#time for some angst with a side of lore | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

areislol · 10 months ago

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being transported into their world 2

►— pairings. honkai star rail men x gn! creator! reader

►— warnings. nothing really, proofread 🙅🏻‍♀️, caelus is the trailblazer, romantic but you can see it was platonic if you want to! boothill lore, slight angst sahau (self aware honkai au)

►— synopsis. their beloved creator, the one who created many worlds, including theirs, had yet to return after thousands of years. but lately, they've been experiencing strange things, feeling like a heavenly, divine figure loomed over them. could it possibly be their one and only creator?

►— a/n. so many ideas but so little time to write it all down!!

►— wordcount. 6.2k

The last thing you remember is the image of Caelus, Dan Heng, Gepard, and Bronya standing before you, the smokey, dark and ominous fog surrounding you.

Next thing you know, you're waking up in the middle of an unfamiliar weight of silk sheets pressing against your skin. Blinking rapidly, you tried to focus on the ornate ceiling above, its intricate patterns swirling in the soft morning light.

This wasn’t your room.

Confusion gripped you as you sat up quickly, only to be greeted by a pounding headache. Wincing, you pressed your hand against your forehead, trying to make sense of the disjointed memories in your mind.

The room around you was lavish, decorated with rich tapestries and elegant furniture. Everything seemed meticulously placed as if the room belonged to royalty.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and something else you couldn’t quite place. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.

Just how did you end up here?

Closing your eyes, you tried to recall the events that led to this moment. It all came back in fragments, like pieces of a shattered mirror.

You were standing up, shrouded in a dark, smokey fog. The air had been thick and oppressive, making it hard to breathe. Before you, Caelus, Dan Heng, Gepard, and Bronya stood with expressions of worry and determination. Their faces flashed in your mind, each one etched with concern.

Were you in a dream?

The fog, the faces—it all seemed so surreal. You opened your eyes again, scanning the room for any clues. The furniture was heavy and ornate.

A grand mirror stood in one corner, reflecting the dishevelled state of your appearance. Your clothes were the same as before but seemed out of place in this opulent setting.

Pushing the covers aside, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the cool marble floor beneath your feet. The pounding in your head persisted, but you forced yourself to stand, determined to get out of this unknown place.

Each step felt like a struggle, your body weighed down by an invisible force. You approached the window, drawing back the heavy curtains to reveal a breathtaking view of a cityscape blanketed in snow.

Tall, imposing buildings of grand architecture stretched out before you, their intricate designs dusted with white. The streets below were covered in a moderate layer of snow, and the occasional figure bundled in winter attire moved through the frosty landscape.

Your mind raced with possibilities. Had you been transported here by some unknown force? Was this just a particularly long dream? Shaking your head you cleared your mind, yes... it was a dream, it had to be a dream.

Besides suddenly waking up from an unfamiliar room, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched since the moment you awoke. Turning away from the window, you noticed a door on the far side of the room. It was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of the hallway beyond.

Cautiously, you approached the door, your senses on high alert. Peeking through the crack, you saw a long corridor lined with more doors, each one identical to the next. The silence was eerie, broken only by the faint sound of your breathing.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open wider and stepped into the hallway. You wished that the floor was covered in carpet, it was extremely cold. You had no idea where you were going, but you couldn’t stay in that room any longer.

Turning a corner, you nearly bumped into a figure standing in the shadows. Startled, you took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. The figure stepped forward, revealing a familiar face.

Grey hair, a pretty face, tall... the Astral Express golden ticket... wait...

“Caelus?” you whispered, barely daring to believe it.

Caelus’s eyes widened as he registered your voice. His surprise quickly turned into awe, and he stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance. Without a moment's hesitation, he dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead against the cold, hard floor.

"Your Gracefulness," he murmured, his voice trembling with reverence. "I am honoured to be in your presence."

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by his reaction. It wasn’t the response you expected. To them, you were not just a friend or a fellow traveller; you were the creator, the one who shaped their very existence. The weight of his words made you feel uneasy.

"Uh, please, get up," you urged, feeling a mix of discomfort and compassion. "You don’t have to kneel."

He hesitated for a moment before slowly rising to his feet, his eyes still filled with awe, oh his dear creator, what a kind soul they are! "Forgive me, Your Gracefulness. It’s just... we’ve been searching for you, and to find you here..."

Caelus was sure that he would get a scolding for talking to his Holy Grace for too long, he was sure of it. But he just couldn't stop the words pouring out of his mouth, all the years of yearning to meet you... and now you were here, right in front of him, before his eyes.

You offered a small nervous, reassuring smile despite the uncertainty gnawing at you. "I—I see." You bit your bottom lip, completely uncertain of what to do now as you stand there awkwardly with a curious Caelus.

"What... happened? I don't recall being here from the start," You asked, taking a moment to observe the ornaments around you. Caelus straightens his back, clearing his throat before speaking.

"You fainted a few minutes after coming out of the meteoroid. Thankfully Dan Heng caught you just in time, and then Bronya decided to keep you here, we were unsure when you would wake up."

"How long was I unconscious for?"

"Four days, your Grace."

"FOUR DAYS?!" The word came out in a disbelieving whisper, your mind reeling.

"Yes, your Grace." He nodded, a bit taken aback by your raised voice. You stood there, trying to process the information, feeling awkward and out of place.

Caelus's expression softened slightly before giving you a nod. "I'll take you to them." He guided you down the hall to another room, while you both walked you looked around once again, everything was different, not just your surroundings but the atmosphere was heavy.

You took in a deep breath, trying your best to calm yourself down. You knew that you were safe (although this place was still new to you), you knew these people, what they were like, everything.

They were famous video game characters. The very video game characters that you spend weeks on trying to find the right and perfect relic for them.

Honkai Star Rail drained your pockets, the lore and story were addictive, the play-style was addictive, and the pulling animation was addictive. Unsurprisingly, after a week of downloading the game, you were hooked.

It was a surprise that you weren't in debt... You shook your head, clearing your clouded mind. It was tough to digest the fact that you were walking right beside the Caelus!!

It was a silent walk with only the sounds of his shoes squeaking every there and then, it was clear how polished the floors were.

Caelus dared not to speak up in your holy presence. Was he even worthy of speaking to you let alone bask in your presence?

As you continued down the hallway, Caelus remained close by, his protective instincts heightened by your presence. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, each one identical to the last.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, and the oppressive silence only added to your unease.

Calm down, you thought. No one's going to jump you..

Not long after Caelus stopped in his tracks, moving to the side as his hand rested on the door handle. The door was huge and elaborate, probably three times your size, and you finally heard faint voices.

Caelus signalled for you to stay back as he approached the source of the sound. Moments later, he beckoned you forward. You hurried to his side, peering into a large room filled with familiar faces.

As you entered, Dan Heng, Bronya, and Gepard looked up from their conversation. Relief, admiration and shock washed over their faces when they saw you.

"Your Gracefulness," Dan Heng said, bowing his head slightly. "I—It's a pleasure to meet you."

Everyone in the room had stood up from the seats, immediately bowing down with one knee, their eyes set downcast, refusing to even look at you. They remained solemn and reverent, their gestures filled with respect and devotion—an act that left you utterly speechless.

The room was silent, barely even a breath could be heard. You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment, a deep discomfort settling into your bones.

This wasn’t something you were used to.

Back home, you were just another person, another face in the crowd. But here… here you were something else entirely apparently.

The realization struck you again, hard and jarring: you’d been "isekai’d" into the world of Honkai: Star Rail, a place where the characters you once guided and watched from behind a screen now saw you as their Creator, their Gracefulness.

But that didn’t make this any less strange.

"Please," you said, your voice shaky, betraying the unease you felt. "You don't need to do that. I'm just… I mean, I’m not—" You trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

How do you tell them that you didn’t see yourself as anything more than a normal person? That this whole situation felt surreal, like a dream you hadn’t quite woken up from yet?

Dan Heng, still kneeling, glanced up at you, his eyes calm and steady. "Your Gracefulness," he began, his tone soft but firm, "It is only right that we show you the respect you deserve. You are our creator, the one who has guided us through countless battles and decisions."

Bronya nodded, her gaze filled with a mixture of awe and dedication. "Without you, we wouldn’t be who we are today. This is the least we can do to honour your presence."

Gepard remained silent but his expression was resolute, as if nothing you said could change his mind about bowing before you. Caelus, however, looked a bit hesitant, perhaps sensing your discomfort more than the others. Yet, even he remained in place, waiting for your acknowledgment.

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump in your throat. It was overwhelming, this level of devotion and reverence. It wasn’t something you ever imagined experiencing, and certainly not something you knew how to handle.

You’d come here, to this world, not out of a desire to rule or be worshipped, but by some strange twist of fate. The weight of their expectations, their respect—it felt heavy, almost suffocating.

"I appreciate… everything you’re saying," you began slowly, trying to find the right balance between acknowledging their feelings and setting boundaries. "But really, you don’t have to bow to me. I’m still… me. Just a person. I’m not used to this, and it makes me feel… awkward."

The room fell into a brief silence, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. You could see the conflict in their eyes—caught between their ingrained sense of duty and their desire to respect your wishes.

Finally, Caelus was the first to move, rising to his feet with a small, understanding smile. "If it makes you uncomfortable," he said, "then we’ll try to find another way to show our respect. But know that our loyalty for you remains unchanged."

One by one, the others followed suit, standing slowly. Gepard gave you a respectful nod, while Bronya offered a gentle smile, her previous intensity softening. Dan Heng lingered the longest, his gaze searching your face as if trying to understand you better, before finally standing as well.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, a small wave of relief washing over you. This was all so new, so overwhelming, but at least now, with them standing, you felt like you could breathe a little easier.

Even if you were their creator, you didn’t want to be put on a pedestal. You just wanted to go home.

"Thank you," you said quietly, your voice sincere. "I really appreciate it."

And with that, the tension in the room eased, the atmosphere shifting back to something more comfortable, more manageable. You were still trying to wrap your head around everything, but at least now, you didn’t feel so alone in it.

"We were worried about you." Bronya stepped forward, her expression a mixture of concern and determination. "Are you feeling alright? Do you need a doctor? I can get them right away—"

You shook your head, trying to maintain your composure despite the overwhelming emotions swirling inside you. "I'm alright," you said, but even as the words left your lips, you could feel the weight of them.

Your head was pounding, a relentless reminder of everything you had just been through. The disorientation, the headaches—symptoms of something far greater than mere confusion.

You were trying to grasp the reality that had been thrust upon you, the fact that you were no longer in your world, that you had died, and now… now you were here.

Dan Heng’s eyes softened as he watched you, his usually calm demeanour laced with a subtle concern. "It’s understandable that you’re disoriented," he said, his voice steady but filled with empathy.

"You’ve been through something unimaginable. Arriving here so suddenly… it’s not something anyone could easily adjust to."

You looked down, your mind flashing back to that moment—the car crash. The impact, the pain, the sudden darkness. You remembered the sensation of being pulled away, as if your very soul had been yanked from your body, only to be confined within something cold and unforgiving.

The next thing you knew, you were hurtling through the sky, encased in what felt like a stuffy coffin, and then… Belobog.

You winced, the memory of it all almost too much to bear. "What… what did you see when I arrived?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with the fear of hearing the answer.

Gepard, who had been standing a little behind the others, stepped forward, his expression sombre. "When you appeared… you were in some sort of meteorite. It was like nothing we’d ever seen before. It came crashing down from the sky, landing just outside the city walls of Belobog."

"There was news that this month, the creator would return. Everyone was on high alert and once one of my guards spotted a mysterious crater, everyone knew that it had to be you."

Caelus nodded, his tone still filled with concern. "It was like a shooting star, only… darker. And when we approached, we saw you inside, unconscious. We had no idea what to do, but we knew we had to get you out of there, to help you."

Bronya’s gaze softened as she watched you struggle to process their words. "You were in a state of complete stasis, almost as if you were… suspended between worlds. We’ve never encountered anything like it."

