to steal quick glances at your chest?

Heh, well, you know the answer to that last question.

Still, you play your part and you slap his arm. “Don’t call me that! Jackass” you say with a defiant huff.

His eyes widen but Negan doesn’t acknowledge the slap in the way you wanted him to. Instead of continuing to bicker, he grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair and throws it on, his movements sharp. 

“Jackass?” he repeats, clearly not amused.

“Yes! You’re acting like a major jackass!” you fire back, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in your voice. 

Negan grins, that mocking, almost wicked smile spreading across his face as steers you away from the bar.

“Yeah, and you know what else I am?” he asks “The one dragging your drunk, barely dressed ass out of this bar before you make a complete fool of yourself”.

He starts tugging you toward the exit. “I had like… two drinks!” you protest, stumbling slightly to keep up.

But just as he’s about to drag you out the door, you use all the momentum you have to shove him into the door right next to the exit. 

The ladies toilets. 

Your friends giggle as you both disappear from sight, assuming you’re hooking up with the stranger. They’ve always known you have a thing for older men but little do they know who he really is…

Negan stumbles into the bathroom, his mind still trying to process how he went from the exit to somehow ending up in here instead. His brow furrows as he takes in the situation.

Before he can say a word, you speak, your voice steady but firm “Negan, I’m not leaving”.

He steps closer “Yes. You. Are. We’re leaving. Right. Now”. His hand shoots out to grab your arm, but you’re already one step ahead. You sidestep him, narrowly avoiding his grip.

“No!” you exclaim, more forcefully than you intended. Hoping to get through to him, you soften your tone, offering a sliver of vulnerability. “My parents don’t know I’m here… they think I’m just at a friend’s place” you admit.

Your words hang in the air, a soft confession of rebellion. But Negan’s response is as expected—he rolls his eyes, the action exaggerated as if he’s heard this excuse a thousand times before. 

“I don’t give a fuck if your parents ground you for a year!” He snaps, his voice low but intense “You’re not staying here dressed like that and acting like this”.

“Acting like what? Having fun?”.

His jaw clenches. “By acting like you’re only worth a quick fuck in the backseat of someone’s car,” Negan replies, the words carrying a weight that makes your stomach sink.

The insult stings, but you refuse to back down. With a small scoff, you shake your head and tilt your chin up slightly. “You’re telling me you didn’t do that when you were young?” you challenge.

Negan’s expression falters for a split second, his lips twitching as if he’s about to crack a grin but he maintains his steely expression. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, his stance stiffening. “I did it because I’m a guy,” he mutters, his tone clipped “so it’s different”.

“That’s misogynist,” you point out as you cross your arms, unintentionally making your cleavage more noticeable.

For a moment, you catch Negan’s gaze flickering downward before snapping back up to your eyes, his face strained. 

His lips press together in a tight line, his eyes briefly closing in frustration as he fights to maintain his composure. “Fuck, can you just…” Negan gestures vaguely at you “Cover up or something?”.

Without waiting for an answer, Negan turns away, running a hand through his dark locks. 

You let out a quiet sigh. “I didn’t bring a jacket,” you say flatly, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

He mutters something under his breath, too quiet for you to catch. With a dramatic huff, he whips off his leather jacket. “Of course you didn’t. On top of everything else, you want to get hypothermia too” His voice drips with exasperation.

Negan turns back to you, holding out the jacket, his eyes briefly look to your chest again before quickly darting back to your face, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You catch the slight pause, the way his gaze betrays him, but you choose not to acknowledge it— at least, not directly. You stare him down, not hiding the smirk plastered on your face. Then, in one swift movement, he practically hurls the jacket at you. 

“Here,” he says, the word a little too resigned.

Instinctively, you catch the jacket, but you don’t put it on. Instead, you hold it in your arms, letting it drape over them as you roll your eyes at his comments. 

“I’m not some delicate little flower,” you tease, your smirk becoming playful “maybe I like it rough”.

The words slip out without thinking, a little too flippantly, and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

Maybe those two drinks were enough to get you tipsy after all.

Negan’s eyes narrow at you and you can see the gears turning in his head. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Maybe amusement, maybe disbelief, but before he can say anything, you catch the faintest hint of a smirk forming on his lips.

He steps closer, his imposing frame shadowing you as he leans in. “Damn, you’re something else,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place.

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the overwhelming presence he has, but for the first time tonight, you feel a small shiver run up your spine. 

“Rough, huh?” His words are like a threat, his tone smooth and dangerous.

Before you can respond, his hand shoots out, and suddenly, he has a firm grip on your hair, tugging it just enough to pull your head back. 

“Ow! Negan!!” You whine, your voice a mix of surprise and irritation. Good job at proving you like it rough.

He loosens his grip, but his fingers stay tangled in your hair, holding you captive in his gaze. He stares down at you, his dark eyes boring into yours. 

“You think I don’t notice how gorgeous you are?” he murmurs, his voice low, almost possessive “But this? Telling me you like it rough? Tsk, tsk, tsk”. 

Your heart skips a beat at the admission, and your eyes widen ever so slightly. The words settle in your chest, warm and electric, and for a split second, everything else fades away. 

Negan thinks you’re gorgeous. 

You can barely process it but you don’t get a chance to let the moment settle. His fingers tighten in your hair again, this time with purpose. 

“There’s a difference,” he growls, his voice rougher now, “between making eyes at some random guy at a bar and teasing a man who actually knows what to do with you”.

You swallow hard. His grip on you, the way he towers over you, his scent— all of it feels like a pressure you can’t escape. You can barely breathe.

“And you…” You pause, testing the waters “You know what to do with me?”.

And then, possibly the most un-hot thing happens. A toilet flushes. The sound is loud and sudden, causing you both to freeze. It comes from one of the stalls at the end of the room and it’s quickly followed by the drunken shuffling of feet and a zipping noise. 

Without a word, you and Negan lock eyes, an unspoken agreement passing between you in that single, charged moment. 

“Shit,” Negan mutters under his breath, his hand still tangled in your hair, but now pulling you toward the nearest empty cubicle with urgency. 

“Ouch!” you whisper, batting at his hand and making him untangle his hand from your hair. You barely have time to shoot him a glare before he’s guiding you into the small space, his body close behind you.

Just as the cubicle at the end of the room unlocks, the lock to your cramped cubicle slots into place with a soft click.

For a moment, you both hold your breath. You’re pressed together in the cramped space, his chest against your back, your bodies flush together.

You hear the drunken patron stumble, mumbling something unintelligible as they turn on one of the taps and start washing their hands. You both hold still, waiting for the heavy footsteps to move away. Negan holds you against him, one hand on your waist to keep you close. 

Although that’s not the only thing that’s touching you. 

It’s hard not to notice the unmistakable press of his semi-erect cock nestling against the curve of your ass. It feels firm yet pliant, a promise of things to come. 

Turning your head just enough to look up at him through your eyelashes. He doesn’t meet your gaze, too busy zoning into some spot in the stall door as he listens intently to the patron outside.

His brow furrows just slightly, the lines on his forehead deepening as he focuses. You can tell he's strategizing, weighing up different excuses in case he’s caught in the ladies room. Negan’s lips are pressed together, a slight tension around them, but it's not a scowl. 

Deciding you want some attention, you press your ass back slightly. You hear a grunt.

“You’re not making this easy on me,” he huffs. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck as he looks down.

Through the thin walls, you can hear the drunk go on their way, their footsteps slowly fading as they stagger out of the bathroom. The door swings shut with a final, echoing creak. 

As if to prove his point, Negan moves his hips forward, forcing his erection against your ass. He’s harder than you thought and you shudder at the mere size of the thing in his pants. 

He makes a quiet, pleased sound against your ear as his hand trails up your waist, teasing passing the side of your breast before settling on the back of your neck. 

“Fuck, you're responsive…” He pulls back slightly, making sure you can still feel him.

“Is that a good thing?” you ask softly.

He chuckles, his voice low and husky. “It's a dangerous thing, darlin,” he squeezes your neck teasingly “Nothing good ever comes from being too responsive... unless you're trying to drive a man wild”.

“Maybe that’s exactly why I’m trying to do” you push back against him again, this time bending your body slightly to really accentuate your ass.

Except all that does is encourage your dress to ride up your thighs again, stopping just before your ass. Grabbing his leather jacket from your arms, Negan tosses it up on the stall door before moving to your thighs.

Negan isn’t a one to waste time, especially when it comes to taking advantage of certain situations. Bringing both hands down to your thighs, he helps you dress by tugging it up in one swift movement. You let out a gasp as the cool, thankfully air conditioned bathroom making the skin on your ass get goosebumps.

“Negan! I-“ you move to turn away so he can’t see your ass but Negan’s one step ahead this time.

 Looping an arm around your torso, he makes sure you keep the squirming to a minimum. With his other hand, he brings it down between your legs and presses a finger against your panties.

He holds you in place, bent at the hips and ass against his crotch. You can feel the dampness of your panties against your heat. The wetness seeps into the fabric, making it stick to the lips of your pussy. 

“Fuck me, you are soaked!” with no qualms about modesty, Negan swipes the tacky panties to the side and gets a feel of your folds himself. 

You stop a moan from escaping, not wanting to be too eager. "Goddamn, you're a sticky little mess, ain't ya? All wet and sloppy, just fucking dripping” he teases your hole, momentarily pressing a finger to it but never dipping inside.

Hoping to gain some control, you go to stand up straight. The thoughts of looking into his eyes as he fingers you is more appealing than your view being the wall of a bathroom stall.

But Negan isn’t as fond of the idea. The arm looped around you quickly makes its way to your back, forcing you to stay bent. You let out a scoff as the side of your face smushes against the wall. 

“Negan, what the fuck?” You whine, blindly throwing one of your arms back at him “If you’re gonna finger me, at least let me enjoy it!”.

“Nuh-uh,” he grabs your arm and presses it against your back, restraining you before he continues his exploration of your pussy “I get to decide how the fuck we do this”.

You quieten down when you feel a finger trace your folds, spreading your wetness around. “You this much of a slut for every guy or am I just lucky?” He asks, chuckling at his own thoughts “Your friends were cheering like this is a usual thing for you”.

Before you can reply, Negan plunges two fingers deep inside your dripping cunt, his thumb grinding against your clit. “I— ah!” You mewl, trying to give a coherent response “N-no, never!”.

Negan picks up his pace, loving how you give in, basically slumping against the wall. “See, doll, I want to believe you. I mean, I don’t know that many sluts that get this fucking wet from just a little grinding… it’s shameful, really” he curls his fingers to hit the perfect spot, making your squirm.

“But in saying that,” Negan continues, his breath hitting against your neck as he leans closer “I don’t know that many modest gals that wear something like this”. 

Deciding you know better than to repeat your mistake and move again, Negan takes his hand off your back and paws at your chest instead. But in true Negan fashion, he needs to up his antics.

Tugging down the low cut neckline of your dress, you hear a ripping noise as he pulls at the fabric and forces it down past your bra.

“Huh… surprised your modest enough to wear a bra” he comments, quickly rectifying the situation. Without warning, Negan roughly shoves the bra cups up, freeing your tits completely. "Fuck, look at these," he growls, appreciating the sight of your breasts spilling out. 

The fingers he has working your hole pause and retreat, much to your disappointment. You take the opportunity to turn around to face him, starting to feeling a crick in your neck from being smushed up by the wall.

“Asshole, you tore my dress“ your voice is laced with frustration, although that may be from how much you want him to stop teasing and fuck you already. 

With an amused scoff, Negan goes to hold up his hands in surrender. His fingers glisten with your juices. “I’m trying to be a gentlemen here, doll” he chuckles as he defends himself.

You fight the urge to cover yourself, knowing that’s what he’s waiting for. He wants to see that shy side, to see you blush and get flustered. 

You glare at him instead “How is this being a gentleman?”.

“Well, I coulda just ripped it clean off, but I left ya some dignity,” Negan smirks, crowding you again. You’re left no choice but to back into the wall, holding your glare as you look up at him.

“And I've fingered ya before fucking ya which is pretty damn noble” he adds, seeing you battle between staying annoyed and wanting to blush. You open your mouth to complain but a loud moan comes out instead as Negan pinches one of your nipples.

He thumbs your hard nipples, chuckling as they perk up even more under his touch. “Damn, always knew you’d have a good pair on ya," he muses “fuckin’ perfect”.

Negan doesn't hesitate, leaning down to engulf one nipple in his mouth. He sucks hard, letting his teeth graze the sensitive bud as he kneads the other breast roughly. Groaning around your nipple, he switches to the other, assaulting it with the same fervent enthusiasm. 

With a grunt, Negan grabs your thighs and hoists you up, pinning you against the wall with his muscular body. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, arms going around his shoulders.

Negan grinds his still clothed cock against your bare pussy, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. 

The rough denim of his pants provides no comfort, each thrust of his hips pressing his erection directly against your sensitive clit. "You feel that?" He asks against your tit “Want you to beg for it, gotta hear ya saying it”.

You have no hesitation. There is no reluctance to beg for him, not when you’re this close to getting what you thought would always be a wet dream. 

"Please, Negan, I need it!" you beg, your hips bucking against his pants in desperate attempts to get friction. “I’ve wanted you for so long, to fuck me in my bedroom o-or on the dinner table! Fuck, anywhere! I don’t care!”.

That seems to convince him. Reaching down and fumbling with his jeans, Negan has his cock out in record time. He grips the base, stroking it a few times as he lines it up with your soaked pussy. 

The head of his cock presses against your entrance, the tip barely peeking out from between your folds. Negan slowly eases in, allowing you to adjust to his massive size. 

You writhe and moan against him, trying to keep your body relaxed as he enters you. Trying your best to keep eye contact, you let out a string of whimpers as he fills you completely. 

"Damn, I actually fit," he says, stretching you out in a way you’ve never felt before. Negan pulls out carefully, as if testing the waters before plunging back into your needy pussy with vigor.

"Holy fuck, even tighter than I imagined. Built for my dick, aren't you?" he grunts, starting to fuck you hard.

Each brutal thrust of his hips drives his thick cock deeper into your pussy, stretching you wide open. "Fuck, you're so tight it feels like my dick is splitting you in half. Love it. Fucking love it" Negan rambles on and grabs your thighs, spreading them as wide as he can.

"Fuck, Negan... you're so..." you try to speak "ah!”. It’s all too much in the best way possible. That delicious ache of being so thoroughly penetrated, the feeling of absolute fullness with each deep thrust.

"More... fuck me more..." your hips arch up to meet his thrusts, trying to keep up.

Negan angles his hips upwards, hitting that spot inside you over and over as he pounds into you. "Look at me," He growls, "Look at me while I break you in half with my dick. You like that? You like feeling so stuffed?"

“I-I've never been this full before…” you say with teary eyes.

Negan notices your body tensing and shuddering beneath him, your pussy walls starting to flutter wildly around his thick cock. "Holy shit, there it is... Your cunt's squeezin' me like a fuckin' vice. You gonna cum on my dick?".

The pressure is building to an unbearable point, your entire body trembling as your orgasm approaches. Your mind goes blank, unable to answer his question as he hits that perfect spot.

Just as your orgasm hits, Negan feels your pussy clamp down around him like a silken fist. "Holy fuck..." you gasp, back arching as pure pleasure courses through your veins. 

Your entire body quakes, inner muscles milking his cock as you ride out your intense orgasm. You dig your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling uncontrollably.

Negan grunts, fucking you through your intense orgasm with deep, deliberate strokes. He can feel your pussy spasming wildly around his shaft, coating him in your slick arousal. As the last waves shudder through you, he finally pulls out, his cock glistening with in the light.

He lets you stand for a moment but you legs are so wobbly, it’s difficult to support your weight after that intense orgasm.

Before you can even catch your breath, Negan grabs your shoulder roughly and forces you onto your knees. Your body complies in an instant, unable to fight against such force.

Your knees ache as they hit the bathroom floor but that’s the least of your concerns. You look up at him in wide-eyed shock, lips parted as you anticipate him coming all over your face.

"Fuckin' hell, such a pretty face..." He strokes his throbbing cock with his fist, ready to explode.

But instead of aiming for your face, Negan aims his cock at your chest, unleashing a thick, hot load of cum all over your tits. He groans loudly as he paints your breasts with his seed, the warm liquid dripping down between your cleavage and seeping into the fabric of your dress.  

“Next time you’re either swallowing it or you’re getting a facial courtesy of yours truly” he informs you, although the only piece of information you truly savor from that is ‘next time’.

Doing the gentlemanly thing, he grabs some tissue from the toilet paper dispenser and hands it to you. You dab at your chest, knowing the dress is a lost cause and will probably have to be thrown out later. 

“Help me up?” You ask, somewhat shyly once you’re done.

Taking your arm in a much more gentle grip than before, Negan helps you up, subtly looking over your chest to make sure you’ve wiped off all of him. “You feeling alright?” he asks lowly, as if remembering the public place you’re both in. 

You blink, giving yourself a moment to calm, your body still humming with the aftermath. “That was…” you pause, collecting your thoughts, “...wow.”

A soft chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he slips his leather jacket off the stall door. “Well, that’s a better response than I expected,” he says with a smirk, draping the jacket around your shoulders and gently guiding your arms into the sleeves. Without a word about how the jacket nearly swallows you whole, he zips it up, pulling it snug to cover your chest. 

This is a completely different side to the Negan you’ve seen tonight. This is the Negan that gives you a small, reassuring smile after your parents throw some off handed insult your way. 

The two of you stand close, your breaths mingling. Slowly, the space between your faces narrows, as if drawn by some unspoken pull. You gently tilt your head, just enough to bring your lips into alignment with his. 

The kiss is a tender brush. Featherlight and hesitant. It’s the kind of kiss you’d expect before going at it like a bunch of animals… not afterwards.

The kiss lingers, still tasting of warmth and something unspoken. Pulling back just enough to rest your forehead against his, you can feel the soft touch of his lips still tingling on yours. You mutter against his lips, almost sheepishly “Can you drop me home?”.

His lips curl into a quiet smile, a slight glint in his eyes as he nods. “Considering I didn’t get to finish my first glass of whiskey, yeah I should be good,” Negan gives you a playful look.

Unable to help yourself, you give him a small smile. It’s not as seductive or teasing as the ones you have given him previously. In all honestly, it feels like Negan has fucked the seductiveness out of you– if that’s even possible.  

“... So this wasn’t some drunken mistake?” you ask coyly. 

Negan wraps an arm around your shoulders as he unlocks the stall door and carefully guides you out. ”Wear a dress like that the next time I’m at your parents for dinner and you’ll find out” he replies with a smirk. 

Besides his tousled hair, Negan still looks fine. He’s not dishevelled or out of breath or having trouble walking… all things you attribute to yourself.

Negan notices your state too, keeping his arm around you as you subtly leave the bathrooms and head for the exit. If it’s even possible, Negan pulls you closer, guiding you out like a drunk that’s had one too many. His presence is possessive in the gentlest of ways.

You give your friends a knowing look as you both leave, one that says you’ll explain everything later.

The sound of drunken chattering and laughter fades as you step out into the night, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the parking lot. 

When you reach the car, he opens the door for you with a small smirk, his eyes never leaving yours as you slide into the seat.  A few moments later, Negan slides into the driver's seat and the engine rumbles to life. 

The car doesn’t even get out of the parking lot before Negan’s hand finds yours. The ride home is quiet. He doesn’t say much, and neither do you, but the silence between you feels relaxed.

Every now and then, his thumb gently brushes across the back of your hand like a quiet reassurance. He doesn’t mention the contact, simply letting it linger. 

 The soft, rhythmic motion of the car becomes like a lullaby and with every mile, the weight of the night lifts just a little more. Every so often, you glance over at him, his face relaxed. When your eyes meet, he offers a smile and you sleepily return it.

Negan doesn’t pull up directly outside your house. Strategically stopping his car a little down the street, he sighs.

“Hate to say it but I’ll need that jacket back,” he gives you a once over, as if to memorize what his leather jacket looks like on you.

Fiddling with the zipper, you mumble “So I’m supposed to walk in there with a ripped up dress?”.

He laughs at that, shaking his head before reaching into the backseat. “Here, I know it’s dirty but it’s the best I can offer,” Negan hands you a sweatshirt. 

The sweatshirt is faded, its fabric softened from years of use. The sleeves are slightly frayed at the cuffs and a few small holes hint at its age. On the front, several dark oil stains mark where hands have wiped off grease, probably from Negan when working on his motorbike. 

But most importantly, it smells like him.

As you take off his jacket and put on the sweatshirt instead, Negan gives you some privacy and looks away. “Are you coming in too?” You ask, gently placing his jacket on his lap once you’ve changed.

Taking that as his signal to look, Negan gives you a sympathetic smile. “Not tonight, darlin,” he replies “think Lucille would chop my nuts off with your mom’s fancy silver if I showed my face”.

“You two are fighting that bad?”.

Negan shrugs “Same old, same old”.

You try not to fidget with the frayed sleeves of his sweatshirt, not wanting to pick at it right in front of him. 

“And… this?” You focus your attention at simply inspecting the sleeves instead of picking at them “I mean, I know you said it wasn’t a drunken mistake but still… I get it if you wanna pretend like it never happened”.

As much as you wanted quick reassurance, you’re met with silence. 

Negan leans back in his seat, taking his eyes away from yours and looking at the street. Up ahead, he can see the porch light on to your parents house. Although, he doubts Lucille will be leaving anytime soon. She’ll probably stay late, try to wait it out until Negan has drank himself silly and fallen asleep.

“Tonight shouldn’t have happened,” he says with little emotion “It ain’t right. I know it. You know it. Hell, anyone in a ten mile radius would call me all sorts of names if they knew about it…  fucking your friend’s daughter is a whole mess”.

You stay quiet, unsure whether you should just get out now.

“But shit, if you wanted to suck my dick right now, I wouldn’t say no,” he chuckles “it’s a fucked up thing to say but I wouldn’t mind something like this happening again”.

That puts a smile back on your face. Getting ready to leave, you say “Maybe if you come to dinner next time, I will suck your dick”.

Negan watches you with narrowed eyes. Of course you’d be able to make his dick twitch again, making him feel like a teenager that could get it up over and over again. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he warns as you get out.

“Good,” you hop out of the car, giving him one last flirtatious smirk before going “I hope you do”.

Closing the door, you strut along the pavement, your heels clicking as you go to your house. Walking has never seemed so hard, not only because of your shoe choice but from the aching in your gut and your legs wobbling more than you’d like to admit. 

Still, you try to do your best to walk straight, knowing Negan is watching. 

When you get to the front door, you give Negan one last glance before disappearing inside. He wait a few moments before starting up his car and leaving. 

The first thing you hear is a chorus of polite laughter from the dining room. Great, looks like they’re still in the midst of dinner. Before you have a chance to debate if you could get upstairs without them hearing, you hear your father call out your name.

“Is that you?” He calls out.

Reluctantly, you walk in, lingering by the doorway. Your parents to turn in their dining chairs to face you. Whereas Lucille has you right in her line of view. She offers you a gracious smile as you enter.

“I thought you were staying at Lydia’s tonight,” you mom says, eyeing your sweatshirt and what appears to be a skirt. Thankfully she doesn’t comment on how short it is.

“Eh, Lydia talked things out with her boyfriend so they’re back together again,” you lie casually “you know how they are; fight, break up and make up”.

Lucille casts her gaze down slightly, as if your words hit a little too close to home for her. You shift uncomfortably. 

“There’s some leftovers in the kitchen if you’re hungry” your mom says, blissfully unaware.

“I’m ok,” you give her a smile “I think I might just shower and head to bed early”.

“Alright,” she already waves you off, turning back in her seat “if you’re sure”.

You don’t linger, giving them a polite nod before leaving. It’s only when you turn to leave does Lucille look at you again. 

She’s never believed in coincidences. And she’s never believed you to be into repairing cars. She knows the faint stains on your sweatshirt, mainly because she’s the one who spent hours trying to scrub them out… only for Negan to reward her with new stains on the damn thing. 

Nodding along with whatever it is your father is saying, Lucille’s mind strays further and further from the dinner and to Negan instead. 

Something’s happened. What exactly, she’s not sure. But you’re involved and so is her damned husband.

—————

Part 2 can be found here!!

A/N: thought I’d put in a quick note just to say thanks for reading and apologies for disappearing all month! My family almost got scammed out of 11k (it was insane) but!! More importantly!! I got seriously bad writers block so apologies if this fic is a little choppy, I’m still getting back into my stride!!

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. eight

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟷 →

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

⭒ synopsis: Ellie leaves before sunrise, and with her goes every trace of the night you thought might save you both. You try to keep moving, caught in the glittering machinery of your own tour, singing songs that taste like ash. But the cracks spread faster than you can hide them. And in a world that never cared if either of you survived it, this part of your story cuts to the question no one ever wants to face—what do you do when love isn’t enough? 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 17,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: heavy angst, detailed violence, intense arguments, explicit language, sensitive themes, references to cigarettes, alcohol, and drug use, everyone here desperately needs a hug, AFAB!Reader, modern AU setting, multi-part series. MEN AND MINORS DNI. Likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated — thank you for supporting! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains depictions of heavy drug use, addiction, and withdrawal. These are serious and sensitive topics, and while I’ve done my best to approach them with care and respect, I want to prioritize your well-being above all.

If you are sensitive to these themes or if reading about them could be harmful to you in any way, I strongly encourage you to proceed with caution or consider skipping. Please take care of yourself first.

The room was still, steeped in the bleary, gray light of morning—the kind that barely made it past the heavy hotel curtains but managed to cast everything in a soft, ghostly hush. 

Nothing moved, yet everything felt like it might break if touched.

It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that comes when something’s been shattered, and the pieces haven’t yet decided where to fall.

The night before clung to the air like thick smoke. It didn’t feel real, more like a fever dream, too sharp and painful to be fiction, and too surreal to trust. Your throat still ached from screaming. Your eyes burned with a kind of tiredness that sleep can’t fix. 

And Ellie looked like a version of herself you’d never seen before.

Not healed. Not ruined. Just…stripped down to something rawer. Fragile.

She was crouched beside her suitcase on the floor, hair damp from the shower and darker where it clung to her temples. Around her was the slow, distracted chaos of packing—half-folded shirts, tangled cords, a hairbrush missing its cap, a pair of socks curled beside an open toiletries bag. Her movements were slow, almost mechanical, as if afraid she might shatter if she moved too fast. 

As if her body was full of glass and one wrong bend would make her bleed.

You sat on the bed, curled into yourself, knees tucked beneath her oversized shirt. It still smelled faintly of her. Smoke, cologne, something darker threaded underneath. Once, it would’ve been comforting. Now, it clung to you with a sour edge, a bitter aftertaste you couldn’t shake, a reminder that even the things you loved most could break when you held them too tightly.

You hadn’t spoken more than two words since the alarm split the heavy silence wide open. Since reality cut through the fragile hush and reminded you both that her jet to London wasn’t going to wait. Not for grief. Not for guilt. And much less for the slow, aching work of healing that still hung, unfinished, between you.

You cleared your throat, forcing the words out.

"You have to eat real food," you said, voice steady even though your heart was racing. "Not just whatever crap’s on the rider. I want actual meals. Protein. Vegetables. Something warm at least once a day."

Ellie let out a short snort. Dry, empty. Lacking that heat it always had.

"Okay, mom." 

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared at her, letting the silence fill the room until it started to press against your ribs.

"I’m serious."

The air shifted. Tightened. Ellie turned her head just enough that you caught the flicker of her jaw tightening, the way she ground her teeth together like she wanted to say something cruel but bit it back.

"Jesus fucking christ. I said okay." she snapped, not loud, but sharp enough to sting.

You didn’t back down. You leaned forward, voice cutting through the stale air.

"I'm doing this because I love you. Because I'm fucking terrified every second you’re not next to me. Because you’ve lost weight and you can’t sleep unless you’re high and you think I don’t notice, but I do."

She froze. Like you’d hit something she couldn’t defend.

For a second, everything was still. Her chest rose, shallow and slow, and then sank again, like the effort of breathing itself had turned into a negotiation. Her fingers twitched, then tightened around the deodorant in her hand until her knuckles went white. You saw the tremor—the way she clenched to hide it, to pretend she was still in control.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. Pushed forward because if you didn’t say it all now, you never would.

"And you have to call me," you added, quieter. "Every day. Even if it’s just for five minutes. Even if you’ve had the worst day of your fucking life. I don’t care. I don't care if it’s 4 a.m, or if you're half dead from soundcheck or if you’re strung out or if you hate yourself that day—"

You paused, just long enough to breathe around the shaking in your chest.

"You still have to call. I’ll always pick up."

Ellie finally looked at you.

Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red at the edges. And you noticed. She'd cried in the shower. She'd cried before, during it, and after. She looked exhausted. Of the world, of her life, but mostly of herself.

And somehow, seeing that hurt worse than anything she could ever say.

She swallowed hard, jaw flexing, and then her voice came—rough, raw, barely above a whisper.

"Every day?" she said. "Even if I sound like shit?"

"Especially then."

Ellie dragged a hand through her hair, the movement jerky, like she wanted to tear it out by the roots. She stared at the floor for a long moment, her whole body tense, like she was fighting something no one else could see.

And then, finally, she muttered,

"Okay. I will."

You nodded, heart hammering.

"I spoke to Jesse. Dina. Your manager. Your assistant. Everyone’s in the loop now. If something happens–if you start slipping–they’ll tell me. You’re not alone in this, Ellie."

She crouched by her suitcase again, reaching for a boot with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. She turned it over in her palm, staring at the worn sole like it might somehow offer her a way out of this conversation. When she spoke, her voice was low and bitter again.

"So what, y’all made a fuckin' watchlist for me?"

Your heart twisted. "No. We made a net."

She shook her head, a sharp, disbelieving movement. "Feels the same."

"I’m not saying it because I think you’re a problem. I’m saying it because if you fall, I want someone there to catch you. And I need you to understand that. I need you to understand how I feel too."

She shoved the boot into the suitcase with a force that felt almost painful to watch. The thud of it loud in the stillness of the room.

And you saw it—the silent battle flickering behind her eyes. The part of her that wanted to thank you, to reach for you. And the part that wanted to slam the door, scream at you to stop looking at her like she was broken.

"You really think I can make it a month and a half?"

Her voice barely made it across the space between you, trembling and frayed at the edges, but still steady. Just like her.

You shifted forwards instinctively, closer now. Close enough to smell the faint citrus of her shampoo, the salt of dried sweat and something sharper still—something that clung to her like a second skin.

"I think you can make it one day," your voice sure, even if everything inside you trembled. "And then another. And another after that. That’s all I’m asking, Ellie. Just for you to try. Until the tour’s over and you can walk into rehab. Let someone help you. For real this time."

Ellie turned, slowly, until her eyes caught yours—and this time, she didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

Didn’t hide.

"I’ve been doing this for years," she whispered, and it was a confession pulled from somewhere deep. "Touring high. Playing high. Recording shit I don’t even remember writing. That’s just how this works. It’s how I work."

"It’s how you survive," you corrected, your voice soft but unflinching. "But it doesn’t have to be the way you live."

She let out a breath—shaky, bitter. "I don’t even know who I am without it."

You leaned in closer to her, keeping your voice low and certain, because she needed certainty right now more than anything.

"Then we’ll figure it out. Together."

The words hovered in the air. Fragile. Brave. Naked.

Wordlessly, she shifted onto the bed beside you, the mattress not even making a sound beneath her light weight. Her thigh brushed yours—a ghost of a touch, but it anchored her there. Her hand found yours, and her fingers were freezing. She squeezed, like she was afraid you might pull away if she didn’t hold tight enough.

"...But what if I fuck it up again?" she asked, voice cracking.

You didn’t hesitate.

"Then you try again. And again. And again. Until you don’t."

She looked at you like the world had narrowed down to just this.

You could see it written all over her: the battle between the version of herself that believed she would never be enough and the tiny, desperate part that wanted—just this once—to be wrong about that.

And then, finally, she nodded. Once. And then again.

Her whole body moved with it, like she was learning how to believe it. How to believe you.

You reached up, took her face in your hands with the gentlest touch you could manage, thumbs brushing the sharp lines of her cheekbones. You leaned in until your foreheads touched. Careful. Careful. Like you were stepping towards a wounded animal.

"Promise me." you whispered, so quietly it was barely a sound. It was a prayer.

Ellie’s lips parted. You felt her breath catch against your skin. Her eyes shone, but she didn’t cry. She just breathed out, tremulous and trembling and real.

"I promise." 

But even as she said it, you could hear it—the doubt coiled inside her voice, the quiet fear that even her best effort wouldn’t be enough to keep her from slipping.

Because she didn’t fully believe it. She was terrified she wouldn’t be able to keep it. But she wanted to. She desperately wanted to.

And for this fragile, this bleeding, desperate, exhausted morning.

You both thought that was enough.

The car ride to the tarmac felt both impossibly fast and excruciatingly slow at the same time—like the universe couldn’t make up its mind whether it wanted to prolong the moment or rip it from your hands. 

Outside, the sky was a washed-out slate, the kind that promised rain but never delivered—just hung there heavy, unrelenting. As if It knew the ache in your chest and decided to match it. 

Neither of you spoke much. Ellie sat beside you, hood up, fingers fiddling with the drawstrings of her sweatshirt. Every few seconds, your knees would brush, and each time it felt like the last thread tethering you to the night you’d just lived through.

The moment the SUV rolled to a stop beside the stairs of the jet, the weight of everything between you two finally caught up. 

The world outside the windows blurred into a smear of flashing lights and eager, desperate voices. The sharp, mechanical clicking of cameras fractured the air, each snap a demand, a hunger that thickened until it was hard to breathe. The very atmosphere vibrated with it—the unspoken, clawing need of the public.

