magdlens

[magdlens]

gonna take some time off this week, send in some challengers requests/ideas and im gonna try and write a piece for them 💭

[magdlens]

CRY FOR ME ᝰ.ᐟ art donaldson.

 𝔀 𓏲 volleyball player!art ⸝⸝⠀ 𝓯𝓮𝓶. reader genre smut/hurt&comfort ─ 𝔀𝓬 2.8k infidelity, cheating, angst, yearning, unprotected sex, art being a munch, p in v sex, mad dirty talk ✶ lmk if i missed any!

✷ MAGS : i hate cheating tropes but i couldnt hold myself from writing pathetic art begging for forgiveness sns :(

Art Donaldson was never one to shy away from fun. He loved parties, the kind of easy chaos they brought. But this time, that attitude cost him a lot.

It had been one stupid kiss—one thoughtless, drunken moment at a party he barely remembered the details of. A friend of a friend had leaned in, and instead of pulling away, his judgment clouded by alcohol and the charged atmosphere, he’d let it happen. It was nothing, meant nothing, but the moment your tear-filled eyes met him after you found out, he knew he’d shattered something sacred.

Now, Art was a mess. Not the kind of mess people expected from the volleyball team’s most popular player. No, this was the kind of mess that followed sleepless nights and endless regrets. You had decided to forgive him after spending a few nights at a friend’s house, going back to his apartment with the promise that if he ever did that again he would never see you again. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit sad everytime you pictured him kissing another girl.

That’s why a part of you—a sadistic part that you’re not proud of—secretly enjoyed how he seemed to be doing everything he could to make you happy.

The first thing he did was cut ties with the habits that had led him astray. He stopped drinking, not even glancing at a bottle when he was out with friends. Then, he stopped going to the frat parties. No more late nights with old friends, no more excuses about it being “just a party.” He even turned down invitations that he knew wouldn’t involve alcohol or temptation, choosing instead to spend his evenings at home.

Home, where you still barely acknowledged his presence.

It didn’t deter him. Art threw himself into regaining your trust with an almost frantic energy. He woke up earlier than you every morning to prepare your coffee, meticulously remembering the way you liked it. On the counter, next to the cup, he’d leave a sticky note. Each one bore a variation of the same message: I’m sorry. I love you. Sometimes he wrote long apologies, pouring out his guilt in messy handwriting, and other times he kept it simple—just three words: Please forgive me.

He cleaned the apartment from top to bottom without you asking. The laundry was always folded, the dishes were washed and put away, and even the tiniest crumbs on the counter were wiped up. He’d never been one to notice the details before, but now he obsessed over them, desperate to make your life even the smallest bit easier.

When he wasn’t tidying or cooking meals you barely touched, he tried to anticipate your needs. If you were studying until late, he’d leave a warm meal on the table. If you mentioned something offhandedly—needing a new notebook or running low on your favorite snacks—he made sure they were waiting for you the next day.

Despite everything, a part of you couldn’t help but notice his efforts. There was something almost pathetic and adorable in how he clung to the hope of your forgiveness, trying to turn your cold answers into small talk, asking how your day was and if you needed anything.

What really made you falter was one particular evening when you were at home, buried in your notes. The steady rhythm of studying had managed to keep your mind off him for a while, but then your phone buzzed with a notification. You hesitated, torn between ignoring it and indulging in your curiosity.

Your resolve wavered the moment you noticed it was from Art—and it had a photo attached. Against your better judgment, you opened it.

The image stopped you in your tracks. It was Art in his volleyball uniform, sitting on the bench after what was clearly an intense practice. His golden hair was a disheveled mess, damp from sweat. His flushed cheeks glowed faintly under the bright arena lights, and the slight sheen on his face made it clear just how hard he’d been pushing himself. But it was his expression that struck you the most—those impossibly blue eyes, wide and pleading, gazing up at the camera like a scolded puppy seeking comfort.

Art: image_01.png

Art: miss you, babe. 

It made you bite your lip.

You couldn’t focus on anything else, deciding to stay up and wait for him with no plan in mind, not knowing if you’d want to talk about the state of your relationship or break up for good. You just needed to see him.

You found yourself sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the door. It wasn’t a conscious decision to wait for him; you’d just… ended up there, the quiet hope of seeing him again anchoring you in place. When the faint sound of his key in the lock finally broke the silence, your heart leapt. The door creaked open, and there he was—still in his hockey gear, his hair a little damp from the night air. He stepped inside softly, clearly trying not to make noise.

He thought you’d be asleep.

The moment he turned and saw you sitting on the couch, his whole demeanor changed. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then they softened, that familiar warmth slipping back into his expression.

“You’re awake?” he asked, his voice gentle, almost hesitant, as he shut the door behind him.

“I wanted to see you,” you admitted, your tone softer than you expected. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension that had built between you over the past weeks hung in the air, but it felt different now—fragile but not unbreakable.

Art took a tentative step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity.

You looked up at him, the frustration and hurt you’d been holding onto starting to unravel. There was something about the way he stood there, still slightly flushed from practice, his eyes brimming with hope and vulnerability, that made it impossible to keep the wall around your heart intact.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, and the words were all he needed.

He sank down onto the couch beside you, his movements careful, as if afraid to push too far. But when you didn’t pull away, when you let him sit close enough for his knee to brush against yours, his hand reached out, tentative but firm, to take yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “For everything. I’ve been trying so hard to make it right, but—”

You cut him off by leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. It wasn’t an outright forgiveness, but it was enough for now. His arms came around you, tentative at first, then tighter when he realized you weren’t pulling away. For the first time in weeks, Art felt like he could breathe again. The weight of guilt that had been crushing him lifted just slightly, replaced by the warmth of your presence. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his silent promise to do better, to never hurt you again.

You turn your body in his direction, the back of his fingers caressed your cheek softly as if he’s trying not to break you. You see his eyes lowering and staring at your lips, he takes a deep breath before opening his mouth.

“Can I kiss you?”

You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss him, especially now looking at him, with the black compression shirt that he usually wears under his uniform so tight to his body you can see his pecs under it. Maybe spending some time apart did something good. You can't take your eyes away from the way he waits for your response with wide blue eyes and parted mouth, his hand now gripping your chin softly.

"Yes, Art, you can kiss me."

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost shy—so unlike the confident, teasing man you were used to. His lips brushed against yours gently, testing the waters, but the moment you leaned into him, your hand slipping to rest on his chest, it was as though the dam broke.

His other hand came up to cradle your face, his fingers threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss. The black compression shirt he wore was warm under your palm, his steady heartbeat thrumming against your touch. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back, afraid to push too far too quickly.

But you didn’t want restraint—not now, not with him. You needed to feel he was yours. Only yours.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as his lips moved against yours with more urgency. His hand slid from your chin to your jaw, then down to your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. He kissed you like he was trying to pour every ounce of his regret, his longing, and his love into the moment, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel it.

Art pushes you gently so you're lying on the couch, his broad form towering over you as his hands grab your eyes, fingers deepening into your plump skin.

“Missed my pretty girl so fuckin’ bad,” he whispers against your neck. “You missed me, baby?”

You nod, “Yes, Art, so bad.” 

He seems happy with your response, licking his lips before pressing his thigh against your clothed core. It doesn’t feel awkward, not even after everything that led to your temporary separation. Being with Art feels like stepping into something both unfamiliar and deeply familiar all at once—like discovering something new yet instinctively knowing every part of it. 

You watch as he tugs his shirt up, tossing it aside so he can press himself against your body and feel your hands caressing his bare abdomen. Art gently pulls your top over your head, immediately pressing his face against your chest, desperately worshipping your breasts with his hands and mouth, lips wrapping around your nipple as his teeth softly graze against it to make you squirm.

He sucks on your chest with an almost sadistic attention, watching the purple-ish marks bloom in your skin until he's satisfied enough to trail the kisses down to your stomach.

"Want me to eat you out, baby?" he asks, piercing eyes looking up at your face, smirking when you spread your legs further so he can comfortably place himself between them. "Gonna eat this pussy so fuckin' good, baby, you just gotta let me, hum?"

Your toes curl at his furrowed brows and parted lips, like he's about to explode just from the possibility of fucking you.