The room seemed to close in around you as you tried to reconcile what they were telling you with what you knew—or thought you knew. You had died. You felt it. And yet, here you were, standing in a world you had only ever seen on a screen, surrounded by people who weren’t supposed to exist.

A headache pulsed at your temples, and you pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself. The world felt like it was spinning, the reality of your situation crashing down on you like a tidal wave.

Caelus immediately stood by your side, his hands hesitating to hold you before shaking his head ever so slightly, holding your arm and waist to keep you from falling.

"I… I don’t understand," you murmured, more to yourself than to them. "I died. I remember the crash. I remember everything going dark, how on Earth did I..."

Dan Heng took a step closer, his presence grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. "It must have been a traumatic experience," he said softly, his voice gentle as if he were trying not to overwhelm you further.

"But you’re here now. Whatever happened, whatever brought you here, I think it was fate, just like how the legends had stated."

You wanted to believe him, wanted to find comfort in his words, but the reality of it all was still too much.

How could you be here, alive, in a place that shouldn’t even exist? And what did it mean that they were treating you like this—as if you were someone of immense importance, someone with power, someone they called their "Gracefulness"?

"I’m sorry," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "I just… I need a moment to process all of this."

Bronya stepped forward, her expression filled with understanding. "Take all the time you need. We’re here for you."

Gepard nodded in agreement, his voice steady and reassuring. "We’ll be by your side, your wish is our command."

You stood there, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, trying to make sense of everything that had happened, everything that was happening now. The room felt both too large and too small at the same time as if the walls were closing in on you while the ceiling stretched out into infinity.

——

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity as you found yourself surrounded by a level of attention and care that was both overwhelming and humbling. Bronya, ever the efficient leader, took charge of organizing a grand celebration in honour of your return.

It was to be the most elaborate, grand and magnificent, parade ever. Only the best for their beloved creator.

The news of your arrival spread quickly, with messages sent across Belobog and even beyond, reaching the farthest corners of the world. Shops began to close in your honour, and preparations were set in motion to ensure that everything was perfect for the festivities that would last for months.

Caelus returned back to the Astral Express to spread the news to his friends who soon sent the message worldwide, especially to their alliances.

As the day wore on, you were never alone. Dan Heng and Gepard remained by your side, they would be your guards, though you couldn’t shake the feeling of being slightly out of place.

They escorted you through the grand halls of the Supreme Guardian’s residence, offering you a glimpse into the grandeur and history of Belobog.

The building itself was massive, with high ceilings, intricate carvings, and large windows that let in streams of light, casting everything in a golden glow.

Despite the opulence around you, your mind was still trying to adjust to the reality that had been put upon you. The remnants of your previous life, the memory of your death, the inexplicable warp that had brought you here—it all lingered in the back of your thoughts, creating an undercurrent of unease that you couldn’t quite shake.

But for now, you have to focus on the present. Gepard and Dan Heng took their roles seriously, ensuring that you were comfortable, well-fed, and taken care of in every possible way. When it was time to eat, you were treated to a feast of the finest foods Belobog had to offer, dishes prepared with such care and precision that you could taste the love in every bite.

They made sure you didn’t lift a finger, encouraging you to rest when you looked tired, and when the day began to take its toll on you, they arranged for a bath to be drawn in one of the grand, marble-floored bathrooms.

The bath was a welcome respite. The water was warm, and scented with calming herbs, and as you sank into it, you could feel the tension slowly melting away.

Maids attended to you, offering you soft towels and luxurious oils, treating you with a level of care that you had never experienced before. It was almost too much—this pampering, this constant attention—but you reminded yourself that this was how they showed their respect, their gratitude for your presence in their world.

After the bath, you were led to the room that had been prepared for you, its large windows offering a view of the snow-covered city below.

The bed was soft, the sheets made of the finest silk, and as you lay down, you couldn’t help but marvel at the turn your life had taken.

Just days ago, you had been living an ordinary life, unaware of what was to come, and now… now you were here, in a world that wasn’t supposed to exist, treated as a deity by those you had only known as characters.

Sure, today would have been amazing if it weren't for the fact of constant unease nagging you in the back, it was nice to be pampered and shown love, but at the same time, you wanted to go home, back to the place that you grew up in.

As you drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the luxury and comfort that had been arranged for you, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder how long this would last.

How long you would be able to maintain this facade, to accept the adoration and devotion of those around you when deep down, you still felt like the same person you had always been—just a regular human, trying to make sense of a world that didn’t make sense at all.

But for now, you had no choice but to go along with it, to embrace the role that had been thrust upon you, even if it felt like you were living in a dream.

A dream that, for better or worse, you couldn’t wake up from.

——

The next morning, you awoke to the sound of soft knocking on your door. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a pale light across the snow-covered city of Belobog.

You could see your breath in the cool air as you stretched, still disoriented from the events of the previous day. For a moment, you wondered if it had all been a strange, vivid dream—but the grand room around you, the luxurious sheets beneath your fingers, and the echo of voices beyond the door reminded you that this was indeed your reality now.

You called for whoever was outside to enter, and the door opened to reveal Dan Heng and Gepard, both standing tall and composed. Their expressions softened when they saw you, and you noticed the subtle way their shoulders relaxed, as if simply seeing you reassured them.

"Good morning," Dan Heng said quietly, his tone respectful yet warm. "I hope you slept well."

You nodded, managing a small smile. "I did, thank you."

Gepard stepped forward, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of concern and deference. "If there's anything you need, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. We've arranged for breakfast to be brought to you, and after that, if you're feeling up to it, Bronya would like to discuss the plans for the upcoming celebrations with you."

Celebrations. The word lingered in your mind, bringing with it a mix of emotions. You still weren’t sure how to feel about all of this—the way everyone seemed to look at you as if you were something divine.

It was overwhelming, and part of you wanted nothing more than to retreat, to find a quiet corner where you could process everything on your own. But you knew that wasn’t an option. You had a role to play, and even if you didn’t fully understand it, you were determined to do your best.

"I… appreciate that," you replied, your voice softer than you intended. "I’ll be ready soon."

As the two men left to give you privacy, you dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for you—a simple yet elegant outfit that, while comfortable, still bore the intricate designs and rich fabrics that seemed to be a hallmark of Belobog's fashion.

You took a moment to steady yourself, taking deep breaths as you reminded yourself that you were in control, even if it didn’t always feel like it.

When you were ready, Dan Heng and Gepard led you to a grand dining room where a lavish breakfast had been prepared. The table was set with an array of dishes—freshly baked bread, fruits, pastries, and steaming bowls of porridge.

The sight of it all made your stomach twist, not from hunger but from the sheer extravagance of it. You took a seat, and though the food was delicious, each bite felt heavy for some odd reason.

As you ate, Bronya arrived, her usual stoic demeanour softened by a hint of nervousness. She greeted you with a respectful nod before taking a seat across from you. You noticed the way her eyes flickered to Dan Heng and Gepard, almost as if she were seeking their reassurance before she spoke.

"I’m glad to see you’re well," she began, her voice calm but measured. "The people of Belobog are eager to welcome you and show their gratitude for your return. We’ve begun preparations for a series of celebrations in your honour, and I wanted to discuss the details with you, to ensure everything meets your approval."

The idea of the entire city celebrating you—parades, feasts, and gatherings in your name—felt surreal. You weren’t sure how to respond, unsure if you could live up to the expectations they had of you.

"I don’t want to disrupt anyone’s life," you said cautiously, trying to find the right words. "It’s all very overwhelming. I’m not used to being treated like this."

Bronya’s expression softened, and she exchanged a glance with Dan Heng and Gepard, who stood behind you like silent sentinels. "Your presence alone is a gift to us," she replied gently. "We don’t see it as a disruption, but rather as an honour. The people are eager to show their gratitude and to celebrate this momentous occasion."

You nodded, feeling a mixture of unease and responsibility settle in your chest. "Alright. I’ll do my best to be what you need me to be."

Bronya smiled a rare and genuine expression that made you feel a little less out of place. "Thank you," she said simply. "We’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to worry."

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of preparations and introductions. Bronya led you through the city, introducing you to key figures and showing you the various places where the celebrations would take place.

Everywhere you went, people bowed deeply, their eyes wide with star-struck in awe. It was both humbling and unnerving, and you found yourself struggling to find the balance between accepting their respect and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

Dan Heng and Gepard never left your side, their presence a constant reminder that you weren’t alone in this strange new world. They were vigilant, ensuring that you were comfortable, that no one overwhelmed you, and that you had moments of rest whenever you needed them.

By the time evening fell, you were exhausted, both physically and emotionally. You had been paraded through the city, introduced to so many people, and shown the elaborate plans for the days and weeks to come.

All of it felt like a dream, and as you finally returned to your room, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all pressing down on you.

While you lay in bed, twiddling with the fine silk blanket, the other regions were preparing to finally gaze upon their divine creator.

——

In the Xianzhou Luofu, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the news of the Creator’s return spread. Within the grand halls of the Divine Foresight, Fu Xuan stood before the Council of Elders, delivering the monumental announcement that had just arrived from the Trailblazer.

"The Creator has returned," Fu Xuan declared with a calm but resolute voice. "They have descended in Belobog, and it is our duty to honour them with the highest respect and homage."

The Council of Elders, seasoned in both wisdom and combat, exchanged glances of disbelief and awe. The Creator, the one who had shaped their world and guided their destinies, was now walking among them once more. The gravity of this revelation weighed heavily on their minds, knowing that their response to this event would define their legacy.

Jing Yuan, the Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu, stood quietly at the back of the chamber, his usual calm demeanour betraying a hint of solemnity. The Creator’s return was a momentous occasion, and Jing Yuan felt the significance of this event.

"We must ensure that our tribute is worthy of their grace," he murmured, his eyes narrowed in contemplation.

Nearby, Loucha listened intently. His thoughts were more introspective, contemplating the deeper implications of the Creator’s return. Loucha, ever the observer, recognized the immense pressure that this event placed upon them all.

But unlike the others, his focus was not on the material offerings but on the spiritual and existential implications of meeting their Creator. He quietly resolved to find a way to honour the Creator not just through gifts but through his actions and service.

A casket would simply not do, although he was sure that you'd grow fond of it.

Hm, what else could he possibly give you...

Blade, as usual, remained silent throughout the meeting with the Stellaron Hunters. His mind, however, was not at ease. Blade’s relationship with the concept of the Creator is complex and filled with conflicting emotions.

Blade knew he had to play his part in honouring the Creator, even if it meant confronting the very things he had spent so long trying to suppress.

Preparations across the Xianzhou Luofu began immediately. Gifts were gathered from the most skilled artisans—finely crafted weapons, ancient scrolls, and traditional garments.

The best chefs prepared exquisite dishes that would showcase the rich culture of the Xianzhou. In every corner of the realm, citizens participated in rituals, prayers, and meditations, focusing their energies on the Creator.

Jing Yuan oversaw the strategic aspects of the journey, ensuring that their voyage to Belobog would be flawless. Loucha offered his medical expertise to make sure that everyone on board the vessels was in perfect health, while Blade had already begun making his way to Belobog along with Firefly and Kafka.

As the time for departure approached, the air was thick with reverence and anticipation. The Xianzhou Luofu were not just travelling to meet their Creator; they were about to present themselves as a testament to the Creator’s guidance.

Their journey to Belobog would be marked by the same dedication and honour that had defined their civilization for centuries.

Far away in Penacony, the city of innovation and creativity, the news of the Creator’s return was met with an explosion of activity. Penacony, renowned for its technological marvels and artistic achievements, reacted to the news with excitement.

Aventurine was among the first to receive the message. As soon as he got the text, he froze, eyes furiously scanning the text over and over again.

Was this real? Has the creator really come back? The one who he worshipped so obsessively?

He immediately rang Jade, his voice frantic as he spoke to her over the phone. "We cannot afford to delay," Aventurine stated.

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime event, and we must honour the Creator with everything Penacony has to offer."

Sunday, the head of the family, took charge of organizing the preparations. He ordered all renowned artists, engineers, and musicians all come together to create a tribute that would embody the spirit of their city.