They had to devour her. Strip her down to an image, a headline, a possession they could pass around.

They couldn’t stand that she was still yours.

And now they would take her. Pry her from your hands until nothing was left but a story you wouldn’t recognize.

Ellie tensed beside you, her whole body coiling with something barely contained, barely holding itself together.

But then, in the same way she had done a thousand times before, she reached up and pulled the hood down low over her face, concealing herself just enough to give her some relief, even if it was just for a few seconds. But it didn’t stop the tremor in her hands as she pulled on her sunglasses, the lenses opaque enough to hide her eyes but not enough to hide the exhaustion in her bones.

It always amazed you—wrecked you, really—how quickly she could shift. How fast she could pull the armor back on.

One breath, she was yours. The one you knew, who rambled about her interests and kissed the hollow of your throat like it was sacred. The one who laughed so hard she cried, who pressed lyrics into your skin at four in the morning, who loved you so deeply it left fingerprints on your soul.

And in the next breath, she was Ellie Williams.

The untouchable. The myth. The most famous rockstar in the world.

The fire the world couldn't help but chase.

The version of her they all thought they knew—the one they could consume, distort, devour—and never once come close enough to touch.

The door cracked open, and the world outside poured in: flashing, ravenous, deafening. The roar of the cameras flooded the car, a tidal wave of need and greed and hunger that rattled the windows, the floor, the breath in your lungs. She just sat there, frozen, the silence between you tightening until it strangled. Like if she stayed still enough, maybe she wouldn't have to go. Maybe she wouldn't have to leave you.

But when she finally reached for the door, her fingers betrayed her again—trembling, small, broken.

“No, no—wait,” you whispered, the words slipping out without thinking, your hand darting forward, closing around her wrist.

Ellie turned. Through the hood pulled low, through the sunglasses that hid everything from everyone else but never from you—you saw it. The naked devastation swimming just beneath the surface of her mask when she caught your expression.

The shattered pleading of two people who didn't know how to let go without being destroyed.

You reached for your own sunglasses, shielding your eyes not from the flash, but from the truth of it—that no matter how tightly you held her wrist, you couldn't stop this from happening.

You couldn't save her from this life.

You couldn't even save yourself from this life.

Without a word, you climbed out of the car with her. It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t a decision. It was instinct—the desperate ache to stay close, to pretend you could still protect her, somehow.

You walked beside her, step for step.

The distance between you wasn’t measured in inches. It was measured in all the things you couldn’t say. In the way she moved—slow, heavy—dragging the invisible weight that had been building for years. 

Not just her fame. Not just her addiction. But the burden of being wanted by everyone but truly known by no one. And somehow, even now, even with you by her side, she still carried it alone.

Even with your hand brushing hers, even with your heart breaking open for her with every breath, she keeps carrying it alone.

At the foot of the stairs, Ellie paused.

You stepped closer, drawn to her like gravity itself had shifted. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, the frayed edges of her panic, the battle waging in her chest. She leaned her forehead against yours, her breath brushing over your lips, shallow.

And for a single breath, a single heartbeat, the rest of the world melted away—the flashbulbs, the shouts, the crushing weight of expectation.

There was only her. Only you.

"...I don't know how to be away from you right now."

She said, barely audible over the wind slicing through the tarmac. Her voice trembled between you both, suspended in the frozen air.

You closed your eyes, feeling it all—her fear, her need, her love—so big it barely fit inside her anymore. Your hands rose, cupping her face gently, your thumbs brushing the corners of her lips.

"Then don't be," you whispered, your words falling between you like a vow. "Call me. Text me. Think about me so much it hurts. I'll feel it. I’ll do the same. I swear."

She let out a shaky sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but wasn’t quite a sob. Something caught halfway in her throat. 

"You always know what to say..." she murmured, her hands fisting the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer.

You shook your head, your forehead still pressed to hers.

"It's not about knowing," you whispered back. "It's because it's true. Every word."

Her fingers trembled where they gripped you. She sucked in a ragged breath like she was swallowing something too big to say, then finally choked it out.

"It scares the shit out of me," she admitted, voice cracking down the middle. "How much I love you."

Your chest seized. The words hit you in the softest, most breakable part of yourself, the part only she had ever touched.

"Good," you said, voice barely holding. "Then we’re even."

She kissed you then—hard, uncoordinated, desperate. There was no neatness to it, no sweet slow burn. It was a kiss that bruised, that begged, that tried to brand the memory of your mouth into hers.

She kissed you like she was trying to build a shelter out of you. Somewhere she could crawl into when the world outside turned too brutal to survive.

You kissed her back with everything you didn’t have words for. The panic. The ache. The bottomless, helpless love.

You tasted salt between your teeth and didn't know if it was her tears or yours.

When she finally pulled away, her breath hitched in shallow gasps. You could feel the shudder racing through her body, all the way down to her fingertips still twisted in your shirt.

"I love you," she whispered again, so quietly it almost didn’t make it past her lips. "God, I love you. I didn’t even know it was possible to love someone like this."

You pressed your palms flat against her chest, right over her pounding heart, willing her to feel it—I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone.

"I love you too," you said, voice breaking wide open. "More than I know how to survive."

There was nothing else to say. No words could bridge the space that was about to open between you. No promises could stitch up the future fast enough.

So you didn’t say anything else. You just stood there, forehead to forehead, breathing the same shaky air, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to break out. Like it knew exactly where it belonged. In your hands.

Then she kissed you again—softer this time, sadder—and stepped back with a kind of reluctance you could feel in your flesh.

And you let her go because you had to.

But it didn't feel brave. It didn’t feel right.

She climbed the stairs, and with every step, it felt like she was taking a piece of you with her. At the top, she paused, just long enough to pull down her sunglasses. Just long enough for you to see her eyes, glassy and red, lashes clumped with tears she hadn’t wiped away. And in that one fleeting, aching look, she said everything. I’m sorry. Please wait for me. I love you.

And as it happened, an intrusive, cruel thought reminded you of the flashing lights from the paparazzi cameras still pulsating, snapping like the breath of a beast that had just caught it's perfect prey.

"The Most Famous Couple Of Music’s Sad Goodbye: Y/N and Ellie Williams Part After Madison Square Garden Triumph"

"Ellie Williams and Y/N: Love, Success, and One Last Kiss Before Parting Ways"

"From the Stage to the Skies: Y/N and Ellie’s Madison Square Garden Love Story Ends With a Goodbye"

"Pop’s and Rock’s Royalty Say Goodbye After a Night That Defined a Generation"

"One Last Kiss: Ellie Williams and Y/N's Break the Internet"

They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. They saw what they wanted to see—Ellie, the biggest rockstar on the planet, saying goodbye after making a surprise appearance at your sold-out concert, her presence at the top of your game fueling their fantasies of the perfect, untouchable love.

And as Ellie disappeared into the plane, as the door shut behind her and the frenzy around you raged on, you were left standing in the void—the chaos of the world still swirling around you, and you, too exhausted to even run from it. 

Interviews blurred into interviews. Red carpets bled into flashing lights. And through it all, you both played your roles to perfection. The perfect couple. The fairytale. The love story that the world clung to with white-knuckled hands.

Smiling for cameras, brushing hands in the hallways, whispering promises into microphones meant for millions. She'd call you her muse. You'd call her the love of your life. And the headlines would lap it up—devoted, inseparable, the greatest love story in the music industry.

But the thing was—it was real. The love was real. Fierce, burning, gut-wrenching real.

Not curated for headlines. Not staged for camera flashes or chart positions. Not fake. Not anymore. It stopped being fake a long, long time ago, because somewhere along the way it became the only real thing you had left.

You loved her in a way that hollowed you out, made room for nothing else. She loved you in a way that made her think that, maybe, she could survive herself.

But love wasn't the whole story. And that was your curse.

There were still people behind the names. People who bled, people who broke, people who crumbled under the weight of everything they were supposed to be.

You sat on talk show couches and laughed when you were supposed to laugh, batted your eyelashes when you were supposed to blush. You said all the right things. You wore all the right outfits. You played the part so well that sometimes, for a moment, you almost believed it too—that if you smiled hard enough, no one would see the fractures spider webbing underneath.

Ellie squeezed your waist in photos, tugged you closer for the cameras. Not because she didn’t love you. Because she needed to remind herself you were still there. That there was still something solid in a world that spun faster than she could hold on to.

You kissed under spotlights. You whispered I love you at afterparties with whiskey on your breaths. You collapsed into hotel beds at four a.m., so tangled up in each other you couldn’t tell where she ended and you began.

But beneath the sequins and the designer suits and the perfectly lit portraits, the truth still breathed.

You were bone-tired. She was frayed at the edges.

You were both still human. 

Aching, breaking, pieced together by hope and tape humans. 

Far too human for the versions of yourselves they kept trying to capture through a camera lens.

They wanted the myth, the storybook ending. But what stood there, clinging to each other beneath a gray, unraveling sky, wasn't perfect.

It was just two humans clinging to something fragile, and praying the world wouldn’t crush it before it had the chance to heal.

The world would never see—maybe never wanted to—the cracks running beneath perfection.

They would never understand the way it hurt to live like this: a life built for spectacle, a love carrying more weight than either of you knew how to hold.

They would never catch a glimpse how it hollowed you out, loving each other in a way that was everything and nothing at once.

And you both knew it. Knew it even as you smiled for the next flash, even as you leaned closer, pretending—for just a little longer—that love alone could save you.

The crowd thinned. The cameras turned away.

But you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The wind tugged at your clothes, at your hair, trying to remind you that the world was still spinning, that time hadn’t stopped just because she’d left.

But for you, it had.

Because that goodbye hadn’t felt like just a goodbye. It felt like a cliff edge. 

A moment suspended between who Ellie was now, and who she might become if the fall swallowed her whole.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

You almost didn’t check it. You weren’t sure you could take it. But your hand moved anyway—blind, desperate—fumbling until the screen lit up.

Ells <3

i keep staring at the door like you’re about to walk through it

i don’t know how to do this without you

but i’m gonna try

i swear to god i’m gonna try

i love you. i love you. i love you.

please say it back

im scared im gonna forget what it feels like

Your hands trembled so badly you nearly dropped the phone.

You typed blindly, your breath catching, the world narrowing down to the glow of the screen and the ache inside your chest.

You:

i love you. i love you. i love you.

i don’t think ive ever loved anything the way i love you ellie

please don’t disappear on me

please come back to me sober

im begging you

please

try

and if cant do it for yourself, do it for me 

for us

You hit send, every time feeling like tearing open a new wound.

The pause after was unbearable. Long enough you thought she might not answer. But then,

i swear i will 

and i’m always gonna find my way back to you

always.

You didn’t cry. Not again. Not there. Not with the handlers and the cameras still prowling at the edge of the runway. Not with the world still watching.

But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

You stared up at the sky long after the jet had disappeared into the clouds, willing yourself to believe in something you couldn’t see, something you could only beg for.

Please be okay.

Please make it to the end of the tour.

Please keep your promise.

Please at least try to be sober. 

Please come back to me.

Please.

Don’t break my heart.

For an entire month, the tour kept moving, but you didn’t.

City after city unfolded outside tinted windows, skyscrapers dissolving into farmland, farmland swallowed by freeways. You watched it all pass by in a haze of exhaustion so complete it felt cellular. Most of the time, you weren’t even sure if you were awake or dreaming. The applause each night rang through your skull like a memory you couldn’t place. 

People screamed your name, held up glittering signs and screamed along to every word, but it was as though you were watching it all from underwater—muted, slow, unreal. Drowned.

You performed anyway. You always did. You had to.

But that tightness in your throat never left, a dull burn just beneath your voice, a phantom hand closing around your windpipe. It made every breath feel borrowed.

The crew never asked if you were okay. They praised your stamina, your professionalism. You looked flawless in photos. You hit every mark. You sold out every venue. But deep down, they knew the truth.

You were surviving, not living. Your body moved through life on autopilot, while your heart existed elsewhere entirely.

You barely even spoke anymore. Just to Rachel, when something needed handling. Just in your weekly family call, your mom saying she misses you in that voice that made you feel twelve again, your dad asking if you were sleeping because you looked even more worn down than last week. Just to say you were fine. Promising to send them something nice and way too expensive, like money could patch over the void. The rest was just interviews—fake smiles, rehearsed lines, saying just enough to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.

There was one interview—a glossy magazine spread, cameras flashing, stylist fussing with the sharp line of your dress—when the subject of Ellie came up.

“She’s on tour,” you said, and your voice came out thin, barely audible. “We’ve both been kind of… everywhere.”

The interviewer smiled, leaned forward like she knew the shape of your silence. 

“I have to ask,” she said, tilting her head. “That photo—on the tarmac. Right before her jet took off. You two looked… intense.”

“Oh,” you said, then paused. The lights were too hot. Your dress itched. There was still eyelash glue clinging to the corner of your eye. “That moment…”

The words caught, then fell.

You saw it again, that second stretched into forever—the kiss she left on your lips like a bruise. The way she held your face and whispered I love you like a prayer, like something she hadn’t said out loud until that exact moment.

And the way you said it back. Like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world.

You looked back at the interviewer and smiled, soft and practiced. 

“It was a hard goodbye. That’s all.”

She seemed satisfied. Moved on.

But your throat burned.

Because if you spoke even a word more, your vocal cords would give out. And who were you without your voice?

Just a ghost in sequins. A glittering silhouette. A thing built to be looked at, not heard.

Nobody.

And later, in the backseat of the car, you pressed your fingers to your lips and tried to remember exactly how she’d kissed you—afraid you were already starting to forget.

The exhaustion was a weight that pressed down on your bones, dragging you further and further into the ground, until it felt like you were standing on the edge of something far deeper than just a tour. 

You were tired of being watched, criticized, picked apart like a product on display. Tired of the constant measuring—of never quite being enough or being too much.

And most of all, you were tired of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back.

Because not recognizing yourself is even worse than hating what you see.

It felt like all of it was on your shoulders—the pressure, the expectations, the unspoken demands. Like you were holding up something that was never meant to be this heavy. And doing it all in silence, with no one to lean on since you were a teenager.

The weight of being seen, always. Of loving someone who couldn’t stay near without the world sinking its teeth into her. Of carrying an image sculpted by strangers who never cared what it costs to keep the show going on.

You were the brightest star in the sky.

But even stars burn out. Especially the ones that shine too hard for too long.

Stil, she called every night.

No matter where you were—Milan, Toronto, Denver—there she was. Sitting on a bus bench with her hair tucked under a hoodie, or lying sideways on a hotel bed with her guitar resting against her ribs. Sometimes the signal cut out. Sometimes the lighting was too dark to see more than the outline of her face.

But she always called. And you always picked up.

She looked different lately. Not worse. Not better. Different. Tired in a way that didn’t show up under stage lights but crept in when her shoulders slouched between words, or when she forgot to smile after a joke. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

But in the beginning, the calls helped. You’d stumble into your dressing room after a show, breathless and dripping glitter, and there she’d be, propped up on the screen of your phone. Her voice would hit you like cold water—bracing and alive.

“Still the hottest person alive, even with mascara halfway to your collarbone,” she’d say, grinning.

And you’d laugh so hard you’d forget how much your body hurt. 

But slowly, things changed. The calls became routine. Still necessary, but heavier. Less playful. Like something you owed each other. Like checking in for duty.

You found yourself asking the same questions every night: Did you eat today? How much sleep did you get? Was the crowd good? Are you still taking the magnesium stuff I gave you?

And even though Ellie always answered—sometimes with an eye-roll, sometimes with a sarcastic “Yes, Mom,”—you could feel the mood dimming. The bright, beautiful intimacy you’d built together was still there, but thinner now. Like the connection was stretched too tight over distance and fatigue and things neither of you wanted to say out loud.

She tried, though. God, she tried.

She always wanted to make you laugh. To keep things light. But even when you laughed, it felt off. Like you were both acting out a memory of how things used to be, hoping muscle memory would carry the rest.

And every night, when the call connected, you swore her face lit up a little slower.

You didn’t take it personally. You told yourself she was tired. Touring was brutal. You knew that better than anyone.

And tonight, you picked up on the first ring.

Your stage costume was still clinging to you like a second skin—sweat sticky under the sequins, eyeliner flaking at your temples, boots kicked off somewhere you wouldn’t remember until morning. You collapsed onto the couch in your dressing room, legs stretched out, hair wild, pulse jittery from the encore. You didn’t even had time to say hi before Ellie’s face filled the screen.

She was sprawled on her stomach, half off the hotel bed like she’d melted there, legs dangling like a bored teenager. A beat-up guitar rested across her back, threatening to slip off with every lazy breath. A cigarette clung to her bottom lip, the ember glowing as she exhaled a slow, spiraling stream of smoke that drifted up past her lashes. She had more than enough money to ignore the no-smoking fee taped to the nightstand—and the hotel knew better than to argue. Her shirt was wrinkled, probably from the floor, and the boxer briefs she had on? Definitely Jesse’s.

“Hey there, love,” she said immediately, voice low and hoarse from too many cigarettes or too little sleep. “You look like a disco ball that got mugged outside a rave.”

You snorted, dragging a hand through your tangled hair. “That’s rich coming from someone who looks like a raccoon that learned how to play guitar.”

Ellie smirked around the cigarette. “Yeah, but like…a hot raccoon.”

“Debatable.”

She grinned wider. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. But it tried to.

You tilted your head, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

“Are you smoking more?”

Ellie hesitated, just for a beat. “…Well, yes, but not thaaat much.”

You raised an eyebrow.

She exhaled slowly and turned her face toward the camera, taking the cigarette out with two fingers. “I got a pack, 'cause, ya’ know. Tour stress.”

“Mmhmm.”

She gave you that look—brows raised, that said drop it—and you did. For now.

“Where even are you guys?” you asked, reaching blindly for a makeup wipe and dragging it across your cheekbone.

“Phoenix. Technically. We had to pull over somewhere near a cactus farm last night because the bus smelled like melting plastic.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, what? What the hell happened?”

“Jesse thinks it was Dina’s straightener. Dina says Jesse farted. I personally think it’s both.”

You wiped the last of your makeup off and leaned back against the couch, balancing your phone on your chest. “Are they with you?”

Ellie shifted on the bed. Looked away from you.

“...They got their own rooms tonight.”

“What? Again?” you asked, frowning.

“Said they just needed a little space. Being around each other every day gets… exhausting, I guess.”

You nodded slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was a pause. You could hear Ellie exhale, the sound scratchy through the phone mic.

“I really miss you,” she said, voice stripped of all the usual sarcasm.

You closed your eyes, the ache settling in behind your ribs. “I miss you too. So much.”

“I think about you all day," she flipped onto her back, the guitar now resting on her stomach, and tapped the ash from her cigarette into an empty coffee cup. "Wanna hear what I was working on?”

“Obviously.”

Ellie didn’t even glance at you. Just gave a small, tired smile, and started to play.

It was nothing showy—no solo, no bravado. Just a simple, slow melody that felt like the end of something. You recognized a few chords from something she’d hummed under her breath months ago, but this version had changed. It was moodier now. Melancholy. Like it was trying to tell you something it couldn’t say out loud.

You watched her carefully. She wasn’t performing. Not this time. Her brow furrowed just a little, her fingers moved almost absentmindedly, like they were remembering the shape of something that used to mean more. The shape of something lost.

When she finished, she didn’t say anything. Just let her hand rest on the frets and stared up at the ceiling, breathing through her nose.

You didn’t want to ruin the silence.

But still you asked, “…Does it have a name?”

“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “Through the Valley.”

You nodded slowly, though something tightened in your chest.

“Are you... okay?” you asked softly. “You’re kinda quiet.”

There was a pause. You could almost hear her jaw clench. She hated being read that easily.

“I’m just tired,” she said, but it came with a grimace, like it hurt to admit. “Don’t worry about it, babe.”

You didn’t push, but the silence lingered—long enough to feel heavy.

Then, as she brought the cigarette back to her lips, you noticed it—the smallest tremor. Her fingers, just barely. Holding it too tightly. Like she was trying to will them into stillness.

You narrowed your eyes. “Hey… what’s up with your hand?”

Ellie froze for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to notice.

Then, reluctantly, she lifted her hand and held it up to the camera. “Nothing. Just a little shake. No big deal.”

You leaned forward. It was subtle, but there. A twitch.

“How long’s it been like that?”

She dropped her hand fast. “Not long. It’s—whatever. Stress.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

She sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, crushing out the cigarette. “It’s just been a weird couple days. Shit schedule. No food. No rest.”

You tilted your head. “Did you actually eat today?"

“Yeah,” she said, too casually. “A burger. And Jesse’s superfood sludge smoothie. He's in his gut health era. Again.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of smoothie?”

“Kale. Banana. Depression. Maybe grass clippings. Can’t confirm.”

You gave a tired laugh, sinking deeper into the couch. “That sounds fucking disgusting.”

“It was. I drank half and poured the rest into a succulent. Pretty sure it’s dead now.”

You smiled, but your chest still felt tight.

She was curled into herself, elbows tucked in too close, shoulders hunched like they didn’t know how to relax. 

Her fingers kept fidgeting even after the guitar was set aside. Restless. Anxious. She wasn’t telling you everything. But she was trying.

She always tried.

Ellie yawned then, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand like a kid. She was so cute when she wasn’t trying to look hot in front of you—though, to be fair, even her exhausted gremlin mode was unfairly attractive.

“Let's stop talking about me” she murmured, voice gone quieter, “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just post-show crash. You know how it is.”

She hummed, but didn’t look away from you.

“You sure?” she asked. “You look kinda… I dunno. Tired. Haunted. Like someone insulted your shoes and you haven’t recovered.”

You gave a breathy laugh, trying to lighten it. “My shoes were perfect, thank you very much.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t. I said someone insulted them. Big difference.”

You smiled, but didn’t meet her gaze.

Then she added, softer now, “You can tell me if it’s something else.”

It’s you. I’m scared for you. You haven’t eaten. Your hands are shaking. You won’t talk to me and I’m a thousand miles away. I'm trying my best but it's not enough. I don’t know how to help you. I don’t even know how to help myself. 

“It’s nothing, love. I’m okay. I swear.”

Ellie didn’t buy it. You could see it in the way her jaw shifted, how she picked at the fraying hem of her boxers like she needed something to do with her hands.

She looked back up, eyes narrowing just a little. “Are you eating?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Like… properly. Not just a granola bar and a prayer. Real food.”

“Yeah. I mean—I had, like, toast today. And some gummy bears.”

Ellie gave you a look. “Babe. That’s not food.”

“It was all I could stomach.”

There was a pause. Her voice dropped low, serious. “You gotta take care of yourself, alright? Stop worrying about me so much and focus on you.”

You stared at her. “I could say the same to you.”

She sighed, tugged her knees up and rested her chin on them, like a kid folding in on herself. “Yeah. I know.”

You both sat there in silence for a second, just watching each other—tired eyes, cracked voices, too much distance.

Neither of you said what you were really thinking.

But the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt like a warning.

Then, suddenly, she looked up and down at you and smirked faintly. 

“Your tits are, like, really distracting me right now, by the way.”

“Ellie.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged, “it’s very hard to be hot and mysterious when your boobs are doing that.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face. “Jesus Christ.”

She looked pleased with herself. “You’re the one who answered facetime in a skin-tight corset.”

“It’s my stage fit!”

“Uh-huh. Sure. For the stage. Not for the little FaceTime with your rockstar girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt lighter for a second. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Only for you.”

But even as she smiled, it faltered at the edges. She didn’t move from her spot. Her body hadn’t changed positions the whole time you’d been talking.

You told her about your afterparty plans, about the confetti cannon that misfired during your ballad and nearly took out your backup singer. Ellie laughed—really laughed—and for one bright minute, everything felt normal again. Easy.

But when the call ended and the screen went dark, you didn’t move. You didn’t peel off the stage armor or wipe off the remnants of the night.

You just sat there—still in the clothes the world expected to see you in, the fabric sticking to your skin, heavy with sweat and spotlight. Heart full with the kind of ache that doesn't scream, just settles deep and wounds.

The night you first noticed her silence, you were backstage in Chicago, your team swirling around you with clipboards and curling irons and half-shouted cues. You thumbed your phone awake, expecting to see her name.

Nothing.

The pit started forming in your stomach then. Not fully, not yet. Just a dull throb beneath the surface, the kind you could ignore.

You sent a message anyway. A casual one. A lifeline disguised as a joke.

You: miss uuuu call me when you can <3

You set your phone down, face-first on the vanity, and pulled your shoulders back. Shoved the dread deep, deep down where it couldn’t reach you.

You smiled sweetly for the meet-and-greet, signing programs and taking pictures, blinking through the flashbulbs until the colors behind your eyelids blurred. You touched shoulders, signed shirts, squeezed strangers' hands until your own went numb.

You hit every note onstage. You spun through every move of the choreo, your body muscle-memorizing its way through the songs you used to love singing. You kept time perfectly, even when your mind wasn’t in the room anymore.

You bowed to a screaming stadium, lights painting your sweat-slick skin gold, and convinced yourself—for just one breath, one heartbeat—that this was still making you happy.

But when you stumbled offstage, heart still rattling from the lights and noise, the first thing you did was flip your phone over with trembling fingers.

Nothing.

You slept badly that night, if you could call it sleep at all. You kept waking up every hour, eyes gritty, fingers reaching for the phone before you could even register why your chest was so tight.

Still nothing.

Day two.

The worry cracked into something uglier. You woke up in another sterile and expensive hotel room, the sun slashing through the blackout curtains like knives, and stared at the blank lockscreen until your vision blurred.

No missed calls. No texts.

Nothing.

You told yourself she was tired. She needed rest. You told yourself you were being crazy, selfish, obsessive. But by lunchtime, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You texted Jesse.

You: heyyy, everything okay? havent heard from ellie

No answer.

You texted Dina two hours later.

You: d please just tell me she’s okay

No answer.

Hours passed. Interviews blurred together, a carousel of questions you’d answered a hundred times before. Crew members moved around you like surgeons—tugging, pinning, painting, sculpting you into the version they needed you to be.

At one point, your stylist measured your waist and frowned, quietly murmuring to someone else that you’d lost weight. No one asked if you were eating. Just noted it and moved on.

You convinced yourself that maybe if you kept smiling hard enough, singing loud enough, moving fast enough, no one would notice how hollow you felt inside.

How everything that mattered was slipping away, and you had no hands left free to catch it.

By night, your chest felt caved in. You canceled soundcheck with some excuse about a sore throat.

You locked yourself in your hotel suite, blackout curtains pulled tight, the television a muted hum in the background as you sat cross-legged on the carpet, phone in your hand, heart battering against your ribs.

You called her. Straight to voicemail.

You called again.

Straight to voicemail.

You stared at the screen, willing it to change, willing something—anything—to happen that would tether you back to her.

You sat there until your legs went numb. Until your throat ached from swallowing back everything you couldn’t say.

Day three.

The pit inside you turned cavernous. You still performed. Of course you did.

The machine didn’t stop just because your heart was breaking.

You hit your marks. You posed for cameras. You answered questions about your "unwavering dedication to your fans" with a hollow smile stitched into your face. You waved to crowds who chanted your name like it could stitch the holes inside you shut.

But afterward, backstage, alone, you cracked open. You checked your phone before you even took your mic off. Still. Nothing.

You sent another message. And another.

i’m scared

please answer

i just need to know you’re okay

im not mad

please

No read receipt. No reply.

You stared at the blinking cursor in the empty chat box, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something unspool inside you so violently that you had to press the heels of your hands into your eyes just to breathe.

And then—At three a.m., with the city outside your window swallowing itself whole—you got three texts. From her.

i’m fine

stop blowing up everyone’s phone

i just needed space, sorry babe

love you

You stared. The words blurred on the screen. Blurred in your mind.

Fine. Space. Love you.

Nothing real. Nothing you could hold onto.

Not when it was typed out so mechanically, so cold, the way someone apologizes for forgetting a dinner reservation, not for abandoning the only person who would have died before letting them go.

You pressed the phone against your chest like that would make it better. Like you could will her voice through the glass, back into your ears, back into your bloodstream where it belonged.

You typed a response. Erased it. Typed again. Erased it.

There were no words strong enough. There was no way to say I’m unraveling without you without sounding pathetic. No way to say I’m terrified the next time you need space, you won’t come back.

You didn’t sleep that night either. You just laid there, arms wrapped around your own body, breathing through the ache.

Day four.

You made it through rehearsal by pure muscle memory. You smiled through another radio interview, blinking dumbly while they asked about your "exciting upcoming projects" and "the inspiration behind your latest chart-topper."

You thought about telling them the truth. That the only thing you were writing about lately was grief. That your new songs tasted like blood and static. That every word you sang onstage felt like a lie you couldn't stop telling.

Instead, you laughed prettily and said something about growth. About love. About strength.

Afterwards, you stumbled into a dressing room, locked the door, and texted her manager. You didn't care about pride anymore. You didn't care about looking desperate. You just needed to know.

please just tell me if she’s okay

that’s all I need

please

The reply came quicker than you expected. Sharp. Impersonal.

she’s fine

You stared at it, rereading it a dozen times, hoping more words would appear. Some context. Some proof. Some small sign that "fine" meant anything close to the truth.

But the truth was, you knew better. You knew "fine" was the lie people told when the truth was too messy, too raw, too ugly to name.

You slid down the dressing room wall, knees folding tight to your chest, forehead pressed into your arms to muffle the broken sound clawing up your throat.

You didn’t cry for the cameras. You didn’t cry for your friends or family. You didn’t cry onstage or backstage or on the thousand fucking magazine covers that said you had it all.

But you cried now. For her. For yourself.

You whispered her name like a prayer into the silence until your voice went hoarse.

But names don't build bridges when someone's already halfway gone.

And prayers don’t reach the people who don't want to hear them.

You stayed there long after your team started knocking. Long after the show director started panicking about your late call time. Long after you stopped believing that love alone could save her.

Rachel found you then, her face pale, phone gripped so tight in her hand you thought the screen might crack. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held the phone out, thumb hovering above the play button.

You were too tired to ask questions. Too tired to brace yourself. You nodded once, a small, jerky thing, and took the phone from her.

The video was grainy, shot from somewhere in the pit at The Fireflies show in Boston the night before. For a moment, all you could see were flashing lights, a blur of stage smoke and screaming fans. Normal. Expected. Your chest ached with relief, for a heartbeat.

And then you saw her.

Ellie stumbled into frame, guitar slung low across her body. Her hair hung limp against her face, matted with sweat. Her skin looked wrong under the stage lights—too pale, too waxy, like all the color had been drained out of her.

She played, but it wasn’t playing the way you remembered. Her fingers moved stiffly, almost mechanically, dragging across the strings like they didn’t belong to her anymore. Her posture sagged, shoulders hunched like she was bearing some invisible, impossible weight. She looked smaller. Diminished.

There was a part of you that kept waiting—for the grin, the snarled joke into the mic, the way she usually teased Jesse mid-song, the way she would throw her head back and laugh with Dina when she missed a chord.

But there was none of that.

Jesse and Dina played almost six feet away from her, eyes trained on their instruments, movements sharp and isolated. They might as well have been in separate bands. There was no chemistry. No laughter. No pulse. No Fireflies.

You realized, with a sick drop of your stomach, that she was high. Not the buzzing, messy high she could hide behinf magic. This was worse. This was a body on autopilot, a body betrayed by whatever she’d taken just to survive the night.

The video blurred a little as the person recording jostled in the crowd. It caught one last, awful image: Ellie leaning against her mic stand, blinking into the lights like she couldn’t remember where she was.

And then it cut off.

You stared down at the black screen, your chest hollowing out, slow and deep and cruel. You felt it rip something from you, clean through, like peeling skin from muscle. Confirmation.

Rachel sat beside you silently, her hand resting on your shoulder in a useless attempt to steady you.

At first, you laughed.

Not because it was funny. God, no.

Because it was too much.

Because if you didn’t laugh, you were going to start screaming, and you didn’t know if you would ever stop.

Rachel watched you carefully, her body coiled, ready to catch you.

You rubbed at your face with your hand, laughing a thin, broken sound that didn’t even sound human. It punched straight from your ribs, helpless and mean.

"Jesus christ," you whispered. "Jesus fucking christ."

The sound of your own voice startled you. You hadn’t really spoken in days. Not about anything that mattered. Only smiled for cameras. Only nodded for interviews. Only sang until your throat dulled.

She didn't say anything. She just waited, as if afraid she might set you off by breathing wrong.

The truth of it—sharp and raw and final—was burning itself into your brain now. You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

You'd seen it with your own eyes. The way her body sagged onstage. The way her hands shook. The way Jesse and Dina didn’t even look at her, like they were too afraid to touch the wire she’d become, crackling and burning and ready to snap.

You dropped the phone and let your head fall into your hands, nails digging into your scalp hard enough to hurt.

"I can’t do this," you said, "I can't fucking do this anymore."

Rachel moved slowly, her hand tentative on your back, between your shoulder blades.

"You don’t have to," she said. Her voice was sturdy, a rope thrown across a canyon. "You can go."

You lifted your head, blinking through the tears stinging your eyes. "Go where?"

"To her," she said simply. "Take the jet. Leave tonight. I'll take care of the rest."

For one second, you almost said no. Almost said you couldn’t, that you had responsibilities, that there was a whole empire resting on your exhausted shoulders.

But something inside you—something feral and desperate and so deeply human it terrified you—snarled back.

Fuck the empire.

Fuck the perfect career.

Fuck the shiny love story the world wanted to believe in.

She needed you.

You stood up so fast your vision blurred, your whole body vibrating with adrenaline and terror.

"I need to fucking see her."

Rachel nodded, already pulling her phone out, already murmuring instructions to your security team, already moving faster than your grief could catch up to you.