"Yeah, do it, please,."

You see the way his eyes light up at your response, his fingers quickly find their way to your shorts and underwear, pulling them down together with one fast tug.

You've known Art long enough to know he's never one to shy away from intimacy, but watching him pressing his nose against your pussy and french kissing your clit was now definitely on the list of the hottest things he’s ever done. His warm tongue gave a good lick all over your cunt, coating the soft skin with his saliva so he can pay more attention to your clit. You feel the pad of his fingers spreading your labia, making it easier for him to close his lips around the and suck on it deliciously slowly.

“Please, please, please, oh my God!” Your hands desperately grab his hair, fingers gently tugging the white strands.

Art mewled against your pussy, moaning at how warm and wet you felt against his mouth. He would never get tired of this; just holding you down and burying his face into your cunt, feeling your scent sticking to his skin as he rubs his face against you, curiously discovering every little spot inside you that made you cry out as he inserts one finger inside you.

“Fuck, I could do this forever, pretty girl,” he lifts his head from your pussy, eyes sparkling at how well you take his fingers as he presses another one into you. Your eyes roll when his knuckles brush against your sweet spot, he scissors his digits with an almost scary expertise, as if he knows exactly what you wanted and how you wanted. “That’s it, baby, gonna cum on my fingers? Fuck, you look so good I wanna taste it when you cum.” 

“A-Art, don’t stop!” you plead as he fucks you faster with his fingers, thumb rubbing circles against your swollen clit.

“Not gonna stop, angel, not until you’re crying for me.”

You clench hard around his digits, feeling the heat growing inside your tummy as he thrusts his fingers a few more times until you cum, a broken moan escaping your lips, legs shaking, your cunt fluttering as it coats his fingers with your creamy arousal. Art curses under his breath and you can’t help but whine when he presses his face against your pussy again, cheeks and lips smeared with your juices. You watch him taking his fingers out of you and putting them inside his mouth, he hums in pleasure like he’s about to devour you.

Art always looks ethereal like that.

Sweaty glistening skin, chest breathing heavily and face stained with your own cum. And before you can blink he's all over you again, pushing your legs to your chest and freeing his hard cock from his sweatpants, not caring to take them off completely, not when you're all whiny and spread open in front of him. He holds his heavy shaft in his hand, rubbing the pink tip against your clit and coating it with your juices.

"Want this, sweetheart?" he asks, prodding your wet entrance with his cock which makes you roll your hips pathetically. "This dick is all yours, baby. How about you put it inside your little pussy, hum?"

Your face burns hot but you nod anyways, reaching for his cock and wrapping your palm around it, Art watches with hungry eyes while you line it up with entrance, rubbing it against your pussy for a few seconds before sliding it inside.

"Fuck," you bite your lip, just as entranced by the scene as your boyfriend.

"You always take me so well, baby. The best fucking pussy in the whole world." He teases, thrusting his hips forward and watching his own cock slipping in with ease.

Your eyes roll at the stretch, feeling your walls fluttering around his cock as he pushes your knees to your chest, putting you in his favorite position to fuck you. This way he can watch your pretty eyes watering as he fucks you against the couch, watch the way your pussy swallow his dick and rub your puffy clit with his thumb. It hits so deep inside of you that you swear you see stars every time you blink, all you see is Art's incessant thrusts against you as he supports himself on his arm on the side of your head.

"Fuck, cum on my cock, baby," he breathes, rubbing your clit vigoursly as he pounds with more strength, feeling his own orgasm getting closer with how warm and tight you feel around him, tears brinkling at the corner of his eyes. “Cum for me, baby, please? Be my good girl and cum on my dick, angel. Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, fuck.” It's borderline madness, Art’s hips faltering as he curses, hard and paused thrusts watching you fall apart in front of his eyes and he can only think about how much he missed you. “Cum for me, baby, c’mon, pretty girl.”

Your body obeys him, following a hoarse groan that falls from his lips, nails sinking in his broad shoulders. He thrusts a few more times before cumming as well, locking his hips against yours as to keep his seed deep inside you, the warm liquid filling your insides. You can only try to catch your breath as Art holds you tightly against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

“I love you so fuckin’ much,” he mutters with a shaky voice and you feel his tears dripping on your skin. 

Your arms wrap around him, kissing the top of his head.

For the first time in what felt like forever, things felt right again. And as Art pulled you closer, his nose brushing against your temple, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to each other.

[magdlens]

i'll be dropping my volleyball player!art fic tonight (i've finished writing it in the bus like a freak) 🤞

thinking about discontinuing my challengers fic,, cause apparently people really prefer reading x reader works and not oc works :') it's a shame cause i already have so much stuff written

[magdlens]

ummmmm anyways ignoring ur first ask…first off love ur theme!!! idk black and white themes have been speaking to me recently and second yeah :( ppl don’t love oc works on here mainly just x reader or character x character. but honestly just write what you love!

omg thank you so much ^_^ i lovelove black and white but ur theme is just as cute,, love the y2k vibes <3

it's honestly okay, i shouldve known that x reader fics are more popular around here and im thinking of just updating the fic on ao3 and putting out more x reader works here.. anyways thank you luv <3

[magdlens]

thinking about discontinuing my challengers fic,, cause apparently people really prefer reading x reader works and not oc works :') it's a shame cause i already have so much stuff written

[magdlens]

 𝔀 𓏲 older boyfriend!art ⸝⸝⠀ 𝓯𝓮𝓶. reader genre sfw hcs ─ fluff, art being boyfriend material ✶ lmk if i missed any!

older boyfriend!art who always wakes up before you just to prepare your favorite breakfast, quietly humming old songs while he moves around the kitchen in his robe. he lets you sleep in a little longer, but not too long—he wants the whole day with you. when you finally join him, still sleepy and wrapped in his oversized shirt, he kisses your forehead and says, "morning, sweetheart. hungry?"

older boyfriend!art who loves to take you to museums on slow, quiet afternoons, holding your hand gently as you walk side by side. he listens to you talk about your favorite paintings with a soft, focused expression—because to him, your voice is more beautiful than any art on the wall. he’ll always point out pieces that remind him of you, whispering "don’t you think this one looks a little like you when you're lost in thought?"

older boyfriend!art who keeps a small photo of you tucked inside his wallet, right behind an old tennis card from his glory days. he shows it off with the same pride, telling people, "this is the girl who makes everything feel worth it." and when you get flustered, hiding your face, he just chuckles and kisses your temple.

older boyfriend!art who notices when you’re feeling anxious and gently rubs your back, murmuring little reassurances while pulling you into his arms. "shhh, I’ve got you. you don’t need to carry anything alone, not when I’m here." he’ll sit with you in comfortable silence, brushing his fingers through your hair until your breathing slows down.

older boyfriend!art who buys you flowers every other week—not just roses, but ones in your favorite colors or that reminded him of a dream you told him about once. he leaves them in a vase on the kitchen table with a little note that says something like “to my pretty girl.”

older boyfriend!art who insists on carrying your bags, walking on the outer side of the sidewalk, and putting his coat around your shoulders when the wind gets too sharp. you tease him for being "such an old man," and he just laughs, saying, "maybe, but I’m your old man."

[magdlens]

WORKS IN PROGRESS ׅ 𐙚 ׄ .

࣪𓇻 ݁ CRY FOR ME ─── volleyball!art / nerd afab!reader 𝅄 uni au, nsfw, smut, angst, hurt&comfort, cheating.

Now, Art was a mess. Not the kind of mess people expected from the volleyball team’s most popular player. No, this was the kind of mess that followed sleepless nights and endless regrets. You had decided to forgive him after spending a few nights at a friend’s house, going back to his apartment with the promise that if he ever did that again he would never see you again. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little sad everytime you pictured him kissing another girl. That’s why a part of you—a sadistic part that you’re not proud of—secretly enjoyed how he seemed to be doing everything he could to make you happy.

࣪𓇻 ݁ KOI NO YOKAN ch. 2 ─── be quiet and drive 𝅄 light angst, suggestive themes.