Everything had to be perfect.

Sunday was enthusiastic for the Creator's return, it was not just a reflection of his usual cheerfulness—it was something far deeper, almost lovesick.

The moment he received word that the Creator had returned to their world, something in him ignited. It was as if all his life had been leading up to this moment, and now, he could finally fulfil his purpose.

“The Creator has returned,” he whispered to himself after first hearing the news, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and anticipation. His eyes, usually bright with optimism, now gleamed with a fervour that bordered on the intense.

To Sunday, this wasn’t just an event to celebrate—it was a divine calling, a chance to prove his unwavering devotion.

From that moment on, Sunday threw himself into the preparations with a single-mindedness that was almost unsettling. He didn’t just organize the celebrations—he orchestrated them with an obsession that left little room for error.

Every detail had to be perfect, and every gesture had to reflect the utmost reverence for the Creator. He wasn’t just leading the preparations; he was living them, breathing them, as though his very existence depended on it.

When rallying the artists and performers, Sunday’s usual encouragement took on a more insistent edge. “This isn’t just for any celebration,” he’d remind them, his eyes wide and unblinking. “It’s for the Creator. We must give them everything—our best and beyond.”

He’d hover over rehearsals, his smile still present but his tone sharper, more demanding. Mistakes weren’t just errors; they were almost blasphemous in his eyes.

In the kitchens, his involvement was even more intense. He tasted every dish, scrutinizing each one with a level of scrutiny that made even the most seasoned chefs nervous. “This dish needs something... more,” he’d say, his brows furrowing in concentration.

“It needs to be worthy of the Creator. Start again.” And they would, because Sunday’s passion was as contagious as it was overwhelming. Many chefs and assistants often gossiped with one another about Sunday's behaviour, he was far too obsessed.

They, of course, understood the importance of perfecting everything as well, it would be served under the gaze of their Almighty Creator, but Sunday was too overbearing, pushy and stubborn.

Everything has to be perfect.

His interactions with the other citizens of Penacony took on a different tone as well. While still encouraging, there was an underlying pressure in his words. “The Creator deserves only the best from us. Do you understand? This is our moment to show our love, and our loyalty. We can’t afford to disappoint them.”

As the days passed, Sunday’s obsession grew. He spent nights alone, surrounded by plans and lists, going over every detail until his eyes were red and his hands shook from exhaustion.

But he didn’t care. Sleep was secondary; his devotion to the Creator was all that mattered.

Boothill, unlike the others found himself in an unfamiliar situation. Normally at ease with a revolver in hand, Boothill was now tasked with selecting gifts that would impress the Creator.

He knew the importance of your arrival, but there was something that lingered at the back of his head. The memories would override his brain, successfully clouding his thoughts, all he could think about was revenge.

His home.

His daughter.

His family.

His beloved memories.

Gone. They were all gone, all because of one man: Oswaldo Schneider.

Perhaps... If he impressed you with his devotion and adoration, would you help get revenge for him? As the Creator, wouldn't you be so kind as to lend your devoted worshipper some help?

(He decided to contribute something personal—a custom-made weapon, intricately designed and crafted with precision.)

Once the word spread to Gallagher that you were finally home, Gallagher’s response was deeply rooted in a sense of duty and respect.

Like Sunday, he wanted everything to be perfect, not because of an obsessive need to impress, but because he believed it was the right thing to do.

In meetings, Gallagher was a voice of calm amidst the excitement, offering practical solutions to any challenges that arose. “Let’s focus on what’s important,” he would say, steering conversations away from extravagance and towards meaningful gestures.

He believed that the Creator would value sincerity and thoughtfulness over grand displays, and he ensured that Penacony’s contributions reflected that belief.

In his heart, Gallagher held a deep respect for you. His admiration was sincere, but it wasn’t showy. He didn’t need to prove his devotion through grand gestures or dramatic displays; his actions spoke for themselves.

He believed that true reverence was shown through quiet, consistent effort—through doing what was right, even when no one was watching.

He could just taste your happiness at the tip of his tongue, it was delicious. He began to think about your responses, what would you say? Would you accept his gift happily? Toss it away in digust?

“We’ve prepared these offerings with great care and respect, Your Grace. We hope they meet your expectations.” He would say.

"Oh, Gallagher! You shouldn't have!" You would reply.

Or...

"How bold of you to assume that I would accept such a gift from a low-life dog like you!"

Even a small smile would do.

No matter your response, he would still devote his entire being to you.

He had always been confident in his abilities, but now, faced with the Creator themselves, he wondered if his efforts would be enough. It wasn’t a question of worthiness, but of connection—he wanted the Creator to understand that Penacony’s gifts came from a place of genuine respect and loyalty.

Yet, even in this moment of uncertainty, Gallagher remained composed. He knew that whatever the Creator’s response, he had done his best.

And that, for Gallagher, was what truly mattered. He would continue to serve and protect, quietly dedicated to the Creator’s well-being, just as he had always done.

——

As the day of departure approached, Penacony and the Xianzhou Luofu were abuzz with activity. Airships were loaded with gifts, including traditional dishes, intricately designed artifacts, and artistic performances that would honour the Creator.

The entire city was involved in the preparations, each citizen contributing in their own way.

When the airships finally took flight, they carried not just the hopes of Penacony but also the dreams and creativity of its people.

This journey was more than just a trip; it was a pilgrimage to honour the Creator who had shaped their being.

note: so many wips..

tags 🏷️: @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls @goldenglow149 @rhwm @urlocalheizousimp @saltylovetale-blog @toramune @oreo-ren @backintomykpopphaseagain @serenity-loves-red @flooofity @minteasketches @yurassia @chellazhef @fulldoves @kateybuggi @wanderingconstellations @mini-shower @160ccm @rosariashield @sickize @sarah22447 @dreamlessnight @gimmealmap @bebeluvs @caramelstarlight @sukiidreams @oceanist @achy-boo @alhaitie @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @that-mom-friend @v-ish @merormerry @gojoulen03 @scarletttcrow @hadischara @kithewanderingme @keiqqo @livelaughlovekuni @chirikoheina @wr1t3rfum1k0 @issacdaholi @yu-ulda @alysinbshsu @vanilla-sweets @your-local-reblogging-kazoo @be-gay-do-crime-ahaha @seipaws @clavichordcleffa @uhhhiwassupp @youdontneedyoknowlol @the-lazy-perfectionist @issacdarknight @lucienbarkbark @bizzybkd @obliviousariies2007 @coffee-seedy

(if the usernames aren’t highlighted that’s because I can’t tag you so I’ll dm you when I post a new chapter! if i forgot to tag you im so sorry!)

for those i’ve taged: if you do not want to tagged for hsr drop a comment or message me.

liking + following + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!

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sttoru · 1 year ago

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⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. boothill spending a nice, sunny day on the ranch with his family !

tags. pre-cyborg!boothill x wife!female reader. fluff, one tiny hint of angst. sfw. daughter is adopted. based on boothill’s lore. reader gets called ‘mama/momma’. i shed a tear writing this

“aye, yer getting good, kiddo.” boothill grins as he humors his daughter. he’s sitting on a patch of grass underneath an old tree, with his little girl sitting on his lap. his stetson hat lays low on his head, a piece of straw grass between his teeth.

days like these are the reason why he cherishes life. peaceful days where his wife and kid are the only ones surrounding him. home is where he belongs; with his daughter playing the tiny guitar he made her from scratch.

well—more like she’s beating it up.

“dada! dada!” she squeals as she harshly pats the strings, creating an unsatisfactory sound that would make anyone in the vicinity cringe. though, to boothill the sound is a sign of life. of his beloved child being carefree and happy.

the cowboy runs his fingers through the girl’s locks, admiring the little bundle of joy that’s been bestowed upon him. ever since he took her in, life’s been nothing but joyful. “adorable, ain’t ya?” boothill mumbles to no one in particular.

a warm breeze lifts his bangs ever so slightly, revealing those unique eyes of his. they’re filled with nothing but admiration for his daughter. perhaps also a hint of bittersweet warmth.

she’s growing up so fast.

“honey, dinner’s ready!” your voice makes both boothill and the child look up. boothill’s signature smirk only widens the moment you come out of the main house, wiping your hands off with your apron. you look stunning underneath the orange-ish sky. you’re also a reminder of how good boothill has it.

boothill nods and squeezes his daughter’s cheeks, gaining a small giggle at the touch. the calluses on his hands are a contrast to her smooth skin. the chubbiness in her cheeks is absolutely adorable to the white and black-haired man.

“oh, ya hear that? y’r momma made us some food,” boothill pokes the girl’s sides, which makes her laugh again. his favorite sound. she abandons her guitar and stands up, her legs still somewhat wobbly. she had only recently learnt how to walk on her own after all.

“mama!” the kid repeats, reaching her tiny hands out to your figure in the distance. you smile at the sight and crouch down, spreading your arms as you encourage her to walk towards you.

you nod and let out a small chuckle, “hi, baby! c’mon— come to mama!”

your daughter gasps and tries to find her balance before she sets another step. boothill watches her with a fond smile, his hands ready to catch her if she were to fall. though, there doesn’t seem to be any need for those precautions.

she waddles over to you in no time. her little gasps and pants as she tries to run melt the cowboy’s heart. he gets up and walks behind the tiny girl, a sudden mischievous grin on his face.

“heh,” boothill chuckles before acting like he’s going to run after her and catch her if she doesn’t run away from him, “better run before i catch ya!”

the child takes the light-hearted threat seriously and squeals at the sight of her father figure ‘running’ after her. her legs take her towards you as fast as they can, working overtime to reach the other side of the ranch, “waaaaaah!”

you laugh at the sight of your husband chasing after the little girl. he’s good with children—to your utter surprise. before boothill came home with the abandoned baby, you didn’t know if he’d have the skills to care for children. he is blunt, straightforward and rough in some ways.

however, your worries were soon to be proven wrong. it’s like boothill’s destined to be a girl dad. that’s how well he can get along with your adoptive daughter. it was difficult for him at first, but with some trial and error, he’s turned into a great father figure.

“got’cha!” boothill exclaims as he scoops the small child up in his arms the second she got close to you. he tickles her sides and she squirms—giggling like she’s never done before.

“nooooo!” she tries to protest between laughs, but it seems to be an impossible task. her little legs kick wildly in boothill’s embrace, but he doesn’t let up. he puts her over his shoulder and wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you close to him.

“the food smells good, babe,” boothill whispers and kisses the top of your head. the smell of your delicious cooking makes his mouth water. he pinches your cheek and flashes you that charming grin of his not a second later, “bet it tastes fuckin’ amazing too.”

“language, honey,” you roll your eyes playfully and slap boothill’s bicep as a reminder. he simply shrugs and laughs menacingly.

you walk back with him into the house, one hand of his resting on your waist, whilst the other secures your (still squealing) daughter on his shoulder.

the sun setting gives the sky beautiful colors. orange, purple, yellow and a bit of red. it adds to the beauty of this moment—a family of three living happily ever after on their ranch—with nothing or no one to ruin their lives.

or so they thought.