She wasn’t surprised. She knew you.

Knew that you were the kind of person who would burn down the world for the people you loved.

You shoved a few things into a duffel bag without thinking, your hands shaking too hard to fold anything properly. Your stage makeup was still half-smeared down your face, your hair was still sticky with sweat, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t breathe until you saw her. You couldn’t live inside your own body for another second if you didn’t put your hands on her and make sure she was still real.

The car ride to the private airport was a blur. The city lights slashed past the windows in violent streaks. You sat stiff and silent in the backseat, your hands clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles ached. Rachel didn’t try to talk to you. She just sat beside you, solid and quiet, like a lighthouse.

When you boarded the jet, you barely noticed the luxury. You barely noticed anything. You pressed your forehead to the glass as the plane sliced into the sky, your breath fogging the window, your pulse hammering out a prayer that didn’t have words anymore.

Please don’t be too late.

Rachel hadn’t come with you. She'd offered, said she’d fly with you, sit with you, hold your hand if you needed it. But you’d said no.

This wasn’t something anyone could shield you from.

You stared out at the dark, endless stretch of stars, and for the first time since this all began, you realized something brutal.

This wasn’t about saving her anymore. It was about saying goodbye, if you had to. It was about being brave enough to find her wherever she was—whole, broken, or somewhere in between—and tell her, You can still come home.

Even if she didn’t know how to make her way back.

Because some promises are bigger than heartbreak. Some promises are bigger than pride. And loving her had never been about winning.

It had always been about staying.

You arrived at the venue just past midnight, drowning in a hoodie three sizes too big, sunglasses cutting sharp lines across your face despite the darkness.

The staff entrance was a mess—roadies dragging tangled cables across the concrete, stagehands shouting over radios, exhausted techs hunched over broken light boards. The heavy buzz of electricity and urgency pressed against your skin, but you barely noticed. You pulled your hood tighter, shoved your fists into the pocket, and moved through the chaos like you were invisible.

When you reached the checkpoint, a security guard—mid-thirties, arms folded over his chest, exhaustion written across his face—stepped into your path.

"No access, kid," he said, glancing at your shoes, your hoodie, your hunched posture, and deciding you didn’t belong here.

Your hands shook as you pulled your sunglasses off, jaw tightening so hard it hurt. You tilted your face up toward the dim overhead light.

The moment recognition hit, the man nearly stumbled backwards. His face went pale.

"Oh my god—I'm so sorry miss—I didn’t—I mean, you can—shit," he stammered, tripping over his own words, fumbling for the keycard at his belt.

You just nodded, sharp and silent, stepping past him before he could finish apologizing.

You moved faster, heart a dull, painful thud in your ears. Then you turned the corner—and stopped dead.

Voices.

Shouting.

Not the roar of fans. Not the pounding rhythm of drums. Real, furious, broken shouting.

You didn’t think. You walked fast towards it, the sound growing louder with every desperate step.

You rounded the corner and almost slammed into her.

Erin. Ellie’s assistant.

She was standing stiffly near the entrance to the backstage hallway, arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor with a restless, angry force. Her head jerked up when she saw you.

"Where's Ellie?" you demanded, breathless.

Erin looked at you —really looked at you—for a second too long. Then her mouth curled into something sharp and tired, her eyes flashing with something you couldn't name.

"Wouldn’t you like to know,"

You blinked, the words not registering. "What?"

She shrugged, the motion too casual, too dismissive.

"It’s been a shitshow for weeks. You’re just late to the party."

You shook your head, as if that could undo the words, as if that could change the way your stomach was folding in on itself.

"What do you mean?" you rasped.

"I mean they can barely stay in the same room without screaming at each other. I mean this tour’s been falling apart at the seams, and no one wanted to tell you because, what, you’re supposed to be the golden girl? The only one she listens to?"

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Her voice softened, almost pitying now. "And it all started when you left."

Erin just shrugged again, as if she'd already said too much, and walked away.

You were barely breathing as you crept closer to the door. The voices had been muffled at first, just angry shapes of sound—Dina’s sharp, furious tone cutting through like glass.

But now you were close enough to hear everything.

Then it hit—an explosion of glass. Loud, sharp, violent enough to rattle the wall.

“You can’t even fucking STAND right now!” she screamed. “You’re fucking high again, Ellie! Again! You think we’re all so fucking blind?!”

Then came Ellie’s voice. A guttural shout that cracked on its way out of her throat.

“Fuck you, Dina! Fuck you for acting like you’re fucking better than me!”

And you froze.

Because that didn’t sound like her.

It didn’t sound like Ellie.

It wasn’t the gravelly warmth that used to whisper songs against your skin, the dry humor that used to curl through your late-night phone calls, the hushed tremble that told you she loved you like it was a secret too sacred for the world to hear.

No. This voice was slurred and wrecked and wild, shattering under its own weight. Like it had been hollowed out, then filled with something dark and volatile. Something you didn’t recognize.

"I don’t have to be better to see what a fucking mess you are!" Dina roared back, so loud it rattled inside your chest. "You’re gonna blow this show! Twenty thousand people out there and you can’t even fucking walk straight!"

“I didn’t ask for this!” Ellie roared, and you heard something crash again—glass, maybe, or that heavy ashtray she always insisted on bringing. Whatever it was, it shattered loud against the floor. “I didn’t fucking ask to be the poster girl, you stupid fucking cunt!”

“I write the songs, I sing, I play, I am the fucking show!” she shouted again. “There wouldn’t be a fucking Fireflies without me! I bled for this. I sold my fucking soul for this band! And now I’m just some face?”

“Yes, you're the face!” Dina snapped back, her voice shaking, not from fear but fury. “You get the fans. You get the press. You get the fucking spotlight, Ellie. Whether you want it or not!”

Then Jesse tried to cut through, voice cracking under the pressure. "Can we not do this right now? We have a fucking show in thirty minutes—"

"Shut the fuck up, Jesse!" Dina spat, her words hitting like open hands. "You don’t get to lecture anyone when you showed up to rehearsal smelling like a goddamn brewery!"

"I wasn’t partying, you fucking bitch!" Jesse barked back, fury snapping through the walls. "I was blowing off steam because this goddamn shitshow is a death sentence!"

“You were off getting shitfaced!” Dina shrieked, her voice splintering with rage. “While I was the one dragging Ellie off the fucking bathroom floor, you fucking useless dickhead!”

Another crash. A bottle against the wall, the sound of glass exploding. You didn’t know who threw it—Jesse, Dina, Ellie—it didn’t matter. You flinched so hard your chest seized up, like the sound had reached in and bruised you.

“I’m tired of being the only one who shows the fuck up!” Dina spat, breath ragged. “At least when I’m here, I’m present! Not floating through the fucking room with my brain fried from whatever the fuck she’s been snorting!”

For a second, everything went quiet. Then Ellie spoke. Low, shaking with something close to animal anger

“Say that again.”

Dina didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. “You’re a fucking junkie, Ellie.”

“You’re a goddamn drug addict,” she continued, her words cutting like a blade, “and you’re dragging us down with you. And I’m done. I’m fucking done picking up the pieces while you light everything on fire and call it a day!”

Her voice cracked then—not with weakness, but with fury sharpened by heartbreak.

“We have been bending over backwards for you for years, Ellie. YEARS. And all we get is lies and fucking excuses. WE ARE ALL FUCKING EXHAUSTED!”

Ellie growled, deep in her throat.

"Fuck you, Dina! You think you’re a fucking saint? You think your hands are clean?!"

"We don’t use before shows!" she spat so hard you could hear her almost choking on it. "We have the decency to wait! We have respect for the people who came to see us!"

Ellie laughed—a horrible sound, bitter and broken. "Respect? The only thing getting me through your fucking whining is being high enough to forget it!"

“You think that’s a fucking excuse?” Jesse snapped, his voice low but razor sharp. “You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He wasn’t yelling like Dina had been. He didn’t have to. His voice was steady in that terrifying way people get when they’re trying not to fall apart.

“You think you’ve got the monopoly on pain just because you're the one with the spotlight and the mic in your hand?”

There was a pause. A charged, electric silence.

“Ever since she left,” he said—and his voice cracked, just once, like it caught on something sharp on the way out—

“You’ve been fucking lost, Ellie.”

It hit the room like a hammer.

You pressed harder into the door, tears burning behind your eyes.

"Don’t bring her into this."

"You just won't tell her the truth!" Dina shouted. "You can't even talk to her!"

"YOU THINK I DON'T FUCKING KNOW THAT?!" Ellie exploded, the words ragged and shredded. 

“Then act like it! Do something! Get help. Go to fucking rehab. Stop making excuses to get clean!”

Dina screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she’d been holding back.

“You said after the tour. You promised. And then you packed the whole goddamn calendar like you were planning your own fucking overdose!”

Behind the door, you lowered yourself slowly, pressing your forehead against it.

That was what Ellie had told you. You had cupped her face like something fragile in that hotel bathroom, like something you could save, and you’d believed her.

Those words had held the broken remains of hope inside of you.

And they were lies.

The sob slipped out before you could stop it—full of something breaking. You covered your mouth with your hand, knuckles pressed hard against your lips, trying to hold it all in.

Inside, Ellie’s voice dropped to a growl, “Why would I? What the fuck do I have left?!”

The air changed. Turned bitter. Charged. Like lightning about to strike. Like something holy unraveling.

And then Dina twisted the knife.

“If you won’t get help for yourself,” she said, voice like ice, “then do it for the people you’re fucking destroying.”

Inside, she stepped forward, eyes locked on Ellie like she couldn’t recognize who she was looking at anymore.

“If you won’t take the blame for us, or for everything we bled to build, or for the fact that you're dragging this band into the fucking ground—”

She paused. Just for a second. Then landed the blow.

“Then at least blame yourself for y/n.”

There was a crash—something metal, slammed to the ground so hard it echoed off the walls like a gunshot.

Then Ellie’s voice exploded through the room—furious, slurred, incoherent.

“Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up about her! Shut the fuck up about everything!”

“You can’t even say her name!” Jesse shouted, voice low and bitter. “You love her so much and you can’t even say her name!”

That’s when Ellie snapped.

“Fuck you!” she screamed, voice cracked wide open. “Fuck both of you! You want me sober? You want me clean? Maybe if I wasn’t stuck with two judgmental, self-righteous ungrateful assholes who clearly fucking hate me, I wouldn’t need to be high just to fucking breathe!”

“We don’t hate you,” he said, not even above a whisper, and you barely heard it. “We’re just tired of you.”

And that—somehow—was worse. Worse than all the shouting. Worse than the lies.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she hissed. “You don’t fucking know. You don’t know what it feels like to be me! You don’t know what it’s like to write a song that saves someone’s life and still not be able to save your own!"

And then, after a long, shaking breath, Dina spoke. Her voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was soft. Sad.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes, Ellie,” she said quietly. “Fifteen minutes to pull yourself together. Or we lose everything. All of it.”

A heavy silence settled like ash.

Then Jesse added, voice hoarse with something like grief.

“There are twenty thousand people out there.”

Another pause.

“And they’re all waiting for you.”

And on the other side of the door—your hands clutched to your mouth, your face soaked with tears—you couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

You were shaking so violently you didn’t know if you’d ever stop again.

When the door finally burst open, the metal hinges shrieked under the force of it.

You instinctively stepped back, half-hidden in the narrow shadow of the hallway, heart hammering against your ribs.

Jesse came out first. Head down, jaw clenched, one hand raking violently through his hair while the other gripped his drumsticks in a death-hold—so tight his knuckles had gone bone white. His chest was rising and falling fast, like he hadn’t taken a full breath in hours. His face looked harder than you remembered—older, somehow. Sharpened by exhaustion.

Behind him, Dina stormed through the door and slammed it shut, not even glancing up. Her eyes burned holes into the floor, her lips a tight line of fury. Every step she took echoed—uneven, angry, deliberate. She vanished around the corner without a word.

Jesse didn’t see you. Not at first. His momentum carried him fast, like he was still riding the tail end of some internal explosion.

And then—his shoulder slammed into yours. Hard.

You staggered back, catching yourself against the wall.

He froze instantly.

His head whipped toward you, and for a second, he just stared. Like his brain was struggling to piece together the moment—who you were, why you were there, what he'd just done, what you just heard.

You watched it all flicker across his face: the shock, the confusion, then the guilt. Thick. Immediate. Ugly.

“Shit…” he breathed, eyes darting like he didn’t know where to look. His hands twitched, hovering uselessly at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or just disappear. “I didn’t… fuck, I didn’t see you.”

You straightened, forcing your voice to work.

"Jesse," you rasped, too raw, too desperate. "What’s going on?"

"You really shouldn’t be here," he said, "This is... it’s bad, okay? It’s really fucking bad."

"Then tell me," you responded, your voice breaking somewhere halfway through the sentence. "Why the fuck haven’t you answered me? Why didn’t any of you tell me what was happening?"

He shook his head, grimacing like it physically hurt.

"It’s not because we didn’t want to," he said, almost pleading. "We—fuck, we wanted to. Every time you called, every time you texted, it killed us not to pick up."

You stared at him, the words clawing at your throat.

"Then why?"

He swallowed, hard. You could see the guilt stitching him together and ripping him apart all at once.

"Because Ellie made us promise," he said. "She fucking made us swear not to tell you anything."

You blinked, stunned.

"What?"

"She threatened to fire Erin. Threatened to cut ties with me and Dina," Jesse said, voice shaking now. "Said if we even hinted to you how bad it was getting, if we even breathed about it, she’d be done with us. She said if you found out, it’d ruin everything. Said you deserved better than to be dragged into this fucking shitshow."

He laughed then—a dreadful sound that scraped the walls.

"And the worst part is?" he added, eyes glinting and wet. "She actually fucking believed she was protecting you."

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to breathe around the sudden, crushing weight of betrayal and heartbreak and helpless, brutal understanding.

Because of course she did.

Of course Ellie would burn the whole world down to protect you, even if it was the last thing you wanted. Even if what she was protecting you from was herself.

Jesse was still watching you, something wrecked in his expression, but still, he began to walk away.

"I’m sorry you had to see it like this. I’m sorry we let it get this bad. We really fucking tried."

You dropped your hands from your face, blinking back the blur of tears.

"Is she really..."

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. Your throat closed around it.

Jesse shook his head, his jaw tightening. His voice dropped even lower, just a thread.

"She’s not okay."

The words hung between you, heavy as lead.

"And the truth?" almost whispering now, like it was too dangerous to say any louder, now even more far away from you. 

"None of us fucking are."

The hallway around you stretched empty and endless, humming with the echoes of all the things that had been broken in just minutes.

You stood there, frozen. One hand hovering now inches from the doorknob, the other clenched tight at your side like it might keep you grounded. Your breath came shallow. Too loud in the silence she’d left behind.

And then Jesse turned.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna give you a minute,” he said, running a hand through his hair again like it hurt to stand still. “She’s not listening to us anymore. Maybe she never was.”

He hesitated. Just long enough to let the pain show through the cracks.

“Maybe she’ll listen to you,” he said. “Maybe you’re the last person she might still want to be better for.”

The words sat between you like a goodbye.

And then he stepped back. Shoulders heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.

“I’ll be down the hall,” he added quietly. “Just... scream if you need anything.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure you could speak.

Whatever had exploded in that room was now burning low, reduced to embers and ash. But the quiet that followed wasn’t peace. It was worse. Heavier. Like the moment before a storm shifts course and takes everything down with it.

You didn’t know what you’d find on the other side of the door.

Part of you didn’t want to know.

It was just you.

Just you, the door, and the girl on the other side who once swore she’d never hurt you.

But the door finally creaked open beneath your trembling hand, and for one long, suspended heartbeat, the world stopped breathing with you.

There she was.

Ellie.

Collapsed on the battered greenroom couch, folded inward like something destroyed beyond repair. Her sleeve was shoved carelessly past her right elbow, revealing tattooed pale skin washed ghostly white beneath the sickly, flickering yellow light. A disposable lighter jittered weakly between her trembling fingers. The coffee table in front of her was a war zone, and at its center, balanced on the edge of ruin, a single spoon.

Scorched. Charred black at its base.

The air was dense and stifling with the smell of burning metal, acrid vinegar, and something sickly-sweet, chemical, poisoned—something that made bile rise and burn at the back of your throat.

But none of it mattered. None of it struck you like it should’ve.

Because Ellie’s other hand held something worse.

Something undeniable. Something that sliced reality open with ruthless, devastating clarity.

A syringe.

Full. Loaded. Shaking.

The plunger trembled beneath the pad of her thumb; the needle glittered cruelly in the dim light, cold and sharp, glinting like the blade of a knife.

The realization detonated inside your chest, silent and annihilating, obliterating every fragile lie you'd told yourself about her being fine. Your body moved forward before your brain could catch up, legs weak and useless beneath you, stumbling toward her like something inside you was magnetized to the destruction.

She didn’t see you at first.

She was somewhere else—somewhere unreachable, trapped behind glass, drowning in a nightmare you couldn’t touch. Her head hung low over the pale crook of her elbow, bottom lip caught desperately between her teeth, muscles twitching with tiny spasms she couldn’t control. Her movements were clumsy, fumbling, heartbreakingly vulnerable—like a child lost in the dark, fighting an enemy she couldn’t see.

She was still so young. She was still so breakable. She was still a kid.

You opened your mouth to call her name, but your voice had vanished, robbed by the cruel weight of what you were seeing.

There was nothing—nothing but the panicked, shallow rasp of your own breath as it splintered apart inside your chest.

And then Ellie lifted her head.

The syringe almost slipped through her shaking fingers. Her entire body jerked backward violently, as if the mere sight of you standing in that doorway was a bullet tearing through her heart. Her lips parted, desperately sucking in air that never came, eyes wide and raw and impossibly wounded. Her face twisted into something far more harrowing than fear or surprise or pain.

It was shame. It was guilt.

It was devastation.

Those green eyes—eyes you knew so well, eyes that used to watch you across rooms, across stages, or close enough to catch every color of your irises, alway soft and sharp and warm and full of pure love—were empty now. Hollowed out. Ravaged. She stared at you like you were the last beautiful thing she’d ever touched with her hands, and now, somehow, she’d shattered you too.

Her mouth fumbled helplessly for words, excuses, apologies—frantic, silent pleas for forgiveness she knew she didn’t deserve.

And then finally, a ragged, broken sound escaped her throat, fractured with guilt, grief, and horror.

"What the fuck—what the fuck are you doing here?"

You finally managed to sneak out your trance and sprinted into the room, heart pounding so violently against your ribs it felt like it might shatter you from the inside out. Your vision blurred, your breath came too fast, too loud. You lurched forward, clipped the edge of the coffee table, and sent everything on it crashing to the ground.

“What the fuck am I doing here?!” you screamed, your voice already cracked, already splintering under the weight of it. “What the fuck are you doing, Ellie?!”

She jolted like she’d been shot. Scrambled back, messy, frantic—shoving the syringe behind her like a child caught red-handed, like it wasn’t already too late. Like her hands weren’t already soaked in everything she was trying to hide.

But you were on her in two steps.

You grabbed her wrist. Tight. Desperate. Trembling so hard it felt like your bones might shatter.

She thrashed. Clumsy. Uncoordinated. Weak in all the wrong places. She shoved at your chest, nails scraping, breath ragged, body shaking with too many toxins and not enough strength to fight you off–too light, too thin, too broken.

“Get off me!” she shrieked, “Get the fuck off me!”

“No!” you screamed back, eyes wild, throat raw. “No, no! you don’t get to do this! You don’t get to fucking leave me like this!”

It wasn’t a fight. It was a collapse.

A collision of love and terror and everything you’d both tried to pretend wasn’t happening.

You crashed into each other—limbs tangled, breaths colliding. You didn’t care how hard you hit the floor. You didn’t care that her elbow slammed into your ribs. You didn’t care that she was screaming.

You fought.

You fought for her. For the version of her who used to smile when you said her name. For the girl who promised she’d try. For the person you still believed was buried under the ash.

You fought for her the way she should’ve been fighting for herself.

You clawed. You begged. You cursed her. You loved her.

And in the middle of it all—caught between your hands, between the panic and the heartbreak and the grief—

The syringe broke clean in half, cracked against the edge of the table with a sound so sharp it rang through your chest like a bullet.

Everything stopped.

You stumbled back, breath jagged, heart racing.

Ellie staggered too, eyes wide, then collapsed—as if gravity had finally remembered she was made of bones and flesh. She slid down the wall, hands covering her face, shoulders curling in like she wanted to disappear inside herself.

And you just stood there.

Staring at the broken syringe on the floor. Dark, brown poisoned liquid all around it. It was a mirror. Those shattered pieces mirrored everything she’d promised you, everything she’d thrown away.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the sob ripped its way out of you—ugly, gasping, human.

“…You’re a fucking liar,” you said, voice shaking so hard it barely made it out. “You lied to me.”

“You made me believe you were trying,” you whispered. “Like I was enough to make you try.”

And then, softer—barely audible through your grief.

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Ellie lifted her head.

Her eyes were bloodshot, wild, barely hers anymore.

“I was trying!” she spat, voice ripping out of her like it had claws. “You think I wanted you to see this?! You think I wanted you to fucking see me like this?!”

“You treated me like I was a fucking idiot!” you screamed, the betrayal splitting you open. “You act like I wouldn’t notice you disappearing! Like I couldn’t see you falling apart!”

“I didn’t want you to!” she choked out—and then she broke.

The fight drained out of her all at once. Her shoulders collapsed, her spine bowed, like her body had given up the lie. She slumped against the wall, small and ruined, bones unable to bear the weight of the wreckage.

You were shaking. Shaking so hard your teeth clicked in your skull, your fingers curled into fists you couldn’t unclench. Like your own skin might split open and fall away from you.

“I believed you,” you whispered, barely able to hear yourself over the sound of your heart breaking. “I fucking believed you.”

Ellie pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes like she was trying to erase herself.

“I didn’t ask you to believe in me,” she muttered.

“You didn’t have to!”

You shot back, and your voice broke wide open.

“I loved you!”

She flinched like the word hit her in the face. It cracked something in her chest she’d tried to bury.

You stepped closer. Hands trembling. Voice trembling worse.

“Why did you make everyone swear not to tell me? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you fucking call, Ellie?!”

She slid lower, curling in on herself until her forehead touched the floor, mumbling something you couldn’t make out—just noise, just static.

You dropped to your knees in front of her. Grabbed her shoulders. Shook her.

“Answer me!”

She just let you shake her like she deserved every punishment you wanted to give her.

“I don’t know,”

She whispered. And it wasn’t an excuse. It was a confession. It was the truth, raw and awful and useless.

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision, voice splintering into something sharp.

“You do know.”

She looked away.

“You fucking know.” You swallowed hard. Your voice dropped. “Don’t lie to me, Ellie. Not again.”

Finally, she dragged her hands down her face, slow like every movement hurt. When she looked up, her eyes were swollen, rimmed red, glassy with tears she hadn’t let fall.

And there it was.

That look.

Like she knew she’d killed something precious with her own hands.

“You left,” she said, voice trembling at the seams, barely holding. “You left and I didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

“I didn’t fucking leave you!” you shouted, the words erupting from your chest so violently they felt like they might tear your throat open. “We both had tours! We had contracts! You knew that—we knew what this life was when we chose it. When we chose each other!”

“I know!” she screamed, “But when you left—when you left—everything went fucking quiet. The world just—collapsed, and I didn’t know how to fucking stand in it!”

Her voice shattered halfway through, splitting clean down the middle.

“But you promised me!” you cried, and it didn’t even sound like your voice anymore—just a raw, splintered thing cracking. “You fucking promised you’d try! You said you’d call—you said you’d eat—you said—”

The last word caught in your throat, jagged and cruel.

“You said you wouldn’t disappear on me!”

Ellie dragged a shaking hand through her hair and yanked, like she wanted to rip something out of herself, and you winced at the sound it made—desperate, aching.

“I wanted to try,” she rasped. “I swear to God, I wanted to. But every time I opened my eyes, you were a thousand miles away, and I couldn’t—” Her voice cracked, then collapsed completely. “I couldn’t fucking breathe. Trying wasn’t enough. It was never enough!”

You stared at her.

At the girl who had whispered forever into your mouth. At the girl who once turned your love into songs.

And now she was here. Coming undone in front of you. And somehow, it still didn’t feel enough.

“…But you promised,” you said again, voice hollow now. Smaller. Fragile, as if saying it any louder it might crush you.

She looked at you—and the devastation in her eyes was the kind of thing you don’t walk away from.

Your chest was heaving. Your hands were fists so tight your nails cut into your skin. You didn’t even notice the sting.

Tears blurred the room, blurred her, blurred the syringe glittering in broken pieces on the floor. That smell—burnt metal and chemicals and pain—was in your mouth, in your lungs, pressed into your skin like a stain you’d never scrub out.

And she just layed there.

Breathing like every inhale was a damnation.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched you fall apart in front of her like it was the only thing left she knew how to do.

That silence was worse than any scream.

“You told me,” you gasped, voice hoarse and shaking, “You told me you were going to fight—for you, for me, for this—FOR US!”

And something inside you twisted. Curled in on itself. Hardened into something uglier than rage.

“And now you’re here! Using he—!”

You couldn’t finish. You physically couldn’t make your mouth shape the word.

So you folded. Bent at the waist, hands gripping your knees like you might fly apart without the pressure holding you down.

You didn’t want to scream. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to disappear.

You lifted your head, wild and desperate, and saw it—saw the way her face had crumpled in on itself, the way her shoulders hunched like she was trying to become smaller, disappear into the floor.

And then she whispered it.

So soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“...I didn’t want you to hate me.”

You shook your head before she even finished the sentence. Violently. Desperately. The tears flooded, hot and heavy and merciless, sliding down your cheeks in broken silence.

“I could never hate you,”

You choked, voice wrecked beyond recognition.

“Not for a fucking second. Not even when I want to. Not even when I tried. Not even for what you’re doing to yourself.”

You were sobbing now, hands trembling at your sides, fists curled like you were trying to hold in the pieces of yourself she hadn’t already broken.

“Not even for the way you’re breaking my heart right now.”

Your tears blurred your vision, but her silhouette stayed focused. Slid down the wall, slow, heavy, her legs folding like paper under her. Collapsing inward.

She looked unrecognizable. Not the rockstar. Not the legend. Not the girl the world screamed for. Just a broken kid in an old shirt on a dirty greenroom floor.

“But I hate myself,” she whispered.

And you felt it. Like a crack splitting down the center of the room. Down the center of yourself.

“I hate myself,” she said again, louder this time. Just flesh and guilt.

You moved towards her on instinct, like your body couldn’t bear the distance anymore. But she flinched—hard—like your love was fire and she was already burning.

Her breath hitched. Her throat worked around the words like they were made of glass.

“That’s why I didn’t call,” she rasped. “That’s why I—”

Her hands curled into fists against the floor, trembling with the force of holding it in.

“That’s why we shouldn’t be near each other.”

It landed like a death sentence.

You stared at her. Stared at the girl who once swore she’d never let go of you.

“What?”

You whispered, but the word was so broken, so small, it barely reached her.

The word barely had shape.

Because deep down, you already knew.

“I…” She choked on the word. Swallowed hard. Tried again. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

It hit like a fist to the chest—no warning, no air. Just pain. Just the sound of something splitting you open from the inside.

“I’m hurting you, every day. I see it. On your face.”

You shook your head. Hard. Desperate.

“No—you’re not—you’re not—”

“I am,” she cut in, the words cracked and sharp like dry wood splitting down the grain. “I’m killing you. And you keep pretending it’s fine, you keep smiling for the cameras like you're not rotting from the inside out. But it’s not fine. It’s eating you alive.”

You wanted to say she was wrong. You wanted to scream it. But you couldn’t.

Because you knew she wasn’t.

“You fell in love with someone who doesn’t exist,” Ellie whispered, her voice unraveling. Her nails scraped uselessly against the floor, desperate for something to hold. “You fell in love with the version of me that used to be. The one who was still holding it together. Who was still funny and brilliant and—fuck—still salvageable.”

“Please,” you breathed, tears burning your throat. “Please stop—”

But she shook her head like she couldn’t. As if stopping would mean drowning in it.

“You didn’t fall in love with this,” she spat with a bitter, hollow laugh. “Not this. Not a fucking addict who ghosts you for days because she’s too ashamed to even open your messages.”

“That’s not true, I—” you tried, but your voice crumbled halfway through.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t make you wonder every goddamn night if they’re still alive,” Ellie said, and now her voice was spinning out—fast, unfiltered, like she had to say it before she shattered completely. “You deserve someone who can walk beside you. Someone who isn’t dragging you into the dark.”

“Ellie—”

“I see it,” she said, and her voice broke again. “I see it every time you look at me. It’s not just love anymore. It’s pity.”

“No,” you gasped, stumbling forward, reaching— “No, I don’t—”

But she pulled back like your touch scalded her.

“This life is ruining us. I know you. I see it all over you. You’re pale. You’ve lost weight. You don’t sleep. You walk through rooms like you’re halfway gone. And I became another weight on your chest, and you don’t deserve that.”

She pressed her palms into her eyes, hard.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she rasped. “I hate what I’ve done to you. What I’m still doing.”

“You’re not—” you tried to say, but your voice faltered. Because even now, with every cell in your body screaming not to agree, you felt it.

You were tired.

Exhausted.

And she knew. She’d known for a long time.

“You have your career,” Ellie said, softer now. More broken. “You have this brilliant, impossible life that you built from nothing. You were shining before you even met me. And if you stay… I’ll dim that light. I’ll pull you under. And you know I will.”

She said it like a confession.

An apology to a god that never showed up.

“You were always too good to be true,” she whispered. “You taught me how to love when I didn’t think I could. You were the first thing I ever loved that scared me more than myself. And you tried. You tried harder than anyone ever has.”

Your knees gave in completely, collapsing in the ground beside her. You looked at her and barely recognized either of you.

“Then why are you leaving me?” you choked, voice cracked and bleeding.

She swallowed, and it buckled her whole body.

“Because love isn’t enough. It doesn’t fix this.”

It cracked something so deep inside you, you knew it would never heal.

“It doesn’t fix me.”

Your whole body was shaking, your breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls. Tears had soaked through your hoodie. The space between you felt endless—too wide, too broken to ever be stitched shut again.

“...But I need you.”

“I need you even more,” she said softly. “But I already made my decision. I’m doing this for you.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

A loud bang echoed down the hall—someone shouting “One minute to showtime!”—but it barely registered. The real countdown was already ticking inside your chest.

Ellie’s hands rose to your face. Clumsy. Like a kid leaning in for her first kiss. Shaking so bad it made your skin vibrate. She cradled you like something sacred—something already lost.

And then—

Then she kissed you.

Not like a lover. Like a goodbye.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t clean. It was everything.

And it wounded.

A kiss filled with sorrow so deep it tasted metallic, like blood in your mouth. A kiss that reeked of grief and devotion and everything she couldn’t find the words to say. A kiss that said I love you and I’m sorry and please remember me—all at once.

You kissed her back like you were drowning. As if you held her close enough, tight enough, the moment wouldn’t end. Your fingers dug into the fabric of her shirt, trying to anchor her, trying to anchor yourself.

But the clock didn’t stop.

The world didn’t wait.

It never had.

It didn’t pause for heartbreak, didn’t soften for grief, didn’t flinch at the sound of something beautiful breaking.

It just kept spinning—indifferent, relentless—dragging you both forwards whether you were ready or not.

There was no mercy in it.

No pity. No grace.

Just the cold, unyielding truth that time moved on.

She pulled back first, breathing hard, her forehead pressed to yours. Her chest heaved like she’d just run for miles. Then, slowly, like she had to force every little muscle and nerve, she pushed herself up.

You watched her walk away.

And when she spoke, her voice was so low you almost didn’t hear it.

“This was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me,” she whispered. “You were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever called mine.”

Shaky. Careful. Final.

“And I can promise you, with everything I have left—I will love you until the day I die. Always.”

A whimper escaped your throat before you could stop it, a small, wrecked sound of someone being carved hollow.

“But you deserve to be happy,” she said, almost like it hurt to believe it. “And I have to let you go, even if it breaks me more than you’ll ever understand.”

She didn’t look at you again. Left you crying on the floor. Wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand—once, rough, angry—then turned her back before you could see her fall apart.

She crossed the room without a word. Grabbed her guitar from where it leaned against the desk.

But at the door, she paused.

And without turning around, she whispered,

“I’m sorry.”

Last thing you heard was boots pounding down the hallway. The bark of stage crew voices, the static crackle of walkies, someone shouting her name over the roar that was already building. The crowd was screaming for her.

And she chose the crowd.

You lay there—on the floor, knees drawn in, chest heaving—in the hollowed-out center of the wreckage she left behind.

Still. Silent. Utterly alone.

Like you always had been.

You don’t remember how you got out. Not the walk. Not the doors. Not the way the air felt outside the venue, sharp and full of things you didn’t want to breathe. You don’t remember the SUV waiting by the loading dock, or the way you collapsed into the leather seat like your bones had finally given up.

You don’t remember the plane. Or the sky. Or how Los Angeles looked from above—cold, glittering, vast.

A city that didn’t care your heart had just been carved out of your chest and left bleeding on a greenroom floor miles behind you.

You only remember her hands. Your face in her palms. Her mouth on yours, saying goodbye before she ever spoke the word.

And for the first time, you understood that there are some things even love can’t fix.

Some people you can’t save. No matter how much light you pour into them. No matter how tightly you hold on.

Some endings are already written. Etched into bone before the first kiss, folded into every soft I love you like a bruise waiting to bloom.

And you will spend the rest of your life learning how to survive it.

Or die trying.

And Ellie walked onto that stage having just let go of the only person she had ever truly loved.