She knew Meg would pretend not to remember this in the morning. Or maybe pretend it hadn’t meant anything. She knew it wasn't out of shame. That wasn’t her. Meg had never been afraid of showing affection—not to Tashi, not to anyone. She touched freely, loved loudly, clung to the people she cared about like the world owed her something soft. But if Meg pretended this hadn’t happened tomorrow, it wouldn’t be because it didn’t matter. It would be because it did.

interested .. ? feel free to ask to be tagged as long as you have your age mentioned in your blog since all the works mentioned below will contain nsfw themes.

[magdlens]

mags oh my god, your theme is amazing ??? so appealing to the eyes 😆

also wow i’m sorry for the first ask you received, people are fucking crazy istg

ahhh thank you so much mika!! ur theme is just as cute <333 i know right? it's not big deal though <3

[magdlens]

THAT WAS YOUR FIRST ASK??? OH MY GOD???

Can your second ask be that your theme is stunning

right?? it was so unnecessary </3 but thank you so much honey (..◜ᴗ◝..) <333

[magdlens]

Get out of my country bean#r

1. im not mexican

2. i dont live in the us

3. first ask i get is something being racist? really? 😭

[magdlens]

𝐊𝐎𝐈 𝐍𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐍 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 — 01

• "Tashi wants to tell her a million things. That her voice is the first sound she memorized like a song. That it’s not about technique or pitch—it’s about presence. That every word Meg writes hits differently when it’s coming from her mouth. But Meg’s eyes are already glassy, and Tashi knows her. If she pushes too hard, Meg will retreat behind another joke, another grin. So instead, she squeezes her knee gently and says nothing. Meg offers a grateful half-smile. That’s enough—for now."

• chapter warnings: 18+ ADULT CONTENT, wc: 4.2k, cigarettes, alcohol, light angst, let me know if i missed something!

• hello! this is my first challengers fic and i'm super excited to see if anyone likes it! i'll be using some songs i think it fits each chapter to portray the band's songs, in no way i'm saying i wrote this songs, that's why each chapter will have the title/lyrics from the chosen song, this way you can listen to it while reading! also english is not my first language so forgive me if there's any typos!

She wished she could freeze this moment. Tuck it away like a secret polaroid—edges curling, ink fading—something just hers to keep in a drawer, untouched.

Tashi’s fingers moved with practiced care, running through the wild waves of Meg’s hair. She never hesitated—not with this. Not with her. The strands were stubborn, tangled from sleep and wind and whatever Meg had gotten into the night before, but Tashi worked patiently, like she always did.

“You know you don’t have to come, right?” she asked, her voice low, hands pausing on Meg’s shoulders as their eyes met in the mirror.

“I know,” Meg said simply.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She just smiled a little, barely there, and started to hum under her breath—one of her new songs, soft and half-finished. Her fingers twitched, like they were playing a guitar only she could hear. Tashi listened, recognizing the melody. She nodded along, resuming the braid with quiet concentration.

“We need a guitarist,” Meg murmured, like she was thinking out loud.

“I thought you liked it stripped down. Said it made the lyrics hit harder,” Tashi replied, tying the braid off with a small white satin bow she pulled from her pocket like it was second nature.

Meg didn’t answer. Just watched her in the mirror, eyes heavy with something Tashi couldn’t name.

When she finished, Tashi turned her gently by the shoulders, facing her fully now. She brushed a few strands away from Meg’s face, fingers brushing skin with the kind of softness that made Meg want to lean into it. 

“Don’t you think there’s more to it than just whatever this is?” Tashi raises an eyebrow at that, as if asking Meg to elaborate. “More than singing in bars and waiting for a miracle?”

Meg’s question lingers in Tashi’s brain for a while before she can mutter a response. 

“Of course,” She breathes, absentmindedly rubbing off some trace of smudged eyeliner from the girl’s face. “We’re just not gonna find out in this shithole. That’s why we’re going to college.” 

Tashi doesn’t miss the way Meg purses her lips, blue eyes flicking down to her bitten nails instead of meeting her gaze. It’s not the kind of silence that comes from not knowing what to say—it’s the kind that comes from knowing exactly what would spill out if she did.

Tashi doesn’t push.

Instead, she presses her thumb gently beneath Meg’s eye, rubbing at a trace of eyeliner smudged across her cheekbone. Meg doesn’t flinch. She never does, either—not with Tashi. She just lets her clean her up like always, like she’s worth the effort even when she feels like she isn’t. In the mirror, their reflections hover—two girls sitting too close in a too-small room that already feels like a memory.

Meg’s smile twitches, brief and bitter, before disappearing again. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her denim skirt, then move to the pocket where her bus card usually sits. A quiet, unconscious gesture. Like she’s already measuring distance. Like she knows she won’t be able to afford the ride to wherever Tashi ends up going.

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to.

Tashi’s hands fall to her sides for a beat, and for the first time, Meg thinks she might step back. Might say you’ll figure it out, like everyone else does.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, Tashi reaches into her backpack and pulls out a pair of earrings—tiny silver stars, barely there. She clips them onto Meg’s ears like a promise, eyes soft, mouth neutral.

Meg blinks at her. “What’s this for?”

Tashi shrugs, too casually. “You said you looked boring last time.”

She hadn’t. She never did. But the stars stay on.

A moment passes. Tashi smooths the front of Meg’s shirt, tugging it into place like a stylist before a show. Her fingers linger near the hem. Meg finally looks up. Tashi smiles—not the wide, perfect one she gives her parents or teachers—but the quiet kind. The kind she only ever gives to Meg. The kind that says: I’m not going without you. The kind that doesn’t need to be said aloud.

Meg breathes in slowly. She doesn't believe in much—but she believes in that smile. She always has.

And Tashi? She’d burn every application and lie to her parents and transfer a thousand times over just to keep Meg in her orbit.

The air outside the church was heavy with perfume and polished shoes. Meg stood half a step behind Tashi, pulling at the frayed edge of her denim jacket while the bells tolled above them. She could already feel the judgment in the bricks, the carved saints, the hush that swallowed sound before they even opened the door.

Inside, the stillness was suffocating.

She followed Tashi past rows of familiar faces, nodding politely at her parents as they approached the pew. Her father didn’t look twice. Her mother did—a small, pinched smile paired with a once-over that landed squarely on Meg’s boots and chipped nail polish. It was the same look she always gave, like she was mentally tallying the number of reasons her daughter shouldn’t be seen with that girl.

Meg offered a smile in return. Flat. Friendly. Impenetrable.

She and Tashi slid into their usual place—second row from the back, left side. The same pew they’d sat in since they were twelve. Tashi folded her hands like muscle memory, posture perfect, face blank. Meg slouched beside her, legs slightly parted, rings glinting under the dim glow of stained glass.

The sermon began, low and monotone, a familiar drone about sacrifice and sin.

Meg counted cracks in the ceiling. Imagined which of the saints would start bleeding first if this were a horror movie. Picked at the chipped polish on her thumb until it flaked off like ash.

Then she leaned in. Her lips barely moved.

“Do you think Jesus ever got bored in here too?”

Tashi coughed—once, sharply—but the corner of her mouth twitched. Just a flicker. Meg caught it anyway.

A few pews ahead, Tashi’s mother turned her head slightly, as if she felt the laugh threatening to spill.

Meg straightened her back, feigning reverence, hands clasped loosely in her lap. A saint in leather boots. Tashi tried not to look at her again—but her smile kept threatening to return.

When the final hymn began, they stood. Tashi sang quietly, as expected. Meg hummed off-key, staring at the stained glass like it might crack open and swallow her whole. The moment they were free, Tashi led them out with calm precision. Meg trailed behind, fingers still twitching with the melody she’d been making up in her head the whole time.

By the time they reached Meg’s house, the sun had dipped low behind the rooftops, throwing everything into that strange gold hour where nothing felt real.

Meg’s bedroom looked like a storm had hit it.

Clothes were draped over chairs, lyric sheets half-crumpled on the bed, guitar picks lost in the carpet. A busted amp sat in the corner like a sleeping dog. Tashi stepped over a pile of mismatched shoes and sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a nest of tangled cables.

Meg dug through her closet, yanking out shirts like she was looking for blood.

“What about this one?” she called, holding up something sheer and black with glitter at the seams.

Tashi didn’t look up. “You wore that last week.”

“So?”