#sttoru writes.#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #boothill x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #boothill x you #boothill x y/n #hsr fluff #hsr imagines #sorry guys i had to make it angsty somehow

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jedisupernova · 5 months ago

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life with choi subong (thanos)

notes minors dni contains life before games, fem and aged up reader (same age as subong), always written with plus size reader in mind but truly anyone can read, a lot of made up lore to fill in gaps & build dynamic between subong and reader, smut (no distinct section. it is imbedded throughout; sexting, dirty talk, oral f and m receiving, vignettes of sub!subong, handjob, p in v, non-protective sex (don't be stupid,) public sex, foreplay, squirting), angst (lying, deception, miscommunication, arguing and gaslighting: cursing, pushing each other, one body shaming remark, a lot of name calling, insults, mentions of death, just being mean; this does not having a happy ending), toxic dynamic, mentions of drinking, drug use, problematic reader if you squint, i don't know how crypto works so don't yell at me, blatantly problematic subong, reader deserves better, a lot of dumbassery and some typos.

requested? no, this is an original idea! this is also my very first post, and i want to show what i can do! this is really long. like, really long. this is my interpretation of the character, i hope you like it and please be nice!

he was the nail that chipped the day after you painted them; the incessant promotional email that never filtered to the spam folder; the fly you repeatedly missed when swatting; the shoelaces that always came undone; the built up phlegm after a particularly nasty cough; the shirt that shrunk when you left it in the dryer too long. but what could you say? the dick was too fucking bomb ...

you met on the night of your friend's birthday. some time past eleven thirty pm on a saturday night at some dimly-lit nightclub in itaewon, you nursed a margarita, chatting with your friends and paying no mind to the re-arranging happening on the small stage some feet away from your table—a couple of speakers and a mic stand—nor did you look when the club manager made a half-assed announcement, followed by his exit and an old school hip hop instrumental filling the acoustics of the club.

subong was performing that night after begging the manager for weeks on end. it was a particularly difficult feat, considering the rap battle night he and seven other underground artists were part of two months prior ended in a fist fight after a set of insensitive bars about subong's opponent's family lineage spewed from his mouth without remorse. oh, can't forget the time he stole three bottles of cuervo tequila, or when he got so high he squirted someone in the eye with lime because they looked at him funny, or when he left such a monstrous shit in the toilet that he ended up flooding the bathroom when trying to flush.

alas, alas ... the melon streaming numbers spoke for itself (over 95k streams in total for his most recent mixtape), he just reached 10k followers on instagram, and all attention is good attention if you know how to work it ... and subong did, considering bookings went up when he announced he'd be performing this weekend prior to getting approval, cornering the club manager into a checkmate.

you noticed the slight commotion reverberating through the crowd when the music blared, but not enough to divert your attention wholly. when his set finished, he snuck into the crowd, snagging a rogue bloody mary from the bar and downing it without hesitation, turning his head sharply when someone from your party shouted his name.

your friend's boyfriend went to high school with him and hadn't seen him in years. with the way subong reacted, you would've thought they saw each other last week and were the best of friends, slinging his arm around his shoulders and capturing the attention of your table in a flurry. he was overtly charismatic, slowly coming around to your side of the table, eyeing you up and down without an iota of shame. he liked what he saw—his tongue running over his bottom lip.

he looked a bit try hard-y, in his loose fitting clothing, singular golden chain, and his black hair in an awkward stage of a grown out buzz cut—but admittedly he was fine. then you saw the layer of sweat shining on his tan skin ... oh ... he's fine.

"you like what you saw?" he shouted over the music, placing his hand on the table, inching towards you. he gestured to the now empty stage with a subtle flick of his head, leaning in to hear you. "that was you?" you said back. "i'm sorry, i wasn't watching!"

subong smirked, thinking you were joking, but his ego inflated nonetheless. "i—i rap!" he shouted, laying his palm against his chest. "i don't!" you quipped back with a grand smile, shaking your head. he had no idea his dick could get hard that quickly. "i work at a firm!" you say.

it could have been the sight of your glossed lips .. or his big brown eyes .. or your curvy hips .. full thighs .. his tattooed hands .. or the way his lips brushed against your earlobe for you to hear him .. or how your fingers brushed his hair back so he could hear you .. but next thing you know, his lips caught yours, and the next thing after that, his knees were on the porcelain tiles of the bathroom stall, head caught between your plush thighs, eating your pussy like a man starved.

subong's arms held your waist in place, not stopping your back from arching or your hands grasping onto either the wall or his hair, your breathy moans making his jeans feel as if he was wearing tight spandex. when you came—and you came hard—he pulled his phone out of his pocket and shoved it into your hand, "number. now."

"fucking christ, i just came." you said, breathing labored. "hold on." when he stood up, you reached down, pulling your underwear up. you eyed the time on his phone whilst adding your number to his contacts, sending yourself a text. you caught sight of his bulge when you gave his phone back. "you'll have to take care of that yourself. i have to go." you say, running your hands through your hair in an effort to not look too disheveled, even if your friends were smart enough to put two and two together.

you noticed subong take a prolonged look at you. he read your mind: "taking a mental photo for later." he explained, inhaling sharply through his nose. a smirk tugged at your lips. "oh yeah? i'll make it 4d." you palmed his bulge. he nearly lost balance, his gasp sounding more vulnerable than he would've liked—"f-fuck—ngh!" he bit his bottom lip, planting his forehead against yours. your touch was slow and calculated but firm, applying enough pressure to make his vision go fuzzy. "you're f-fucking crazy," his voice shook pathetically, eyebrows contorted in deep pleasure. "y-you f-fucking—ngh!—crazy bitch!"

you stopped abruptly, grabbing subong through his pants harshly. he mewled pathetically in pain. "call me that shit one more time and see what happens." "i'm s-sorry! f-fuck, i'm sorry! i'm sorry! please!" his breath hitched. "oh my fuck—please, baby, i'm so sorry!"

you gradually began palming him again, feeling his deep breath brush against your skin as his forehead returned to yours. his lips eventually latched onto yours, and you couldn't help your thighs rubbing together from how long and slender he felt in your hand.

your phone started to ring in your purse, which hung off the hook at the top of the bathroom stall door, undoubtedly a friend looking for you. you broke the kiss and ceased your touch, stepping around him and fishing your phone out before slinging your purse over your shoulder. "you better fucking call me." you say, kissing his lips again. "i will, will."

you eye his tent. it looks like it hurts and the zipper could break off. you didn't even realise you were biting your bottom lip until your phone rang again. "best dick i'll ever have." subong heard you mutter as you walked away, his cocky smirk stretching across his face in no time. he bit his lip when he saw the wet spot on his jeans. unbeknownst to either of you, this night would become the defining vignette of your relationship.

he called you the very next day. when you didn't answer—because your phone was charging on your nightstand whilst you showered—he sent a dick pic with the bottom half of his face visible in the upper left corner with the accompanying text: Like what u see? he chuckled reading your response: should have kept it a surprise

from that point on he spent his spare money (he didn't have much to begin with) on e-cigarette refills, pills, eyebrow threading appointments (he swore you to secrecy), and, perhaps his most beloved purchase, condoms. he always kissed the wrapper before putting one on.

subong tries to give the impression of someone who fucks but the reality is .... well .... he wonders how he got so lucky whenever he's stood at your apartment door, waiting for you to open it after he's knocked. it's been a lot longer than he'd ever admit under sworn oath, but his erratic thrusts gave it away so quickly it was concerning.

don't get it twisted, it felt ... fine. maybe okay on a good day. he filled you up at the very least! but if only it could last longer ... and didn't feel so ... jabby ... and if only you didn't have to keep in your laughter when his forehead fell to your shoulder ... after he came so hard his vein bulged out of his temple and his breathing was deep enough to power a fucking windmill .. only for you to glance at the time on your phone when a notif popped up and think to yourself ... has it really only been four minutes?

so when he's thrusting into you from behind one night, panting like someone's choking him and drilling into you feverishly, you take his temporary halt to catch his breath as your moment. "subong..." your voice ruminates with lust, aided by the intoxicating feeling of his cock resting inside you. you look over your shoulder at his glistening body, illuminated even in your dimly lit bedroom. "you feel so good, baby." you half-lie, internally cringing. either way, he can't tell, he's too fucked out.

"but how about we ... go a little slower? so we can last longer? hm?" you say. his breath hitches when you roll your hips slowly, his palms laying against either globes of your ass lifelessly. you were struggling to keep it together, eyebrows contorted and mouth agape, stretching yourself out on him.

"like this, yeah?—mmf!" you bite your lip. this is the feeling you've been wanting ... you've been aching for. "it'll feel so much better, subong ..." "yeah, yeah ..." he was breathy. his palms slid to either side of your hips, pulling himself in slow and deep. you gasp, "yes! like that! start slow, then go faster ..."

the moans and whimpers that escaped your lips ran every single porno he's ever seen into the ground. he pounded into you when you told him to, feeling the gumminess of your tight walls hug his cock so divinely that he felt for a split second that maybe, just maybe, the cross he always wore served a different purpose than carrying his stash of pills. subong, unsurprisingly, did not last long, but for the first time, you didn't either. "b-baby! f-fuck—i'm gonna, i'm gonna!—" you clenched around him, and he saw white. subong thought he had transcended ... what better way to go out ... death by the best pussy ... he came so hard and so much that he felt himself drip down his thigh.

you first started calling him over on sundays. then he started to come on fridays ... then staying the weekend ... then he came by on wednesdays for a mid-week fuck .. and slowly, but surely, he essentially lived rent free in your apartment. it was a major plus for him. he'd just been floating from one friend's couch to another. your studio apartment was small as is, barely enough for someone a few years into the workforce and even less on affordability—you barely scraped by on groceries. you'd have to make a wish on a shooting star if you ever needed repairs or healthcare. subong, on the other hand? he finally got to sleep in a bed again, and he gets to not only bum it out on another couch, but also eat pussy, get his dick sucked, and fuck on it. 10/10 no notes from him

and christ did you fuck ... one ankle on the coffee table whilst the other rests atop the couch, him pounding into you deep and deliberately, his eyes boring into your face as yours rolled back, mouth agape. once he found his rhythm and knew your body more, it was over. by the grace of the universe, his stamina heightened, too. he thought about reading war and peace and the meticulous process of the seasonal fermentation of various vegetables to thwart his orgasm from coming too quickly, but fell into a mumble of incoherent whimpers and profanities when he heard your beautiful voice tell him to "h-harder, s-subong, harder," or the cacophony of stuttered grunts leaving both of your chests; sexual pleasure in its rawest form.

one friday evening he was sat at the top of your now shared bed with his back against the wall, legs spread and looking up at you with his mouth hung open and eyebrows furrowed in inexplicable pleasure, watching you bounce up and down in fucked out bliss. you had a bullshit ass day at work—something about being denied a raise or being unfairly told off at a meeting—he didn't remember or really care, all he knew was he suggested you use him to relieve frustration, and you obliged. "that's it b-baby. give it all to me, u-use this dick." he bit his bottom lip, squeezing the side of your thigh as you slammed down onto him. "give all your stress to—ngh!—me. your subongie will help you relax." his hands trailed up your waist and kneaded your breasts, making you gasp. you rolled your hips to catch your breath, biting your lip.

you put your hands on his chest for support. "such good dick." you said breathily. "all mine." "that's right." he affirmed. one hand stationed beside your knee, the other reached to the nightside table for his e-cig, bringing it to his lips. you opened your eyes when the cloud of smoke brushed against your cheeks, filling your nostrils with the faint scent of strawberry.