Watched her fall apart and didn’t run after her. Didn’t fall to her knees and beg. Didn’t change a thing.

She stepped into the spotlight with her mouth still swollen from goodbye and her chest caving in on itself, hollow and echoing with the sound of your voice breaking.

Twenty thousand people waited. Their screams tore through the arena walls. They wanted a show. They wanted fire. They wanted the version of Ellie Williams that didn’t exist anymore.

Her ears rang. Her palms were slick. The guitar strap bit into her shoulder.

The first song started. Her hands moved. Her mouth opened.

But the voice didn’t come.

What came out was broken. Croaked. Barely human. A whisper dragged through a throat scraped raw by grief. The words were all wrong—slurred, cracked, drifting somewhere above her like distant smoke. Her chest burned. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The chords buzzed under her fingers, unfamiliar, unsteady.

She forgot the lyrics halfway through. Forgot what song it was.

Forgot who she was singing to.

When the crowd erupted after the chorus, she nearly collapsed.

She muttered something into the mic—she didn’t even know what. Something about needing a break. Then she turned and walked offstage, her boots heavy, her head down, shoulders caving inward.

She didn’t wait for Dina to yell in her earpiece. Didn’t wait for Jesse to catch her. Didn’t wait for the crowd to notice she wasn’t coming back.

She found the greenroom. Slammed the door. Locked it.

And then she destroyed everything.

The guitar was the first to go. It smashed against the wall, the neck snapping with a brutal crack.

Next came the mirror. Her reflection had been staring at her—dead-eyed, swollen-lipped, useless. Unworthy. So she shattered it. Watched her face break into a hundred pieces.

Then the table. The lamp. A chair. The shelves. Her own fists.

She didn’t stop until she couldn’t feel her hands.

Not when her skin split open. Not when blood dripped down her wrists and soaked into her jeans. Not when the room looked like a warzone and her chest still felt empty.

She crumpled to the floor in the center of it all, arms wrapped around her knees, forehead pressed to the tile. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. Her whole body convulsed with sobs she couldn’t control. She felt sick. Cold. Dead.

And the worst part.

The world outside kept spinning. Kept demanding.

It didn’t matter that she’d left the love of her life sobbing on the floor. It didn’t matter that she’d torn her own heart out and handed it back in pieces. All anyone wanted was the next song. The next photo. The next headline.

They didn’t care that she was dying in here. They never had.

There were fists pounding on the door. Jesse shouting her name. Dina’s voice cracking wide open. A crew member begging her to just say something, anything. But it was all distant. Muffled. Pointless.

She’d made her choice.

She let you go. The one person who ever looked at her and didn’t see a myth or a front-page scandal. The only one who ever knew her and loved her anyway.

But she didn't let you go because she didn't love you.

She let you go because she did.

And now you were gone.

And she was just a girl in a locked room, surrounded by wreckage, bleeding into silence, with your name like a ghost in her mouth and nothing left worth singing.

The world did not mourn with you. It didn’t stop. It didn’t pause. It didn’t care.

You came back to a city that kept spinning—glittering, soulless, and utterly indifferent to the fact that your heart had been torn out somewhere backstage in a venue you’d never set foot in again. The sun still rose. The freeway still roared. Your name still trended in headlines you couldn’t bear to read. And none of it mattered.

You spent the first day in bed.

Then two.

Then seven.

No light. No sound. Curtains drawn. Phone silenced. You didn’t eat. You didn’t speak. You barely slept—just stared at the ceiling until your body ached from stillness.

Grief didn’t hit all at once. It unfolded, cell by cell, minute by bleeding minute. It wasn’t the kind of pain you could scream about—it was quieter than that. Heavier. It wrapped around your throat and made it hard to swallow. It lived in the base of your spine. In the unwashed dishes. In the unread texts. In the way you caught yourself still turning toward the door, still hoping to see her there, smirking, ruined, beautiful, yours.

You wore her hoodie. Slept in her shirt. Stared at her name on your phone like maybe if you pressed it hard enough, she’d feel it.

And one night—after six hours of lying on the kitchen floor with a glass of wine you hadn’t touched and your face pressed to the cold tile just to feel something—you checked the Fireflies’ tour page.

Not suspended. Not like yours.

Cancelled.

One by one, they were dropping like flies. Festival appearances, residencies, the arena dates she swore she would never reschedule. Scrubbed. Vanished.

You stared at the screen until your eyes blurred.

She was unraveling.

You’d known it when you saw the syringe in her hand. You knew it now.

And you knew—without a single doubt—that she wasn’t going to save herself.

So you did what people do when they’re out of options.

You did the last thing you could.

You went back to the beginning.

You texted Rachel at 2:07 a.m.

get me Joel Miller’s number

It took her three minutes to reply.

ARE YOU OKAY?

You can't just ghost me for a week and then ask me for Ellie's dad number. I called you 412 times.

I banged your door yesterday and you didn't even open it. you just yelled "im alive"

You can’t just keep suspending shows.

Im really worried for you.

You stared at the blinking cursor for a long time. And then:

just get me his number. i'll talk when im ready.

Ten minutes later, it appeared on your screen.

An unfamiliar area code. No name.

Just a number and the last ragged shred of hope.

You stared at it for nearly an hour, fingers hovering, not calling. Because once you made this call—once you said it out loud—it was real. It wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t a rough patch.

It was a life hanging by a thread you couldn’t hold onto anymore.

You pressed the call button with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. It rang.

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Yeah?”

Came the voice on the other end. Rough. Wary. Hoarse. Old. A little confused.

You couldn’t speak at first. Your lips were moving, but nothing came out.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you said finally, your voice cracked and trembling. “Is this Joel Miller?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

You swallowed hard. Gripped the countertop to stay upright.

“My name is Y/N. I—I know we’ve never met, and I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t…”

You paused. Swallowed again.

“…completely out of options.”

There was a shift in his voice then—still guarded, but something alert under the surface.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” he asked. “You’re… Ellie’s girlfriend, right?”

“I—yeah.” You forced the word out. “I was.”

A beat of silence.

“…Are you okay? Is she okay? What’s going on?”

Your throat burned. Your chest hurt. The tears were already sliding down your cheeks again.

You pressed a hand over your mouth and tried not to break in half, before finally, muttering those words.

“She needs help.”

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟷 →

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Damn… Collide Nation, are yall breathing...? I know this chapter might have felt intense — maybe even shocking or painfully raw. I just want to say I approached it with as much care and respect as I possibly could. I actually spent a lot of time researching the subject to make sure it felt grounded, realistic, and not exploitative in any way. This topic means a lot, and I wanted to do it justice.

And if you’re someone who’s sensitive to these themes: I really hope it didn’t reach you in a hurtful way. My DMs and inbox are always open if you need to talk. ♡

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

[kxsagi]

OK LISTEN!! WHO ARE THE BLLK CHARACTERS WHO WILL SET THE WORLD ON BURN FOR YOU? BY THE WAY, I ADMIRE YOUR WORK❤️‍🔥🫶

“𝐢’𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮”

a/n: THANK YOU SO MUCH MWAH MWAH

btw this prompt reminded me of the song LET THE WORLD BURN by chris grey so ofc i had to use it as the title

and i interpret “i would set the world on fire for you” as extremely down bad and possessive energy… so that’s what i wrote the headcanons about

ft. kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, mikage reo, karasu tabito, kunigami rensuke

kaiser michael

kaiser is deranged in love. like “touch her and you die in 4K” deranged. 

you so much as sigh in a sad tone and he’s like “name. address. blood type.” 

would burn down an entire stadium if someone catcalled you. he won’t even blink. 

wraps an arm around your waist and stares down anyone who looks at you too long. smug as hell. 

“you see someone else? cute. they’ll be ashes by morning.” 

kisses you possessively, like he’s marking territory. dramatic. always wants an audience. 

buys you stuff just so people know someone can afford to worship you. 

jealous of inanimate objects. “that blanket gets to be around you all night? unfair.” 

will 100% tattoo your name somewhere stupid like over his heart or on his ring finger. “it’s not obsession, it’s devotion.” 

shidou ryusei

no thoughts, just “who hurt my baby???” as he sprints into battle. 

does not care about consequences. you told him that person was rude? BANG their tires are gone. 

kisses you like he’s on the verge of losing his mind. tongue, teeth, desperation. he needs you. 

death-grip on your thigh in public. leans into your neck and breathes, “mine.” 

insane levels of down bad. if you look cute, he’s on his knees barking. literally. 

you say “i want this,” and now the whole mall is yours. “baby wants? baby gets.” 

gets upset if you're too polite to people. “what’s with that smile, huh? you wanna die for them or what?” 

your name is his phone password, tattoo idea, safe word, AND ringtone. 

itoshi rin

silently simmering with rage when someone even slightly inconveniences you. 

doesn’t talk shit. just handles it. and by “handles it,” i mean permanent erasure from society. 

down bad in the scariest way. he won’t say “i need you,” but if you even joke about leaving, he freezes. 

pulls you close by the collar and whispers “don’t test me.” you’re the only softness in his life. 

his world is just you, football, and the pile of people he’s ready to fight for looking at you wrong. 

if you cry, he goes silent and leaves the room. not because he’s heartless. because he’s planning someone’s downfall. 

possessive in public. hand on your waist. glares that say “touch her and you'll lose a limb.” 

doesn’t believe in second chances for your enemies OR for anyone who flirts with you. 

“they don’t get to see you smile. not like that. that’s mine.” 

itoshi sae

dangerously calm when jealous. but you know it’s bad when he goes quiet quiet. 

his version of setting the world on fire? controlling every outcome so your life is perfect and your enemies fail publicly. 

you think he’s chill? he’s not. he’s been watching your ex’s linkedin profile for weeks. “just waiting for the right moment.” 

pulls you in by the chin when someone looks your way and gives you a long kiss on purpose so they get the message. 

“no one else touches you. you get that, right?” 

wants your lipstick on his collar and your scent on his hoodie. it’s a warning. 

he will show up to your haters' events, uninvited, just to watch their life crumble from the front row. 

low-key manipulative. makes you feel so special you’ll never want to leave. ever. 

“you’re all i have. so no one else gets to have you. period.” 

mikage reo

most unhinged part? he looks polite and composed doing it. he smiles while planning war. 

"they hurt your feelings? alright. new mission: emotionally ruin them and buy the company they work for." 

will ruin someone's financial life because they looked at you wrong. “whoops. guess they’re bankrupt now.” 

literally has a “spoiling you” budget larger than most countries’ GDP. 

possessive in a delicate way. he’s not clingy, he’s just always there. pulling you into his lap. whispering in your ear. slipping his card into your pocket like “go wild, baby.” 

kisses your hand, your temple, your shoulder – subtle marks of ownership. especially in public. 

gets jealous of people breathing near you, but keeps it cool… until he doesn’t. 

“oh, you think you can take her from me? that’s cute. security, escort him out.” 

buys the rights to your favorite book/movie/show so he can cast himself as your love interest. dead serious. 

makes everything about you. “why start wars when i can end them with your smile?” 

and god forbid you call him your “boyfriend” in public. “no, no. say ‘future husband.’ say it right.” 

karasu tabito

smart, manipulative, and terrifyingly efficient when someone wrongs you. 

smiles in public. burns people in private. 

down bad in a playful way until someone makes you cry. then it’s scorched earth. 

“you deserve better. so i became better. for you. but they? they get hell.” 

lowkey wants you dependent on him. not in a creepy way, just in a “nobody else will love you like this” way. 

hand on your thigh while he’s whispering in your ear at parties: “they’re staring. should i say something, baby?” 

makes it his business to know everyone you hate. because now he hates them too. 

will absolutely send you a selfie with your enemy crying in the background. “justice served.” 

kunigami rensuke (post-wild card)

he tries to be reasonable, he really does, but the minute you get hurt? his whole moral compass shatters. 

the definition of controlled rage. he holds it in until he’s alone, then starts punching walls and pillows. 

when he’s possessive, it’s like protective dog energy. he’s literally hovering over you. 

doesn’t even let people near you in crowds. hand always on your back, guiding you like a damn bodyguard. 

stares down people who flirt with you. doesn’t say a word, just stares. 

kisses you slow, deep, possessive, because he needs you to know he means it. 

if someone cheats or lies to you? “i’ll make them regret ever existing.” and he does. mercilessly. 

looks at you like you're the only good thing in the world. “you’re mine. and i don’t share.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[sabrinasopposite]

manchild; pilot.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

further questions, please ask me

ps: another warning... y/n is flawed and complex

next chapter: star-crossed lovers

summer, june 1972.

It was summer in the seventies — the kind that played like a worn vinyl, crackling under the heat of the Arizona sun. School was winding down like the last chorus of a slow-dance song at prom. One more year till college — a horizon Anakin Skywalker wasn’t ready to stare into. Not yet. Not when the sun still burned gold, the air hung heavy like incense, and the days blurred into a sleepy Technicolor haze.

He lived in a one-gas-pump desert town that looked like it’d been left behind by time — diners with flickering neon, drive-ins ghosted by tumbleweeds, and motels with signs that buzzed louder than their guests. People drifted away from here like smoke rings in the wind, but somehow, they always found their way back.

While the jukebox generation kicked off their summer-of-love dreams, Anakin’s own soundtrack had cracked mid-song. Padmé had left him at the end of spring semester — clean cut, no B-side explanation. And like a cruel twist of radio fate, two months later she was already holding hands with Rush Clovis — the kind of guy who wore poetry like cologne and probably read Kerouac for fun. The kind of guy who fit her world now.

It was golden hour — the kind of light that made everything glow like a photograph you want to live in. A breeze shuffled through the Arizona heat like a slow dance with no music. The final bell had rung, setting teenagers free with the excitement of open roads and Top 40 dreams. Talk swirled around — Bowie had a new track out, someone’s older brother just scored a new Camaro, and summer was theirs to burn.

But Anakin wasn’t thinking about any of that. He just stared off at the horizon like it might tell him something. His heart, cracked and splintered, still beat her name in every silence. Padmé walked past — glowing, laughing, alive. She wore high-waisted jeans and a lavender blouse that looked like it belonged in a Fleetwood Mac album cover. Like she was already living in a world Anakin couldn’t reach anymore.

Fives looked over at his friend — who hadn’t been the same since Padmé walked out of his life like the fadeout on a sad soul song.

“Dude… how long you gonna keep staring at her like she’s the second coming of Janis Joplin?” he asked, voice low but amused.

“Until I figure out her goddamn plan,” Anakin muttered, arms crossed over the hood of his battered ’68 Dodge Charger. The car was a wreck, always one gear-shift away from death — but it was his church, his therapist, and his war bunker. And, lately, his best spot to stake out the girl who used to be his whole universe.

Rex leaned beside him, the paper cup of cola sweating in his hand, eyes flicking to Padmé. “Her plan was a breakup, man. You still think it’s deeper than that?”

Anakin leaned back, exhaling like a tire losing air. “I know she dumped me, I do. But why, man. Why? She just woke up one day, flipped the record, and decided I didn’t belong on her playlist anymore. And now she’s with him. I mean, I still don’t understand how she just wakes up and decides to call it quits, then goes out with some guy the week after—- I mean I haven’t slept right since May. I’m running on empty and she already dates someone else.”

Fives gave him a look, pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket — the kind of jacket that had probably seen more heartbreak than prom dates.

“Dude, you gotta let her go. I know it’s messy, and I know you really loved her — still do. But what’s your plan? Run after her until she turns around and says ‘never mind’?”

Anakin raked his fingers through his already chaotic hair. “Yeah, I know. I know. But I can’t just flip the switch. I’ve tried dating, I’ve tried letting go, but every time I do, I just keep hearing her laugh in my head or picturing how she used to look at me — and none of it compares, man. None of it.”

Fives sighed, cigarette hanging from his lips like punctuation. He lit it, took a drag, and offered one to Anakin.

“Yeah… I get it. Wasn’t easy for me and Jackie either. But eventually… it just stops mattering. Eventually, it fades. Like an old cassette left on the dashboard too long.”

Before Anakin could answer, Cal Kestis came jogging up, his ginger hair a windblown mess, eyes wide with adrenaline and teen mischief.

“Okay, okay — I scored the booze for your party, Rex,” he grinned, breathless. Then caught sight of Anakin’s stormcloud stare aimed squarely at Padmé and Clovis. “Jesus, man. You good?”

Anakin didn’t answer. Just kept watching her — like she was a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. The kind that lingers in the morning haze and makes reality feel like a cheap knock-off.

Fives bumped his shoulder into him with brotherly force. “Peachy,” Anakin muttered, his eyes locked on Padmé and Clovis, tangled in a little sunlit world of their own.

He took the cigarette from Fives, the way a soldier accepts his last smoke before going back to war. A slow, pensive drag — the kind that fills your lungs and lets the silence hang just a little longer.

Rex gave Cal a nod, cracking a crooked smile. “Thanks, man. Well, our lover boy’s going through it — that’s why we’re gonna throw one hell of a beach party tonight, aye?” he grinned, sipping his cola like it was bourbon.

“Yessir,” Cal shot back, grin wide, sun catching in his wild hair. “You bet your ass! End of sophomore year, which means we’re gonna get hella piss drunk… except for Ani.” He slapped Anakin on the shoulder, just hard enough to jostle him back into the moment.

Anakin exhaled a plume of smoke, shooting Cal a sarcastic look. “Definitely,” he said, voice flat, but with the ghost of a smirk.

Fives furrowed his brows, puffing thoughtfully. “Dude, you haven’t touched alcohol in months. I know Padmé didn’t like it when you drank, but—bro, you can now.”

“I dunno…” Anakin muttered, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it drift like dust in the Arizona sun. “I know I can… I’m just not sure if I want to. I’ve been doing good. Staying sober, staying outta trouble.”

Rex chuckled dryly. “Yeah, but you smoke cigarettes like they’re your goddamn breakfast.”

“Yeah, but—” Anakin paused, his voice lowering, “Cigs help me concentrate. Keep me grounded. Booze… booze makes me spiral. And she hated that part of me.”

Fives leaned in, whispering like the devil on his shoulder. “But she’s goneeee, man,” he drawled with a mischievous grin. “Come on, Ani. Just a little sip tonight, a good ol’ beer, some tunes, bonfire, waves. Forget her. And I definitely know Rex invited some hot girls.”

Cal rolled his eyes and shot a look at Fives. “Fives, don’t even pretend like you’re gonna pull.”

Fives gasped dramatically. “Hey! Maybe some girls are into the bad boy with a soft heart vibe, ever think of that?”

Anakin actually chuckled — a real, worn-out laugh — as he reached for another cigarette. “I suppose you do have a point, Fives. I could… loosen up tonight. A few beers, some laughs, maybe even forget her for, like, five minutes.”

Fives clapped his hands, triumphant. “That’s my man!” he shouted, placing both hands on Anakin’s shoulders like he’d just won a football game.

Rex groaned. “Oh god,” rubbing his temple at Fives’ volume.

Anakin laughed again and shoved Fives back playfully. “All right, all right! I’ll come to your stupid party. But don’t expect me to be a full-blown drunkard, alright?”

He raised the cigarette to his lips again, a sly grin forming in the corner of his mouth.

Rex gave him a nod. “Got it, Skywalker. Alright boys, I gotta bounce and get the setup going. Also, if you see Obi-Wan, tell him I said hey.”

Anakin shook Rex’s hand, firm. “Will do, Rex.”

Then, turning to Fives, his smirk deepened. “You’re probably heading off now to ‘pick up girls’, huh?”

Fives winked, already walking backward like he was on a stage. “You know me.” He threw up his hands and, in perfect Fives fashion, backed right into a group of girls. They giggled as he spun around, arms wide. “Girls!!” And just like that, he vanished — swallowed by the scene like a Saturday night fever dream.

Anakin shook his head, grinning. “Damn dude… what a player,” he muttered under his breath, though the words tasted half like envy, half like pride.

He tossed his cigarette down, crushed it beneath his black Converse, and turned once more — instinctively — toward Padmé. She was laughing now, head tilted back, Clovis’s arm around her shoulders like she belonged there. They looked like a Polaroid of something Anakin didn’t get to be part of anymore. Too perfect. Too damn fast.

He made a face — disgusted, bitter, hurt — all tangled into one sharp look. Then he turned, walked to his Charger, and slid in with a familiar creak of old leather and old memories.

The key turned. Nothing.

“C’mon…” he whispered, already knowing how this would go.

He hit the dash. Nothing.

He cursed under his breath and kicked the clutch. The car grumbled, sputtered… and finally, with a wheezing growl, roared to life like a beast waking from sleep.

Anakin gripped the wheel and took a long, shaky breath. He looked up at the rearview mirror and there he was. Red-rimmed eyes. Messy curls. Wrinkled shirt and a face that looked like it hadn’t believed in sleep since April.

A ghost in the driver’s seat. He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Damn it all…”

Outside, the sun dipped further, turning the town into a dusty painting of goodbye. That Arizona glow—amber and honey-thick—draped everything like a fading record sleeve from a summer hit long past its prime. Inside that Charger, Anakin sat with the weight of a love lost, an engine rumbling beneath him, and a party waiting at the edge of night like a mirage.

He leaned back, elbow against the window frame, letting the warm wind tangle his curls. As the car coasted through the town’s familiar arteries, time seemed to drip slow like molasses on vinyl. The neon flicker of the old drive-in. The rust-flaked grocery sign spinning in lazy circles. The diner where his uncle played old Motown records in the back and always smelled like fry oil and sunburnt coffee. All of it passed by like ghosts waving from a moving train.

Eventually, he pulled into the gravel drive of his two-story house—paint peeling, porch swing swaying with no one in it. Home, for whatever that word meant anymore.

And later, down at the beach, the world had shifted. The sun was gone now, tucked beneath the horizon like an old photograph sliding back into its envelope. Stars blinked alive above them, scattered across the sky like dust from a shattered disco ball.

The beach pulsed with life—Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” spun from someone’s truck radio, Stevie Nicks’ voice haunting the salt-heavy air with that silk-and-fire sadness that always knew how to dig into the bruised parts of a heart.

The bonfire cracked and cast golden glows across laughing faces. Boys and girls tangled together—some kissed like they’d never get another chance, others drowned themselves in lukewarm beer and the feeling of now.

Anakin lingered on the outskirts of it all, his converse sinking into the cool sand. He sipped slowly from his beer, its taste dull and heavy on his tongue. That’s when she stumbled up—Cordé, tipsy and sun-kissed, wrapped in a pink bikini and cutoff shorts. Her brown hair curled wild over her shoulders, catching the firelight like it had been dipped in bronze.

“Heeey, Skywalker,” she purred, brushing her fingers along his arm with a confidence borrowed from booze and fleeting nights.

Anakin looked up with a small nod. Recognized her from school, vaguely. Padmé’s orbit. A satellite girl. “Sup,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting the bottle to his lips again.

She leaned in close, her words slurring like a song caught in a warped tape. “You know I always liked you, right??? Like, Padmé didn’t deserve you…” At the sound of her name, Anakin’s smile cracked a little, like the first fracture in windshield glass. But he shook it off, forcing a shrug.

“Yeah, I know,” he said dryly. “You’re not the first one to tell me that.”

Cordé leaned more into him, fingers trailing over the rings on his hand—old silver, worn and nicked from too many nights punching through walls of emotion. “You deserve waaay better… I could m—”

Anakin pulled back, too fast, his body rejecting the contact before his mind could even process it.

“Look, Cordé,” he said, more tired than angry, “you’re a nice girl. Really. But I’m just here to try and forget…”

He looked over then, and of course, there she was—Padmé. Laughing like the ocean had whispered something sweet into her ear. Tucked under Clovis’ arm like she’d been there forever. Like she’d never belonged to him.

He stood up suddenly, the sand resisting his converse. His voice cut low. “Sorry, but I gotta go.”

Cordé blinked, confused. “Wait—where you going?” she called out, her words dissolving in the breeze.

“Doesn’t matter.” He said it sharp, like a closing door.

He walked away—storm-eyed and stiff-jawed—past the bonfire, past the haze of liquor and perfume, past all of it. Rex and Hunter spotted him, their relaxed posture shifting when they caught the flicker of fury in his silhouette. “Anakin, hey,” Rex called out, standing up. “Where you going, man?”

But Anakin didn’t stop. The tide was pulling him somewhere else—somewhere colder. Rex reached for his arm, and this time, it worked. Anakin turned, eyes dark and jaw tight. “Yeah—Rex, I gotta go.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” Rex’s voice rose, more from worry than command. Hunter stood behind him, arms folded, unreadable as always.

“What’s the matter with you, Anakin?” Hunter asked, stern and grounded like thunder. “You’ve been acting like a jerk all night.”

Anakin laughed bitterly, eyes wild and distant. “Sorry I’m not into sucking tits of girls tonight,” he said, sharp like broken glass.

But Rex saw through it. He always did. Saw the raw ache swimming just beneath the sarcasm.

Rex’s grip loosened, his voice softening. “Dude, this isn’t about girls, and you know it. This is about Padmé.”

Anakin didn’t speak. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that looked too much like heartbreak.

“Look—- I didn’t know she was coming tonight,” Rex added gently. “I’m sorry, man. I think it was Sabé who brought her.” “It’s fine,” Anakin muttered, jaw working again. He stared out at the crowd, at them. “I should’ve known better than to come here anyway.”

Rex stepped forward, about to speak again, but Hunter’s hand landed on his shoulder like a warning bell. “Rex—if he doesn’t want to be here, we can’t force him.”

Rex clenched his jaw, frustrated. “But we invited him. He agreed. We can’t just let him leave like this.” He turned back to Anakin, voice quieter now—earnest. “Anakin, come on, dude. Just… please stay a bit longer, okay? We’ll keep you distracted. I promise.”

Anakin sighed, shoulders sagging like a wave had just passed through him. His fingers played absentmindedly with the rings on his hand—twisting them, like turning old regrets. “Not tonight, Rex…” His voice was quieter now, softened around the edges. “But I promise you, I’ll come to your next party. That’s a promise.”

And somehow, the way he said it made Rex believe him. The kind of promise that still sounded like Rumors spinning on a turntable—fleeting, maybe, but real in that moment.

Rex gave him a look—half proud, half broken. “Alright, man,” he said, stepping aside.

Anakin nodded and turned away, the sand cool under his feet, the sky too wide, the night too heavy.

Anakin walked back to his car, the ocean sounds dimming behind him as if the night itself was moving in slow motion. He’d had a few beers, sure—but his head was still clear enough to drive. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. The weight pressing down on his chest wasn’t the alcohol. It was something heavier, slower—something like regret soaked in gasoline.

He slipped into the driver’s seat with a sigh, the leather cold against his back. The cigarette found its home between his lips like it belonged there, and he lit it with a flick that had muscle memory behind it. The engine coughed, groaned, then roared to life—old and temperamental like some broken-down warhorse. The radio crackled on just as the cigarette’s cherry began to glow.

Nirvana buzzed through the static like a voice from inside his ribs. He tapped the wheel in rhythm, eyes narrowed, the wind threading through his hair like phantom fingers. Smoke curled around his face as the Charger hummed down the empty desert road. The stars above him were endless—flickering reminders that the universe didn’t care whether Padmé still loved him or not.

Then, there it was. That old gas station neon burning softly in the distance, glowing like a memory someone forgot to turn off. A familiar landmark on the map of his boyhood. He smirked a little—blue raspberry slushie, the unofficial cure for heartbreak since ’08. He flicked his cigarette out the window with a casual snap, embers scattering like fireflies in the wind, and pulled into the station with the kind of parking job that said, I’ve had a night.

Didn’t matter.

The bell above the door jingled as he walked in, the smell of oil, sugar, and faded linoleum wrapping around him like an old denim jacket. The place looked like it had been untouched since 1956—chrome stools, jukebox in the corner playing a half-slowed Elvis song, and faded pinup posters curled at the edges.

“Hey Dex,” he said, voice low and worn.

Behind the counter, the old man turned—grease-stained apron, hands thick like they’d held a thousand engines. His face broke into a grin, warm and wide. “Well, look who it is! Skywalker, my boy! Haven’t seen you around in a while. What brings you in tonight?”

Anakin chuckled softly, the sound more air than joy, and reached over the counter for a handshake. Dex’s hand was firm, familiar. The kind of grip that reminded Anakin there were still people in this world who remembered who he was before the heartbreak, before the detachment.

“Ah, just… craving a slushie and a pack of cigarettes,” he said, flicking his hair back with the edge of his hand.

Dex’s eyes twinkled with the kind of knowing that came from years of watching lost boys pretend they weren’t. “Ah, I get that. Sometimes you just need a little something to quiet the noise.”

He reached under the counter and slid a pack of cigarettes forward like it was an offering.

“And I remember you always loved my slushies. The blueberry one, wasn’t it?”

Anakin smirked, that rare kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He reached for his wallet inside his leather jacket. “It astonishes me more that you still remember.”

Dex waved him off with a slow shake of the head. “Please, my boy. It’s on the house. Call it a friendship tax write-off.”

He turned and began working on the slushie—one scoop, two, slow and methodical, as if even sadness deserved ceremony. Anakin leaned on the counter, letting himself breathe for the first time that night.

And then it happened.

The screech of tires outside shattered the stillness like a cymbal crash in a love song. Anakin’s eyes snapped to the window just in time to see a modern Mustang lurch to a stop—gleaming, expensive, arrogant. The passenger door burst open and a girl stumbled out, her voice cutting through the quiet like glass. “Fucking stupid manchild!” she yelled, full of venom and fire.

She slammed her heel against the door with all the force of a woman who’d had enough, then raised a middle finger as the Mustang peeled away in a scream of rubber and cowardice. She stood there, fists clenched, hair wild, silhouetted in the neon glow of the station like a fallen angel still burning from the fall.

Dex glanced out the window, brow raised. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Youngsters. Always so much anger and haste in their hearts."”

Anakin didn’t say anything. Just watched her, eyes fixed, a straw slowly finding its way back between his lips. anakin didn’t say anything, just looked blankly at the girl.

The girl was none other than Y/N Y/L/N—chaotic, sun-kissed, and burning like a fire left untended too long. Her presence was like a breeze laced with gasoline: beautiful, dangerous, and full of promise. She strutted into the station like she owned the damn place, her curls bouncing wildly with every furious step, catching in the neon glow. Her knotted white shirt clung to her chest like a forgotten summer memory. Her jean cut-offs were frayed and faded, high on her thighs like the edge of a secret.

Anakin watched her with that stunned, quiet look—like she was a ghost from a song he hadn’t played in years.

They had history, buried beneath layers of time, heat, and unspoken things.

Back then, they were kids on rusted bikes, daring each other to steal fire from the gods—or at least a Snickers bar from Dex’s. She always dared. He always followed. Summer nights filled with match flames, soda fizz, and laughter that echoed off the hollow skeletons of empty houses. He was wide-eyed, trying to be brave. She was barefoot with chalk on her palms and paint under her nails, already wild with the grief she didn’t yet know was coming.

Then time shifted. Like all things do. When her mom died, she disappeared from the inside out.

And Anakin? He went the other direction—louder, sharper, faster. Grease on his hands, silver rings on his fingers, anger he never named. She watched him from across the school halls. He never looked back.

Until now.

She walked in, barefaced and defiant, lips glossed cherry red like rebellion in a tube. She looked at the two men inside—one old, one made of shadows—and offered a sugar-slick “Evening, men,” like she hadn’t just been screaming outside like a thunderstorm in heels.

Dex raised his hand, smiling warmly. “Evening to you too, Miss Y/L/N.”

Anakin didn’t smile. He just gave her a nod. That Skywalker kind—part greeting, part warning, all unresolved memory. He felt something twist in his chest at the sight of her.

“What brings you here so late?” Dex asked, leaning onto the counter, eyes kind but shrewd.

Y/N shrugged, grabbing a pack of gum like it mattered, then turned on her heel—heels click click like gunshots across linoleum—and went to the fridge. The beer clinked softly as she grabbed one.“Eh, just getting something to drink,” she said, breezy as a summer lie.

Dex raised an eyebrow, his smile never quite leaving. “Just something to drink, huh? Are you sure you’re not running from something, kid?”

She walked back, the fridge door sighing shut behind her, and she set her things down beside Anakin’s slushie. Y/N looked like a movie character or like a hippie but with much femininity and risqué. but her personality was somehow, casual and free minded. chaotic even. She had rings on nearly every knuckle, mismatched like her moods. “Dex,” she said with a smirk, eyes gleaming, “if I were running from something, it wouldn’t be in these heels.”

Dex laughed, full and amused. “Touché. But you’re still full of it.”

Anakin stayed quiet. He was leaning on the counter, taking slow sips from his slushie, but his gaze had barely left her. She had that kind of gravity. Always did. A chaos that pulled without asking permission.

Y/N slid some money out from her bra with the same confidence as someone lighting a match. Casual. Intimate. Unapologetic.“Trust me,” she said, placing the money down beside her beer and gum, “this is the best option I’ve got right now.”

Then her eyes flicked to Anakin’s drink, lips curling into that familiar smirk. “Damn,” she said, voice dipped in dry sarcasm. “They let sad boys buy slushies now?”

Anakin’s jaw clenched slightly. He met her gaze without flinching, slushie straw still between his fingers. “You’re one to talk, princess. Last I heard, you were breaking hearts left and right.”

Y/N chuckled. Low, amused. She bent slightly, resting her elbow on the counter and chin in her hand like a cat playing with a bird. “Who said these rumors?” she said.

Everyone in school knew the real stories. Padmé had left Anakin. Then started to date Clovis. And Y/N? She was the girl who never stayed. Summer flings like cigarettes—quick, intoxicating, and over before the pack ran out.

But between her smirk and his quiet intensity, something hung in the air that neither beer nor slushie could cool.