“So wear something that doesn’t still smell like cheap vodka and regret.”

Meg laughed, tossing the shirt onto the bed. “You love my regret.”

Tashi coiled a cable carefully. “I tolerate your regret. I love your lyrics.”

“Same thing.”

Meg pulled off her jacket and rifled through a drawer for her good eyeliner. She caught sight of herself in the mirror—smeared mascara from earlier, Tashi’s bow still tucked into the braid, silver star earrings catching the last of the sunlight. Her chest tightened, just a little.

She turned away before she could feel too much.

Tashi stood and handed her the coiled cable. Their fingers brushed, soft and unspoken. No one mentioned how quiet it had been in the car ride home. No one mentioned how Meg’s eyes had lingered on the stained glass long after the mass ended.

“You hungry?” Tashi asked, eyeing the unopened granola bar on Meg’s desk.

“Nope,” Meg lied. “I run on nicotine and adrenaline.”

Tashi shook her head, but didn’t push.

Outside, someone honked three times’—their ride. Meg leaned over the amp and grabbed her bag, already buzzing with nerves. Tashi adjusted the strap of her guitar bag across her shoulder, walking out of the room with her friend by her side. The quiet hum of a car engine grew louder as Meg and Tashi reached the curb in front of the house. The beat-up sedan already sat waiting, headlights glowing dim against the dusk.

“Dean’s early.”

“He always is,” Tashi said, smiling.

Dean rolled the window down and leaned his arm across the door, grinning at the sight of them. His hair was still damp from the post-shift shower, his eyes a little tired but alert in the way people get when they’ve had to grow up too soon.

“My two favorite delinquents,” he called.

Tashi laughed, stepping closer. “We haven’t even done anything yet.”

“You showing up with her,” he pointed at Meg, “is always a sign that something’s about to go off the rails.”

Meg flashed him a grin. “You wound me, brother.”

“You’ll live,” he said, unlocking the doors.

They tossed their gear into the trunk—Tashi careful and organized, Meg chaotic and fast. When they both slid into the back seat, the car already smelled faintly like takeout and engine grease. Familiar. Safe.

Dean adjusted the mirror to glance at them. “You both good?”

“Peachy,” Meg said, cracking her knuckles.

Tashi nodded. “Thanks for the ride.”

He met her eyes in the mirror for half a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t just politeness—it was a check-in, the kind that said: You okay, really?

She nodded again, a little softer this time.

Dean’s hands were steady on the wheel as he pulled away from the curb, the street lights flickering on overhead like fireflies waking up. Meg leaned back in her seat, watching the houses blur past, her fingers tapping an invisible rhythm on her thigh.

Tashi’s leg brushed hers lightly. Neither of them moved away.

“Remember when I drove you both to that school talent show?” Dean asked suddenly. “Meg forgot half the lyrics, and Tashi had to pretend it was part of the song.”

Meg groaned. “Trauma. Actual trauma.”

Tashi smiled, almost nostalgic. “You made us PB&J sandwiches after. Cut off the crusts.”

Dean chuckled. “Still do. Just for you spoiled brats.”

Meg rested her head briefly on the back of Tashi’s seat, her voice dropping quieter. “You’re the best dad we never asked for.”

Dean didn’t reply right away. Just flicked the turn signal and changed lanes.

Then, softly: “Yeah, well. Someone had to do it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that held everything in it—loss, love, responsibility. The weight of being young in a world that asked too much, too soon.

Outside, the venue lights were already glowing up ahead. The city felt closer. Louder. Like the night was about to start breathing on its own.

Dean pulled into the lot and parked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Meg pushed open the door. “That’s a short list.”

Tashi laughed, stepping out with her guitar. “Thanks, Dean.”

He leaned out the window and pointed at both of them. “Text me when you’re done. No excuses.” 

Meg saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And just like that, the door shut behind them.

Tashi feels Meg’s arms wrap around her like she always does before a show, pressing her close, grounding her like only Meg ever can. She always hugs like she means it—tight, like she’s the one doing the protecting, even when she’s the one trembling deep down.

Tashi lets herself melt into it for just a second.

“Do you think they’ll like the song?” Meg asks, pulling away as they walk toward the entrance.

The bouncer doesn’t even blink at them, just nods them inside with a tired gesture. It smells like beer and old velvet curtains, like all the other bars they’ve played. It’s not glamorous, but it’s theirs for the night.

Tashi scoffs, adjusting the strap of her bass. “Everyone loves your songs.”  She pauses before adding, “I think you should be the one singing them.”

She means it. She always has.

But Meg doesn’t respond at first. She’s already drifting toward the corner of the green room, setting down her bag, fingers too jittery to stay still. She’s chewing at her bottom lip now, and Tashi knows that look. It’s rare, but it shows up—like a ghost—just before a set.

Then, quiet, almost like she hates admitting it:

“I just… I love your voice too much.”

Tashi freezes mid-motion.

Meg shrugs like she’s trying to laugh it off, picking at the chipped paint on a nearby stool. “It’s stupid. I don’t know. You sound better anyway. Like, real. Like someone people want to hear. I don’t need to sing if you already sound like that.”

There’s a hollowness to her tone that Tashi hears more than she sees. And Tashi’s heart aches with it. Because Meg isn’t like this—not about anything. Not about performing, not about clothes, not even about love.

But her voice? That’s where she folds. That’s the one place Meg lets herself believe she’s not enough.

Tashi wants to tell her a million things. That her voice is the first sound she memorized like a song. That it’s not about technique or pitch—it’s about presence. That every word Meg writes hits differently when it’s coming from her mouth. But Meg’s eyes are already glassy, and Tashi knows her. If she pushes too hard, Meg will retreat behind another joke, another grin. So instead, she squeezes her knee gently and says nothing. Meg offers a grateful half-smile. That’s enough—for now.

Tashi is silent when she wraps her arms around Meg’s body, closing her eyes for a second before stepping into the stage. She stands, tall and composed, guitar slung low over her shoulder. She glances back one last time before stepping into the light. The bar was dim, sticky with sound and sweat and the hum of too many conversations layered over soft guitar strings.

Art walked in first, eyes squinting through the low light, clutching the strap of his bag like it might anchor him. Patrick trailed behind, more relaxed—jacket hanging open, boots scuffing the floor, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he already owned the place.

But then they heard her.

On stage, a girl sat beneath the soft wash of golden light, one leg crossed over the other, guitar resting against her like a second spine. Her voice slid over the room like silk pulled tight—sharp in its precision, soft in its delivery. There was nothing flashy about her. She didn’t need it.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered, elbowing Art. “She’s… good.”

Art didn’t answer, but his steps slowed.

They didn’t know her name. Didn’t know what song she was singing. Didn’t know how long she’d been performing or if she was famous in this little nowhere town. But they felt it. The kind of stillness that only came when someone was completely in control—of their sound, of their body, of the audience.

Her voice was clean, almost unnervingly clean—like glass you could see yourself in too clearly. Not fragile, though. Not delicate. There was steel under the softness, tension in the way she held her notes just a little too long, like she had something to prove but wouldn’t let herself show it.

It caught Art off guard.

She looked like the type of girl who never broke rules or curfews, but the way she sang felt different. Like she knew exactly what it meant to want something too much. To be the quietest person in the room but still want to be heard.

Except she wasn’t looking at the audience.

Her eyes—dark and steady—were fixed on a girl sitting alone at a far table.

Boots up on the chair across from her, one arm slung over the backrest, the other lazily stirring a straw through a glass of something flat. She wasn’t watching the performance like an audience member. She watched it like someone who already knew every lyric—someone who didn’t need to listen to understand.

She was smiling. Barely. But it reached her eyes.

Tashi’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not once. Not even as the final verse climbed into something that bordered on holy.

I don't know why I am the way I am

There's something in the static, I think I've been having revelations

Comin' to, in the front seat, nearly empty

Skip the exit to our old street and go home

Go home alone

Art swallowed hard. He could feel something tightening in the room, like an invisible string had been pulled between the stage and the girl in the crowd, and it stretched tauter with every word.

“She’s not just singing,” he said finally. “She’s giving it to her.”

Patrick tilted his head. “You think they’re a thing?”