"fuck you and your fuckass puff bar." you said, trying to take it, but he raised it in the air with a shit-eating grin. "what? are you jealous? hm? is my baby jealous?" he jutted out his bottom lip mockingly, chuckling when you swat the e-cig out of his hand. "the fuck would i be jealous about you destroying your lungs for?" you retort. he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "you think you're too good to be fucked by me that you needed to take the edge off." you say, throwing the e-cig onto the floor and ignoring his protests, only for them turn into sharp sucked-in breaths when you rolled your hips again. "th-that was my—shit!—my b-best fucking one," subong shuddered. "you want your best puff or pussy? hm?" you said sharply. with a whimper, he said "my best p-pussy." "i thought so. now say you're sorry until i believe you." you said, hearing him let out a wall-shattering moan when you began riding his long cock again. he would never admit to this in a million years, but this was his favorite way to fuck.

you were in denial for a long time that things had become more romantic and vulnerable. since it was unspoken between you two when he inconspicuously moved in (as irresponsible it is) ... to when he started calling you "my baby" two months in and him "your subongie" a couple weeks later ... to when steamy makeouts before bed remained just that, even through the hushed whimpers and dry humping ... to when he'd smoke a cigarette on the balcony after you routinely complained about the smell, him having you sit on his lap because "the cigarette doesn't hit the same," only to end up sucking the life out of his cock or him rutting into you from behind ... to when you'd wake up with his arm slung lazily across your waist and his head tucked into your neck ... he'd run verses by you and you'd unironically compliment them ... he unironically started going on grocery runs with you, and picking out your jewelry ... and to when sunday mornings became a lot more quieter than they used to be, you two sat on the small couch together, clad in nothing but your underwear, drinking stale black coffee as one of four channels you have play on your dinky tv. it might be due to the limited space, or something more, but his hand lay on your knee whilst yours mindlessly traced the tattoos on the back of his neck, or toyed with his cartilage piercing.

you couldn't kick the question out your mind anymore. "subong?" "hm?" he responded, eyes glued to the tv. "what are we?" he didn't budge. you nudged his shoulder, earning his attention but with a flutter of irritation. "huh? what'd you ask?" "i said what are we?" his eyebrows furrowed. "what do you mean?" you raised your eyebrows, losing patience. "you know exactly what i mean."

he takes a moment to rack his brain, and then gets it. "you're my girl. my señorita." his face fell when you scoffed and pushed him away. "talk to me when you want to be serious." "i am being serious!" he says defensively. "look, you're my girlfriend. we're together." he sets his coffee down, pulling you in for a kiss. he kept kissing you until you cracked a grin, which took all of two tries. he wields his big brown eyes like katanas looking into yours, raising a finger heart and pressing it against his lips. "i like you." he says, unable to hold back his smile when you moved his hand away.

subong leaned in closer, the tip of his nose feeling the warmth of your cheek. "do you like me, too? hm? you can tell me. i promise i'll keep it a secret. i won't tell anyone." he knew your answer, but teased nonetheless, shaking his head in affirmation. you shushed him gently, actively trying to thwart how flustered you've become. he only pushed more, pressing a purposely deep and obnoxious kiss onto your skin. "i'll be the best and sexiest boyfriend ever."

it felt so wrong that your heart beat a little faster. "i'm only saying okay so that you shut up." you muttered. a knowing grin stretched across subong's face. he placed a kiss on your neck and above the valley between your breasts, laying his temple on your chest, slinging his arms around you. he smirked when you wrapped your arm around his shoulder some minutes later, his eyes fluttering closed when your lips found the top of his head.

you made him start coughing up his earnings from gigs to go towards rent. considering he wasn't being paid much, bookings weren't predictable, and he'd sometimes try to hide his earnings from you (which resulted in him sleeping on the couch, and if he did it again, you threatened he'd be out on the balcony without a blanket) his contribution wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. you shut down any chance of retaliation from him with a look he's since named "period projection" or, depending on his mood, "viagra."

when a lot of time passed between gigs, subong was woken up by a notebook and pen thrown onto his chest. "if you don't have five songs written by the time i get back from work, you're pussyless for a week." you said, slinging your purse over your shoulder. he grunted, barely opening his eyes but sitting up, the notebook and pen falling onto the bed. you grabbed his face, pecking his cheek before heading out the door.

subong talked himself up if you were being particularly hard on him, or really, just not as delusional about his success. "baby, one day you won't have to worry about shit. i'll have us partying in mykonos by next valentine's and in switzerland to see the first snow." he said one morning, standing stupidly in the middle of the apartment with nothing but his briefs and a graphic tee that had stains you didn't want to know about. "book the flights when you stop eating week old beef and using my moisturizer." you mutter, shoving the vacuum cleaner in his hands, gesturing for him to hand over the shirt before heading to the basement of the building to do laundry.

if work permitted, you went to see him perform at whatever nightclub in the city. subong found you in the crowd after his set, giving you a sloppy kiss and wrapping his sweaty arms around you no matter if you came straight from work, still clad in business wear, or in something that made you look like the rapper girlfriend of his dreams. an air of added cockiness ruminated off him when you two tag-teamed hounding the club manager whenever they tried to lowball his pay. more often than not, they caved in and gave what was agreed to and then some after you shouted said your piece. either way, you end up on the dance floor wrestling with your tongues or him pounding into you from behind in a bathroom stall. everybody wins!

when you're at work and subong's at home, he films tiktoks and posts on his instagram to get his name out there. he also tries to start beef on various naver cafés, especially when he's bored. or texting you: Did u eat the last tico?; Hi baby I have a threading appt at 5 i will meet u at your work before we go to dinner; Highh as sht88df thikning about ❤️You girl❤️❤️❤️❤️; [insert photo of him flexing in the bathroom mirror] Come home for lunch

speaking of photos on his phone, he has quite the array—advertisements at the train and bus stations he finds funny; various hair colors from the department store he wants to try; mirror selfies of him either flexing or trying on shoes; a photo of his hand squishing your cheeks when you two were waiting in line for cheap street food for lunch; another photo of you looking rather disheveled in the kitchen when you two were unfairly woken up at 6 am one saturday morning by nearby construction, an adorably annoyed look on your face because he was standing in the way of the fridge; one selfie of him in bed hitting his e-cig; the next taken six minutes later with your tit in his mouth, his eyes looking at himself. if you didn't keep tabs on him, he would've made the latter the cover of his next mixtape.

some of your friends thought you were crazy for still being with him, someone who was barely scraping by and, from an outsider's pov, was a moocher. you'd shake your head, "you guys don't get it. i know what i'm doing. you don't need to worry." and you certainly did, considering whenever you came home to subong's big brown eyes, towering height, and his smooth, low voice asking "how was your day, baby?," or when his fingers traced a fresh hickey on your neck, or when he announced his presence by placing his hand teasingly low on your waist ... oh, you were just about ready to make him a father .... even if it would lower the nation's life expectancy rate.

you've caught yourself staring at him at night when you couldn't sleep, watching the way his lips parted every time he exhaled, or how his arms were sprawled out before him after he fell asleep with them crossed. you fought the fluttering of your heavy eyelids to just .... look at him. sometimes you succumb to slumber, pressing a gentle kiss onto his cheek before drifting off. but one night you were simply plagued by him, looking at subong as if he was a riddle to solve, until you realized with wide eyes that you were projecting: oh fuck no. i love him.

it terrified you, that strong feeling. but not enough to sit idly by if someone became a little too flirty with him at the club, or to slow your speed walk to the bathroom after a work conference to send him a picture after he sent one that morning—lowering your volume and pressing your phone to your ear, listening to the audio message he sent in response, subconsciously rubbing your thighs together: "god, you're so fucking hot baby. how did i get so lucky .... what am i supposed to do, hm? you made my dick so fucking hard .... and it's not even eleven am yet ... is this what you wanted, hm? to get me riled up first thing in the morning?" his voice was low, sleep still fresh in his tone, followed by wet strokes. "it's sad that you're at work for so long. leaving me here—f-fuck, yeah, just like th-that—all alone ... and so needy ..."

you fucked good and hard when subong got a spot in the rap battleground competition, landing him in a position to not only put his name out there, but possibly win some money that would make a difference. you were elated enough to go condom-less. "wanna make you feel good, baby," you murmured breathily, ass pushing against the kitchen countertop, subong standing between your warm thighs. "i'm just so—mmf!" you sucked in a breath when his lips and tongue found your neck. "s-so proud of you, subongie." oh. subong just knew something was up. but he wasn't stupid enough to question it, not when he knows he's about to enter the gates of heaven. "gonna let me fuck this tight pussy raw?" he muttered in that low voice of his, continuing his slow, wet kisses on your neck to avoid melting into a puddle of his libido. his voice quivered when you didn't answer, hidden well by your moan: "hm? gonna let me ruin this pussy—" "yes!" you whimpered.

in a moment of weakness, he bit his bottom lip. he grabbed your face with one hand, making you look him in the eye. even in his attempt at dominance, you saw the flickers of awe in his eyes. nothing filled the kitchen besides the sounds of your shaky breaths, his face studying yours. could this ... could he have just realized that ... he loves you, too? subong leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing with yours. you try to lean in, but his hold on your face stops you. you don't know what to make of his feelings with his next words, but with how his other hand comes up and combs your hair out of your face, and his forehead touches yours, its perhaps the most intimate moment of your relationship thus far: "you're finally gonna let me fuck what's mine?" he whispers. you nod silently.

subong bottomed out that night, cumming all over your stomach and back. your back arched like never before when he was pounding into you from behind, taking him deep into your gummy, warm walls. your fingernails clawed at your pillowcases and bed sheets, jaw hung open and eyes rolled back whilst his heavy balls hit the bottom of your stomach. your cunt suffocated his dick every time his palm smacked either globe of your ass—"take that fucking dick. take that fucking dick, just like that, yeah," he panted, palm rubbing over your hot skin before smacking it again. his voice cracked, "f-fuck! o-oh my god! fuck!" he squeezed your hips so hard you sucked a breath in through your teeth. his thrusts momentarily slowed, blinking hard when his vision began to blur at the sight of the creamy ring at the end of his cock. the noise was obnoxious, wet, and loud. you're everything he could ever hope for. in missionary, he tried so hard not to be a babbling mess, through his purposeful strokes. his hands held your head in place, his thumbs pressing into your temples, but his gaze failed to leave his cock fucking you. "give me that fucking puffy pussy." he murmured. he held his bottom lip between his teeth, groaning. "give me that puffy fucking—o-oh! ngh! f-fuck, you always know how to make me feel so f-fucking good, baby!"

you showered afterward together, momentarily forgetting about the water bill when your arms wrapped around subong's neck, your lips molding together. the kiss was soft and sensual. his hands massaged the same globes his palms set fire to whilst the remnants of his lust washed off your body and down the drain. he slept the best he had in weeks that night. a couple weeks later, you helped him dye his hair a deep purple a few days before the competition, just in time for him to adopt his new stage persona after becoming insufferable since watching "endgame," thanos.

the competition came and went, and he placed as a runner-up. he actually listened when you said you didn't want to head to the club since you had work early the next day, settling for a nice dinner and a bottle or two of soju instead. a group of fans of the show came up to him in the checkout line, and not only did you watch with an admiring grin, but your eyes widened surprise when he introduced you as his girlfriend after you were handed their phones to take a photo, harmlessly mistaken as a bystander. not only were you then asked to join the photo, but subong laughed heartily on the walk home upon hearing one of the girls' face dropped hearing the news that he's taken.

the bottles emptied on your coffee table, you ended the night rolling your hips atop his, holding onto his shoulders as his hands held onto either globes of your ass, looking up at you whilst you rode his cock. your dress pants for work were discarded on the floor, panties pushed to the side for his condom-less dick, biting your bottom lip when his palm massaged your breast through your blouse. nothing was in the room besides your breathy gasps, his low groans, the squeak of sweaty skin against the cheap faux leather of the couch, and his whispers . . . "you look so beautiful, baby. so fucking sexy." subong's eyebrows furrowed deeply, glancing at your swiveling hips before looking back up at you, despite your head being thrown back. "taking this cock so good...f-fuck ... know how to make me feel good, yeah? always know just how to squeeze me, how to make this big, fat cock cum, yeah? tell me, baby."

all you could muster was a whimper and your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt on his shoulders, but that was more than okay with him. his hand trailed up the side of your neck, bringing your head forward. "come here, come here my beautiful baby. my beautiful fucking woman." his lips kissed yours, molding them together repeatedly. his tongue toyed with yours, picking up the speed of your hips, making him grunt into your mouth every time your inner thighs clapped against his lower stomach. you held onto each other tighter, the kiss becoming feverish, only to be broken when his thumb found your clit. you came in what felt like seconds, and before you knew it, the words slipped out: "i love you!" you whimpered, riding out the high of your intense orgasm, subong having pulled out and spilling onto his thigh. "i love you, i love you!" you repeated breathily. through the pounding of his temples, he heard. through your laborious breathing, you didn't register that he said nothing back.

subong loved you too. he's known for a while now. but that was precisely the problem—he knew, and he wasn't going to say shit. what was the reason? perhaps it was a fucked up way of protecting you by stonewalling that part of him, perhaps it was selfishness, perhaps it was the inferiority complex making him feel like he didn't deserve someone as patient, as transformative, and as loving as you, and he questioned every day why he hadn't been kicked to the fucking curb yet, even after a year and a half together. or maybe ... it was that fucking mg coin ...