Maybe it was the ghosts of bike rides and stolen candy. Maybe it was the fact that they never really said goodbye. Maybe it was just that they were both tired of pretending the past didn’t exist.

Dex, ever the oracle behind the counter, just watched them in silence.

Anakin looked at the crumpled bills in her hand, his gaze lingering a moment too long over the lines of her wrist, the chipped polish, the rings she always wore like armor. Then his eyes flicked back to her face—calm, unreadable. He rolled his eyes with the same nonchalance he’d perfected over the years.

“You know how gossip spreads in this town,” he said, voice low and flat. “But let’s not pretend, Y/L/N—you’ve always had your fair share of flings.”

Y/N grabbed her beer and gum, her eyes soft but casual—those doe eyes that always masked sharp thoughts. “Lord,” she said, arching a brow, “because it’s a crime to have a bit of fun in life, right?”

Anakin shook his head, a dry laugh undercutting the tension. But there was a flicker of something—irritation, maybe. Or something less honest.

“I never said it was a crime,” he said, his voice a little tighter. “But there’s a difference between having fun and using people. Or are you too busy having fun to care about that?”

Y/N said nothing at first. Just placed a fingertip—ringed and casual—on the top of her beer. She twisted it with one smooth motion, the cap popping off with a small hiss of rebellion.

“Oh, come on, Skywalker,” she said, voice cool, amused. “I don’t break hearts. That’s not really my thing.”

And it was true. Her reputation wasn’t for destruction. It was detachment. No false promises, no lingering stares in the hallway the next morning. Just soft lips, tangled sheets, and the unspoken agreement that some people weren’t meant to stay.

Anakin snorted. He had that same half-smirk now, the one he wore like a defense mechanism.

“Right,” he said, a little bitter. “No-strings-attached, that’s your thing, isn’t it? Just in it for your own pleasure.”

Y/N stepped closer, pressing the cold beer can lightly against his chest. Her voice didn’t rise, her gaze didn’t waver.

“Hey, man,” she said, flat and honest. “I’m not the one who broke your heart, alright? So don’t throw your sad-boy lectures at me. Save it for that chick who actually hurt you.”

The smirk dropped off his face for half a second. Just long enough for the honesty to cut through.

He looked down at the beer, then up again. “And why do you care?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t you be off with one of your flings—having fun, not giving a damn about anyone else?”

Y/N gave a crooked grin, taking a long sip from the bottle. “I wanted to,” she said with a shrug. “But my fling turned out to be an asshole.”

And with that, she turned back to Dex, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Thanks, Dex!” she called, stepping backward, her shoulders still squared.

Then she pushed open the door with the curve of her back, and the desert air swallowed her whole. The door closed with a soft thud, and Anakin stood there, slushie in hand, heart pacing like a slow drum against his ribs. Anger. Confusion. A strange, magnetic ache that never really left when it came to her.

Dex had been watching all along. Like he always did. Quiet eyes, kind mouth. The man had seen more heartbreak in his diner than a whole town’s worth of country songs. “You and Miss Y/L/N, huh?” Dex said, wiping the counter down with a rag. “Some tense there?”

Anakin scoffed lightly, stirring the bottom of his slushie with the straw. “A bit,” he said. Then shook his head. He didn’t think. He just moved.

The door creaked again as he stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his converse. The night was cooler now, the neon lights from the gas station flickering in lazy hues—blue, gold, red—like a half-forgotten dream trying to stay alive.

She was standing just outside, beer on the ground, a cigarette perched between her lips like a worn-in habit. The breeze pushed her curls back slightly, the smoke curling up toward the stars like a prayer no one meant to say out loud.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. “Oh,” Y/N said with a smirk, eyes flicking to him sidelong. “Missed me already?”

Anakin didn’t answer. He just walked over and stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

Y/N picked up her beer again and took a sip, letting the cigarette rest between her fingers. The music inside the station buzzed faintly through the door—Fleetwood Mac still crooning out into the night.

Anakin finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “You still smoke menthols?”

Y/N gave a soft laugh through her nose. “Only when I’m mad,” she said. “Or nostalgic.”

Anakin nodded once, watching the smoke disappear into the desert sky.

“Well,” he said, his voice half-joking, half-sincere, “you always did mix chaos with charm.”

Y/N smoked slow and steady, arms crossed over her chest like armor, the cigarette dancing between her fingers as she extended the pack toward him. “Definitely,” she said, voice lazy like a cat in the sun. “You changed though.”

Anakin took the pack, their fingers brushing—just enough to short-circuit something in him for half a second. He struck a match against his boot heel and lit up, the flare of orange flickering in his eyes.

“Changed, huh?” he asked, exhaling the first drag like a sigh. “In what way?”

Y/N walked toward the curb, cigarette hanging from her lips, her hair catching the breeze like wildfire. The white of her shirt glowed under the low light, and those jean shorts did nothing to help his already scattered thoughts.

She didn’t look back when she answered. “This super-wannabe-greaser version of you,” she said plainly, dropping down onto the curb, legs crossed. She didn’t say it cruel—just the kind of honest only she could get away with.

Anakin followed, slower, quieter. Watched the way she sat like she owned the sidewalk, the stars, the whole damn desert if she wanted to.

He sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees. “So…Skywalker,” she said after a beat, taking a sip of her beer, “why are you really here? Sippin’ that heartbroken slushie like a sad movie extra?”

Anakin chuckled, surprised she remembered what he always ordered. “What can I say? Sometimes a man just needs frozen blueberry to deal with a broken heart.”

Y/N popped a piece of gum into her mouth and grinned. “Ah, now we’re admitting we’re heartbroken.” She tilted her head at him, half-smirk playing at her glossed lips. “That slushie’s turning your cold heart into a sweet one.”

He laughed, the sound loose for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You’re just jealous my slushie’s better than your beer.”

She sipped it defiantly. “Nope. My beer relaxes me. Your slushie’s just brain freeze in a cup.”

She set the bottle down, turned toward him slightly. “So, why aren’t you at your homies’ party?”

Anakin leaned back, fingers splayed across the pavement. “Just needed a breather. Couldn’t deal with all the noise and drunken idiots.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mmm. Liar.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What makes you think that?”

She chewed her gum slowly, tapping ash from her cigarette like it was punctuation.

“Because I know when someone’s lying. And you? You left because Padmé was there.”

Anakin’s expression darkened. His jaw tensed like old reflex. He looked away, letting the smoke drift from his lips instead of answering. “So what if I did?” he muttered. “Why do you care?”

Y/N lifted her hands like a peace sign. “Chill, I’m not here to clown on your heartbreak.”

She crossed her bare legs, cool as ever.

Anakin sighed, the weight dropping out of his chest a little. He looked over at her, and this time there was something raw behind his eyes. “I just… I can’t seem to escape her. Even when I try.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She watched him—really watched him—but kept her face still. The same face that used to laugh until it ached on hot summer nights. It was weird, talking to him again. But then again, her night was already shot. Her so-called fling turned out to be a first-class jerk with zero rhythm.

She sipped her beer again, then wrinkled her nose like she remembered something sour.

“Yeah, well, let me tell you—Clovis? Not good in bed.”

Anakin choked on a laugh, head whipping toward her. “Nice to know I’m not the only one with a vendetta.” His smirk was back now, crooked and dangerous, but warmer than it had been in days.

Y/N shot him a sly grin, but her eyes stayed out on the highway. “Why’d she dump you anyway?”

Anakin exhaled hard. His cigarette burned low between his fingers. “She said she wanted to focus on herself. Her ambitions. Said we were holding each other back.”

Y/N clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “Damn. That’s some Hallmark movie excuse right there.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re preaching to the choir. Clovis is a total ass.”

He took one last drag, flicked the bud out into the dark, watching the ember fizzle against the gravel.

Y/N looked up at the sky, eyes glassy under the haze of citylight and desert stars. “Yeah—I slept with him twice. Only ‘cause I needed his homework.” She said it like it was no big deal, like it was just another Tuesday.

Anakin stared at her, half-shocked. “Wait. You slept with him for homework?”

Y/N grinned, wicked and proud. “I’m a genius.” She sipped her beer, gum snapping softly. “Besides, I hated Mrs. Jocasta. And Clovis kept bragging about his grades, so I figured—might as well get something out of it.”

Anakin was still recovering from that bombshell when she turned the conversation again, voice soft but cutting.

“Anyway—listen, Skywalker. She’s not worth it.” She met his eyes now, fully. No smirks. No gum popping. “I mean it. Padmé’s like every other girl in this high school. Polished on the outside, but not a clue how to love someone who doesn’t fit in a pretty little box.”

Anakin’s stare held hers, long and unreadable. Something in him wanted to argue, maybe even defend Padmé. But more of him was tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t sting. Tired of playing it cool when all he wanted was something real. “I just… I don’t know. Thought she was different, ya know?”

Y/N turned to him, softer now. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was just old muscle memory kicking in from nights long gone. She wanted to understand—maybe not to heal him, but at least to hear him. “What did you even like about her?” she asked, not judgmental. Just curious. Like trying to understand a song someone kept on repeat.

Anakin leaned back, shoulders folding in like a wilted paperback. “Everything, I guess. She was smart. Kind. Beautiful—like she stepped out of a dream I wasn’t supposed to have. She just… got me. Saw through all my bullshit and still wanted me anyway.”

Y/N gave a slow nod, cigarette balanced between her fingers like an afterthought. “Huh—sounds romantic. How long were you two doing that heartbreak waltz?”

He looked away, the horizon smearing into amber and shadows. “Not as long as I wanted. Off and on for a while. But… two years, officially.”

Y/N let out a theatrical gasp, almost offended on his behalf. “Damn.” Her voice carried down the street like a thrown match. “That’s, like—- okay you know, It’s okay to cry about her,—two years is a lot.”

Anakin chuckled, low and rough. “Nah, I won’t cry about her. She doesn’t deserve my tears.”

But even as he said it, the ache behind his eyes told on him.

Y/N raised a skeptical brow, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that nonchalant look? Doesn’t work on you.” She pointed a polished nail at his face. “The evidence is here, dumbass.” Her finger hovered near the tired smudges under his eyes.

Anakin sighed, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. The weight sat heavy in his bones. “I guess I can’t fool you.”

“Never could,” she said, lips curled into that signature crooked grin. “And also—come on, you’re too pretty to pout for free.”

Anakin rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “You really know how to boost a guy’s ego, don’t you? First I’ve got heartbreaker eyes, now I’m too pretty to pout?”

Y/N shrugged, dramatic as ever, pouting for emphasis. “And it worked. I know men more than you realize.” She stood up with a theatrical sigh, brushing off imaginary dust from her shorts. Her beer clinked lightly against the curb as she stepped out onto the street to glance around.

Anakin watched her with amusement. “Oh really? And what exactly do you know about men?” he asked, lifting a brow.

She raised her hand, thumb pointing out, eyes scanning the road. “That if I do this,” she said, smirking, “someone will stop.”

Anakin blinked. “You think just sticking your thumb out is enough?”

“It’s worked a couple times,” she said with a smirk and a shrug.

Anakin raised his brow, mildly impressed despite himself. “Well, look at you. Hitchhiking queen.”

Y/N nodded, hair catching the breeze like something out of an old photograph. “Man, I wish I could show you my trick—but it’s too late to catch a ride now.” She glanced down at him, still sitting curbside like some brooding James Dean knockoff.

Anakin smirked, letting the moment stretch. “Oh no, now I feel like I’m missing out. What’s this magical trick of yours?”

Y/N fidgeted with her shirt—tying the knot a bit tighter beneath her chest. It left her collarbones bare, skin sun-kissed and glowing under the flickering streetlamp. A very 70s look—half western, half rebellion. “To catch a ride home,” she said, matter-of-fact. “’Cause these heels? They’re not made to walk a mile.”

Anakin’s gaze flickered down—lingered a second too long. Her skin, the curve of her ribs, the exposed midriff. He looked away quickly, lips twitching. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “if you’re looking for a ride, I guess I can’t let a damsel in distress walk home in those heels.”

Y/N turned, faking a scandalized frown. “Wow. Damsel? Really? You just called me a helpless maiden?” But the corner of her mouth curled into a grin anyway. “…but I’ll take the offer though.”

She walked toward his car. Anakin stood slowly, brushing dust from his jeans, arms crossed as he watched her. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time deal.”

She tugged the door handle—stuck. Of course it was. “Yeah, don’t worry,” she said dryly, yanking harder. “Your car’s a piece of junk.”

Anakin walked up beside her, laughing under his breath. “It’s vintage, thank you very much.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s rust with wheels.” He popped the lock with a practiced hand and opened it for her. “Ladies first.” She gave him a side glance, dramatic as hell, then slid into the seat with an exaggerated groan.

“So,” she said as he circled the hood and got in, “where’s the playlist? Or are we driving in depressing silence like a sad film?”

Anakin grinned, key turning in the ignition, engine sputtering to life. “You think I drive around without Fleetwood Mac ready to go?”

Her laugh cracked the night open like a bottle. “Skywalker, you softie.”

The desert swallowed them as the music started, tires rolling into the dusk like they belonged to it.

📀 HELLLOOOOO, i am back! I am super excited to release the first pilot to my new series, which I am currently writing on.... c.ia. (no judgement pls.) but I loved the story so much, I had to share it. so this is the first glance to a summer love with flaws and cigarettes. have fun with it, and fell in love with y/n as I do, cause we love complex girls!

📀taglist: @blackynsupremacy @speaknow-sw @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @star-wars-stuff-1

[suguwu]

WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE

The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

masterlist

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

wc: 2.6k

notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!

content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.

You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.

The servants, however, are louder.

One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings. 

“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.” 

Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides. 

“It’s true, though!”

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.” 

She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji. 

You return to your coloring book.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.

Not yet. 

—

There’s a boy in the courtyard.

He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun. 

You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair. 

“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.

You stay quiet.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”

He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.

It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.

Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again. 

“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa. 

He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”

You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly. 

He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Nope.”

He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.” 

You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—

“You’re just a boy,” you say. 

He scowls. “Am not.”

“Are too.” 

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”

You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.

When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.

The Gojo boy is gone.

—

Your mother is hovering. 

She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate. 

“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”

You nod. 

There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.

The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji. 

You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath. 

Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”

The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.” 

He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”

“Hey!” 

“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”

You throw yourself at him.

His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control. 

By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.

“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”

“No.” 

Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth. 

“I’ll train with them,” he says.

“Gojo-sama—”

“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.” 

The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.” 

Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”  

He’s out the shoji before you can respond.

—

Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir. 

“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”

“Am not!”

“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”  

“You’re the one who came over.”

He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”

He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”

“I just do,” he says, voice flat.

You don’t ask again.

—

“Why are we here?”

Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”

Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum. 

“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”

He shrugs. “They insisted.”

“Who?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon. 

You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.

“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”

He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”

“They didn’t specify.”

“Ugh.”

“Gojo-sama—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.” 

You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down. 

“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”

The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”

He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“They cannot.”

“I said they’re coming.” 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.” 

Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.

“Fine.” 

You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.

The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.

You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.

You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky. 

You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.

A voice wakes you.

“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”

“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”

You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.

“It’s not enough.” 

“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.” 

The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.” 

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”

Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:

“I don’t think he’s human at all.”

Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms. 

Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately. 

“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. 

He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.” 

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“But my shoes—”

He glances back at you and you drown in blue. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.

He’s never looked more human to you.

—

The next time you see him, you’re prepared.

You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Give me your arm.” 

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” 

He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.

You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo. 

“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”

Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do. 

You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training. 

You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring. 

Life, ever unmoved, continues on. 

The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle. 

Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes. 

You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist. 

Gojo, though—

Gojo never does.

[aventurineswife]

you could write a scenario with Aventurine, Dan Heng and Jing Yan (or any other more character of your preference) the theme is the song "Treat you Better" by Shawn Mendes, like, the fem!eader is in a relationship with someone who doesn't treat her well and they're like "leave him, I can treat you better"

idk this idea just stuck in my head while I was listening to the song, it brings me nostalgia 😭😭

It's my first time making a request soooo... Sorry if the grammar is wrong, English is not my first language

Anyway, I love your writing, it's really good and recently I've been addicted to your writing 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

“I Can Treat You Better Than He Can”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Fluff, Angst, Character Development, Comfort, Self-Worth, Protective, Inner Turmoil, Slow Burn.

Warnings: Emotional Trauma (mentions of unhealthy relationships, emotional abuse), Heavy Themes of Self-Doubt, Mental Health Struggles (emotional burden, survivor’s guilt, loneliness), Manipulation (Aventurine’s past as a manipulative figure may be referenced), Conflict of Interests.

A/N: NOOO I USED TO LISTEN TO THAT ALL THAT TIME AS A KID AND SAME GOES FOR MY SISTER TOO 😭🙏

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The Astral Express hummed quietly as the night passed, the stars outside flickering like distant dreams. Inside, Dan Heng stood by the window, his piercing gaze focused on the black void that stretched out before them. His hand rested lightly on spear, but his thoughts were elsewhere, fixating on the unspoken weight in the air.

You had been quiet lately, quieter than usual. Your normally bright and radiant demeanor had been replaced with something more distant, more guarded. He couldn’t ignore the subtle change in the way you carried yourself, the slumped shoulders, the barely concealed sadness in your eyes whenever you thought no one was looking. He noticed how you would retreat to corners of the train, as if trying to escape the weight of the world you carried.

It didn’t take long for Dan Heng to piece together that you were in a relationship with someone who didn’t deserve you. He had heard the whispers when you weren’t around—the way your voice cracked when you mentioned your partner, the way your eyes became dull with resignation. He knew it wasn’t his place to say anything, but something inside him churned with a quiet anger at the injustice of it all.

Tonight, as the crew settled in for a rare moment of rest, Dan Heng found himself walking quietly towards you. He was unsure of what to say, how to break the silence that had been between you for so long. But as he approached, he noticed the familiar look of frustration and sadness on your face, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"Why do you stay with him?" His voice was soft but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. He didn’t look at you directly, his eyes focused on a point beyond the window, but his presence was unmistakable.

You hesitated, a sigh escaping your lips as you glanced at him. "It’s complicated, Dan Heng."

He could feel the hesitation in your words, the uncertainty that plagued your thoughts. He let out a soft breath, turning slightly to face you, his gaze finally meeting yours.

"It doesn’t have to be," he said, his voice quieter now, almost like a whisper meant only for you. "You deserve someone who will value you, who will make you feel seen, not someone who drags you down."

He stepped closer, his expression softer than usual. "I can treat you better. I’ll be here for you, no matter what." He wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, but they felt true in the moment—like the truth had finally found its way to the surface.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he held up a hand, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm.

"Just think about it," he said. "You don’t have to carry this burden alone. There’s no need to stay in something that makes you unhappy."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was heavy, yet comforting in its own way. Dan Heng’s words had opened a door, one that you weren’t sure you were ready to walk through—but part of you knew he was right. He was offering you a chance at something different, something better.

And for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel so alone.

The soft light of the Xianzhou Luofu’s lanterns flickered around you, casting long shadows across the polished marble floors. Jing Yuan, with his trademark laziness, stood at the entrance of the grand hall, surveying the scene with a sense of quiet satisfaction. His sharp eyes never missed a detail, yet tonight, they were focused on you.

You had been distant—more than usual. He could see the weariness in your movements, the way you seemed lost in your thoughts, as if the weight of something was pressing on your heart. It didn’t take a master strategist to figure out that you were struggling with the dynamics of your current relationship, and Jing Yuan found himself growing increasingly concerned.

He had long been the quiet observer, the strategist who planned steps far ahead of everyone else, but in this moment, he could feel the protective instincts rising within him. You were not just any crew member on the Luofu. No, you were someone he had come to care for, someone whose well-being mattered to him in a way he had not expected.

As the night wore on, Jing Yuan approached you slowly, his presence commanding yet soft in its approach.

"You’ve been quiet tonight," he remarked, his voice carrying a quiet authority. There was no judgment in his tone, only concern—a rare admission from the usually aloof Arbiter-General.

You gave him a weary smile, trying to brush off the unease that had settled in your chest. "Just tired, Jing Yuan."

He studied you for a moment, sensing that there was more to your fatigue than just physical exhaustion. "Tired of what?" His gaze softened, a rare vulnerability flickering in his usually calm eyes. "Tired of pretending everything is fine?"

You stiffened, caught off guard by his perceptiveness. It was like he could see right through you. There was no hiding from Jing Yuan’s wisdom, no shield to protect you from the understanding that radiated from him.

"Is it your partner?" he asked gently, the question hanging between you like an open wound.

For a moment, you faltered, unsure of how to respond. But the way Jing Yuan was looking at you, with such quiet intensity, made the decision easier.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It’s... complicated."

He took a step closer, his presence looming but not oppressive. "It doesn’t have to be," he said, his voice low but unwavering. "You deserve someone who sees you for who you truly are. Someone who doesn’t make you doubt your worth."

You met his gaze, the weight of his words sinking deep into your soul. Jing Yuan was always careful with his words, and when he spoke like this, you knew he meant it.

"You don’t have to stay in something that hurts you," he continued, his tone softening further. "I can treat you better. I’d never ask you to settle for less than you deserve."

There was something raw in his words, something unspoken that hung in the air between you. In that moment, Jing Yuan’s stoic demeanor cracked, revealing a depth of care that he rarely allowed others to see.

He wasn’t asking for anything in return, only offering his presence as a foundation of support. And for the first time in a long while, you felt as if you were no longer alone in your pain.

The dimly lit room was filled with the faint hum of machinery and the rustle of papers, but Aventurine hardly noticed. His eyes were trained on you, watching as you moved about the space, your posture stiff and your steps hesitant, as if carrying an invisible weight that had settled heavily on your shoulders.

Aventurine had always prided himself on his ability to read people, to understand their motives and desires, but tonight, it was different. There was something in your gaze, something in the way you avoided his eyes, that tugged at him. He had seen this before, the quiet defeat, the sorrow carefully concealed beneath layers of indifference.

And he wasn’t having it.

With a swiftness that surprised you, he crossed the room and placed himself in your path, his usual teasing grin replaced by a rare expression of sincerity. His eyes, usually full of playful mischief, were serious as they met yours.

"Why are you still with him?" Aventurine asked, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual bravado. "You deserve more than that."

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond, but he wasn’t giving you the chance to retreat.

"You don’t have to keep sacrificing yourself for someone who doesn’t see your worth," he continued, his words laced with an intensity that was at odds with his usual flamboyant charm. "I can treat you better. I know what it’s like to fight for your place in this world, and I would never ask you to stay in something that drags you down."

Aventurine took a step closer, his hand hovering just slightly above yours, a gesture of support that you had not expected from him. He was no stranger to manipulation, to using people for his gain, but in this moment, his sincerity was undeniable.

"You’re more than just a pawn in someone else’s game," he said, his voice softer now, vulnerable in a way you had never heard it before. "You’re worth far more than that."

His usual bravado returned as he added, with a grin that didn’t quite match his eyes, "And if you ever want to play a different game, I’m yours."

You looked up at him, unsure of what to say, but in that moment, you realized something: for all his flaws and the games he played, Aventurine was offering you something you hadn’t known you needed—a chance at something better. Something that didn’t involve settling.

And that, for once, felt like enough.

[mona-risms]

Yo!!!!! Your kpdm fix have just kept me alive the last few days!!!!! I love how you write for all the girls rather than just rumi (as much as I love her) I just LOVE Zoey and Mira as well?!!!!!!!

I was wondering could you do one for Zoey?

Like can we just agree that Zoey definitely has ADHD? So like sometimes I'd say she gets SUPER hyper focused on stuff like song writing or gets these random bursts of energy? So reader would definitely always be in tune with stuff like this and always make sure that after a certain point you would force Zoey to take a break and make sure she eats when she goes down a rabbit hole of just writing constantly. And you always love to hear her go on her little rants which is what Zoey (and the girls) love about you and how you're so patient with her (you definitely just randomly buy either Lego or different fidget toys for her cause you know how much she loves them and they help her kinda calm down?)

NSFW

Can we also agree that you ALWAYS know exactly what Zoey needs especially in the bedroom. Like especially when she gets these random bursts of energy? It's like she has so much energy and she's practically vibrating cause she doesn't know what to do with it. While you calm gesture from the couch waving her over and simply patting your lap. She immediately jumps onto your lap and you start with small touches that almost distract her and get her grounded. You scatter kisses around her face making her giggle until you eventually kiss her properly. It starts light and cute but soon turns deeper and more passionate. You start helping to grind her hips against yours and she whimpers feeling you against her and start to kiss her neck. You tell her that you know she is really hyper right now and doesn't know what to do with all her energy so you tell her she can ride you and she immediately goes for it....like not only is she getting to burn off all this energy but she ALSO gets to do it with you and make you feel good? SIGN HER UP!!!! She loves making you feel good and absolutely DIES when you start to whisper praise in her ear. While I do totally agree with you that she usually bottoms she just absolutely LOVES making you feel good and knowing it was her that made you feel good.

Especially when you reward her afterwards and flip her over and take her either soft or rough depending on what she needs.....

God I could go on and on about Zoey......I just need more of Zoey!!!!!!!

◆ MAIN COURSE: sub!Zoey x dom!gn!Reader

◆ TYPE: NSFW, romantic

◆ ALLERGEN WARNINGS: None

◆ NOTES: I'M GLAD I MANAGED TO FEED THE MASSES 🫡🫡 I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE ZOEY FIX SILLY!! And honestly I get her. I really really do 😭 if my Profiler results and my work ethic are any indication 😭

Zoey having ADHD feels like the most obvious thing ever and there is no one in this world that could convince me otherwise, or at MOST neurodivergent. Her own character struggles is not only just being pulled in two places at once, but she always felt like she was either too much or too little, and the thoughts and 'colours' in her head contribute to that feeling. Literally only when she joined HUNTR/X did she feel like her ideas (and herself, by extension) weren't too much or too little or too weird, she felt like she was accepted and cherished as just Zoey :(

This makes her such a fucking WEAPON in the industry though bc she can go on and hyperfocus on writing for god knows how long when that energy and motivation hits her, but you'd absolutely right in the fact that she does need to be dragged away from work just to take a bit of time to rest, replenish and by god take care of her. She'd most definitely go on a tangent about how she's PERFECTLY FINE to carry on but never ever take her word on it bc this girl's working herself ragged to feel like she's useful to the other members oh my god

Said members would approve you taking her away from work a bit for some self-care with your gf instead of letting herself burn out and neglect her own needs. If anyone's gonna have a 99% chance at getting their maknae to take a break, it'd be you. And even then, they adore you asw anyway!!! Mira and Rumi both want Zoey to be the happiest she can be, and when you make her smile so brightly as you do, them why wouldn't they like you? Atp you've been dubbed as the honourary fourth member, and they even make you your own norigae charm together thanks to Zoey's suggestion!!!

She'd feel so bad about it but at the same time she considers herself the luckiest person in the whole entire UNIVERSE (and she fully means it with her whole heart) bc you're literally looking out for her as much as possible. When she gets too fixated on smth, you tend to the needs she accidentally ignores. When she starts going on a whole ramble about something, you listen - REALLY listen - instead of passively listening which she won't even blame you for but you actually listen to her and catalogue it into your mind. When she starts to get really restless, you give her a fidget toy without even needing to ask or say anything

You and your girlfriend were both sat on the floor, assembling the the latest lego set the two of you had picked up a few hours prior in your date. You were reading the manual as Zoey put the pieces together before she spoke up amongst the click-clacking quiet of her bedroom, "Can I ask you something?"

"Hm? Go ahead."

Compared to the other times she launches a question at her with undisguised curiosity and eagerness, this time she seemed.. hesitant to ask. "Well..." She cleared her throat as she pointedly kept her focus on the pieces she was assembling, "You don't-- you don't have to answer it, obviously, you can just pass go on this like Monopoly, actually—I'd probably wanna pass if I were you 'cuz--"

"Zo," you called out gently, touching her knee and massaging it reassuringly, "it's okay, you can ask."

She chewed on the bottom of her lip as her fingers tapped on the tiny pieces of plastic before she let out a breath, "..Okay. Do you.. ever get tired of me?"

That got you to still your movements. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're always so... You always go out of your way for me, and it's just.. I dunno." She shrugged, her bangs covering her face like a curtain as she hunched her posture, "Don't you think I get.. too much or too annoying? What if you get sick of me and you never tell me? What if-- mmf..! Mmm..."

Her spiral is cut off early when you lift her chin and kiss her lips, channelling all that nervous energy into something you both know she'd much prefer doing. Her hands drop the little brick structure she was fiddling with to cling onto your top as she kissed you back enthusiastically.

When you eventually draw back, she chases your lips in a daze before you give her another peck with an affectionate giggle. "You really think I'd ever get tired of you?"

"Wha..? Oh. ..Yeah. Which is fine, if you are! Like, I'd totally get if--"

"Zoey. I'm not."

"..Really?"

"Mhm." Your moved your hands to cover Zoey's hands still clenched onto the fabric of your top, "Watching over you, taking care of you, listening to you... Everything you think is 'bothering' me is so far from it. Don't you think that I fell in love with all of that and more?"

"But.. why?"

"Because I fell in love with you, silly." You boop her nose playfully, "And to me, that means falling in love with everything that makes you who you are first. I like taking care of you, I like listening to you, I like watching over you whenever you get so focused on things like songwriting.. and assembling lego in a single day."

A blush slowly coated Zoey's face when she finally looks at you properly, and the smile you love stretches her lips, "You're such a flatterer—you're gonna make me overheat if you keep this up!"

"I have alternate ways to do that," and you accompany the innuendo with a wink.

She swats you with a laugh, "Cheeky! ..but thank you."

"Of course." You lean in close to put your forehead on hers, the both of you simply savouring each other's presence, "And if those thoughts ever come back again, just tell me, yeah? I'll kiss it all away and tell you about every single thing I love about you."

"Pft. Okay. I'd like that."

As for NSFW? ABSOLUTELY WE CAN AGREE!!!! I actually quite think she'd be a switch when it comes to positions—she doesn't give a flying FUCK as long as she gets to burn off all that buzz, she gets to feel good, she gets to be good FOR you AND she makes YOU feel good too!!!! Literal win win on all sides in her book

She'd most likely have a somewhat high drive bc of this :3c. When you get her turned on, she's positively RARING to go, all you need to do is to tell her what to do and she'll do it. It helps a Lot that you're about to tell what she needs in the moment as well—whether it's to have her all pliant for you to worship your body or it's for her to be able to get rid of all that energy in a way that's safe and mutually loving for the both of you, she loveloveLOVES being able to go with the flow with you. It's her favourite thing ever!!!!!!

I swear I've said so much about praise with Zoey anyway already from my other entries I think but she would live laugh love it so much. It has her SO weak and she'll start to chase her orgasm even more eagerly while following your every instruction. There's just something about after overthinking so long about whether she's doing too much and too little and you just say that your good girl's doing perfectly that's got a switch flipping inside her

"Look at you, getting my thigh so wet with your pussy." Your voice came in a sultry purr as you spoke into your girlfriend's ear, all while your hands gripped onto her hips to assist her in grinding on you, "How are you feeling right now?"

Zoey arched her body into you as her fingers dug into your shoulder like a vice while she continued to buck herself against your thigh. "I--" her voice broke off as another high-pitched whine left her, "hn..! Feels.. feels sssso g-- good..."

"Yeah? Does it?" And you nip her ear before taunting her, "Then why don't you cum?"

"No!" The desperation in her tone was evident, "I c-can't-- not.. not yet.. notyetnotyetnot.. ngh-- not until you want me to cum..! Wanna be good, n-- ohmygod--"

The satisfied, velvet hum that leaves you sends a shiver down your eager lover's spine, "You're such a good girl, pushing yourself to be patient until I tell you what to do next."

"Mmhm! Wanna be-- wanna be good for you.. 'cuz you know me b-best--"

"Do I?"

She nodded frantically, her hair falling loose from her buns by the minute from her enthusiasm.

"I guess I do. Because I know just what any patient and obedient girl deserves."

When you control her hips into slowing down to a stop, her eyes widened as frantic energy started to bubble up, "What? What? What is it?"

When you lean back into the bed with a lick of your lips, her confusion quickly melts into a mix of arousal and glee.

"Up," you say, "on my face. I want to taste you when you cum."

And she doesn't hesitate to climb up on top of you before grinding down. She doesn't take long before she cums with shaking limbs, either.

And she'll always reciprocate in the end as a thank you for helping her every time :3c

[gdinthehouseee]

Read Your Mind (CHAPTER 2): CHOI SEUNGHYUN x READER

summary: after the clip of seunghyun admitting his crush goes viral, all eyes are on you.

word count: 1355

tags: fluff, slow burn, smau elements

series masterlist

The low hum of the dressing room surrounded you—zippers tugging, brushes tapping against compacts, your manager murmuring quietly into a headset in the corner. A warm spotlight buzzed overhead, catching the subtle shimmer of the crystals stitched into your performance outfit, making them glint each time you shifted.

You sat perched on the edge of the plush velvet couch, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, heel bouncing in a slow, nervous rhythm. The fabric of your outfit felt snug and expensive against your skin, but your mind wasn’t on that. Not on the stage. Not even on the lyrics you were about to sing.

Your thumb scrolled absently over your screen, chasing distraction. The familiar bright blue of trending tags glared back at you: your name sat comfortably in the top five. Again. Not unusual on award nights.

But then you saw another name beside it: Choi Seunghyun.

And right below that…

“T.O.P exposed on lie detector over Y/N.”

“He’s so done with them LMFAO the way he lied so confidently—”

“Wait so… he does like her???”

Your thumb paused. Apprehension and adrenaline stirred under your skin.