Art shrugged. “I think I don’t know a damn thing yet.”

The song ended—not with a bang, but with a breath. A single chord held in her lap like a secret. Tashi didn’t bow. She didn’t smile. She just looked at the girl at the table, and the girl looked back, and it was like no one else existed for a heartbeat too long. The applause broke the spell. Someone whistled from the back. A woman in a leather jacket clapped like she’d been waiting all week for that set.

But Tashi’s eyes had already dropped to her guitar as she unplugged it, calm as ever, fingers steady. In one blink of an eye, the girls were gone.

Patrick was still watching her when he said, “I need to know who the hell that is.”

The bar had started to clear out, the air thick with sweat, beer, and leftover guitar feedback. Art and Patrick pushed through the crowd near the back wall, eyes scanning for familiar faces.

“Where’d they go?” Patrick asked, already half-distracted, craning his neck over the heads of people still clinging to the last song of the night.

Art shrugged. “Maybe outside.”

They slipped out through the side door, the street quieter now, a thin layer of mist hugging the pavement. That’s when they saw them—standing just under a flickering streetlight.

Tashi was leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, one boot scuffing the concrete. Her long wavy hair framed her face, strands falling over her skin in a way that made her look like she’d stepped out of an old vinyl sleeve. She wore dark jeans and a faded oversized shirt, layered with a plaid flannel tied around her waist. Simple. Effortless. Cool in that way people don’t realize they’re trying to be.

Meg stood beside her, one leg propped against the wall behind her, casually smoking with her head tilted up like she was talking to the sky. She wore ripped black denim shorts despite the chill in the air, a vintage David Bowie tee tucked in just enough to show her belt, a worn leather jacket hugging her frame. Fingerless gloves clung to her pale hands, and her freckles stood out against skin that almost glowed under the amber light.

“There,” Art murmured.

Patrick let out a low whistle. “Of course they look like that.”

Meg smirked as they approached. “Took you long enough.”

Tashi didn’t say anything at first—just arched an eyebrow as if to ask, what now?

Two silhouettes approached from the glow of the bar’s open door.

Patrick spoke first. “Hey. You smoke?”

Meg raised her cigarette lazily. “Yeah. Want one?”

“I brought my own,” Patrick said, pulling a crumpled pack from his jacket. “Mind if we join you?”

“Go ahead,” she said, nodding toward the curb.

Art sat a little cautiously next to her, while Patrick stayed standing near Tashi, lighting his cigarette with practiced ease.

“I’m Patrick, by the way,” he said, exhaling smoke through a grin. “And that’s Art.”

Art gave a small wave. “Hey.”

Tashi nodded slowly. “Tashi.”

Meg flicked ash onto the street. “Meg.”

Patrick looked between them. “You two sound like a band already. Tashi and Meg.”

Meg laughed. “We’re working on it.”

“You were really good in there,” Art said, glancing at Tashi. “Like—damn. You’ve got that kind of voice people shut up for.”

Tashi shrugged like it was nothing. “Thanks. Been doing it a while.”

Patrick nodded toward Meg. “You don’t sing?”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “Hell no. I write. She performs. We keep it balanced.”

Tashi looked over. “You can sing.”

Meg shot her a mock glare. “I can yell in key. There’s a difference.”

Patrick smirked. “Yelling’s half the genre anyway.”

Art took a sip from a bottle he’d brought out with him. “So what kind of stuff are you into?”

Meg tapped her boot against the curb again. “Bit of everything. Riot grrrl, punk, old emo, shit no one’s heard of. If it sounds like it was recorded in a garage with a broken mic, I’m probably into it.”

Patrick raised a hand. “Same.”

Tashi leaned her head back against the wall, watching the streetlight above flicker. “I was classically trained. Jazz, technically. Now I play in bars and avoid eye contact with my parents.”

Patrick chuckled. “So you’re the one with actual talent.”

Meg grinned. “She’s the backbone. I’m just here to cause problems.”

“And I’m here to make those problems worse,” Patrick said, grinning right back.

Art smiled at that, quiet but clearly enjoying the way the girls played off each other.

“You guys in school or what?” Meg asked, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth.

“I moved here last month,” Art said. “Living with my grandma. Taking a break before I figure things out.”

Patrick shrugged. “Dropped out last year. My last band broke up, so I’m trying to start over.”

Meg eyed them. “What do you play?”

“Drums,” Art said.

“Guitar,” Patrick added.

Meg turned to Tashi, smirking. “We did say we needed more people.”

Tashi shot her a look. “I thought you said we were fine as is.”

“I said we were surviving,” Meg corrected, flicking ash again. “Big difference.”

Patrick took a slow drag of his cigarette. “So… you guys looking to start something real or just doing the bar circuit for fun?”

Tashi gave him a look, arms still crossed. “If you’re serious about playing with us, I’m gonna have to quiz you on music first.”

Meg laughed, tossing her cigarette into the street. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

Tashi shrugged. “I’m not starting a band with someone who doesn’t know the first three Hole albums.”

Art perked up. “Celebrity Skin doesn’t count?”

Tashi looked at him, considering. “I’ll allow it.”

Patrick held up his hands. “Alright, I’m down for the test. But I should warn you, if I pass, I’m taking over.”

“In your dreams,” Tashi muttered.

Meg grinned. “Come over then. We’ll test you properly. I've got leftover pizza and a thousand burned CDs I don’t feel like organizing.”

She started walking ahead, not waiting for a response.

Patrick followed without hesitation. “You had me at pizza.”

Art fell in step beside Tashi, who gave him a sidelong glance before following.

They walked in a loose line down the quiet street. The pavement was still damp from earlier rain, and the only light came from the occasional streetlamp and the neon glow spilling out from the bar behind them.

Patrick caught up to Meg, walking a little too close. “So, what’s the deal with you and Tashi? You two always attached at the hip?”

Meg smirked without looking at him. “Since we were kids. Why?”

He shrugged. “Just wondering if I’m walking into a band or a cult.”

Meg glanced at him, eyes twinkling. “Bit of both, probably.”

Patrick laughed. “Cool. I like cults.”

“You look like you do,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder.

Art stayed a step behind them, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket. He’d seen Patrick pull this kind of charm before—casual, cocky, always pushing just far enough to see how people reacted. Meg seemed into it, matching his energy with that half-smirk of hers. But Tashi? She walked beside Art, eyes straight ahead, jaw a little tighter than before. She wasn’t buying it. Or maybe she just didn’t like sharing Meg’s attention.

“Meg’s place is a five-minute walk,” Tashi said, mostly to Art.

“Cool,” he said, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “You always run auditions like this?”

Tashi smirked, just barely. “Only when the stakes are high.”

Art smiled back. “They feel pretty high.”

Ahead of them, Meg laughed at something Patrick whispered in her ear—too low for the others to hear.

Tashi’s eyes flicked up for a second. Then back down to the sidewalk.

[magdlens]

𝐊𝐎𝐈 𝐍𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐍 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇

CHAPTER 01 TEASER ────── "Tashi wants to tell her a million things. That her voice is the first sound she memorized like a song. That it’s not about technique or pitch—it’s about presence. That every word Meg writes hits differently when it’s coming from her mouth. But Meg’s eyes are already glassy, and Tashi knows her. If she pushes too hard, Meg will retreat behind another joke, another grin. So instead, she squeezes her knee gently and says nothing. Meg offers a grateful half-smile. That’s enough—for now."

 𝔀 𓏲 challengers fic ⸝⸝⠀ 𝓯𝓮𝓶. original character genre band!au — mdni. 4.2k ─ alcohol, light angst, religious themes, cigarettes ✶ lmk if i missed any! ────

✷ MAGS : hello! this is my first challengers fic and i'm super excited to see if anyone likes it! i'll be using some songs i think it fits each chapter to portray the band's songs, in no way i'm saying i wrote this songs, that's why each chapter will have the title/lyrics from the chosen song, this way you can listen to it while reading! also english is not my first language so forgive me if there's any typos!

She wished she could freeze this moment. Tuck it away like a secret polaroid—edges curling, ink fading—something just hers to keep in a drawer, untouched.