he started watching that fuckass man a couple months before the rap battleground competition after a friend tipped him off about crypto. you peered over his shoulder after settling into bed, hearing parts of a youtube video through his phone speaker. "i stopped trying to understand that shit when they told me a picture of an ape is somehow currency." you muttered, making him laugh. "yeah. you're right, hm?" he let out a yawn, clicking his phone off before taking you in his arms, falling asleep with your head on his chest.

but then, it was like a flip switched. subong saw something you didn't (delusion), and seemed to be watching myung gi's videos at what felt like any chance he had. he watched him in the morning, sat at the small dining table in the kitchen as he ate leftover kimbap from dinner the night previous, already annoying you at barely 10 AM whilst pouring yourself cereal, sitting across from him on this rare saturday off. you eyed his phone, "i thought you dropped that shit." you said between chewing. his eyes stayed glued to his screen, putting another slice into his mouth. "i don't know, baby. i think he has a point. people are getting rich quick off this crypto shit. i might have to play my hand, y'know?" before you could respond, he reached over, wiping a rogue drop of milk that slipped from the corner of your mouth, sucking it off his thumb before pressing 'skip ad'. you reached over, clicking his phone off and turning it face down. "hey!—" "you talk like you routinely pay for this wifi." you said, looking into his eyes. "you talk about 'playing your hand' when you don't have the decency to spend 5,000 won on wired headphones so i don't have to hear this shit all day?"

his lip twitched in annoyance, eyes widening. "don't get smart with me!" he exclaimed. you scoffed and waved your hand dismissively, eating another scoop of your cereal. "i'll go get some headphones after i eat if that's what you really want, damn!" "if you invest in something invisible, you do it with your own money so you reap the punishment." you say. "i will." subong rolled his eyes, eating his last slice of kimbap, but irritably. "he knows his shit. says the coin'll blow up." he mumbled, glancing at you when you got up. you held his face, leaning down and pressing a kiss onto his cheek. "that's what they all say, subong." you collected his and your dishes, bringing them to the sink and beginning to wash.

he funneled money into that coin behind your back no problem. every time a check came in, the slice that went to investing got larger and larger. he kept it hidden by putting aside just enough to not cause suspicion. and turning off notifs at specific times. he said he'd transfer a few months worth of the rent when the money hit his account after rap battleground and a couple of scheduled gigs he won as well, but it was a half-baked lie. he told you the money hit way after it actually did, giving you what he promised but keeping a large sum for himself, because he surprisingly got a return on his investment.

he kept going and going, the high of it all rivaling his pills. he bought limited edition shoes, a pair of earrings you'd been eyeing for a while for your anniversary, and got a couple new tattoos. all of it was hidden well behind his coincidentally coinciding success of his music in the wake of the competition ... damn ... he could get used to the universe dickriding him this hard ...

until it all came crashing down that night on the couch. the same night you confessed, he got a notif from one of his crypto apps that he had lost 30 million won. he bolted out of bed, leaving your sleeping, clueless form behind to smoke a cigarette outside, pacing back and forth in the street, trying to calm himself down at 2:30 in the morning. he stared at those numbers like they were going to change, ultimately convincing himself that it was a mere fluke and that money would come again in no time, stomping his cigarette into the asphalt and heading back upstairs.

it was like a routine: watch myung gi, take notes, invest. watch myung gi, take notes, invest. subong took it to heart when he said viewers would be foolish not to bet. he resented being made to feel stupid. even when the returns were slimmer with each swipe up to refresh, he kept going. he looked you straight in the eyes with an admiring grin on his face, lying through his teeth saying everything was okay. what you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right? right. but it ate away at him. subconsciously, then viscerally.

your confession hung at the back of subong's head for weeks. he tried to avoid it, even attempted to put that frustration into his music, but nothing was satisfactory. his inner turmoil flooded to the surface—avoiding your kiss in the morning before you headed to work, landing your lips on the corner of his mouth before he pecked yours without much thought. you didn't say those three words again, but he saw them on display in the softness of your eyes gazing up at him. he couldn't bare it. it was so easy for him to lie to your face about his whereabouts, how much of a fucking coward was he to not say three words back? especially when he felt them, too?

you noticed the change as well. he'd be gone for longer hours, only texting you back in the later evening. his hand stayed to hisself on sunday mornings. kisses were quick and choppy, not sensual and slow. sex was more rough and rushed. it made you feel so deeply embarrassed, like a teenaged girl made to feel silly and begging for her boyfriend's attention. you hated the feeling, but hated the fact that you let that confession slip more. you always felt he wasn't one to open up like that, but a girl can dream, can't she?

then it descended into utter madness. you came home from work later than usual, having to finish last minute assignments for someone who didn't show up. you nearly exploded at the haze of smoke filling your apartment, dropping your purse on the floor. there were bottles of soju and half-eaten food littering the kitchen counters and floor, the fridge left wide open, sure to have spoiled the rest of your leftovers. your eyes then found subong and his friend, a stranger to you, so fucking high that drool leaked out of the corner of their mouths.

"out!" you yelled, enraged. "get the fuck out!" neither of them moved until the piercing sound of the soju bottle you threw at the wall, shattering into pieces, jolted their senses awake. you grabbed the friend by his tank top, yanking him out of his seat like a fucking rag doll, and shoved him out the door. "the fuck! get ... get your—tell your bitch to fucking chill, bro!" the man's words slurred, only for him to nearly stumble down the stairs when you hurled another bottle at him. "don't ever fucking come back here!" you yelled.

"jesus fucking christ, you're so fucking loud." subong muttered, now standing and rubbing his fingers against his temples. "what the fuck is wrong with you! you've never done shit like this before!" you yelled, paying no mind to his wincing. "the fuck are you talking about? i get high, you know this—" "yeah, i do! but never like this. in our fucking house, subong!"

it was then that you saw the syringe and tinfoil on the coffee table. even in your blistering anger, you took his wrists in your hands, looking over his arms. "since when did you do hard shit? huh?" you muttered. his eyebrows furrowed, looking over to the table with hooded eyes. "what? i...i don't." his words slurred, a low burp gurgling out from his lips, shaking his head. "my friend fucks around with that. not me. i stick to pills and vape, baby. i swear."

you let go of his wrists, running a hand through your hair and pacing. the smoke had cleared. you turned around, seeing him laying his temple against the fridge, mouth hung open and eyes closed. you slowly walked up to him, not sure where to begin, your hands reaching up and holding his face. "baby." you said, him grunting in response. "i don't ... i don't know what's going been going on with you lately. you've been so distant and ... and cold. and then coming home to this ... subong, you're—you're scaring me a little."

he groaned weakly, chin sinking downward before you caught him, holding his face up whilst looking into his hooded eyes. your heart felt punctured. "is it ... is it because i said i love you? is it because of that?" his eyes opened, making way for his frustrated grimace. he shook his head, lip curling in what you mistook as disgust, when in reality he was outwardly sickened by himself. "you don't know fucking shit about anything, bitch."

your face fell, eyes watering. you let go of him, his cheek flattened against the fridge, barely stabilizing himself against it. you took a step back. a million thoughts ran through your mind, but one prevailed amongst all of them: what i've been avoiding has shown itself to be true. a tear escaped your waterline, but your voice was stable. "get out." you sniffled, wiping your cheek. "get out, subong."

"huh?" he mumbled, gradually opening his eyes. "i said get the fuck out of my house, subong." "what? i'm not going—" he burped again. "i'm not going fucking anywhere." he wagged a finger in your face. you swatted his arm away, grabbing him by the hem of his shirt and yanked him with all of your might, pushing his back, shoving him out the door even after he tripped over your purse. you slammed the door and locked it before he got to his feet again. "hey!" he yelled. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "open the damn door, you fucking bitch!" he pounded on the door with his palm. "come back when you stop acting like a fucking child!" you yelled, hitting the door back repeatedly. "and not turn my place into a fucking trap house, you piece of shit!"

"what about all that money i gave you, huh!? for rent? and your fucking groceries? give me those fucking earrings you have on, you never fucking deserved them anyway—" "fuck no!" you shouted over him. "this is the least i fucking deserve after your fucking pennies, you cheap piece of shit! if you're so loaded, then fuck off!" subong pressed his mouth to edge of the door, seething. "throwing your boyfriend out like this? when i'm making it big, huh? you'll come to regret this—" you bursted out laughing almost maniacally, a very strange mixture of anger, frustration, and hilarity brewing in your chest. he could be so fucking ridiculous. "m-making it big?" you repeated, laughing so hard you clutched your stomach and wiped tears from your face. it was cathartic. "i-if you're 'making it big,' subong, then—then i'm a lost member of the royal fucking family!" you exclaimed. "how's the fund for greece, huh? still plan on taking me for valentine's? or are you going to continue to clog my toilet because you're still too cheap to buy fresh meat?" "shut the fuck up!" he roared, slamming his palm against the door and wiggling the doorknob.

a neighbor opened their door, avoiding eye contact and stepping around the broken glass to take out their trash, visibly not wanting to be caught in the firestorm taking place in the hall. subong grew embarrassed, turning back to the closed door with a new plea to avoid the atomically sinking feeling. "open the door. please, baby. let's talk this out." he spoke, trying to keep his voice level, wiping his nose with the side of his thumb. when you didn't answer, he kept going. "i'm sorry for all the trouble, baby. let me make it up to you, yeah? just open the door, and we can talk this out. c'mon, baby, the neighbors'll hear—" "let them fucking hear!" you yelled, making him flinh. you leaned closer to the edge of the door, directly parallel to him. "what's that bullshit you always say, huh? any attention is good attention, if you know what to do with it? well, eat your fucking words then, subong! be a man for once in your stupid life!" his eyes widened, vein popping out of his temple. "fuck you, you fucking whore!" he slammed the door repeatedly, the two of you creating a cacophony when you started hitting it, too. "fuck you too, dumbass!"

it was eerily silent that evening in your apartment. you, alone, cleaning up the mess he left behind. carefully sweeping up shattered glass, plastic bags, food wrappers, washing the dishes, cleaning out the fridge, etc. subong was universe knows where. you didn't have the energy to think about him, not even bothering to look around on your walk to the convenience mart to buy ramen for dinner. the emotional turmoil sank into your chest when you sat at the same kitchen table where chaos unfolded at mere hours ago to eat. you barely swallowed the first mouthful before you sank into tears, shoulders shaking, pressing the back of your hand to your lips to console yourself. how could everything have fallen apart so quickly?

you and subong didn't speak for three months. he called and texted those first couple weeks, but that fizzled out, and you didn't answer at all. you didn't owe him anything, especially after the shit he put you through. the wound was still felt too fresh, sensitive enough to do anything but wallow in the silence, heading back out to bars with your friends on the weekends.

none of your friends dared to say much. you were offered apologetic words, but a fool wouldn't notice the air of i told you so in their tone. even with you ceasing caring to cover the healing hickies, being much more subdued on nights out, or your eye bags deepening in the wake of the break up, you were mainly left to wallow in your own grief. you felt it was half deserved and half fucking rude.

but as more time went on, you felt hurt by the fact that subong didn't show back up. not once. not even a mean note on your door, or sign of attempted entry. did he really not fucking care that much? he was just a man, after all ... but then again, not every man is reduced to grateful tears after eating pussy. or looks at you like a renaissance painting come to life when you're retouching his fucking hair dye. when you got home one night, a little tipsy from the cocktails you had, you clicked on those unread text messages— ranging from Baby i'm sorry please talk to me; Stop being so fucking stubborn; ileft my keytthere I dont wantt it back u fknng cnutt; to I don't deserve you i fucked up please baby—and listening to those voicemails.

one resonated with you, even in your inebriated state: "hi ... um, it's been, like, four days since we ... and i, uh—i feel weird. and i don't like it at all. i know you're at work right now but i can't bring myself to show my face and i fucking hate it. i don't like being a coward. but you ... you're ... you're just ... you need to stop. you can't keep doing this to me. you make me feel things i've never felt and it fucking scares me. and you cut me off before i could even say my bit. how is that fair? you can't just come into my life like that and walk away before i get a say. you can't change my life and me and then just throw me away. i know ... i know i'm not the best guy. but even i don't deserve to be thrown out like—" he was cut off and did not call back. "oh my god. what a fucking idiot." you murmured, rubbing your temple with your fingers.

but the universe loves to throw curveballs, because you saw him two weeks later at a bar a few blocks down from the club you first met at. subong saw you long before you saw him that night. he'd spent so much of the last four months feeling a spectrum of emotions, coping with his frustration by daydreaming about what he'd say the next time he saw you—all of the insults to suffice for his anger, all of the things he'd say to make you feel bad for how you treated him—all cogs in his self-deflection apparatus. but when he actually saw you, sat alone at the bar with no friend group in sight, drinking what looked to be martini, he was at a loss for words. even his emotionally daft ass was aware enough to sense something was different about you. more muted, more subdued. that's what she fucking gets. his inner monologue was unforgiving, only for him to peer over a tall strangers shoulder to keep his softened eyes on you. but she ... she can't be alone. not here.

subong was really good at blending into the crowd, until he got too close, and by chance you glanced up and saw him. he was close enough to hear you suck in a breath through your teeth, and see your eyes widen in panic the same time his did. without thinking, you got up from your seat, grabbing your purse hanging on the back of your chair, forgetting you hadn't even taken a second sip of your overpriced drink. subong stepped out of the crowd, "don't go." he said gentler than anticipated, before remembering he was supposed to be livid. his expression hardened, lips tightened, hand grabbing for your arm. "we need to talk."