You tapped the clip. It was grainy, the kind of screen-recorded fan upload that someone had already slapped a screaming caption over in neon font. But the audio was clear. The boys were sat around, relaxed and teasing each other as usual. A laugh track played over their voices, but the tension beneath the banter was real.

A voice off-screen, likely the host or a production assistant of the show, cheerfully piped up. “Let’s just get this out of the way. Do you like Y/N?”

You could hear Daesung and Jiyong snort in the background. Youngbae was already grinning like he knew what was coming. Seunghyun didn’t flinch, his expression unreadable. That same effortless cool he wore like armour.

“I don’t like her like that.”

Smooth. Measured. Unbothered.

The lie detector lit up like a war siren.

The studio erupted. Jiyong launched himself backward, laughing while clutching his chest in mock betrayal. Daesung howled, smacking the table like it personally offended him. Youngbae started clapping as if he knew the answer all along, purely amused at the exposure. Even Seunghyun cracked, startled into a short, dry laugh as he glanced down at the machine like it had betrayed him.

You stared at your screen, lips slightly parted.

The clip was only a few seconds long. You watched it three times. The way he said it. The subtle pause afterward. The shift in his eyes. And then the tiniest smile—crooked and flustered—curling at the corner of his mouth. Something fluttered in your chest. You weren't sure if it was panic or something sweeter.

A knock came at the door. Your stylist’s voice floated in, calling your name. “Five minutes. They’re getting the stage ready.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, leaving your reflection ghosted in the black glass. The light caught the glitter dusted across your collarbone. You looked… composed. Regal. Every inch the popular solo idol you are to the world. But inside? A mess of butterflies. You closed your eyes for a moment, pressing your lips together.

Then your earpiece buzzed.

“Three minutes. You’re next after the MCs.”

You set your phone down, screen-side down, as if the weight of that one clip could burn through it.

Tonight, you were singing a stripped-down version of your latest single: a confession dressed as a melody. A song about frustration, about yearning. About how exhausting it was to keep pretending you didn’t feel something just because you were afraid the other person wouldn’t say it first. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

You stood, smoothing down your outfit with careful hands, your heart still thudding softly behind your ribs.

If he was watching tonight—and you knew he would be—you hoped he listened closely. 

You were about to sing the truth.

The moment you stepped onto the stage, the noise of the arena softened into a distant roar — like the ocean heard through glass. Your heels echoed against the high-gloss floor, stage lights casting a silver halo around you as you walked slowly to the centre. You adjusted the mic stand with deliberate grace, fingers cool against the metal. Behind you, the LED screen began its slow bloom: soft washes of colour, warm tones, bleeding reds, dusky pinks, and gold blooming like a heart exposed. City lights blurred into fog. A silhouette reaching out but never touching.

A hush swept the crowd. Then the first piano note rang out, clear and aching.

You closed your eyes briefly. Not to find the note, but to steady your breath.

The camera pushed in slowly from stage right. This was live. Millions watching. Aired in real-time, with subtitles already trailing below. You were used to that. You knew how to carry your expressions just enough. Hold your voice at the perfect quiver. Sell the emotion.

But tonight wasn’t about selling.

Tonight was about your bleeding heart.

Your voice drifted into the air like a secret. The kind you whisper into a pillow, not expecting to be heard.

Somewhere in the first verse, the camera cut to the audience.

Rows of idols, industry staff, cameras flashing from the pit. Beautiful people, stiff in their formalwear, nodding along politely. You didn’t look yet, not until the second verse, when the strings curled beneath your voice and something inside you tugged.

You lifted your gaze. Just for a moment. The camera didn’t cut away.

There, seated near the center in the front row were the BigBang boys and, more importantly, Seunghyun. Sharp in a tailored dark jacket, one leg crossed, a single silver ring glinting on his hand. His chin rested lightly against steepled fingers, mouth unreadable. Eyes fixed on you.

You faltered—only slightly. A breath caught in your throat. Not enough for the crowd to notice. But the camera caught the shift; caught the way your eyes locked with his. Caught how long they stayed there.

Suddenly, the air felt different.

The camera lingered.

Too long for it to be a coincidence.

“If I say your name, will you stay?”

It was the line that always left you raw. Tonight, it landed harder. You swore you saw Seunghyun’s jaw twitch like he’d swallowed something that wanted out.

You didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

The camera held it—live, streaming to fans around the world—two idols, eyes locked across the room, wrapped in a love song too honest to pretend it wasn’t personal. 

In the wings, your manager visibly froze behind the curtain. Backstage staff exchanged glances. Whispered. Even some of the idols seated nearby noticed. Youngbae, seated beside Seunghyun, leaned slightly in his direction, one brow raised. He didn’t laugh. He just looked like he knew something the rest of the room didn’t.

You broke eye contact first, smoothly turning your head as the bridge crested.

“Say it scared. Say it.”

The final line lingered on your lips like a dare. You didn’t sing it gently. You let it settle in your voice. Bold, tired, sharp. A truth too long buried. Then the final note. A soft chord. A breath. 

The lights dimmed to black.

The audience erupted into applause, polite at first, then louder. But even as you dipped your head in a graceful bow, your heart hadn’t stopped racing. The moment between you and him still hung in the air like a spark suspended in time. You walked offstage slowly, aware of every camera flash, every eye, every thought that would spiral from that one locked gaze.

Back in the wings, your phone was already vibrating. You didn’t pick it up yet.

Behind you, someone whispered, “that looked intense.”

It did look intense.

Because it was.

But you kept walking, your heels quiet against the backstage floor, face unreadable. Somewhere behind you, still seated in that arena under fading lights, Seunghyun watched you disappear into the wings — eyes still trained on the spot where you’d been. Neither of you had said a single word.

But everyone watching tonight knew something had changed.

taglist: @loveesiren @aizshallnotbefound @mashtatosworld @modzmadness @flymetothexmoon @moontabi @riddlerloveb0t @crashmunson @gdoddity @xxxicddbr88 @nsainmoonchild @sherrayyyyy @breakmeoff @raynamorono23 @moonqz @lilshu65 @ttturnitup @sherxoo @ninnys @kuntix @carrotheadedtoast @rememberbackintheday @madzzz0707 @bettelaboure @mattsturniolosbabymama @shieraseastarrs @madebybec @starrgirll444 @steponupbabe @smokingblossoms

[steddieas-shegoes]

as the poets say

for @steddielovemonth inspired by the quote “he is half of my soul, as the poets say” from the song of Achilles by Madeline miller

rated m | 2589 words | cw: injury, hospitals | tags: angst with a happy ending, soulmate au, canon adjacent but diverged like two roads in a yellow wood, friends to lovers, first kiss

💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍💍

He walks into the room, bleeding, crying, wishing that death would take him. He feels ripped apart, and maybe he is. The wounds he’s suffered externally are minor in comparison to the pain in his heart.

Steve can’t be found.

He’s gone.

Eddie failed him.

_______

It’s easy to lose your mind when you find your soulmate, to forget that the world continues to spin, that good things and bad luck continue to happen around you. The fullness of your heart clouds your brain, that’s what his mom always told him when he was young. She would know better than anyone.

When his Uncle Wayne took him in, he said the same thing. He’d never found his soulmate, had never felt the need to go looking.

If they’re out there, we’ll find each other.

Eddie didn’t want to find his. Not after what happened to his mom, not after seeing the faraway look in his uncle’s eyes when he saw two people holding hands or laughing together in public.

A soulmate would just cause heartbreak.

_______

Steve is easy to get along with. He joins the group despite Eddie’s hesitation, and he fits right in.

Gareth is the least enthused, but even he gives in when Steve bakes him his favorite cookies. It’s not a bribe. Allegedly.

Eddie is immediately drawn to him, but keeps his distance. He pretends that the effect he has on him is nothing more than an easy friendship.

It lasts roughly six weeks, three days, eight hours, and 52 seconds. 53 if you count how long it takes Steve to start kissing him back.

He realizes the moment their lips touch.

He almost backs away, but what good would that do? The damage is done.

Steve’s eyes blink open as they part.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers.

“I hoped it wasn’t you,” Eddie replies.

His words ruin what should be a joyous moment. Steve flinches, backing away as if he’s been burned.

Eddie regrets the words immediately, feels the ache he caused Steve like a wound in his chest.

“Oh,” Steve breathes out, looking lost. “Okay.”

“It’s-” Eddie tries to backtrack. “It’s not you.”

“No, right. It’s not you, it’s me. Got it.”

Eddie hates what he’s done, and the pull in his body is screaming at him to shut up, to take it all back, to apologize and kiss him again. Steve deserves better than this, better than him.

“No, it’s…that makes it sound like I’m brushing you off. I-”

“That’s kinda what you’re doing,” Steve interrupts. “And it’s fine. I get it. I’m not what you expected and no matter what I do to try to make you see me for who I actually am, you’re not gonna.”

Steve leaves and Eddie goes home.

He doesn’t tell Wayne about it, but it’s easy to hide shit from Wayne when he works so much. It’s even easier when all he does is lay in bed and cry into his pillow like the pathetic loser he knows he is.

Eventually, Wayne catches him hobbling to the bathroom with red, swollen eyes and hunched shoulders and he can’t keep it in.

“You go tell that boy you didn’t mean a damn thing and you’re sorry for turning him down,” Wayne says when Eddie explains. “You’re not gonna be a sad sack in my home for the next 50 years just because you’re scared of having a soulmate.”

“I’m not scared!” Eddie argues, but he knows he’s lying and he knows Wayne knows he’s lying.

“Ed,” Wayne sighs. “I know I’m a little to blame for this. I coulda told ya so much sooner about why I get so worked up about soulmates.”

“Yeah, you coulda,” Eddie crosses his arms defiantly, leaning back against the couch.

“Watch your mouth,” Wayne points at him, then rubs his hand over his face. “Your mom was the greatest person I ever met.”

“I know.”

Where is this going?

“Losing her is somethin’ I never recovered from.”

Wait…what?

“Me…either?” Eddie feels like he’s being tested on a subject he never took a class on all of a sudden, like the answers are obvious, but not to him.

“She was my soulmate and I was too late,” Wayne continues, dropping a bomb on Eddie’s lap with no instructions on how to defuse it. “She said we could lie and say you were mine and Al would never know, but I didn’t feel right doin’ that to him at the time. I’ve come to regret it.”

“You were…” Eddie stands, pacing the floor of the trailer. “You two were soulmates? Why would she stay with my dad if she belonged with you?”

Wayne gives him a sad smile. “Because she didn’t believe in soulmates before she met me. She’d been with a few guys in high school, and then stuck with Al for a bit before she met me. They’d broken up when we started talkin’, but she was already pregnant with you. Couldn’t do that to my brother no matter how shitty he turned out to be.”

“But,” Eddie opens and closes his mouth for a full minute as he realizes what Wayne’s saying. “But if you loved her and she loved you, and you were soulmates, something could’ve been figured out.”

“Maybe. Lookin’ back, I think we coulda done things different. But we made our choices then and I gotta live with ‘em now.” Wayne stands, puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Don’t live with the regrets I have just because you’re scared, son.”

_______

Eddie drives to Steve’s house, ready to apologize, but finds his eyes rolled back in his head, unresponsive.

He doesn’t run, but he wants to.

Something tells him to call Dustin, the freshman who gets on his nerves, but has looked up to him since the first day he joined Hellfire.

The next three days are chaos. Steve is barely present, headphones covering his ears as much as physically possible to keep this Vecna guy out of his head. Eddie doesn’t leave his side, can’t.

They don’t talk about the soulmate thing. There’s too much going on outside of that. It’s awkward, conversations between them stilted at best, but Steve accepts that Eddie isn’t leaving his side.

When Eddie is sitting across from Steve, watching as his eyes roll back in his head, waiting to be the distraction for Vecna so everyone else can kill him, it’s like his entire heart is outside his body, beating against the floor and the walls.

He’s not supposed to interfere unless he starts to float.

But even when he does, Eddie can’t do anything to stop it. He tries to sing, he tries to pull him back down, but it’s useless. Vecna’s going to win this battle, even if they do manage to win the war.

_______

The hospital is packed when he carries Steve into it, broken and bleeding, unconscious with the barest pulse to prove he’s still alive. Only one person is manning the front desk, turning people with minor illnesses and injuries away and telling them to come back tomorrow. The moment she catches Eddie holding Steve out of the corner of her eye, she pages a code and two nurses come running with a bed.

He sets Steve down and tries not to think that this will be the last time he touches him.

He promises himself that when Steve wakes up, when he makes it through this, he’s gonna make everything okay again.

_______

Steve doesn’t wake up.

The doctors don’t quite know why, but they also aren’t being given the entire story. They can’t have it until Owens shows up, and even then, it won’t be everything.

El got here four hours ago and hasn’t left Steve’s side, but she keeps giving weird grunts of frustration. Dustin didn’t tell him everything about El, but he knows she’s a government experiment with superpowers and if she’s frustrated, the situation isn’t great.

Dustin and Robin are inconsolable, and Eddie feels like he’s one more hour of unknown futures away from joining them.

He sneaks off to call Wayne to check in, let him know he’s alive. Wayne tells him not to leave Steve’s side, he’ll bring him clothes and food soon. Eddie tries to wash his hands and face, get rid of as much of the blood and dirt smudged on his skin, but realizes too late that it won’t matter.

Wayne will know he’s been hurt, too.

“He is gone,” El says quietly.

“What?” Eddie steps to the bed, checks the monitors still beeping to prove that Steve’s heart is still pumping and his lungs are still working. “He’s not gone.”

“He is not there,” she continues, tears gathering in her eyes. “I cannot hear him or see him. He is not in his mind.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Eddie knows he sounds crazy, and this is a kid he’s talking to, but he’s confused as to how she can make that determination.

“El can see into people’s minds when she concentrates. It’s easier with people she knows, but she didn’t know Steve as well as some of us do, so it’s taken her a while to get in there,” Will explains. “If she can’t find him in his mind, Vecna may have gotten to him faster than we could save him.”

“But he’s right here!” Eddie yells, much too loud for the quiet in the room.

Robin is crying in the corner, too scared to be close to where Steve is practically lifeless in the bed. Dustin is shaking his head. The others are just staring at Steve as if they can blink and he’ll be awake and telling them all how they’re annoying the hell out of him.

“He is physically here, but he is not in his mind.”

She leaves. Mike and Will follow her, and everyone slowly leaves the room while Eddie just watches Steve breathing.

_______

El doesn’t come back. No one does for over a day.

Eddie sits.

He waits for any sign that El is wrong.

He tries not to blame himself, but he knows deep down if he hadn’t rejected Steve, if he hadn’t been so fucking scared, maybe he could have seen this coming sooner. Maybe he could’ve stopped it from happening at all.

Robin swings by the next day, says she begged her mom to bring her for hours. Her parents want to leave Hawkins, and she’s already said she’ll run away before she leaves Steve here alone.

He isn’t alone, but he knows what she means.

She must not know about the soulmate thing. She wouldn’t want to be near him at all if she knew about him breaking Steve’s heart into a million pieces.

Except she makes a comment a few hours later, after a nurse has stopped by to once again check on Steve’s vitals, about how lucky Steve is for having such a great real soulmate.

So she knows, but she must not know.

He’s gotta tell her.

“Robin, I-“

A few quick beeps interrupt him, followed by a sharp intake of breath, and then a choking sound.

Eddie jumps up and Robin rushes to press the call button. Steve’s eyes are open and he’s trying to claw at the tube down his throat. Eddie grabs them as gently as he can, whispering that it’s okay, the nurse will take care of it, he just has to wait a minute.

Steve’s eyes are wide with panic.

He’s squeezing Eddie’s hands with a surprising amount of strength for someone who was basically dead only a minute before.

Eddie cups his cheek, and he falls in love.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. They’re gonna help you. I’m glad you’re here,” Eddie says quietly while Robin decides to run to the hall to get help.

He feels it growing the longer he’s awake, the more they touch. The reason he didn’t accept El’s words was because Steve was still there, Eddie could feel half of his heart still beating in Steve’s chest and half of his soul still deeply intertwined in Steve’s.

Steve won’t let go of him, even when the nurses try to get him to so they can check him. Eddie apologizes to the nurse closest to him, and while she must be annoyed at the inconvenience, she gives him an understanding smile.

“I wouldn’t let go of mine either,” she whispers to him before turning back to Steve’s IV line in his arm.

Eddie doesn’t let go.

Doctors come and go. Steve can barely talk, but they expect him to gain his voice back within a day or two. They suggest he have honey sticks and ice chips to soothe his throat and prescribe a breathing treatment to help clear up anything in his chest. He’s told to take it easy and stay as horizontal as possible until they can get him in for more scans. They don’t want him to start bleeding anywhere before they can reassess wounds.

Most of his physical injuries are broken bones, and there’s nothing to do for them except wait for them to heal.

He may never walk again, at least not without help.

His vision is worse than after his third concussion, but they’re already planning on prescribing glasses for him.

Things aren’t great, but they’re moving forward.

Robin has to leave before she gets a chance to really talk to him, which Eddie is secretly grateful for. He wants to have a minute alone with him, even if all they do is sit in silence, holding hands.

Which is all they do for a while. The hospital is still packed full of people in surprisingly worse condition than Steve, and extremely understaffed, so they just enjoy the peace of the room while they can. Now that Steve’s awake, they may put someone else in here to free up a room.

Steve taps his wrist.

“Hm?” Eddie watches as Steve tries to speak.

“Okay?”

Eddie knows what he’s asking.

“Everyone’s fine. Just worried about you,” Eddie smiles, rubs his thumb along the back of Steve’s hand as he answers. “You got the worst of it.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault the evil mind wizard clockmaker decided to try to kill you one bone at a time, Stevie,” Eddie picks up his hand and kisses the back of his fingers. “But let’s try to avoid other evil mind wizard clockmakers in the future.”

Steve doesn’t quite laugh, but his smile is enough for Eddie.

He’s quiet for a bit, his eyes closing like he’s falling back asleep. It only makes Eddie a little nervous.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says when he thinks Steve did actually drift off. “I was scared. I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

Steve smiles, but keeps his eyes closed. “Mhm.”

“And I will make it up to you in any way I can for as long as it takes. Even if that’s forever.”

“Mmm.”

“And I can’t tell if you wanna yell at me or not right now, but if you want to, you can. You should, actually. Wayne was way too nice to me when I told him.”

Steve opens one eye and raises a brow. How the hell is he doing that?

“Do you?”

Steve snorts and closes his eye, settling further into the pillow and squeezing Eddie’s hand.

It could be a yes or a no, but either way, Eddie’s fine with it.

His soulmate is alive and he’s not afraid anymore.

[brinasheqrt]

sabrina has just finished a show, she's super tired and since reader is there watching her from backstage, sabrina goes to her right after the show for comfort

Sleepy comfort

pairings - sabrina carpenter x fem!reader

warnings - none.

wc - 1.6k

a/n - i’m proud of this one, enjoy <3

The second the lights go down and the final note of “Espresso” fades into the roaring crowd, Sabrina stumbles back from the edge of the stage like someone’s just cut her strings. Sweat slicks her hair to her temples, strands curling at the nape of her neck. Her gold outfit sparkles under the fading lights, but her steps are slow—more dragging than dancing now.

You’ve been watching from the wings the whole time, arms crossed over your chest, nerves buzzing with pride and worry. She gave everything out there, again. Every song. Every beat. Every note pushed from her chest like it cost her a little more breath than she could afford to lose.

And now, as she turns toward the side of the stage—toward you—you can see the exhaustion hit her like a wall.

She doesn’t say a word when she reaches you. Doesn’t need to. Her body finds yours with instinct, burying her face into your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist like she’s afraid she might drift off mid-hug if she lets go.

You pull her close, tighter. One hand slides up to the back of her head, fingers threading through her damp hair as she sinks into you completely. You hear her breath catch—not quite a sob, not quite a sigh. Just tired. Bone-deep tired.

“She was amazing,” someone from crew murmurs behind you. But the sound fades like background static. All you’re focused on is the way she’s trembling just a little against you. Not from cold. From everything.

“You killed it, baby,” you whisper into her hair, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You were fire out there.”

She shakes her head just slightly, a broken little sound slipping out as she exhales. “M’tired,” she mumbles.

“I know,” you murmur. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift her head. Her weight is pressed into you like you’re the only thing holding her up. You cradle her like she’s made of glass and moonlight—delicate but luminous, burning out from the inside.

“I was so tired during the last chorus,” she confesses, voice muffled. “My legs were shaking. I thought I was gonna fall.”

You wrap both arms around her shoulders and hold her tighter. “You didn’t fall. You stood tall, baby. You finished strong. But you don’t have to be strong now, okay? You can just rest.”

It takes a while before she lets you guide her toward her dressing room. Not because she’s resisting—because she’s barely standing.

You keep an arm around her as you walk, shielding her from the buzz of crew rushing to break down gear. Some of them glance her way, offering small smiles, thumbs up, soft “Good show, Sabrina,” as she passes. She doesn’t respond, just clutches the front of your hoodie like it’s an anchor.

Once inside her dressing room, the door shuts behind you with a soft click, muffling the chaos outside.

She kicks off her boots with a groan and immediately sinks onto the plush couch. She slouches into the corner, head thrown back, arms limp at her sides, looking like someone who’s given the world all she had and got nothing left.

You kneel in front of her, gently pushing her sweat-matted bangs off her forehead. “Want water? A snack? Anything?”

She shakes her head, eyes still closed. “Just you,” she whispers.

So you stay. You slip her jacket - that someone gave her backstage - off her shoulders with gentle fingers, revealing the fitted crop top beneath, her chest still rising and falling a little too fast.

She blinks her eyes open slowly. “I saw you, y’know,” she says hoarsely. “Backstage. Every time I looked over, you were there.”

You smile, brushing your thumb across her cheekbone. “Where else would I be?”

Her lips curve just barely, like she’s too tired to form a real smile. But her eyes are soft, shining with that mix of gratitude and love that always stuns you.

“You’re always there,” she whispers. “Even when I feel like I’m about to break.”

You don’t respond with words. You lean forward and press your lips gently to hers. It’s slow, warm, the kind of kiss that says I’ve got you, not I want you. She melts into it, sighs against your mouth, one hand coming up to rest against your chest, clutching the fabric of your hoodie.

When you pull back, her eyes flutter open again.

“C’mere,” she says, voice quiet and gravelly.

You climb onto the couch beside her and she immediately curls into your side, tucking her face into the crook of your neck like she’s trying to disappear into you.

“I left everything on that stage,” she mumbles.

“I know. I saw. You lit it up, Sab. But you don’t have to perform for me now. You can just be.”

She nods slowly, fingers curling into your hoodie again.

There’s a small silence. Not awkward—just heavy. Weighted by exhaustion and relief.

Then she murmurs, “My throat hurts.”

You brush your knuckles across her jaw. “Want me to make you some tea back at the hotel?”

“Only if you carry me.”

You chuckle, the sound low and fond. “Deal.”

She falls quiet again. Her breathing evens out little by little, the adrenaline finally draining from her system. You can feel her heartbeat start to slow against your side.

And then, soft as a breath: “You’re my safe place.”

That one hits you right in the chest. You look down at her, eyes wide, heart stuttering.

“I mean it,” she adds. “Out there, it’s loud, and bright, and it feels like… like I have to be on every second. But when I see you—when I get to come back to you—everything feels quiet. Easy. Like I can breathe again.”

You pull her even closer, lips brushing the top of her head. “That’s all I ever want to be for you.”

She hums, fingers tracing circles over your stomach through the fabric of your hoodie.

You both stay like that for a long while. No more noise. No more lights. Just the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with yours. The quiet hum of the AC. The comfort of knowing that for once, she doesn’t have to carry the show. She can just lean on you.

Eventually, she shifts, legs sliding over your lap, arms wrapping fully around your torso like she’s decided she’s not moving ever again.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” she asks sleepily.

“Never.”

She nods once, satisfied, and nestles her cheek against your shoulder. “Good. I’m too tired to pretend right now.”

“You don’t ever have to pretend with me, baby.”

There’s a pause. Then she murmurs, “I love you.”

It’s quiet. Raw. No performance. No breathy stage voice. Just Sabrina, stripped down to the softest parts.

You press a kiss to her forehead. “I love you more.”

She smiles against your neck. You can feel it, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds.

You don’t know how long you sit like that—her in your arms, your hands stroking her back, her breathing growing softer and heavier until it starts to lull you too. But you do know this: she gave herself to thousands of people tonight, but in the end, she came running to you.

And there’s no applause that will ever mean more than that.

[jinx-xxed]

Another thought;

Saw way too many videos of folk bands and couldn’t stop thinking about this & there needs to be more Remmick + music content me thinks 🤓 || vampirism, light spiritual themes, 800 words

Remmick and his vampire lover don’t hunt in the traditional sense. You don’t go flitting through the woods chasing the scent of blood, nor do you go knocking door to door pleading for sanctuary. Instead, you play. Once the sun has set, you and Remmick will seek out somewhere dense with people, dense with those who have too much alcohol in their systems, who are drunk on the spirit of the moon and the warmth of a club. It makes it easy for them to ignore the way your eyes catch the light, the way something about you just isn’t quite right.

You find yourselves a nice spot to set up, far enough away from the businesses so that nobody can yell at you, but near enough so that the music carries. Remmick usually leads, beginning by strumming away on his banjo with deft fingers, making it easy for you to follow. You play along, your tune joining and twining with his and creating a beautiful, eerie melody layered with the stories you both share. The words find you instantly, your voice like a siren’s call, weaving the tale of a song Remmick has carried with him for centuries. Without fail, every time you sing, he’ll look at you like you hold the entire earth in your hands and he’s merely revolving around you. You captivate him just the same as any passerby.

Every night, people will join you. Sometimes it’s instant, sometimes it takes a few songs, but there will always be those who dance around you, listening to stories of far off lands or the familiar tunes they’ve heard in years gone by. It’s gorgeous how quickly folks come together to move their feet, to hum along to the rhythm you and your lover crafted. You can’t help dancing with them, your skirts twirling in pretty colors as you play and sing and laugh, joy thick in the air and sweeter than any blood.

Making music is when the two of you can truly be free. You can feel the way it lightens the burden on Remmick’s soul, musical notes lifting his weary mind as he works his banjo, as he listens to you and watches your lithe movements like it’s for him alone. With the way you two will dance and sing around each other sometimes, it really does seem like it’s only you and him, a shared fire of love burning fierce and strong between you. Then, some nights when the crowd gets so rowdy, when the music resonates so deep and true, you can see the way the world seems to shift, just edging that line between life and death. Remmick’s eyes will shine like the brightest stars, hope and desperation kicking in his chest in place of a heart as he plays until his fingers bleed.

It goes for hours. The ecstasy of humanity and fellowship keeps folks bound to your circle, keeps them sharing a drink and relishing in old songs that have crossed seas and mountains. It goes until the moon begins its descent, until people begin to grow truly weary and can barely stay upright. That’s when you’re able to strike, able to lure off a select few and drink their blood that buzzes like champagne, the undercurrent of fear heavy on your tastebuds. It’s akin to biting into a succulent peach warmed from the sun, its juice dribbling down your chin.

You and Remmick don’t stick around long after that. With blood smeared fresh on your fronts, you’ll go hand in hand through the fields or the forests, your trusty instruments slung across your backs and laughter on your lips, eager to find a place to hide until the moon next rises from her slumber, until she calls out to you to sing for her once again.

» ☆ «

Can’t write this without also thinking about the concept of a vampire band, of Remmick turning a group in his craze for that connection to the spirits, thinking that if he gathers enough people, if he makes them do it just right, the gateway will open. You’d watch as it never works out for him, the link between human and spirit severed the moment he takes their lives from them and instead makes them rough extensions of himself like branches on a tree. Failure after failure, too many vampires reduced to ash, and broken melodies leads to a sick desperation in Remmick. It makes him latch onto you even stronger as he realizes he just needs you. Just needs you to bring people in with your voice, to keep them dancing and singing to the stars above, to draw them in like moths to your light that shines even in death. He believes you can be the one to break the wall, believes the gods haven’t damned you the way they did him. It’s what drew him to you all that time ago.

Oh, he’ll keep trying, his stubbornness being the one thing he didn’t lose in all his years. He’ll keep trying to find that perfect chord, perfect soul, perfect tune, to finally shatter the barrier—and you’ll follow his lead just like every time before.

[wandering-winchesters]

Dean Winchester Masterlist

First Moments- Masterlist of the First Moments series.

Darkest Night- The reader loses someone close to her, Dean is close for comfort

Hunt Gone Wrong - The reader is injured while on a hunt, but doesn’t want the boys to know. Considering it should have been an easy hunt.

Not A Demon In Hell - The reader is taken by a Djinn, follows Dean as he does everything in his power to get her back. 

If this is how I go, it’s worth it - the reader is injured saving Dean. 

Please don’t shut me out  - the reader deals with depression and anxiety, Dean seeks to help her. 

Crossroads, Crossroads II, Crossroads III- (SPOILERS) Based around the time period of Season 2, when Dean makes a deal with the crossroads demon. The reader finds out that he made a deal, and what follows.

Nightmares-The reader has a nightmare and Dean is there to wake her. After, he questions what caused the nightmare. 

A Million Times More- The reader and Dean make a pit stop on the way back from a hunt, will their true feelings finally be revealed? 

Bad Feeling-The reader has a bad feeling about a hunt, the boys ignore it and she gets hurt.

Burning Up - the reader is sick and Dean takes care of her. Lots of fluff. 

The Mark Of Cain - Dean has the mark of cain, and Y/N is normally the one who can calm him. However, this time things go too far. 

Down Range- The reader is new to hunting and Dean takes her to learn how to shoot.

Premonitions- The reader has always had visions, but now they’re changing and causing her physical harm.

Not Yourself- The reader has been feeling off, ever since a nasty encounter with a demon.

Who Did This To You? -Sam and the reader are close friends, Dean on the other hand is kept at a distance. The reader has a boyfriend, who turns out to be abusive. What will happen when Dean finds out?

Tragedy -The reader is used to hunting solo, yet this solo hunt does not turn out quite like she had hoped. She is required to call on Dean and Sam after she is injured.

Hopeless - The reader can feel her depression creeping back in and eventually seeks comfort from Dean, who greets her with open arms.

When the Storm Clouds Rolls in- On a particularly hard day, the reader relies on Dean for comfort.

Haunted- the reader gets ghost sickness

Do It- The reader is taken captive and has given up hope of being rescued or escaping. Yet when Dean does appear, his life is the one at stake.

Don't Push Your Luck- After a bad argument with Dean, over the reader putting herself in danger, another hunt goes wrong. Will there be time to reveal the feelings that lie beneath the anger?

Grief- The reader loses her grandfather and eventually seeks comfort from Dean.

Take Me Back- Based on the song, The Night We Met by Lord Huron

Letters- Love Letter from Dean

A Calm in the Storm- When the world feels like it’s closing in, Dean is there to pull you back from the edge.

Steady Hands- When the weight of the world becomes too much, Dean is there to hold you together.

Breaking the Walls- Dean struggles with his growing feelings for you, battling the fear of letting you in while also being terrified of losing you.

The Weight of Darkness- In the midst of depression's grip, Dean's presence offers a glimmer of hope and the promise that you don't have to face it alone.

Under the Stars- you share a quiet, intimate moment in the woods, where a simple hand-holding leads to a deeper connection under the starry night sky.

A Moment too Late - A hunt goes wrong, leaving you seriously injured and Dean grappling with guilt. But through it all, the bond you share only grows stronger as you both fight through the pain and recovery together.

Comfort in the Dark- Dean Winchester seeks solace in your embrace during a vulnerable night.

Reunited - After days of fear and separation, you reunite with Dean.

When the Line is Crossed-What was supposed to be a simple night at the bar turns dangerous, but Dean steps in to protect you when it matters most.

A Cold Night's Warmth -On a freezing night after a hunt gone wrong, Dean Winchester quietly offers comfort

After the Battle - After a grueling hunt, you and Dean share a rare moment of closeness.

No Room for Blame- After a hunt leaves you injured saving Sam, a tense and emotional ride back to the motel forces Dean to confront his fear, anger, and the unbreakable bond between the three of you.

Unspoken Feelings - What started as simple, comforting snuggles between friends gradually deepens into something more

A Desperate Moment I, A Desperate Moment II -After a life-threatening hunt, Dean, overwhelmed by fear and desperation.

Sleepless Confessions- In the stillness of the bunker’s kitchen, a sleepless night turns into a tense, unspoken confession between you and Dean.

Wreckage- The things you see as Dean is taken by the hell hounds.

[kxsagi]

Okay I'll leave you alone now but also a nagi x reader where he comes homw to her all sad and depressed because I hate the idea of nagi going back to his old and lonely life before Reo uhgghgggghgg

“𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭?”

a/n: title is a lyric from “space song” by beach house i LOVE that song with a burning passion

you hear the front door click open and close with barely a sound – no enthusiastic “i’m home,” no grumble about being tired, not even a sigh. just the soft shuffle of shoes being kicked off, and then silence. 

that’s how you know something’s wrong. 

you peek your head around the kitchen doorway and see nagi standing there, slouched like a shadow, bag slipping off one shoulder, staring down at nothing like it said something mean to him. he looks… small. not in size, but in that dimmed star kind of way. like someone pressed pause on his glow. 

“sei?” you ask, gently, stepping closer. 

he doesn’t look up. just lets his bag slide to the floor with a quiet thud, then walks past you without a word, straight to the couch where he collapses face-first into a cushion. 

you trail after him and sit on the floor beside him, resting your arms on the edge of the couch. “what’s going on?” 

he stays silent for a beat. then another. and then a muffled voice comes out from under the cushion: “i miss when everything was simple.” 

your chest tightens. not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. slow, tired, the kind of tired that isn’t about sleep. 