Tashi’s fingers moved with practiced care, running through the wild waves of Meg’s hair. She never hesitated—not with this. Not with her. The strands were stubborn, tangled from sleep and wind and whatever Meg had gotten into the night before, but Tashi worked patiently, like she always did.

“You know you don’t have to come, right?” she asked, her voice low, hands pausing on Meg’s shoulders as their eyes met in the mirror.

“I know,” Meg said simply.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She just smiled a little, barely there, and started to hum under her breath—one of her new songs, soft and half-finished. Her fingers twitched, like they were playing a guitar only she could hear. Tashi listened, recognizing the melody. She nodded along, resuming the braid with quiet concentration.

“We need a guitarist,” Meg murmured, like she was thinking out loud.

“I thought you liked it stripped down. Said it made the lyrics hit harder,” Tashi replied, tying the braid off with a small white satin bow she pulled from her pocket like it was second nature.

Meg didn’t answer. Just watched her in the mirror, eyes heavy with something Tashi couldn’t name.

When she finished, Tashi turned her gently by the shoulders, facing her fully now. She brushed a few strands away from Meg’s face, fingers brushing skin with the kind of softness that made Meg want to lean into it. 

“Don’t you think there’s more to it than just whatever this is?” Tashi raises an eyebrow at that, as if asking Meg to elaborate. “More than singing in bars and waiting for a miracle?”

Meg’s question lingers in Tashi’s brain for a while before she can mutter a response. 

“Of course,” She breathes, absentmindedly rubbing off some trace of smudged eyeliner from the girl’s face. “We’re just not gonna find out in this shithole. That’s why we’re going to college.” 

Tashi doesn’t miss the way Meg purses her lips, blue eyes flicking down to her bitten nails instead of meeting her gaze. It’s not the kind of silence that comes from not knowing what to say—it’s the kind that comes from knowing exactly what would spill out if she did.

Tashi doesn’t push.

Instead, she presses her thumb gently beneath Meg’s eye, rubbing at a trace of eyeliner smudged across her cheekbone. Meg doesn’t flinch. She never does, either—not with Tashi. She just lets her clean her up like always, like she’s worth the effort even when she feels like she isn’t. In the mirror, their reflections hover—two girls sitting too close in a too-small room that already feels like a memory.

Meg’s smile twitches, brief and bitter, before disappearing again. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her denim skirt, then move to the pocket where her bus card usually sits. A quiet, unconscious gesture. Like she’s already measuring distance. Like she knows she won’t be able to afford the ride to wherever Tashi ends up going.

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to.

Tashi’s hands fall to her sides for a beat, and for the first time, Meg thinks she might step back. Might say you’ll figure it out, like everyone else does.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, Tashi reaches into her backpack and pulls out a pair of earrings—tiny silver stars, barely there. She clips them onto Meg’s ears like a promise, eyes soft, mouth neutral.

Meg blinks at her. “What’s this for?”

Tashi shrugs, too casually. “You said you looked boring last time.”

She hadn’t. She never did. But the stars stay on.

A moment passes. Tashi smooths the front of Meg’s shirt, tugging it into place like a stylist before a show. Her fingers linger near the hem. Meg finally looks up. Tashi smiles—not the wide, perfect one she gives her parents or teachers—but the quiet kind. The kind she only ever gives to Meg. The kind that says: I’m not going without you. The kind that doesn’t need to be said aloud.

Meg breathes in slowly. She doesn't believe in much—but she believes in that smile. She always has.

And Tashi? She’d burn every application and lie to her parents and transfer a thousand times over just to keep Meg in her orbit.

The air outside the church was heavy with perfume and polished shoes. Meg stood half a step behind Tashi, pulling at the frayed edge of her denim jacket while the bells tolled above them. She could already feel the judgment in the bricks, the carved saints, the hush that swallowed sound before they even opened the door.

Inside, the stillness was suffocating.

She followed Tashi past rows of familiar faces, nodding politely at her parents as they approached the pew. Her father didn’t look twice. Her mother did—a small, pinched smile paired with a once-over that landed squarely on Meg’s boots and chipped nail polish. It was the same look she always gave, like she was mentally tallying the number of reasons her daughter shouldn’t be seen with that girl.

Meg offered a smile in return. Flat. Friendly. Impenetrable.

She and Tashi slid into their usual place—second row from the back, left side. The same pew they’d sat in since they were twelve. Tashi folded her hands like muscle memory, posture perfect, face blank. Meg slouched beside her, legs slightly parted, rings glinting under the dim glow of stained glass.

The sermon began, low and monotone, a familiar drone about sacrifice and sin.

Meg counted cracks in the ceiling. Imagined which of the saints would start bleeding first if this were a horror movie. Picked at the chipped polish on her thumb until it flaked off like ash.

Then she leaned in. Her lips barely moved.

“Do you think Jesus ever got bored in here too?”

Tashi coughed—once, sharply—but the corner of her mouth twitched. Just a flicker. Meg caught it anyway.

A few pews ahead, Tashi’s mother turned her head slightly, as if she felt the laugh threatening to spill.

Meg straightened her back, feigning reverence, hands clasped loosely in her lap. A saint in leather boots. Tashi tried not to look at her again—but her smile kept threatening to return.

When the final hymn began, they stood. Tashi sang quietly, as expected. Meg hummed off-key, staring at the stained glass like it might crack open and swallow her whole. The moment they were free, Tashi led them out with calm precision. Meg trailed behind, fingers still twitching with the melody she’d been making up in her head the whole time.

By the time they reached Meg’s house, the sun had dipped low behind the rooftops, throwing everything into that strange gold hour where nothing felt real.

Meg’s bedroom looked like a storm had hit it.

Clothes were draped over chairs, lyric sheets half-crumpled on the bed, guitar picks lost in the carpet. A busted amp sat in the corner like a sleeping dog. Tashi stepped over a pile of mismatched shoes and sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a nest of tangled cables.

Meg dug through her closet, yanking out shirts like she was looking for blood.

“What about this one?” she called, holding up something sheer and black with glitter at the seams.

Tashi didn’t look up. “You wore that last week.”

“So?”

“So wear something that doesn’t still smell like cheap vodka and regret.”

Meg laughed, tossing the shirt onto the bed. “You love my regret.”

Tashi coiled a cable carefully. “I tolerate your regret. I love your lyrics.”

“Same thing.”

Meg pulled off her jacket and rifled through a drawer for her good eyeliner. She caught sight of herself in the mirror—smeared mascara from earlier, Tashi’s bow still tucked into the braid, silver star earrings catching the last of the sunlight. Her chest tightened, just a little.

She turned away before she could feel too much.

Tashi stood and handed her the coiled cable. Their fingers brushed, soft and unspoken. No one mentioned how quiet it had been in the car ride home. No one mentioned how Meg’s eyes had lingered on the stained glass long after the mass ended.

“You hungry?” Tashi asked, eyeing the unopened granola bar on Meg’s desk.

“Nope,” Meg lied. “I run on nicotine and adrenaline.”

Tashi shook her head, but didn’t push.

Outside, someone honked three times’—their ride. Meg leaned over the amp and grabbed her bag, already buzzing with nerves. Tashi adjusted the strap of her guitar bag across her shoulder, walking out of the room with her friend by her side. The quiet hum of a car engine grew louder as Meg and Tashi reached the curb in front of the house. The beat-up sedan already sat waiting, headlights glowing dim against the dusk.

“Dean’s early.”

“He always is,” Tashi said, smiling.

Dean rolled the window down and leaned his arm across the door, grinning at the sight of them. His hair was still damp from the post-shift shower, his eyes a little tired but alert in the way people get when they’ve had to grow up too soon.

“My two favorite delinquents,” he called.

Tashi laughed, stepping closer. “We haven’t even done anything yet.”

“You showing up with her,” he pointed at Meg, “is always a sign that something’s about to go off the rails.”

Meg flashed him a grin. “You wound me, brother.”

“You’ll live,” he said, unlocking the doors.

They tossed their gear into the trunk—Tashi careful and organized, Meg chaotic and fast. When they both slid into the back seat, the car already smelled faintly like takeout and engine grease. Familiar. Safe.

Dean adjusted the mirror to glance at them. “You both good?”

“Peachy,” Meg said, cracking her knuckles.