"i don't have anything to fucking say to you." you say sharply, not looking at him, keeping your voice low to not cause commotion. "yes the fuck you do." he bit back. you tried to pull your arm out of his grip, failing. "let me go or i'll throw my drink in your face." "really?" he smirked. "i didn't take you to be so careless with your money." you look up, eyebrows raised, meeting his eyes for the first time in months. "oh, that's funny. do you still think you're up and coming? or have you come to terms with the fact that you're an illiterate fuck who steals IP just to still write shit fucking bars?"

subong closed much of the remaining gap between you. "shut your fucking mouth, you bitch." he seethed through gritted teeth. you look him dead in the eyes, "see what i mean? you still can't come up with anything new, and you've had all this time." you pulled at his grip again, but he was strong. "let me go." "you didn't listen to me before, so you're going to listen now." "like the fuck i am!" you looked at him like he was crazy. you pulled again, finally freeing your arm. you grabbed your drink, purse in your other hand. "now leave me alone." you say. "or i'll throw this drink right in your fucking eyes."

you turned and walked deeper into the dimly lit bar; just anywhere that was not where he was. you found an empty booth, sitting down with a huff, taking a hefty swig of your martini. you shot up when you saw him walk over, putting your arm in position, only for subong to put his hands up, one hovering over your drink. "don't throw it! don't!" "do you not know how to fucking listen!?" "you don't know how, either!" he shot back. "why did you never respond to my texts or calls?" "don't ask me that with that stupid look on your face like it's as bad as you bringing a fucking stranger and hard drugs into my home!" you exclaimed. "which, by the way, in all of your rambling voicemails and texts, you've never once apologized for." "so you did read them?" "that's not the fucking point, subong!" "yes, it is! to me!" "and what? you don't think it matters to me that you never said 'i love you' back? that i felt like a fucking teenage girl, waiting at her boyfriend's beck and call to care about her?"

people were starting to stare, but your sense of decorum was long gone. he got up in your face, and you took him up at that challenge. "i care! i fucking cared!" he stared into your eyes in frustration, pushing his fingers into his chest in a desperate gesture. "well, you didn't do a good job of showing it. because at some point, i felt my loneliest even when you were beside me, snoring like fucking pug and dutch ovening the blanket."

subong, at a loss for words, too choked up on his anger and long-suppressed complicated feelings boiling to the surface, turned to what he knew best: low hanging fruit. after a moment, he collects himself. a smug smirk stretches across his face, taking a step back and glancing at the dated wall art behind you. he shook his head, looking down at the floor with a chuckle. "and here i was, thinking you were secretly pregnant with my kid or something." he said. your eyebrows furrowed, deeply confused. this was stupid, even for him. "what?" you shook your head. "what the fuck are you talking about—" "—it makes sense that you wouldn't want to tell me. too much for you too handle. but then i saw you tonight, and you looked more bloated than usual, so i thought i was right. but then you were drinking—" he yelped when the cold gin splashed in his face, flinching at the glass bouncing off his chest, shattering next to his foot. gasps erupted throughout the room. subong hastily wiped his eyes, feeling them burn. "fucking bitch!" "your children would be lucky to never know their deadbeat of a fucking father."

you stormed off, heading into the nearby women's bathroom. heartbeat in your throat, you turned on a sink, rinsing the alcohol off your hands. you didn't look up when the door hit the wall, or when subong yelled "fuck off!" to the other three women in the room, causing a brief scurry of heels out the door. he pushed you out of the way, rinsing his eyes. "i should go and file a fucking police report on you." he mumbled. he looked up at you, expression angry, even with his squinting eyes. "i should've written 'sex slave' on my tax forms, too, with how you treated me!"

you pushed him right back, collecting a handful of water from the running sink with your palm, and throwing it at his face. "when was the last time you paid your taxes? hm!?" you exclaimed. "do you even know where your bank is? did you ever buy a new toothbrush after the one you had became a clump of bristles and i had to get one for you like a fucking mother!?" you yelled, using both palms and throwing more water; some hitting the floor, some splashing on yourself, but most wetting his face and clothing. "hey!" his voice boomed. he took a step forward, slipping, but caught himself on the edge of the sink. he turned the water off, landing your hand atop his in a failed effort to stop him. "you don't get to speak to me like that!" he yelled. "i can speak however i want to!" you yelled louder, making him wince, cursing under his breath. "you lost your chance when you made me feel crazy for loving you. i don't know how i could've even liked you!"

"hey!" subong's voice echoed off the walls. "your voice is so fucking shrill! you're giving me a fucking headache!" he pushed his fingers into his temple. he pointed at you, unwavering when you smacked it away. "don't act like you're fucking innocent, either—let me fucking finish!" you closed your mouth, crossing your arms over your chest. "see, this is what your problem is. you don't let anyone speak, or want to do anything i like. all those times you laughed in my face, didn't take me seriously, or tossed my career away like it was garbage, like some fucking fly you couldn't swat away." he waved his hand in front of his face, mimicking the gesture. "well, i'm sorry i put a roof over your head when you were piss poor broke." your voice was eerily leveled, staring so hard into his eyes you could've burned holes into his retinas. "and didn't act like you were nominated for grammys in fucking return."

"'laughed?' 'didn't take seriously?'" you repeated his words, eyebrows furrowing. "who dyed your stupid fucking purple hair? who reminded you to write songs? who pushed you to call clubs? who yelled at pervert managers to get you fair pay!?" your voice escalated. subong's eyes drifted to the tiled floor, head hanging lower than before. you took a breath. "subong, i—" he met your eyes at the mention of his name. "i invented you."

his expression soured, hating that you were right and faced with his own cowardice once again. but he would rather give himself up to his loan shark than show it. "invented is the right word." subong spoke lowly, nodding. his hand came up to his head, making a screwing gesture. "false ideas—you have false ideas of who i am. you played with me like a toy." you were in disbelief. "p-played you? like ... like a toy?" you began to stutter through this newfound upheaval of anger, something that made your face feel hot and stomach churn, increasingly irritated with each second you couldn't get the words out. "you!—you!" you hit your palm on the edge of the sink, sending your purse to the floor. "you came so hard that i thought i had to go to urgent care to get you an oxygen mask!" every word sounded more strained than before. you inhaled deeply, running against a ticking timer in your head to when he'd open his mouth next. you gestured at a bathroom stall door, but in your head, it was a memory. "you held onto me so tightly after your performances or at home or—or eating dinner to the point where i had to eat with one hand!" you closed the gap, your pointer finger brushing against the tip of his nose. "at some point, you couldn't fall asleep unless you felt my fucking heartbeat, motherfucker!"

"and you did all of that," you gestured around you. "just to fuck me over, and make me realize i've wasted my time loving someone who doesn't give half a fucking shit whether i live or die!" "i care!" his voice boomed. "how many times do i have to say that!?" "until your last goddamn breath." you retort without hesitation. "and with how you live, that should be right around the corner." "are you saying i should die?" "what? no, subong. of course not." you shook your head. "that's not what i—that's not what i meant." "so what did you mean?" "what i mean was—no, stop distracting. you know exactly what i meant." with your next look at him, you saw them: his manicured hands, equipped with different colors on all fingernails. oh, you hated how quickly your mind shifted gears, how quickly the worries of the imaginary teenage girl clouded your logic and best judgment, but none more than this being what your eyes began watering over. "who ... who did that?" you asked, your suddenly quieted voice catching subong off guard.

"what?" he asked, confused. his eyes followed your gaze, landing at his hands, eyebrows raising at the realization that this was his chance at getting the upper hand: "someone i saw." he lied. it wasn't wholly untrue, but dubiously framed; the nail tech was a woman, so he did see her, just not in the way he just purposefully vaguely implied. he needed something to jab at you, to knock you down a peg like it was a schoolyard fight, but even he couldn't smirk at the hurt on your face. in fact, he regretted those words the moment he said them. "who is she?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. subong had never seen you look so devastated like this before. it made him feel an instinct that straightened his posture, unaware of what to do next, standing awkwardly. he attempted to say these next words with venom, but he couldn't even believe them himself, almost sounding as subdued as you: "it's none of your fucking business."

your heart drops. you feel nauseous. if subong had blinked, he would've missed your curt nod. you didn't bother wiping the tear trailing your cheek, his eyes watching as you pick up your purse from the floor, ears perking at your sniffle. "okay." you whispered, but you were so quiet that your voice nearly blended with the air vent. you started walking, fully intending to never turn back around, until his hand on your wrist stopped you. "wait—" "stop!" you said sharply, yanking out of his grip before he could close his fingers entirely. you held your hands in the air before circling around, your eyes landing on his. his face fell. you looked perishable, drained of an essence he couldn't fathom you without. oh, he'd really done it this time.

you lunged forward, nail of your pointer finger scratching against his nose. "you don't get to do this to me, s-subong!" you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady, but the tears stifle the effort. you couldn't contain the sob. he was mortified at the sight. "it's ... it's not fair." you whispered meekly. your hands trailed to his chest, balling into fists as you cried. he stood there, frozen, mouth agape like a fool. subong raised his hand, petting your hair with a light, unsure touch. "it's fi—" he sucked in a surprised breath through his teeth when you started swatting his chest, pushing and shoving at him in a pitiful tantrum. subong took it silently, putting his hands up, face contorting uncomfortably at the sound of your cries. his bottom lip started to quiver as time went on. he couldn't tell what he hated more: the fact he lost the fight, or the fact he cared about that to begin with.

"that's enough. hey—" subong inhaled sharply through his nose. he grabbed both of your wrists, holding them in place. "that's enough." he hoped to whatever higher power you didn't hear the quiver. he swallowed, resting his forehead against yours. your hands went limp. he let go, feelings your palms trail up to his face. "you're mine." you spoke weakly. his mouth fell open, staring at your lips whilst you begged for his eyes; earning you such when your hand on his cheek guided him to your gaze. "do you hear me?" you whispered. "you're mine, subong. no one elses." you shook your forehead against his, your tragic desperation ailing him. "mhm." his hands trailed your waist. "i'm yours, baby. all yours."

with a shaky hand, your fingers ran through his hair, thumb so close to his lips he pressed a skeleton of a kiss onto it. "i'm sorry i threw my drink at you." you cry, voice stuck at a whisper. "i'm so sorry, subong—" "stop." his low voice shushes you, nose nestling beside yours, slowly trailing to your neck. he inhaled your scent, eyes rolling back when your fingers brushed past his cartilage piercing. "i had it coming." his nose found its way back to your cheek, pressing kisses onto the warm, wet skin. "why didn't you come home, subong? i .. i've been waiting for so long." his bottom lip quivered again, but his voice was utmost steady: "you never asked."