“before what?” you ask softly. 

he turns his head so one eye peeks out at you from the pillow. “before everything got complicated. before the pressure. before people started expecting me to be a genius all the time. before i had to be more.” 

he doesn’t say it outright, but you hear the echoes of something deeper in it – before reo, before connection, before love. before he let anyone into his world and had something to lose. 

you climb up onto the couch beside him and gently run your fingers through his messy white hair. “you don’t have to be anything more than what you are with me, sei. you know that, right?” 

he doesn’t answer. he just turns his face into your stomach and wraps his arms around your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to something that won’t disappear. 

“sometimes i think i’d be better off just going back to how things were,” he mumbles against you, voice small and bitter. “just games, food, sleep. no feelings. no pressure. no… hurt.” 

that one hurts you. 

so you press a kiss to the top of his head and whisper, “then why does your voice shake when you say that?” 

he goes quiet again. and then, in the softest whisper: 

“because i don’t want to be that alone again.” 

you pull him closer, hold him like he’s something fragile and precious (because he is), and press your cheek to his head. “you won’t be. not with me here. not ever again. even if you don’t want to talk, even if you’re tired, even if you forget how to care for a while, i’ll still be here. i’m not scared of the quiet parts of you.” 

he exhales. it’s shaky. like the storm inside him just softened into rain. 

“… you’re annoying,” he mutters after a pause, muffled again. “persistent.” 

you smile, not letting go. “and you’re dramatic.” 

he doesn’t argue. just lays there, curled into you like a puzzle piece finally back where it belongs. and you sit with him, letting the silence stretch out – not empty this time, but full. full of quiet comfort. full of the promise that no matter how dark it gets, he doesn’t have to go back to being a ghost of himself. 

not when you’re here to remind him what it means to live. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[toruforuu]

gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall ch.5 incandescent glow

✼pairing: hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t while the world descends towards potential evil. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you.

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating

✼word count: 8.9k 

✼chapters: 5/?

a/n: hello lovelies! I always wondered how these writes pull up with long ass chapters and I guess I get it now lmao. I also decided to include my favourite greek mythology legend of the star crossed lovers. the constellation is gonna play a little cute role later! anyway, i am taking another entrance exam this saturday and my graduation process is starting soon as well and i am not too sure when another chapter is gonna come out. hopefully soon, but my psychology and education topics for viva are sure giving me a hard time:<

based on this //  previous chapter // next chapter

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to the vision-board

Present, summer of 07’

The ripe age of adulthood felt bittersweet as you stood on a hill, one close to where Arabella lives in the countryside. You couldn’t help but recall those sweltering days in the countryside spent beneath the trees near her house or running up this very hill till your lungs might’ve given out. This nostalgia you’re feeling is a mere proof you are living a life to be proud of, what a privilege it is to yearn for your own memories. But now you’re both grown, almost old enough to use magic outside of the school walls and it’s almost melancholic. Couple of months and the power to wield magic would be yours.

It’s the start of July, only couple of days ago you were at Hogwarts, listening to the speech given by the headmaster. Nothing changed since then, only that you had managed to calm down your racing mind, which was filled with anxious whereabouts about the near future. Arabella stands at your side, a hat sitting on her head to shield her from the heat, strawberry blonde curls tucked away beneath it. The scent of sunscreen lingering in the air. You were anxiously picking at the cuticles around your fingers as you mindlessly waited for the arrival of the misfits along with their port-key. While the heat wave suffocates you and sweat builds up at the back of your neck.

Portkeys are magical objects that allow travel across extreme distances or to places that have been charmed against detection from entering or leaving. Portkeys may send unsuspecting people anywhere, and so they require Ministry authorisation to use and operate. Port-keys are usually disguised as ordinary rubbish so muggles are more likely to ignore them. They are set to activate either at a prearranged time, or as soon as the person comes in contact with it.

“Are you bloody sure this a good idea?” you protest impatiently with arms resting across your chest as bees buzz in the air, blades of grass itching the bare side of your lower thigh. You certainly weren’t keen on the idea of trusting such an important part of your weekend to the hands of the Slytherins who hate your guts since the start of your first year. The white haired disaster to blame for that.

“Do you want to see the semifinals or not?” Arabella huffs a bit grumpily due to the overwhelming intensity of the weather as she toys around with the adjustable strings of her backpack, which is hanging over her shoulders. Cool breeze hits your frames for a small fraction of a second, bringing relief.

“We could have used apparition,” you shrug your shoulder with the intention of blaming your friend for this obscene situation you found yourself to be in. Because your friend refused to use apparition regardless of the fact you had for license for it handful of months now (she was right though, it was dangerous to use it for such a distance). Given the fact it’s your dream to go to the World Cup, not even crossing paths with the boy who made your life a living hell and depending on him would stop you from going.

The Quidditch World Cup is held every four years since the 15th century. The competition has Quidditch teams representing themselves and their countries sprawled all around the world, fighting for the World Cup and the title of champions. It is simultaneously the most exhilarating sporting event and a logistical nightmare for the host nation, which happens to be your country after nearly fifty years of waiting. When it was announced, you begged all of your friends to attend with you. Sadly, the twins couldn’t afford such a luxury. You understood, the ticket was pricey. Whole 40 Galleons at its cheapest. You yourself had to save for months, skipping on your usual purchases. For your sake, Arabella promised to join you, leaving her to do such drastic changes in her shopping as well. However at the end of the day, it wasn’t only you she went for. Her girlfriend agreed to go along with her older brother who happens to be a part of the untouchables.

The poor girl is connected to both your ex boyfriend and the Slytherins, you thought.

“We’ll transport together and go our separate ways, it’s not a big deal,” she presses further, hoping you would drop the subject and take it as it will come. However, you’re not feeling like letting it to fizzle on its own.

“I don’t trust Gojo. He might as well leave us there,” at the sound of your scoff, Arabella tilts her body towards yours.

“But Margaret wouldn’t,” she lets the words out gently and it instantly fills you with guilt, causing your features to soften up. You were so preoccupied with the fact it’s Gojo out of all people, you didn’t realise Arabella’s girlfriend was going to make a difference. Their relationship was complicated and pointing out your worries didn’t do your friend any good.

Margaret came out of a pureblood household, her older brother mentioned earlier was sorted into Slytherin and is part of the group which includes the blue eyed menace. While she is a year younger than you and surprisingly got sorted into Gryffindor. One of a few in her lineage. Her views are not filled with poison and she is open, therefore, a romance could spark between her and the short strawberry blonde Ravenclaw. Though it has to be held a secret, disguised as mere friendship. The outlook of it was already bad if a pureblood of her rank befriended a muggle born witch (especially in the upcoming times). What would it be like if the truth bubbled up to the surface? Her family would perhaps forbid it, or worse. But you’re certain they wouldn’t let it slide.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you try apologising for doubting the intentions of her lover.

You couldn’t continue the interaction any further as a swirl of wind hurled into the space on top of the hill where you stood, bringing four figures along. The first voice you mapped out was the girlish voice of Margaret, her frame running into a prison formed by Arabella’s arms. She hugged her a little tighter. Something that goes unnoticed by those who don’t know, but not by you. You turned your gaze away from the two of them, the blinding sun making you narrow your eyes in order to catch a glimpse of the others. It’s the first time throughout the years you’re seeing Satoru Gojo outside of your shared school, more importantly in summer — the essence of your free time. The casualness scares you. And as you blink away the sun, the outlines of figures inch closer. When you can make out the their existence, you nod your head as a form of greeting rather than using your words, the three Slytherins chose to replicate the action. All of them draped with backpacks, hats and sweat. Margaret then walks over to you, hugging you in a similar way.

Seeing her reminds you of him, your ex boyfriend.

“I’ll crash in your tent, you won’t mind, Y/N, will you?” her sweet voice rings in your ears as she speaks while her hands cage you in a welcoming hug. You assumed she would since her brother and his company is overpoweringly manly, so you weren’t against it. As a matter of fact, you brought a bigger tent which would serve you over the weekend.

“You’re all good,” your hand pats her back in a comforting manner before you pull away.

She shoots you a grateful smile and proceeds to engage in conversation with Arabella, leaving you to listen to them from the sidelines. It doesn’t bother though, you know if it weren’t for this opportunity they wouldn’t see each other during the break as it was that way last summer. They wrote letters to one another, but writing is far from the magic of meeting in person. Your attention occasionally glides over to the intruders, who stand couple of feet away and watch you while they wait for the three of you to finish talking.

“Taking muggles, are we?” one of Gojo’s friends groans out and your ears perk up at the words, your blood pressure instantly rises. Sadly, all you three managed to make out the words. To Arabella it meant nothing. Sure, it still hurt, yet she was somehow used to the insults and willing to let it go. But you aren’t that open minded.

“Hey! I heard that,” you huff out for the sake of your friend and Arabella grabs your hand in the process and steps in front of you to prevent you from doing anything stupid. Your eyes fall onto the grip she has on your wrist . Then they bore into her orbs, which are filled up with pleading.

“I told you to behave, Robin,” another boy from the Slytherin house slides into the conversation and from his words you could already depict it was he, who was the older brother of your best friend’s girlfriend.

“Yeah, your dumb sister,” the initial guy whispers as he turns around to face the other way, utterly ignoring you and your attempt at putting him into his place. The blue eyed wizard next to him chuckles and without any further due begins to stroll towards you, the sight of you almost lyrical.

“Woah, couldn’t have been better,” you utter under your own breath with an eye-roll. Arabella squeezes your wrist before she lets it go, signalling and begging one more to remain calm. And when she steps out of your way, you’re once again facing the one and only, Gojo Satoru.

“Fuming, already?” he piques with his brows arching in playful curiosity, his other two friends closing up the distance as well. The burning sun, humid air and now this, was a dangerous combination for the sake of holding your temper back.

Yes, you were already fuming.

“You better keep your pretentious friends in check, Gojo,” your voice drops a tone so the words wouldn’t reach the said friends while burning a hole through the white haired prodigy with your sharp gaze. Unlike them, you are cautious about your intentions.

“Ah, you wound me,” he places his palm over his chest, long fingers sprawling across it as he pouts his lips in addition. To get even bigger rise out of you. Which he succeeds in, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of voicing it out loud.

“I mean it,” you said, firm and steady. No extra edge in the sound of your tone.

“Let’s gather into a circle and get this over with,” Satoru’s voice calls out a moment later, ending the conversation laced with your snarky banter. His two friends perk up at his words, finally closing up the distance fully.

Satoru pulls out the port-key, instructing you and Arabella on what to do. Or rather what to not do. You both silently listen. He then carefully places the port-key into the grass, crouching down to place a hand over it. His friends crouch down as well, gripping each other’s hands and reaching for their white haired friend. Arabella and Margaret falter down too, hands already intertwined and Margaret grabs her older brother. After that, it only comes down to you.

“You need to hold my hand for it work,” he holds out his hand to you from where he’s crouching and you hesitate. He waits for you to take it. They all wait for you to take it. All five pairs of eyes, however, only one boring into your soul with its depth.

“I don’t bite, come on,” you open your mouth to protest, but decide to close it. You huff out a low sound before you grab Arabella’s hand, squatting down in between her and the Slytherin’s menace. Then you finally take his hand in yours. The contact simple, yet soft. His skin smooth and untainted, a true hand of someone of his rank. He grips your smaller hand loosely, ensuring the teleportation goes without a hitch. The brush of his fingers leaves its mark.

In a blink of a crinkling eye you’re pulled into the port-key, the sensation of being teleported leaving your stomach in knots. The next moment you open your eyes you’re met with a vast quidditch field towering in the distance, busy chatter enveloping you. You watch in awe as other wizards brush past you, the atmosphere of the tournament fulfilling each fantasy you ever had about the World Cup and it hasn’t even started properly. As you scan your surrounding, you realise one small detail. Your hand is still lazily coaxed in his, which makes you instantly retrieve it to your side without sparing the boy any glance.

“Margaret, find some place near us, mkay’? Mom would kill me if anything were to happen to you,” the older brother of Arabella’s girlfriend says as we pick yourselves up from the ground, soothing out dust from your clothes.

“Yeah, I’ll stop by, don’t worry,” she answers with a simple nod of her head, urging her brother to finally take his leave. It was clear to you she couldn’t wait to be alone with her girlfriend. Her brother scanned all three of you without a word, turning on his heel and walking to the opposite direction. Robin, the guy who badmouthed Arabella, and Satoru following his lead.

You haven’t bothered to fetch a place for the tent. No, the three of you figured exploring the area and mostly the food stands would benefit you more. You checked out the menus of the street food businesses and the girls shyly admitted to not knowing the history of the tournament. So you started on with your rambling, explaining the truth behind the scenes as best as you could.

To be qualified for the world cup meant a lot of work. Each team played all of the other teams in their group over a two year period. During the group phase, there was always a timer of four hours on every game to avoid exhaustion of the players. On the occasion that the game ended after four hours of play and the Golden Snitch wasn't caught, the result was decided by the amount of goals scored. A win earned two points. In addition to these two points, a win by 150 points earned five points, by 100 points an extra three points and by 50 points an extra one point. If two teams were level on points, they were separated by whichever team captured the Snitch most often, or most quickly during their matches. The sixteen teams who finished top of the sixteen groups qualified for the World Cup. Throughout the tournament a team who won the most points played the team who earned the least, the team who earned the second most played the team who earned the second least, and so on. This theoretically allowed the two best teams from the qualifying phase to meet in the final. Making it all more exciting to watch. And you were clever enough to wait and pick tickets for the later games, tonight’s being the semifinal. Truthfully, Arabella and Margaret got lost somewhere in the bylines of your explaining, however, they remained focused.

You munched on chips dipped in ketchup while passing all sorts of shops, the backpacks heaving down onto your shoulders. You had to put your hair up by a clip, the heat stronger as it already hit past noon, which meant the sun was at its highest point. Due to that you all agreed finding a place to put up the tent and resting for a bit would be a wiser decision than to wander around.

The tent was easy to put together, one simple verbal spell and the job was done in a flash. You placed it few rows away from the Slytherins. Close enough for Margaret to be near her brother, far enough to ensure you a peace of mind. The tent looked tiny, but as you brushed past the flaps of entrance a humongous room spilled in front of you. Arabella voiced out her excitement through a little giggle, she then proceeded to share the fact she never even knew such tents existed. Clearly glad they did. Margaret was smiling from ear to ear as her girlfriend went on explaining how she missed out on so many things and how she can’t believe she lived without them. You both find it incredibly cute.

Originally, you were supposed to be seated at the highest lane in the very back in the stadium. However, your company ensured you better views and brought you to the VIP section. Mostly due to the charms of Margaret, who was quick to convince her brother to take both Arabella and you along, regardless of protests. From both you and the other Slytherin boys.

It was already past midnight when the mach ended and each step towards the tent felt like a knife to your worn out body.

“I feel bad for even asking, but could you maybe, go out for a bit? Margaret and I need to have a little chat. About us and well, to see if she’s embarrassed of being seen with me,” Arabella rubs the back of her neck nervously as she speaks, shy to maintain eye contact as you both stand in front of the entrance to the tent.

It was true Margaret acted a tad weirder than usual during the match.

“I was planning on taking a stroll around anyway,” you decide to ease her down with a small innocent lie. You are actually mad exhausted from the sprinkling heat and walking all day, nonetheless, you remain understanding of the situation and want to grant your friend a sense of privacy. She repeats the words “thank you” tons of times like a holy prayer, caressing your shoulder to show her gratitude.

“Arabella?” the sound of her name makes her head turn and stop her mid entering the tent.

“Yeah?” she whispers faintly as she looks over her shoulder.

“She would be a fool to be embarrassed by having someone like you,” the silky sound of your voice urges a twinkle of smile to form against her lips. She mouths one last “thank you” before she disappears into the tent. The sudden absence of her presence leaving you in the haze of a warm July night. Crickets crinkle in the background and you let out a heavy breath, wondering whatever to do.

After a small pause, your steps head somewhere in between the rows which separate the tents. You drag the walk out, slowly pacing back and forth through the made up streets of tents. The world is curled up in a blanket of stillness, the air still heavy and thick from the sunny day. You have no clue of what time it was, the passage unclear so you aren’t sure when to return. So you continue to wander, feet aching even in your most comfortable pair of shoes. Most of the stands around the place closed up already, some of them having yet to do so as the owners pack their stuff for the night.

You take one more lap around the area and then head back, unsure whenever they have finished talking, yet too tired to keep strolling around. When you reach your tent you place an ear against the fabric. Muffled voices of the two girls could be still heard as you stood at the entrance again. You don’t want to interrupt them so you sit down onto the damp grass. The stables tickle your legs as you hunch down your back out of soreness, head thrown back to look over the night sky. Leaving you to wonder if the stars look back down on you.

A sound of footsteps pulls you out of your trance, head twitching to the left. A figure walks down your way. A familiar one.

“Got kicked out?” he says when he approaches, you don’t bother to avert your gaze as you had already seen him coming from the corner of your eye. Even when he was meters away. You ponder whenever to answer. More like what to answer, your short-circulated brain unable to make up an act, which wouldn’t blow their cover.

“Look, I am not blind. I noticed,” it made you stop dead in any movement as he plainly hinted at the ongoing relationship between Arabella and the younger sister of his companion. Fear swallowed you.

You don’t answer.

“Can I sit?” the white haired wizard breathes out at last, close to being frustrated at your lack of responsiveness.

“Don’t have a choice, do I?” a snicker escapes your mouth, not attacking nor inviting him.

“Nope,” the p rolls on his tongue before he chuckles and takes a seat next to you on the ground, leaving fair amount of space between you.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he once more hints at their relationship and you don’t answer this time either.

“A constellation. Which one is that, do you know? I don’t think I’ve seen it before,” he asks as he points his finger towards the night sky, eager to make you speak. Your eyes travel in the direction of his fingers, meanwhile curiosity overflows his senses and you easily pick up on the untainted emotion. He’s different to what he normally sounds like.

“It’s called Lyra, and it can only be seen now, around midnight at the start of summer,” you share the information on the collection of stars. The one you are the most fond of ever since the professor introduced it in the advanced lessons of astronomy. Beatrice and you were thriving off the story the moment you came to acknowledge it.

To be fair, you don’t know why you are sharing it.

Out of feeling bad, you guess.

“Lyra? It sounds vaguely familiar,” the young man replies with fascination. His eyes edge the sky, not looking away still as if utterly mesmerised by the sight. Your gaze lingers too, though not on the stars. The side of his face shines, his porcelain skin reflecting the moonlight.

“It’s connected to the greek legend of Orpheus and Eurydice,” the sound of your voice brings his gaze back down to you and you manage to avert yours just in time for him to miss it. And if he didn’t miss it, he decided to go on without giving you a hard time about it. His eyes swirling with intrigue.

“Do tell,” two simple yet powerful words.

“Apollo, the greek God of sun, granted Orpheus a lyre which tunes were so beautiful no enemies nor beasts could resist, and taught him how to play. Later on, he fell in love with a woman named Eurydice and married her. She was a woman of grace and beauty. However, their marriage was prophesied to not last by the Gods. Soon after the prophecy was spoken, Eurydice died. Some stories tell she was bitten by a snake, some that she drowned. It’s unclear,” you flickered your eyes away from him before your lips opened to spill the words pinching your tongue. You chose to stay focused on the story rather than on the warmth building within your body as the white haired wizard truly seemed to be paying attention.

“I’m listening,” his voice is low, head nodding as he wishes for you to continue. This was also most possibly the longest time you two spoke without being at each other’s throats and he wonders what else lies in that thick skull of yours. What else he has no idea of.

“Orpheus portrayed his grief with the tunes of his lyre. The strength of it so strong it moved things in the world. Both humans and Gods learnt about his sorrows. At some point, Orpheus descended towards Hades — the God of the underworld. The God was moved to compassion by the lyre and told the musician he could return to the living world with his wife, under one condition: she would have to follow behind him while walking out from the caves of the underworld, and he could not turn to look at her as they walked. He thought it to be an easy task since he was a man of patience. He thanked Hades with delight and left to ascend back into the living world. Unable to hear Eurydice's footsteps, however, he began to fear the Gods had fooled him. Only a few feet away from the exit, Orpheus couldn’t resist and turned to see his beloved Eurydice behind him. The act immediately sending her back to be trapped in Hades's reign forever,” the sound of your voice dies down, the story picking up its end.

“So he turned around because he had loved her so much he couldn’t resist?” Satoru declares unsurely while you almost cannot hide your shock at how easily he assumes the reason behind the act, most would remain unaware or uninterested.

“Yes. They are star crossed lovers, doomed from the start. Hades himself would have failed the test, you simply cannot cheat death,” the edge of your tone gathers passion as you speak about what ignites a spark within you.

“He killed himself to be reunited with her in the underworld after. The constellation formed, because a God casted his lyre into the sky,” you go on, telling him how the heroic musician’s fate faded into a sloppy calamity at last.

“How tragic,” the dazzling boy mumbles underneath his nose and he smiles a little then at the thought of the story, a smile unlike any other he had given you. Disposed of any irony. The sight nearly illicit to drink in. It made you rethink everything, perhaps he wasn’t as bad as he painted himself to be. Just maybe. And you were willing to let the small acknowledged slip if it contained the small meaningless word maybe.

“I must say I wasn’t a fan of summer till recently, but the story is nice,” he announces as he leans his hand into his palm, elbow resting against his thighs. The sound of his delicate breathing hear-able in the dead of the night.

“What made you change your mind?” the question slips into the space out of politeness.

“Nothing in particular,” you look at him, only to find him already looking at you. A memory of seeing you last summer springs his mind. This moment serving as a mirror to it. Panic sweeps over you, making your gaze flicker away.

“Do you?” he questions in addition to your small talk.

“Yeah, of course. Not my favourite, but sure,” you answer nonchalantly while a wave of something unknown washes over you and then you bring your knees to your chest. Hugging them with your arms. Head falling down onto them.

“I heard your father has gotten seriously ill, by the way. I am sorry about that,” his words make you irk. It’s as if the sentence buries the unusual emotions you had just caught a glimpse of back beneath the surface. Into the unexplored depths.

Your parents returned from overseas in January, spending something over a month there. The treatment they used worked like a miracle, feeding your father with doses of life and you were over the moon to find out the life threatening sickness was retrieving. Only for it fall like a house of cards. It started out with symptoms showing up again, the same ones he firstly proceeded to ignore before he was diagnosed. It’s getting bad and they’re already scheduling another process of treatment. And most people knew. Of corse they did. Your mother had to make it public in order for her to keep her job, without it she wouldn’t be able to fly over to another continent. Without reasonable camouflage she would lose her spot at the ministry.

“Are you truly?” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head lightly as you look down on the ground. Bitterness spikes your system, you bite down the urge to burst into your tent. To hide from him and the world.

“Yes, I am not a monster,” his voice declares, layered with customary coldness.

“But you do agree with your family’s views, don’t you?” you laugh out quietly and sarcastically, gathering yourself to stand up from where you’ve been sitting till now.

He quiets down, piercing eyes looking up at you from the low angle. And for a split moment it seems he is hesitant about his answer, eyes flashing with a flee of — and it’s gone. Like he flipped a switch.

It amuses you in all the wrong ways.

“I do,” he states sharply and gets up on his feet as well, towering above you with face set neutrally as if to corner you. You wouldn’t let him. What were you thinking he might be different? He is the pretentious douchebag you had him for. The one who’s been fed nonsense before he could even walk. It was certain, he would surely take after his parents, there was no need to question him. Yet that flicker of something in his-

No.

No.

“Then don’t pity me,” you empathise the word pity as you bravely stare back at him, the peaceful fondness of the conversation forgotten and left in past of the moment.

“I wasn’t. Isn’t it polite to give condolences?” you can’t stand how clever he makes himself sound, rubbing it smugly in your face like salt into a wound. He cunningly ticks his head. Witty charm reappearing.

“Not when you don’t mean them,” you mumble with a shaken voice, the crack in your words would be evident to anyone. He opens his mouth to respond, his shallow ego faltering, but he is not given the chance to speak back.

“Goodnight,”

And with that you brush past him to enter your tent, zipping it up. Thankfully, by the time you do enter, Arabella has finished talking with her secret lover. Margaret had actually fell asleep in her lap during the time spent sitting outside. Her head is cradled into Arabella’s lap, which causes you to grow cautious with your steps, tiptoeing quietly towards your bed after changing into a comfortable set of pyjamas. Your friend who is on the verge of falling asleep herself asks you what went on outside. She heard the conversation between you and the Slytherin distinctively. But you truly don’t feel like talking. So instead of that you wish her a good night of sleep as well, promising to share what’s happened tomorrow morning.

Despite your past exhaustion, falling asleep takes time as your thoughts spiral somewhere you would prefer to avoid.

The sun lowered itself down past the horizon, soft pastel spurts of orange, yellow and pink enchanting the sky. Sky clear of clouds, casting a ray of last bits of sunshine before the star would bid its goodbyes. Leaving for the night to take over. The match of the day was already over, not lasting the same amount of time as the night before since one of teams caught a Snitch. You’re leaving tomorrow morning, but it didn’t bother you, the time was well spent anyway.

And now you are lined up in a queue for pretzels, taking one for the team and ordering for everyone. Including the Slytherin boys. Your way of saying thank you for bringing you along with them to the VIP section.

You locate the larger ground chatting in front of the boys tent an eternity later (or at least if felt like an eternity standing in the queue) and give each one of them their pretzel, praying you mesmerised their orders right. They handed you money in return for the food and thanked you.

“Try mine!” you squal out laughing and hand Arabella your pretzel dipped in cheddar cheese. She takes it to take a bite and right away groans in pleasure at the taste. Approving your choice.

“Your sister sure knows how to pick friends,” Robin mumbles to his peers bitterly, the sight of you three happily together not resonating right with him. He hated seeing his friend’s sister tagging along with a muggle and a half blood who is so open.

Though he isn’t met with a reply, because Satoru is busy recalling the events of last night where he unsurprisingly once again caused harm with his actions. He meant to give you his sympathies, show empathy, however it came out wrong. His sights are resting on you and the way your head throws back in laughter. The sunrise throws a hue of colours against your cheeks. Making you glow.

And Margaret’s brother is too focused on enjoying his pretzel.

“I’ll be right back,” Satoru announces to his two friends whose sights are sewn into you three.

They hum. He’s gone. Lost in the crowd.

You finish your pretzels and throw the remains into the bin. All three of you then decide to take a walk through the stands once more time, just like yesterday. To look at trinkets and gifts you could bring home. Jackets of the teams, pins, broaches, hats, photographs. It’s all there. You purchase pins of your father’s and yours favourite team.

The world somewhere in between night and day.

And as you pay, the clouds start to form on the ivory sky. One moment it was clear and another it began to darken. You furrow your brows as the situation only escalates. The stratosphere dipping into darkness, when it was still alluring seconds ago.

The constellation of Lyra peaking from above one last time before it’s consumed by the hurling clouds.

“Margaret, go pick your things up. You two as well. We’re leaving,” Margaret’s brother orders you around and neither of you dares to have any objections. Well, there’s no time really as Margaret is already dragging you away.

Millions of questions pop in your head.

The three of you walk up to your tent, steps hurried and impatient and suddenly — a scream pierces through the air and the world goes temporarily quiet.

The silence bursts into pure horror and hysteria. People begin to yell over one another. Push past each other to get to safety and you wonder why, why, why. Why is this happening?

Do the Slytherins know?

Did they know it was gonna happen?

Another scream cracks into the open and you take notice of remains of a spell flying around in the distance.

“Do you need help?” Arabella panics as her and Margaret secure their backpacks onto their bags, bringing yours out of the tent as well.

“No, let’s go,” you urge them before you speak the bounded spell, the tent slouching down into a squared shape. You pick it into your arms, pressing it against your chest, and throw your bag over your shoulder. The intensity of terror around you spikes.

The three of you run. As fast as the crowd of bodies pushing against one another allows you to. Even though you don’t know what you’re running from. Another tormented screams pierces through the air and it makes you freeze in the spot. Wizards around you are nudging your shoulders, throwing you around while they bolt. You prop your head back and your watery eyes glimpse at the sky in the middle of dawn. The sight of smoke taking the shape of evil on it as if it were a canvas dethrones you utterly.

Incandescent green glow aligns the symbol of the wicked.

Death Eaters.

It hits you, this is truly happening and you’re in the eye of the storm. And another wave crashes over you through the passing moment, you had lost your friends in the crowd. You press the tent formed into a shape tighter against your chest, heart thundering in your body as ringing roars in your earbuds. You slump together a ball of courage to shove away others, slipping into an alley of tents out of the main route, where not as many people are rushing. You do your best and try to ease down the nauseous pit in your stomach. And your legs burn agonisingly, however, you’re not willing to give up.

Orientation in such a panicked state is hard thing to do, but you are successful of mapping the place after few turns and spins. One second you’re back on track running and another you’re shoved to the ground. You hiss in pain and get up anyway. Your knees and palms are muddy, a slight cut is painted over your palms. You mould it into a fist, which causes blood to spill.

You arrive back to where the boy’s tent should’ve been, instead there’s an empty space now. You look around in panic, trying to see anyone you would recognise. But it’s in vain.

They left.

They left

They left.

Fright seizes you, makes you utterly motionless as your gaze flickers between the rushing people. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a caged animal, every beat rattling through your chest. A cold sweat slicks your palms, making them clammy, useless. Your breathing is shallow. Too fast. Too uneven. Your stomach clenches and nausea creeps up the walls of your throat. You try to steady your hands, to make a valiant effort to think of a way to get out, but you’re met with betrayal of your body. And even though nobody can hear the deafening roar of panic flooding your head, drowning out all logic, all reason: it’s all reflected in your expression — body screaming for you to run, to escape, but there is nowhere to go.

Until one face turns into your direction. Your eyes widen in disbelief and this one look skyrockets your adrenaline, causing you to flee. To your dismay, the figure follows. A figure wearing a black hood and a mask with snake-like eye slits, covering the person’s identity. You race through the lanes, heart thumping so loud you can barely hear anything besides it. You don’t have the courage to look behind you, however, the sounds of footsteps closing in on you are unmistakable. You reach for your wand tugged away in the waist line of your shorts. You shouldn’t. You’re not allowed. Nevertheless, your safety is currently of importance. You’ll deal with the Ministry later.

“Protego,” you whisper out of breath and the wand in your grip fizzles out sparks of magic, casting a spell to protect you from any incoming attacks. And it seems it was right on time as the shield bounces off a curse thrown your way. It wouldn’t grant death, nonetheless, it would’ve been very painful.

You take turns in between the alleys, letting yourself fade into the crowd to shake off the masked evil tracing you. Roaring screams echoes again and overwhelming guilt suffocates you. You were the one to lead the evil into the sum of bodies.

“Fuck, L/N, here!” Margaret’s older brother calls out and immense gratitude washes over you. They’re still here. As soon as your eyes register where it came from, you feel like crying in bliss.

You’re too stunned as you reach them and before you can say or do anything, Margaret pulls you by your wrist into the port-key. The teleportation sets at the touch and sends you instantly to the hill where it all started. To safety.

“Merlin’s beard!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,”

“I’m okay,”

Rushed whispers of reassurance pass between all of you. A brief worry for each other is spread through all of you, regardless of your unfriendly past.

“We gotta head back for Satoru,” Robin wheezes out and the sudden calmness of your surroundings startles you. Only then, when he speaks the words out loud and clear, you notice you’re indeed missing one member.

Right, you saw him leave earlier and head for the food stands.

“Don’t be crazy. We’re not going back there,” Margaret’s older brother declares and grabs his sister’s shoulder to shove her behind me in protectiveness.

“Knowing him, he’s already somewhere safe,” he adds and his eyes beam with something simple, only what they can decipher. A moment of understanding passes between. Robin nods and lets the whole situation go.

“Why didn’t you find him?” you make a lazy effort to understand what went on while you were separated.

“You think we didn’t look everywhere?” he spits fiercely. So much that it urges you to take a step back.

You have so many things you want to ask, but so little energy.

“Enough,” Margaret’s brother hisses “we’re going to check his family mansion,” he then places a hand over Robin’s chest to push him away from you and Arabella.

“Okay, be careful,” Arabella manages to mumble out in spite of the panic and rush, the meaning behind mostly served for Margaret.

You don’t say anything. And with that, they’re gone and you finally feel like breathing again. Your head spins and you truly feel like throwing up. You collide with the ground, knees hurting from the impact. Mild breeze caresses your side and you lie down into the grass to catch your breath. Arabella doesn’t interrupt the silence and lies down beside you, dropping her backpack first.

The cool grass cradles your body as it sinks into the earth, limbs heavy with exhaustion. The scent of summer—warm soil, dried greenery, the lingering trace of something sweet in the air fills your lungs. It does little to steady your racing heart. The echoes of what just happened still grip your mind, flashing behind your closed eyes like a movie you’ve just seen. Your fingers curl into the grass, grasping at something real, something solid, as if the earth itself might anchor you. The warm night air hums with the sound of distant cicadas, the world continues as if nothing has changed — though for the two of you, everything has.

Your breathings slow down. Not because the pain has lessened, but because there is nothing left to do but exist beneath the vastness of the sky, small and fragile and utterly human.

The sound of ruffling leaves and bending of grass crunches in the distance. Your friend sits up instantly out of fear. While you can’t be bothered as you’re somehow still processing the events.

“Gojo? Gojo!” Arabella huffs in disbelief and then squawks out as she realises it is truly him. She’s back on her feet, running towards the trees where he is. You tear your gaze away from the sky. His hand is cupping his shoulder. He’s hurt. You too sit up, but your reflexes aren’t as sharp as your friend’s after what you’ve been through so you remain in place.