Tashi nodded. “Thanks for the ride.”

He met her eyes in the mirror for half a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t just politeness—it was a check-in, the kind that said: You okay, really?

She nodded again, a little softer this time.

Dean’s hands were steady on the wheel as he pulled away from the curb, the street lights flickering on overhead like fireflies waking up. Meg leaned back in her seat, watching the houses blur past, her fingers tapping an invisible rhythm on her thigh.

Tashi’s leg brushed hers lightly. Neither of them moved away.

“Remember when I drove you both to that school talent show?” Dean asked suddenly. “Meg forgot half the lyrics, and Tashi had to pretend it was part of the song.”

Meg groaned. “Trauma. Actual trauma.”

Tashi smiled, almost nostalgic. “You made us PB&J sandwiches after. Cut off the crusts.”

Dean chuckled. “Still do. Just for you spoiled brats.”

Meg rested her head briefly on the back of Tashi’s seat, her voice dropping quieter. “You’re the best dad we never asked for.”

Dean didn’t reply right away. Just flicked the turn signal and changed lanes.

Then, softly: “Yeah, well. Someone had to do it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that held everything in it—loss, love, responsibility. The weight of being young in a world that asked too much, too soon.

Outside, the venue lights were already glowing up ahead. The city felt closer. Louder. Like the night was about to start breathing on its own.

Dean pulled into the lot and parked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Meg pushed open the door. “That’s a short list.”

Tashi laughed, stepping out with her guitar. “Thanks, Dean.”

He leaned out the window and pointed at both of them. “Text me when you’re done. No excuses.” 

Meg saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And just like that, the door shut behind them.

Tashi feels Meg’s arms wrap around her like she always does before a show, pressing her close, grounding her like only Meg ever can. She always hugs like she means it—tight, like she’s the one doing the protecting, even when she’s the one trembling deep down.

Tashi lets herself melt into it for just a second.

“Do you think they’ll like the song?” Meg asks, pulling away as they walk toward the entrance.

The bouncer doesn’t even blink at them, just nods them inside with a tired gesture. It smells like beer and old velvet curtains, like all the other bars they’ve played. It’s not glamorous, but it’s theirs for the night.

Tashi scoffs, adjusting the strap of her bass. “Everyone loves your songs.”  She pauses before adding, “I think you should be the one singing them.”

She means it. She always has.

But Meg doesn’t respond at first. She’s already drifting toward the corner of the green room, setting down her bag, fingers too jittery to stay still. She’s chewing at her bottom lip now, and Tashi knows that look. It’s rare, but it shows up—like a ghost—just before a set.

Then, quiet, almost like she hates admitting it:

“I just… I love your voice too much.”

Tashi freezes mid-motion.

Meg shrugs like she’s trying to laugh it off, picking at the chipped paint on a nearby stool. “It’s stupid. I don’t know. You sound better anyway. Like, real. Like someone people want to hear. I don’t need to sing if you already sound like that.”

There’s a hollowness to her tone that Tashi hears more than she sees. And Tashi’s heart aches with it. Because Meg isn’t like this—not about anything. Not about performing, not about clothes, not even about love.

But her voice? That’s where she folds. That’s the one place Meg lets herself believe she’s not enough.

Tashi wants to tell her a million things. That her voice is the first sound she memorized like a song. That it’s not about technique or pitch—it’s about presence. That every word Meg writes hits differently when it’s coming from her mouth. But Meg’s eyes are already glassy, and Tashi knows her. If she pushes too hard, Meg will retreat behind another joke, another grin. So instead, she squeezes her knee gently and says nothing. Meg offers a grateful half-smile. That’s enough—for now.

Tashi is silent when she wraps her arms around Meg’s body, closing her eyes for a second before stepping into the stage. She stands, tall and composed, guitar slung low over her shoulder. She glances back one last time before stepping into the light. The bar was dim, sticky with sound and sweat and the hum of too many conversations layered over soft guitar strings.

Art walked in first, eyes squinting through the low light, clutching the strap of his bag like it might anchor him. Patrick trailed behind, more relaxed—jacket hanging open, boots scuffing the floor, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he already owned the place.

But then they heard her.

On stage, a girl sat beneath the soft wash of golden light, one leg crossed over the other, guitar resting against her like a second spine. Her voice slid over the room like silk pulled tight—sharp in its precision, soft in its delivery. There was nothing flashy about her. She didn’t need it.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered, elbowing Art. “She’s… good.”

Art didn’t answer, but his steps slowed.

They didn’t know her name. Didn’t know what song she was singing. Didn’t know how long she’d been performing or if she was famous in this little nowhere town. But they felt it. The kind of stillness that only came when someone was completely in control—of their sound, of their body, of the audience.

Her voice was clean, almost unnervingly clean—like glass you could see yourself in too clearly. Not fragile, though. Not delicate. There was steel under the softness, tension in the way she held her notes just a little too long, like she had something to prove but wouldn’t let herself show it.

It caught Art off guard.

She looked like the type of girl who never broke rules or curfews, but the way she sang felt different. Like she knew exactly what it meant to want something too much. To be the quietest person in the room but still want to be heard.

Except she wasn’t looking at the audience.

Her eyes—dark and steady—were fixed on a girl sitting alone at a far table.

Boots up on the chair across from her, one arm slung over the backrest, the other lazily stirring a straw through a glass of something flat. She wasn’t watching the performance like an audience member. She watched it like someone who already knew every lyric—someone who didn’t need to listen to understand.

She was smiling. Barely. But it reached her eyes.

Tashi’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not once. Not even as the final verse climbed into something that bordered on holy.

I don't know why I am the way I am

There's something in the static, I think I've been having revelations

Comin' to, in the front seat, nearly empty

Skip the exit to our old street and go home

Go home alone

Art swallowed hard. He could feel something tightening in the room, like an invisible string had been pulled between the stage and the girl in the crowd, and it stretched tauter with every word.

“She’s not just singing,” he said finally. “She’s giving it to her.”

Patrick tilted his head. “You think they’re a thing?”

Art shrugged. “I think I don’t know a damn thing yet.”

The song ended—not with a bang, but with a breath. A single chord held in her lap like a secret. Tashi didn’t bow. She didn’t smile. She just looked at the girl at the table, and the girl looked back, and it was like no one else existed for a heartbeat too long. The applause broke the spell. Someone whistled from the back. A woman in a leather jacket clapped like she’d been waiting all week for that set.

But Tashi’s eyes had already dropped to her guitar as she unplugged it, calm as ever, fingers steady. In one blink of an eye, the girls were gone.

Patrick was still watching her when he said, “I need to know who the hell that is.”

The bar had started to clear out, the air thick with sweat, beer, and leftover guitar feedback. Art and Patrick pushed through the crowd near the back wall, eyes scanning for familiar faces.

“Where’d they go?” Patrick asked, already half-distracted, craning his neck over the heads of people still clinging to the last song of the night.

Art shrugged. “Maybe outside.”

They slipped out through the side door, the street quieter now, a thin layer of mist hugging the pavement. That’s when they saw them—standing just under a flickering streetlight.

Tashi was leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, one boot scuffing the concrete. Her long wavy hair framed her face, strands falling over her skin in a way that made her look like she’d stepped out of an old vinyl sleeve. She wore dark jeans and a faded oversized shirt, layered with a plaid flannel tied around her waist. Simple. Effortless. Cool in that way people don’t realize they’re trying to be.

Meg stood beside her, one leg propped against the wall behind her, casually smoking with her head tilted up like she was talking to the sky. She wore ripped black denim shorts despite the chill in the air, a vintage David Bowie tee tucked in just enough to show her belt, a worn leather jacket hugging her frame. Fingerless gloves clung to her pale hands, and her freckles stood out against skin that almost glowed under the amber light.

“There,” Art murmured.

Patrick let out a low whistle. “Of course they look like that.”

Meg smirked as they approached. “Took you long enough.”

Tashi didn’t say anything at first—just arched an eyebrow as if to ask, what now?

Two silhouettes approached from the glow of the bar’s open door.

Patrick spoke first. “Hey. You smoke?”

Meg raised her cigarette lazily. “Yeah. Want one?”

“I brought my own,” Patrick said, pulling a crumpled pack from his jacket. “Mind if we join you?”