“I panicked and this was the first place I thought of,” you hear his voice, the rest of their conversation unregistered. You curse under your breath, fingers gripping the stables of the grass and ripping them out before you do the same as Arabella.

“Where the hell were you?” your voice interrupts their conversation sharply and Arabella doesn’t protest, only watches. His head cocks towards you and your eyes slide down to his shoulder where the fabric of his shirt is slightly torn.

“Scared ya?” even at this moment he finds the strength to sound as cocky as ever.

You weren’t worried, although maybe a little, but you thought his actions to be misleading.

Strange.

“No, idiot, it’s suspicious,”

“And how did you manage to get splinched anyway, mister good at everything?” you ask instead of pressing further for answers.

“Wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind as they chased me,” this time his voice sounds more sincere and it’s clear he’s in pain, trying to mask it by his cockiness.

“I have herbs at home. I will bring them, hold on,” Arabella suddenly beams, shooting you both a worried look. Moment later she’s running down the hill through the meadows of tall grass and flowers.

“Herbs?” he echoes.

“She’s the best in herbology, you got nothing to worry about,” you say, not to reassure him down but to remind him.

“I know. She lives around here?” he huffs out, his breathing a little rough.

“Down the hill, behind the trees, yeah,” you look over your shoulder and point to where her house should be.

“Lucky me,” Satoru breathes out in relief and leans against one of the trees for support, his back sliding down.

Silence then hangs in the air as the two of you are alone in the dead of night, both still bewildered from the ruined tournament.

“Seriously, where were you?” you press again, voice smoother and less attacking. Still demanding.

“Picking up drinks,” he shrugs with ease and you can tell he’s not telling you the entire truth.

All sorts of scenarios bubble up.

You don’t pressure him, assuming he wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. You’re not friends after all. And he’s not your responsibility. However, the gnawing distress eats at you from the inside.

“Let me have a look at the splinch,” your body squats down next to him, eyeing his bloody shirt.

“Tenting to my wounds? How heroic of you,” he chuckles smugly with eyes baffled.

“Stop playing,” you flicker his shoulder and he winces in pain as a response.

“Ah, okay, okay. No need to get so aggressive,” voice filled with mockery and fake defensiveness. A pout decorates his lips, nonetheless, you can tell it’s all a facade right now.

Your fingers roll the fabric of his sleeve and he sucks in his breath, keeping quiet. The degree of the splinch didn’t seem to be a life threatening injury. His skin was torn open — no flesh nor muscles missing. Your eyes look up from his shoulders to see his expression, but to your dismay his eyes were fluttered shut so you couldn’t read it.

The wound was unusual. It was no splinching incident. Something else must have happened.

“You’ll live,” you tell him the outcome you’ve come to, pushing away the need for answers.

This isn’t yours to solve, you repeat to yourself.

You’re saved from the uncomfortable silence fizzling in the atmosphere by the return of Arabella who managed to seize the herbs from her room. You leave the job to her since she knows what’s she’s doing the best.

Essence of Dittany. The magical solution to his wound made from dried and crushed dittany leaves and salt water, which posses powerful properties that can be used on open shallow wounds for immediate healing and skin regeneration. You patiently watch your friend work her magic as his porcelain skin begins to bound together, leaving the spot flawless. Looking fresher than before.

From the look on her face you knew that she noticed it was no splinch wound either.

“Y/N,” the sound of your name jolts you back to reality.

You turn your head to the directions from where it came from.

“Mom, how did you-“ you fly to your feet, straightening yourself in an instant. You freeze as her hand lifts, gesturing for you to stop.

Silently telling you to leave it for later.

“You casted a spell, remember? You’re incredibly lucky I came across it before anyone else did,” she speaks slowly and gently, though her behaviour indicating that she is displeased with this whole situation. You open your mouth to defend yourself, but it’s no use, so you close it. You grip the denim fabric of your shorts, telling yourself to keep quiet. You know how vast the punishments for underage wizards were, sometimes so cruel as to expel you from Hogwarts if the circumstances were serious. Which a mere spell of deference such as the one you used wasn’t. Anyway, it could still land you trouble.

And the fact Satoru Gojo, out of all people heard — made you want to vanish from the surface.

He is already eighteen, free to cast spells.

While you aren’t.

And he’s free to report you.

“Get up, boy. I will get you home. Your mother must be worried sick,” her motions are robot like, cold yet polite as she makes the offer. Her gaze fleets towards the only son of the Gojo family. And for the first time you see your mother acting like the true Head Auror of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement she is and not like a parental figure. You saw her at work thousands of times, yet never before like this.

“Thank you, Ma’m,” the young white haired wizard blinks at her before managing an answer. He clumsily collects himself, his arm healed yet still lacking its usual flexibility.

“You two go back to Arabella’s place. Be ready in fifteen minutes,” your mother calls out to you and Arabella as she turns around to face you, wand in her hand. She reaches for Satoru.

“Please, let me explain,” you plea

You’re met with a firm answer: “In fifteen minutes. Go. Now,”

“Bye,” Satoru mumbles awkwardly. His eyes flying over to your friend and then to you, lingering unnecessarily a moment longer before he disappears with your mother. Out of your sights.

Dehumanising sense washes over you. This isn’t how your summer was supposed to start off. It was meant to be sweet.

You turn to look at Arabella who’s staring out into the open, plains of fields which are barely visible as they are tucked away beneath the darkness of the night sprawled ahead. Your voice breaks into the open to encourage her to move, to leave the terror’s of the night behind.

The walk to her house is alien like.

“The spell was a self defence, your mom will surely understand,” she speaks as you head down the hill, muscles of your legs burning from all the sprinting earlier.

“I am not worried about that,” you beam, heading down.

“What do you mean?”

“You saw the wound,”

Arabella hitched lightly at your words.

“I did,” she agrees “you don’t think he-?”

“I’m not sure about anything anymore,” you confess in defeat.

A vivid memory of your conversation with him in front of the tent replays and it bugs you.

I do.

He does.

He does share their views, but surely, he wouldn’t do anything stupid.

Right?

“It’s not any good. They are pressing down onto mom and if anyone finds out what she did for me then- then-“ you break out, however, tears don’t come. Perhaps you’re utterly spent, who knows, but nothing comes out.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” a hand lands on your lower back in a gentle manner, seeking to soothe down your nerves.

“It’s gonna be okay, you’ll see,”

But you’re not so sure about it. Couple of hours maybe, not now.

You stop in front of Arabella’s house and it bittersweetly makes you recall all those times you spent at her house. Endless summer days filled with youth and deprived of any worries. The silly routine you two had leaves a sense of longing in your chest.

“Please. Don’t mention anything to my parents. They were already anxious enough to even let me go and if they figured what happened, it would only worry them,” her voice is low, the lights in her parent’s house out. They must be sleeping.

“Write me, will you?” you pull her into your arms and whisper small promises into her ear. Both about keeping quiet and reaching out. You held her for a moment longer, unsure of everything.

“Take care, Ara,” you rub her shoulder and bid your goodbyes.

And it isn’t long till your mother arrives, empty handed now.

“What were you thinking, trusting that boy?” she starts the second she appears and the words. They sting. You can’t comprehend how she’s able to ask such a thing when the history between you and the pure-blood of the Gojo family is known. And not for its fondness.

“He had a registered port-key and we needed to get to the tournament. That’s all. I never trusted him and I won’t. We were separated and kept to ourselves. When the attack happened, Gojo was missing and he stumbled here,” you explain.

“What if he had been there? Do you think they would have waited for you?”

“Mom, we’re not on good terms, but I am sure they-“

“You shall not be close to that boy again. I do not wish it,” her tone is light as she can’t bear to stay mad at you. Not now, at least. She had been worried sick the second the news of the attack reached her and when she saw your name in the register of the casted spell, she thought of the worst possibilities.

“You don’t need to say that twice,” you slum your shoulders. Your mother drops the act, steps closer to wrap you into her arms and whispers how glad she is you’re okay. Her familiar scent reaches your senses and then you’re hugging her back.

“Let’s go home. Your father is probably going crazy,” she mumbles into the shell of your ear before pulling away.

credits for dividers: [@steviebboi @cafekitsune]

[theonottsbxtch]

WHEN THE WORLD GOES QUIET PT 1 | LN4

an: i was listening to an orchestra version of young and beautiful by lana del rey when this idea came into my mind. i am so ahh feral over this version of lando i've written. i hope you enjoy him as much as i enjoyed writing him and as much as @iimplicitt loved reading about him.

wc: 5.8k

THE CITY WAS BURNING AGAIN.

Smoke curled into the night, thick and suffocating, folding itself around the bones of London like a funeral shroud. Somewhere beyond the rubble, the sirens had stopped, but their echoes lingered, rattling against her ribs.

She walked through the dark with her hands buried in the pockets of her coat, head bowed against the cold. She should have gone home—should have counted her rations, mended her stockings, whispered a prayer for the city’s dead. Instead, she turned down a narrow street where the lamps had long been extinguished, following the sound of muffled jazz bleeding from behind a half-broken door.

The Starling Club still stood, stubborn and smoke-filled, its windows blacked out, its basement packed with men and women who refused to die quietly.

Inside, the air was thick with sweat, whisky, and the ghost of some lost summer, the scent of gardenias clinging to the collar of her coat. Someone had patched the ceiling where shrapnel had torn through last winter. A pianist played slow, heavy notes from a corner stage, and in the candlelight, she almost forgot the world was ending.

She reached the bar, slipping into the last empty seat, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

And then—him.

A man sat beside her, sleeves rolled to his elbows, uniform jacket slung over the back of his chair. RAF, she thought. The kind of man who lived in the sky, who counted time in take-offs and landings, who made promises he had no business making. Curly brown hair and eyes light like they lit up a barrack.

She could feel him looking at her before she turned her head.

"Whisky?" he asked, his voice edged with smoke and something rougher, something worn.

She exhaled slowly, meeting his gaze. His face was all sharp angles and tired eyes, chocolate brown hair curling at his temples. He looked too young to be carrying ghosts, but they lingered in the hollows of his face, just the same.

She hesitated. "I don’t take drinks from strangers."

He smirked. "Good thing I’m not a stranger, then."

She raised an eyebrow. "Aren’t you?"

He leaned in just slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze.

"Lando," he murmured. "Now we’re acquainted."

The pianist started a new song, something slow and aching. A woman laughed too loudly in the corner. Somewhere above them, the city still smouldered.

She could have walked away. She should have.

Instead, she lifted the whisky glass he had placed in front of her, let the burn settle in her throat, and stayed.

The whisky burned the way the night did—slow at first, then all at once. She wasn’t sure why she stayed. Maybe it was the way he leaned against the bar like he belonged there, like he had nowhere else to be. Maybe it was the way his gaze never quite left hers, watching without expectation, without urgency, just quiet curiosity.

"You're not military," he said after a moment, tipping his glass towards her. A statement, not a question.

She swallowed, setting her drink down. "No."

"Thought all the good girls were off knitting socks for the war effort."

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Thought all the good boys were supposed to be fighting it."

Lando smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, I fight." He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I just haven’t lost yet."

Yet. The word sat between them, heavy and inevitable.

She glanced down at his uniform, the creases still sharp despite the scent of cigarettes and whisky clinging to him. The wings on his sleeve glinted under the dim light. "RAF," she murmured.

He nodded. "And you?"

She hesitated. She could tell him anything, and it would make no difference. In a city like this, names meant little, and the future meant even less.

"I sing," she said finally.

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Of course you do."

She frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Lando shrugged. "You’ve got the look."

She scoffed. "And what look is that?"

He studied her—really looked this time. She felt his gaze trace over the curls pinned at the nape of her neck, the smudge of ash on the cuff of her coat, the way her red dress peeked through when the fabric shifted.

"Like you’ve got something to run from," he said finally. "And nowhere to run to."

Her breath caught, sharp and sudden, like he had pulled something from inside her and placed it on the bar between them.

She reached for her glass again, more for something to hold than for the whisky itself. Outside, the world was burning. Somewhere in the East End, families would wake to nothing but dust and open sky. And yet, here they sat, drinking, waiting, listening to the low hum of jazz and the quiet certainty of things that could never last.

"Tell me something, Lando," she said, tilting her head. "Do you say things like that to all the girls?"

He smiled, slow and lopsided. "Only the ones worth saying them to."

She huffed, shaking her head, but she didn’t look away.

Because for all the places she could have been that night—for all the choices she could have made—she had ended up here. And maybe that meant something.

Or maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.

Either way, she stayed.

Lando watched her over the rim of his glass, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. She wondered if he was studying her the way she was studying him—if he was collecting details, trying to decide what sort of woman she was.

She already knew what sort of man he was.

Not just a soldier. A pilot. The kind who played cards with death every time he took to the sky, betting his life against gravity and steel. The kind who laughed too easily, drank too much, and lived like he knew he wouldn’t be doing it for long.

"How often do you fly?" she asked, swirling the whisky in her glass.

Lando smirked, as if he knew what she really meant. How much time do you have?

"Every time they ask me to."

"And when you're not in the air?"

"I do this," he said, gesturing vaguely to the bar, the smoke, the dim candlelight. "Drink. Try to forget I'm going back up."

She studied him for a moment. "Do you like it?"

His smirk faltered, just a little. "Flying?"

She nodded.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake the question off. "I used to."

"And now?"

Lando tapped his fingers against the bar. "Now I just do it because it’s the only thing I know how to do."

Something in her chest pulled, just slightly.

She had heard men talk like this before. Men who came into the club wearing uniforms like second skins, who drank until their hands stopped shaking, who kissed girls they didn’t love just to feel something real before the world took them away.

She could have asked more. Could have pushed. But what would have been the point?

Instead, she finished her whisky, let the warmth settle in her throat, and slid from her seat.

Lando raised an eyebrow. "Leaving?"

She shook her head. "I’m sure you wanted a song, didn’t you?"

For the first time since she sat down, he looked surprised. Then, his lips curled into something almost like satisfaction.

"I did," he murmured.

She smirked, stepping away from the bar. "Then pay attention."

She didn’t look back as she moved towards the stage. Didn’t need to. She could feel him watching her.

The pianist glanced up as she approached, recognising her instantly. He dipped his head, fingers moving effortlessly over the keys, shifting into something slow, something aching.

She stepped into the light, gripping the microphone with steady hands.

The first note left her lips like smoke curling into the night.

The room quieted, the low hum of conversation fading into stillness. The band followed her lead, the bass murmuring beneath her voice, the piano rising and falling like waves.

She had never been a religious woman, not really. But music was the closest thing to prayer she knew.

She closed her eyes. Let the words settle on her tongue. Let herself disappear into the song.

For a moment, there was nothing but melody. Nothing but the way the room held its breath, the way the war didn’t exist here, not in this single, fleeting moment.

And then, too soon, it was over.

Applause rippled through the club as she stepped down from the stage, but she barely heard it. She made her way back to the bar, slipping into her seat, heartbeat still thrumming in her ears.

Lando was watching her, the remnants of a cigarette burning between his fingers. But it wasn’t the same gaze from before. This was something else. Something deeper.

His eyes flickered down, just briefly.

She followed his gaze—to the delicate gold cross resting against her collarbone, catching in the candlelight.

Lando exhaled slowly, tipping his glass towards her.

"You a woman of God?"

She glanced at him, then at the whisky in her hand, then back again.

A slow smile pulled at her lips.

"Depends on who’s asking."

Lando huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he stubbed out his cigarette. "Well, it isn’t me," he said, voice edged with amusement. "God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms."

She raised an eyebrow, swirling the last of her whisky in her glass. "That so?"

He nodded, leaning back against the bar, fingers drumming idly against the counter. "I used to believe. Proper altar boy, once upon a time. The whole lot—prayers, confessions, even Latin." He smirked, but there was no real humour in it. "Then I grew up. Went to war. And it got a bit harder to buy into the whole merciful God thing."

She understood what he was saying before he even finished. She had seen it in the eyes of so many soldiers—young men sent to the front with medals in their pockets and fear in their throats, coming home half-alive, empty-handed, faith left rotting in the trenches.

"Didn’t seem to be much mercy up there," Lando murmured, taking another sip of his drink.

She didn’t answer right away. Just traced her fingers over the edge of her cross absently, as if she wasn’t even aware she was doing it.

Lando noticed.

"You still believe, then?" he asked, watching her carefully.

She exhaled slowly. "I don’t know," she admitted. "I suppose it depends on the day."

He smirked. "That complicated, is it?"

"Everything is complicated," she said simply. "Faith. Love. War. You name it."

Lando tilted his head slightly, considering her. "But you still wear the cross."

She glanced down at the delicate gold chain resting against her skin. It had been her mother’s, passed down with whispered prayers and expectations, pressed into her palm with the weight of generations.

"It’s not that simple," she murmured.

Lando watched her, something unreadable flickering behind his tired eyes. "Sure it is," he said. "Either you believe, or you don’t."

She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You make it sound so easy."

"Isn’t it?"

"No," she said softly, turning the chain between her fingers. "It’s never easy."

She could have told him everything then—about the Sundays spent kneeling in pews, reciting words she wasn’t sure she believed. About the rosary beads pressed into her hands as a child, the whispered warnings of sin and damnation, the way faith had been both a comfort and a noose around her throat.

She could have told him about the way she still prayed sometimes, even now, in the middle of air raids, when the sirens screamed and the ground shook and she wasn’t sure if she would see another sunrise.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she drained the rest of her whisky and met his gaze, steady and unflinching.

"Do you ever pray?" she asked, tilting her head.

Lando scoffed. "No."

"Not even up there?" She nodded towards the ceiling, though they both knew she meant the sky.

His smirk faltered, just a little.

He looked away, fingers tightening around his glass.

"Not even then," he said.

A silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken. The music swelled again—something slow, something aching. Laughter rang from the other side of the club, distant and hollow.

She should have said something light. Should have teased him, steered the conversation back to safer ground.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she let the silence settle, let it stretch between them like the space between confession and absolution, between faith and doubt, between a war that had already taken too much and a city that refused to fall.

And Lando—he didn’t look away.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw before glancing at her again. "So, tell me," he said, tilting his head. "How does a girl like you end up here, singing to a room full of half-drunk soldiers?"

She smiled, slow and knowing. "A girl like me?"

"You know what I mean."

She shrugged, fingers ghosting over the rim of her empty glass. "I come to offer one song. No more, no less."

His brows lifted slightly. "That a rule?"

"A promise."

Lando smirked. "To yourself?"

She didn’t answer right away, just let her gaze drift to the candlelight flickering against the bottles behind the bar. "Something like that."

Silence settled between them, thick and unspoken. The city outside still smouldered, and the weight of the war pressed against the walls of the club, but for a moment, none of it seemed to matter.

Then, she pushed back her chair.

Lando frowned. "Where you off to?"

She reached for her coat, draping it over her shoulders with an easy grace. "Home."

"That time already?"

"It is for me."

Lando leaned forward, arms folded on the bar as he watched her. "And you do this every night? Show up, sing your one song, then disappear into the night like some ghost?"

She smiled, but there was something unreadable in her expression. "Not every night."

"Right," he said, standing as well, reaching for his own jacket. "Come on, then."

She blinked. "Come on where?"

"I'll walk you home."

She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "I can make it home just fine."

Lando smirked. "Oh, I don't doubt that, sweetheart. But imagine how awful I'd feel if London swallowed you up and I never got to hear that one song again."

She exhaled through her nose, amused despite herself. "And you suppose I owe you that?"

"Not at all," he said easily. "But if I'm to keep a shred of my gentlemanly reputation, I think it's best I see you home safe."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, stepping towards the door. He followed.

The air outside was crisp, heavy with the scent of smoke and damp stone. The city was quieter now, save for the distant hum of sirens that never truly stopped.

They walked in step, their strides easy, their conversation slipping into something softer. She asked him about flying—what it felt like to be in the air, to see the world from above. He asked her about singing—whether she’d always done it, whether it made her feel alive or only made her remember things she’d rather forget.

They stopped at a newspaper stand, the little wooden kiosk barely held together by nails and hope. A young boy sat on a stool behind it, his face smudged with ink, idly flipping through an old paper.

Lando rapped his knuckles against the counter. "Got a pen and paper, mate?"

The boy eyed him warily but rummaged under the counter and produced both. Lando took them, resting the paper against the kiosk’s edge as he scrawled something quickly.

He tore the sheet and turned to her, holding it out between two fingers.

"If you ever take pity on a man like me," he murmured.

She hesitated—just for a second—then reached for it, tucking it into the top of her dress with the faintest glint of mischief in her eyes.

Lando let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "My writing between God and your heart. Ain’t I a lucky fella?"

She smirked, stepping back. "Don’t get used to it."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," he said, but his eyes told a different story.

They stood there for a moment longer, the city stretching out around them, time slipping between their fingers like cigarette smoke.

Then, she turned, her silhouette vanishing into the dark.

And Lando—he stayed a moment longer, watching the place where she had been, wondering if she’d ever let him hear more than just one song.

For weeks on end, they developed a pattern. When he had two feet on the ground, when the sky had allowed him a minute to breathe, he'd be at her door by eight, sharp as a whistle. He always came in the same way—casual, like the weight of the world hadn’t been pressing on him for days. But it was there, in the quiet of her flat, in the heavy glint of his eyes when they met hers. He would always find a seat by the window, leaning back against the wall, a half smile tugging at his lips as he waited.

And she—well, she’d never turn him away. Not once. Even when she wanted to, even when she felt the heaviness of it all, the creeping doubt of having something real with a man who could disappear in the blink of an eye. She never did. Instead, she'd pour them both a drink, settle herself at the piano, and without fail, she'd give him that one song. The one he’d asked for the first night they'd met, and the one he’d heard a hundred times since.

But sometimes, just sometimes, there was another song.

On quiet nights, when the air outside had that bite to it, when the windows rattled with the passing of distant bombers and the streets lay still beneath the weight of silence, Lando would hear it in the corners of the room.

On her doorstep, late at night after the club had emptied, she’d stand and hum low and soft. It wasn’t a song anyone would know, not from a record or the radio. It was something new, something raw. Something that lived between her ribs and spilled out on the nights when the world was too loud, when the weight of it all felt too much. It was the song she didn’t want anyone to hear, except perhaps him. And even then, only in these quiet moments, in the narrow alleyways behind the club where their shadows tangled like ghosts.

One night, when he’d walked her home, they paused in Piccadilly Square, the old clock tower chiming softly in the distance, and the neon lights of the cinema flickering like tired fireflies. The street was mostly empty, save for the odd stray cat and the distant murmur of voices from the pubs.

Lando leaned against the lamppost, hands in his pockets, looking at her like he always did—like she was something just beyond his reach.

"Go on, then," he said, his voice low, almost an afterthought.

She tilted her head. "What?"

"Sing me that other one."

She didn’t hesitate. Just let the words roll off her tongue like they’d been waiting to escape for ages. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t rehearsed. But it was real.

For a moment, she was lost in the song—lost in the way it echoed off the stone buildings, in the way the night air seemed to hold its breath. It was soft, aching, and tender, and when it ended, she felt something shift inside her, something like a weight lifting, like she’d let go of a small piece of herself that she hadn’t known she was holding.

Lando didn’t speak at first. He just watched her, his gaze more intense than usual.

"Where’d that come from?" he asked, his voice rough, as though the song had caught him off guard.

She shrugged, offering him a small, almost sad smile. "Just a little something I’ve been keeping to myself."

He studied her for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper and a pen. He scribbled something on it, the pen moving quickly, but with care, like he was writing a letter he didn’t want to send.

When he was done, he folded it and tucked it into her hand. "Don’t forget me," he said, the words soft but weighted, as if he already knew that the world might pull them apart soon enough. This was the third time he’d changed base.

She tucked the paper into the top of her dress, the cold of the night settling into her bones as she met his eyes.

"Don’t you worry, Lan," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "I won’t."

And for a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, mingling with the hum of the city around them. The world may have been crumbling in places—may have been falling apart piece by piece—but in that small, fragile moment, it felt like nothing could touch them.

But everything always did, in the end.

His address had burned in her pillowcase, the ink from his note faint against the fabric, yet it never seemed to fade. She’d memorised it in the quiet, sleepless hours, tracing it with her fingers long after the paper had gone.

It had been a week since she’d seen him. Seven days. No letters, no word, nothing but the silence that spread across the empty spaces between them. Nothing could have happened, not really. He’s fine, he’s fine—she told herself that, but the gnawing doubt clawed at the back of her mind, relentless, like the distant hum of the war that never seemed to end.

She had convinced herself that it was nothing. That maybe he’d been busy, or maybe he just didn’t have the time. But deep down, she knew that wasn’t true. He’d always made time for her, even if it was only for a drink or a song or the comfort of her voice at the end of a long, war-torn day.

Next thing she knew, she was standing at the gates of RAF Bovingdon, the wind biting at her face, her fingers shaking slightly as she adjusted the ring on her left hand. It was a habit—one she hadn’t realised she had until now, until she felt herself slide it over to her ring finger, the gold cool against her skin. It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

She stood tall, tried to push away the flutter in her chest, the anxiety tightening its grip as she approached the entrance.

The soldier at the gate eyed her, a quick flicker of recognition in his eyes before he looked away, his tone indifferent.

"Can I help you, miss?"

She cleared her throat, forcing her voice to steady. "I’m looking for information on a pilot here. Lando Norris. He’s—" She hesitated, feeling a pang of guilt for the lie that slipped so easily off her tongue. "He’s my fiancé."

The soldier looked up at her, his brows knitting together for a moment. "Fiancé?"

She nodded, trying to mask the sudden tightness in her chest, though the lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She felt the words echo inside her head, a sharp contrast to the tenderness with which Lando had once looked at her. The guilt threatened to creep in again, but she shoved it away. She didn’t care. Not now.

"I didn’t know he had one of those," the soldier said flatly. "Can’t say anything, I’m afraid. Military protocol."

Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t let it show.

"Please," she said, stepping closer to the gate, voice low but insistent. "I need to know. He’s been gone for a week. I’ve tried reaching him. Can you at least tell me where he’s been?"

The soldier’s eyes softened just a fraction, a quick flash of pity or perhaps simple exhaustion crossing his features. He paused, glancing at her for a moment too long, and then sighed.

"He was sent out last week. They haven’t heard from him since."

Her breath caught in her throat, the world seeming to tilt just slightly. "Sent out? For what?"

"Operation," he answered, his voice clipped. "They’re all sent out. Every day. But once it’s been more than nine days and they haven’t returned… well, in two days, he’ll be presumed dead."

Her stomach twisted. It felt like the ground had fallen away beneath her feet, like all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving her gasping for breath. "Presumed dead?"

The soldier nodded, expression unreadable. "That’s standard procedure."

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Her head spun, her mind reeling with the weight of the words. Two days. She had two days to know whether the man she’d come to care for—this reckless, impossible man—was lost to the war forever.

And then, as though the words were a punch to the gut, he added, "We need your address. In case… well, in case we need to contact you."

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the gate, the skin of her palms cold, but she managed to push the words past the lump in her throat. "I—yes. Of course."

She gave him her address, her voice strained but firm, and when the soldier took it down, she felt as though something deep inside her cracked wide open.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. She hadn’t expected it to feel like this—the weight of a lie, the truth of a life that might never be.

When the soldier nodded curtly and moved away, she turned on her heel and walked, slow and deliberate, until she was far enough from the base to breathe again. But even as she took a step away, the words echoed in her head—presumed dead.

The wind cut through her coat, but it didn’t stop the chill from settling deep into her bones.

She moved on autopilot, the world around her a blur of grey and motion. She’d taken the train back to London—a rickety thing, crowded with people whose faces were tired, whose eyes held the same weariness that she felt inside herself. The journey felt endless, like it stretched on for years, and yet in the same breath, it seemed too short. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been on the train. She barely noticed the other passengers, their muffled conversations and quiet laughter blending into the clatter of wheels against tracks.

When the train screeched to a halt at Paddington, she stood without thinking, the motion too automatic to be deliberate. Her legs carried her across the station, through the bustle of London, though her mind never truly followed. The streets were chaotic, as they always were—people rushing to and fro, the distant hum of carriages and lorries, the clang of trams against the cobblestones—but it was all distant to her, like a dream she couldn’t quite wake from.

She hadn’t been to church in ages. Not since before the war. Not since before Lando and the nights of whiskey and music and fleeting moments of comfort. The old rituals, the incense, the whispered prayers—they felt like someone else’s life. And yet, today, they called to her.

By the time she stood outside St. Paul’s, the weight of the world pressing down on her, she could already feel the faint pull. The faint thread of something sacred, something familiar, like a forgotten lullaby. She didn’t know why, but she stepped inside, the coolness of the stone welcoming her, the silence wrapping around her like a blanket. The interior was dim, the light soft and filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting long shadows that danced across the worn pews.

She walked, each step slower than the last, as though the space itself was holding her back, forcing her to confront the questions she hadn’t dared to ask. She had no words to speak, no requests to make, only a desperate, aching need to feel something—anything—that wasn’t this overwhelming emptiness.

Her feet led her to the altar, the cool marble beneath her knees as she sank down into a low kneeling position, the weight of her own body pulling her further into the cold, silent stone. For a moment, she just sat there, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut against the world. She hadn’t prayed in so long, not since she was a girl, not since her mother had whispered hymns beside her bed. But now, in the stillness of the church, it came to her like an old memory—familiar and sharp.

Please, she thought, the words slipping out like breath in the cold air. Please bring him back. Please let him come back to me.

Her hands gripped the edge of the altar, knuckles white, the cool stone biting into her palms. She closed her eyes tighter, her voice barely a whisper, barely a prayer. I don’t care what it takes. Just let him come back.

She stayed there, the minutes stretching out like hours, or maybe days. It was hard to tell. The only sound was the faint murmur of distant voices from the back of the church, the echo of footsteps on stone, and the soft rustling of her own breath. The war seemed so far away in this place, as though it couldn’t touch her here, couldn’t reach her in this cathedral of silence.

But even as she prayed, even as the words tumbled from her lips, she knew there was a part of her that didn’t believe. She knew that even as she asked, there was a quiet truth at the back of her mind—a truth she couldn’t escape—that in two days, Lando would be lost to her, like so many others. And all the prayers in the world wouldn’t bring him back.

But she prayed anyway, because it was all she had left. A hope she clung to like a thread in the dark.

She remained there, kneeling, for what felt like an eternity, until the coldness in her bones became too much to bear. With a sigh, she rose to her feet, brushing the dust from her knees as she straightened. The silence felt deafening now, the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders as she made her way back toward the door.

On the second day, she couldn’t get out of bed.

The world outside moved on as if nothing had happened—lorries rumbled down the streets, market traders called out their prices, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang, slow and steady, counting the hours. But she stayed where she was, curled beneath the thin blankets, staring at the ceiling as if she could hold back time just by refusing to face the day.

It was today.

Today was the day they would decide he was gone. The day his name would be written on some crumpled ledger in an office, another casualty, another life swallowed whole by the war.

She wanted to move. She wanted to get up, to do something—anything—but the weight in her chest held her down, heavy and suffocating. She had spent the last two nights staring at the door, hoping. Foolishly, desperately hoping that somehow, against all reason, he would come back. That he’d walk through the door with that easy grin of his, shake the rain from his coat, and say something maddeningly flippant about how she worried too much.

But the door stayed closed. The hours passed. And now, there was nothing left to do but wait.

She barely heard the knock at first. It was firm, clipped—too formal to be anyone she knew. Her heart clenched, her stomach twisting itself into knots. No. Not yet. Just one more hour.

But the knocking came again, sharper this time, and she knew.

Her limbs felt leaden as she forced herself to sit up. The room swayed slightly, but she ignored it. The cold wooden floor sent a shiver up her spine as she pulled on her dressing gown, tying it hastily at the waist.

By the time she reached the door, her hands were trembling.

She pulled it open, and there they were—two men in uniform, their expressions carefully neutral, their caps damp from the rain outside. They stood rigid, as though they had done this a thousand times before, as though this was just another task to complete before moving on to the next.

"Miss," the taller one said, his voice measured, almost detached. "We’re here about Flight Lieutenant Lando Norris."

Her throat felt like it was closing. She nodded, unable to speak.

The soldier hesitated, then continued. "His aircraft went down last week. No recovery. He hasn’t returned to base, and as of today—" He exhaled sharply, as if the words themselves weighed something. "As of today, he is presumed dead."

She had known it was coming. She had known from the moment she woke up, from the moment she saw the grey light filtering through her window, from the moment she heard the knock. And still, the words hit like a hammer, splitting something inside her clean in two.

She swallowed hard, but before she could force a word past the lump in her throat, the other soldier spoke.

"Since he has no family," he said, his voice softer, as if he didn’t want to say it at all.

She sucked in a breath, but it did nothing to steady her.

No family.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dressing gown, gripping it tightly as if it might keep her standing. She had known that too, hadn’t she? He never spoke of them. Not his mother, not his father, no brothers, no sisters—only half-formed stories, half-smoked confessions in the early hours of the morning when the war felt far away, and it was just the two of them and the sound of her voice.

But hearing it now, from the lips of a stranger, made it unbearable.

Lando had no one.

No mother to mourn him, no father to curse the sky for taking his son. No home to return to, no childhood bedroom left untouched, no one to light a candle in his name. Just her.

Just her.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, as if she could steady the storm brewing there, but it was no use. The ache was too deep, too wide.

The soldiers were still speaking, saying something about his belongings, about official documents, but she wasn’t listening. The words blurred together, distant and unimportant.

When they finally finished, she nodded—just enough to make them leave. Just enough to close the door and turn away before they could see the way her face had crumpled, the way her breath came too sharp, too ragged.

She pressed her back against the door and slid to the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.

Lando was gone.

And she was the only one who would remember.

part two

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