“Go ahead,” she said, nodding toward the curb.

Art sat a little cautiously next to her, while Patrick stayed standing near Tashi, lighting his cigarette with practiced ease.

“I’m Patrick, by the way,” he said, exhaling smoke through a grin. “And that’s Art.”

Art gave a small wave. “Hey.”

Tashi nodded slowly. “Tashi.”

Meg flicked ash onto the street. “Meg.”

Patrick looked between them. “You two sound like a band already. Tashi and Meg.”

Meg laughed. “We’re working on it.”

“You were really good in there,” Art said, glancing at Tashi. “Like—damn. You’ve got that kind of voice people shut up for.”

Tashi shrugged like it was nothing. “Thanks. Been doing it a while.”

Patrick nodded toward Meg. “You don’t sing?”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “Hell no. I write. She performs. We keep it balanced.”

Tashi looked over. “You can sing.”

Meg shot her a mock glare. “I can yell in key. There’s a difference.”

Patrick smirked. “Yelling’s half the genre anyway.”

Art took a sip from a bottle he’d brought out with him. “So what kind of stuff are you into?”

Meg tapped her boot against the curb again. “Bit of everything. Riot grrrl, punk, old emo, shit no one’s heard of. If it sounds like it was recorded in a garage with a broken mic, I’m probably into it.”

Patrick raised a hand. “Same.”

Tashi leaned her head back against the wall, watching the streetlight above flicker. “I was classically trained. Jazz, technically. Now I play in bars and avoid eye contact with my parents.”

Patrick chuckled. “So you’re the one with actual talent.”

Meg grinned. “She’s the backbone. I’m just here to cause problems.”

“And I’m here to make those problems worse,” Patrick said, grinning right back.

Art smiled at that, quiet but clearly enjoying the way the girls played off each other.

“You guys in school or what?” Meg asked, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth.

“I moved here last month,” Art said. “Living with my grandma. Taking a break before I figure things out.”

Patrick shrugged. “Dropped out last year. My last band broke up, so I’m trying to start over.”

Meg eyed them. “What do you play?”

“Drums,” Art said.

“Guitar,” Patrick added.

Meg turned to Tashi, smirking. “We did say we needed more people.”

Tashi shot her a look. “I thought you said we were fine as is.”

“I said we were surviving,” Meg corrected, flicking ash again. “Big difference.”

Patrick took a slow drag of his cigarette. “So… you guys looking to start something real or just doing the bar circuit for fun?”

Tashi gave him a look, arms still crossed. “If you’re serious about playing with us, I’m gonna have to quiz you on music first.”

Meg laughed, tossing her cigarette into the street. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

Tashi shrugged. “I’m not starting a band with someone who doesn’t know the first three Hole albums.”

Art perked up. “Celebrity Skin doesn’t count?”

Tashi looked at him, considering. “I’ll allow it.”

Patrick held up his hands. “Alright, I’m down for the test. But I should warn you, if I pass, I’m taking over.”

“In your dreams,” Tashi muttered.

Meg grinned. “Come over then. We’ll test you properly. I've got leftover pizza and a thousand burned CDs I don’t feel like organizing.”

She started walking ahead, not waiting for a response.

Patrick followed without hesitation. “You had me at pizza.”

Art fell in step beside Tashi, who gave him a sidelong glance before following.

They walked in a loose line down the quiet street. The pavement was still damp from earlier rain, and the only light came from the occasional streetlamp and the neon glow spilling out from the bar behind them.

Patrick caught up to Meg, walking a little too close. “So, what’s the deal with you and Tashi? You two always attached at the hip?”

Meg smirked without looking at him. “Since we were kids. Why?”

He shrugged. “Just wondering if I’m walking into a band or a cult.”

Meg glanced at him, eyes twinkling. “Bit of both, probably.”

Patrick laughed. “Cool. I like cults.”

“You look like you do,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder.

Art stayed a step behind them, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket. He’d seen Patrick pull this kind of charm before—casual, cocky, always pushing just far enough to see how people reacted. Meg seemed into it, matching his energy with that half-smirk of hers. But Tashi? She walked beside Art, eyes straight ahead, jaw a little tighter than before. She wasn’t buying it. Or maybe she just didn’t like sharing Meg’s attention.

“Meg’s place is a five-minute walk,” Tashi said, mostly to Art.

“Cool,” he said, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “You always run auditions like this?”

Tashi smirked, just barely. “Only when the stakes are high.”

Art smiled back. “They feel pretty high.”

Ahead of them, Meg laughed at something Patrick whispered in her ear—too low for the others to hear.

Tashi’s eyes flicked up for a second. Then back down to the sidewalk.

[magdlens]

𝐊���𝐈 𝐍𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐍 ; coming soon.

"Koi no yokan" (恋の予感) is a Japanese expression that translates to "premonition of love." It describes the feeling that when you meet someone, you are certain that you will eventually fall in love with that person, even if it is not at that moment. It is the conviction of a future love, a deep connection that is intuited, rather than an immediate feeling.

⋆˚࿔ warnings: 18+ NSFW CONTENT, unprotected sex, substance abuse, alcohol, toxic relationships, band!au, love quadruple, best friends to lovers, everyone is bisexual, jealousy, manipulation, internalized homophobia/biphobia, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, unrequited love.

⋆˚࿔ summary: they had the sound, the look, the hunger. four teenagers tangled up in music, love, and the kind of friendships that blur into something messier. what started as late-night rehearsals and thrifted band tees quickly turned into underground shows, fan pages, and just enough fame to start falling apart.

when the lines between loyalty and desire get crossed—and the drugs start filling in the silence—everything begins to spiral. secrets fester. love turns sharp. and one night threatens to end everything they built.

years later, the echoes of what they had still haunt them.

— ! MEET THE BAND.

MEG – lead singer.

ART – drummer.

TASHI – bassist.

PATRICK – guitarist.

⋆˚࿔ reblog this and hit my inbox to be tagged!

[magdlens]

𝐊𝐎𝐈 𝐍𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐍 ; in progress.

"Koi no yokan" (恋の予感) is a Japanese expression that translates to "premonition of love." It describes the feeling that when you meet someone, you are certain that you will eventually fall in love with that person, even if it is not at that moment. It is the conviction of a future love, a deep connection that is intuited, rather than an immediate feeling.

⋆˚࿔ warnings: 18+ NSFW CONTENT, unprotected sex, substance abuse, alcohol, toxic relationships, band!au, love quadruple, best friends to lovers, everyone is bisexual, jealousy, manipulation, internalized homophobia/biphobia, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, unrequited love.

⋆˚࿔ summary: they had the sound, the look, the hunger. four teenagers tangled up in music, love, and the kind of friendships that blur into something messier. what started as late-night rehearsals and thrifted band tees quickly turned into underground shows, fan pages, and just enough fame to start falling apart.

when the lines between loyalty and desire get crossed—and the drugs start filling in the silence—everything begins to spiral. secrets fester. love turns sharp. and one night threatens to end everything they built.

years later, the echoes of what they had still haunt them.

NOT STRONG ENOUGH — chapter 01.

— ! MEET THE BAND.

MEG – lead singer.

ART – drummer.

TASHI – bassist.

PATRICK – guitarist.

⋆˚࿔ reblog this and hit my inbox to be tagged!

[magdlens]

͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏【 🦷 】。 𝐊𝐎𝐈 𝐍𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐍 ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏

📱MAGS... CALLING ! 24, she\they, latina, nu metal babe ★ rockstar girlfriend, bisexual demon! alternate universe lover ㆒ my work is purely fictional and not meant to represent anyone depicted in it, mdni ✷ nsfw blog . deftones, pisces sun + cancer rising ; art student / dj sometimes. experimental music, electric guitar&bass ― ﹙✸﹚inbox open. minors and ageless blogs will be blocked. DNI : racists, xenophobes, lgbtphobes, transphobes, zionists, radfems.

― ﹙✸﹚works in progress

'you're locked up / you exhaled / you did it before / i seen it / come outside / and breathe in / relax your arms / and let me in / you're red, soaking wet / lets writhe, let me see you trip / one move that will keep you wet / lets fall in a long sadistic trance.