"i—i shouldn't have to!" you swatted at his chest. "you idiot!" "i know, i know. i've been really fucking stupid." his voice cracks. subong leans in, but you turn away. "i can't. it's not good for me." "can't you see we're dying without each other?" he pleads, his hands turning your head to look at him. "look at me, look at you! just one, baby. please." his breath brushed against your cheeks, his hands holding either side of your face. "i can't ... i can't go on without you."

with a shaky breath and fresh tears falling down your cheeks, you closed the gap. a guttural moan rumbled through your chest, subong whimpering desperately. his arms wrap tightly around your waist, your hands holding his face for dear life—the kiss slow and purposeful, making up for lost time, a conversation no words could say. subong's palms made way to your ass, acting on pure muscle memory. he angled his head, introducing his tongue into the equation, having to quickly bend his knees to catch your fidgety form. "i'm not going anywhere." he unintentionally stifled the most heavenly moan he's ever heard from you. you broke the kiss for air. subong wasted no time, returning to his favorite spot on your neck, holding you in place firmly. your head fell back, letting him do whatever he so pleased—your hand on the back of his head wielding the power of casting a centuries-long trance.

he sucked and licked with precision, like a day hadn't gone by. he even hummed in concentration, mouth popping off of your soft skin until the bruise was to his liking. "s-subong." you whined, needing his lips back, your fingers messily carding through his hair. "i'm almost done." he was gentle, even if he was ignoring the concrete fucking lump in his pants and starting to sweat over your warmth against his. he latched off, fingers tracing the bluish-red spot with satisfaction. "come here, pretty girl." his slightly swollen lips made your eyebrows furrow pathetically, the kiss felt sticky, your lips sown with his. "i need you." you murmured. "i need you." "stall. the bathroom stall."

you grabbed his hand, rushing to the closest one, pulling him inside. neither of you think to close the door, letting it bang against the wall after swinging it open. subong's lips returned to yours, but his hands pat his pockets, feeling his phone and wallet, unsure: "i don't—i don't have a condom." "it's okay, it's okay." you assure truthfully, hurriedly kissing him as if he'd disappear if you let go. "it'll be just like how we used to, hm?" "turn around for me."

you do, placing your hands on the bathroom stall wall to hold yourself up. subong pulls your pants down to your ankles, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down just enough to grind his hardened cock against your ass, leaving nothing to the imagination, even with the barrier of his briefs and your underwear. "s-subong!" you gasped, back arching, pushing your ass farther onto him, feeling his cock closer to your aching pussy but not quite there yet. "how could you take this away from me?" he whispered into your ear, breath hitching vulnerably as he tried to keep himself composed, the plush of your round ass making his mind mush. "from us?" subong's hands snuck past the hem, grabbing at the powdery softness of either globes of your ass. his bottom lip suffered between his teeth, watching his hands work underneath the fabric, squeezing firmly. your nails clawed at the wall, eyes fluttering closed whenever his cool rings cinched around your hot skin. "stop teasing." your cheek collided with his nose, not realizing how close his face was to yours.

subong kissed your supple skin like instinct. "you'll take this dick like a good fucking girl, right?" he was so close to your ear the tip of his nose smushed against the stall wall. "y-yes!" you helplessly paw at the wall. his hand pulled down your underwear, rutting himself against your bare ass. his fingers maneuvered between your legs, middle finger sinking between your folds and encircling, keeping you steady between him and the wall. when he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves, he feels faint, cursing under his breath as your guttural grunt that bounced off the walls. "s-subong—" your voice sounded dry from the earlier arguing and succumbing to your illustrious libido. "i know, baby, i know." his fingers were unrelenting. christ, you were so fucking wet. "just wait for a little longer, and i'll fuck this pussy like the good boy you know i fucking am."

his fingers came to a gradual halt. whilst your chest heaved, he sucked on the tip of his middle finger, licking it clean. "i'm getting on my knees. don't move." he pulled your underwear down, peering up at the puffy lips he has to thank for opening his third eye. you cover your mouth, his warm tongue delving between your folds, scared of what you might sound like if you let go. for the next minute, all that fills the bathroom are the lewd sounds of his tongue nursing your sweet pussy and your muffled whimpers. a crude smack on your left globe followed by a harsh squeeze was the unspoken: let me fucking hear you. "o-oh!" you cried out. "o-oh my fucking god!"

you pushed your ass onto his face, your eyes crossing over the vibrations of his satisfied moan against your clit, squeezing them shut. he lapped your hole repeatedly, swallowing, taking a breath before adjusting his knees on the floor. subong's thumbs spread your lips apart, latching his mouth onto your clit and sucking. the curvature of your back deepened, head thrown back, a cry of pure lust brewing out of your diaphragm, heartbeat stuttering when his tongue lapped the bundle without mercy. "r-right there! just, just—ngh! hngh!—just l-like that!" "where? here?" he asked knowingly, tongue replaced by his finger, rubbing your clit mercilessly. his other hand fished his cock out from his briefs, beginning to stroke himself.

it was a cacophony of wet slick, choked moans, and squelching heat. nothing could deter it, not even the pair of friends that walked in the bathroom, chatting away and completely unaware, only to quickly back out of the room widened eyes and whispers of "oh my god, did you see them?" and "on a tuesday?" it was a sight to behold: your ass in his face; a mixture of his saliva and your slick trailing down his chin, quickly wiped by the back of his hand when he took a breath, but smearing nonetheless; his precum leaking onto the floor; your moans so delicate and raw any erotic film director would beg on their knees to cast you; and subong's affirming mhms and thats rights as he sucks and laps your clit.

subong knew you were close when your thighs began to shake. "give it to me." his hand ceased pumping his dick, both thumbs separating your puffy lips farther than before, running his tongue over your clit. "give it to me, mama," your moan made his dick twitch, eyebrows deeply furrowed, fucked-out gloss coating his eyes. "give it to me, baby, come on—" "ngh!" your body squirmed, nails scraping against the wall, one hand reaching for the top, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm took over your body. subong was stubborn—his palms pressing your back down further, tongue unrelenting through your high, swallowing whatever you gave him. he slowed when your breathing leveled, suckling one last time before rising to his feet.

he pushed your shirt up, kissing the top of your spine, then the back of your shoulder. "hey," he said gently, hearing your shaky breaths. "still with me?" "mhm." you nod, bottom lip caught between your teeth, trying your best to remain standing. his lips kissed your temple, "everything okay?" "mhm," was all you were able to muster. "f-felt really good. needed it." "me too. i dreamt about you, baby." he whined, lips pressed to your skin. "i dreamt about you so much." his breathing became ragged, tip of his cock red and angry. "tugged at my dick so much and i never came as good as when i was with you. now you made me cum just from eating your pussy. do you see what you've done to me? do you see what you've done to your precious subongie?"

you feel dizzy, lifting your head for air. "put it in." you whisper. you push your ass into him, moaning at the feeling of his cock rutting against you. "put it in, subongie." he slowly pushed his tip in, eventually enveloped by your gummy walls. his face contorted—"how're you so much tighter than before!?" his voice was notably higher, barely moving his hips, slowly inching out of you. "h-haven't had anyone else," you sucked in a tight breath. "b-been waiting for you—hngh!" oh, you were so back ... you couldn't help the satisfied smile that stretched across your face, ears filled with his needy whines and blubbering incoherently about how much he missed you, and his girthy cock stretching you out in the way you deserve. "fuck me, subongie," you said breathlessly. "fuck me the way you dream about." "i won't last, you're so fucking tight!—" "—be the good boy you said you'd be!"

with that, he got to work. his pelvis hit your ass, not rapidly, but with reverberating force, moaning and whining like it was the last thing he'd ever do. your mouth fell open, body shaking with every thrust, eyes squeezed shut. you gasped when his hand reached into your bra, holding your left breast, biting your lip as your nipple hardened against his palm. you looked over your shoulder, catching sight of your jiggling globes every time he thrusted. "faster," you said. "faster and harder, s-subong. i—fuck!—i n-need you so b-badly!" he grabbed either side of your hips, pounding into you through his intensifying blurry haze, balls slapping against you so unapologetically that, if someone got close enough, it could've been heard from outside the door. subong wasn't showing off; he wasn't outdoing himself, to him, this was making love. here he was, fucking the woman of his dreams (he got her back!!,) hearing those moans he was so afraid would escape his memories, and fortunate to be feeling and fucking her divine pussy. talk about a jackpot.

"a-agh! f-fuck!" he cried out, hips stuttering as you began fucking him back. he looked down at the sight, watching his creamy cock disappear and reappear at your volition, his indescribable pleasure displayed on his face, envied by empty canvases wishing to capture such raw human emotion. "n-no, no!" he gasped, feeling your pussy clench around him, that knot forming in his abdomen. "y-you're killing me, baby," he panted. "b-baby—ngh!—s-stop, need to f-fuck you. m'gonna cum s'quick if you—if you, f-fuck!" you stopped abruptly, slamming against his pelvis with a shaky breath. "i'm almost there, too." you said. you sunk a little lower, pushing your ass against him. "k-keep going, my love. you're doing so good. always know how to fuck this pussy so good, hm? yeah? best dick i've ever fucking had." you whine, feeling his cock pulsate in your cunt. you look over your shoulder, feeling his hand squeeze your left asscheek, "wanna cum in me?" wanna cum in me so much that i make you a daddy? yeah?" a wall-rattling gasp shattered out of your lungs when he thrust into you hard, once. then twice. "you're going to be the fucking death of me."

subong pounded into your tight pussy mercilessly, brushing against that spongy spot deep in your cunt with little effort at the angle you were in now. "right there, right t-there! o-oh my god, f-fuck—fuck! s-subong—subong! keep going! you feel so f-f-fucking good!" your whorish mewls were no match for his. he was a goner; bottomed out; becoming lightheaded. he kept going, kept hitting that spongy haven, but it wasn't a knot in your abdomen that fleshed goosebumps across your skin, embarking on its unravel—it was deeper, more carnal than that—but before you could register it, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your leg felt wet. "o-oh—oh my g-god—" you were a mumbling mess through this indescribable orgasm, wholly aware of your body but lost in your lustful haze. subong knew exactly what was going on. it brought him over the edge. "f-fuck! fuck! fuck!" warmth coated your walls, chock-full of his cum, trailing down your thigh with your squirt. he slowed his thrusts, moving so delicately it was as if his cock was made of glass.

he stopped moving, cock resting inside your warm cunt. you were in your own world, weakly holding onto the wall, ears ringing, temples pounding. your senses cleared albeit minutely with his hands holding your shoulders, helping you stand up better. you raised your arm, planting it before you and resting your forehead against it, taking deep breaths. subong pulled out, tutting softly hearing your quiet gasp, palm tracing your lower back as a silent i know, i know. his chest heaving, subong's hand reached over, trying to tuck your hair behind your ear to talk to you, but stops when he sees your earrings—the ones he gave you all those months ago; the ones he said you didn't deserve during that explosive argument. unexpectedly to him, his eyes started to water, quickly pressing a kiss onto the back of your shoulder, mouth muffled against the fabric of your top. in the midst of your labored breathing, you don't overhear: "i love you," he whispered. he pressed another kiss. "i love you."

after a few moments, you stood up steadily, making subong lift his head. your hand aimlessly reached behind you for him."you made me ... you made me—" "—i know, i know." he spoke gently. your senses found him when his arm wrapped around your waist, lips pressing a kiss to your temple and staying there. your hand reached up, coaxing your fingers through his hair. "have we ... have we ever done that before?" "i don't think we did." "yeah ... i figured." your eyes were still closed, slowly opening when his lips peppered kisses on your jaw. "i don't—" you swallowed, mouth dry. "i don't know if i can walk straight." both of you couldn't help but laugh, his forehead resting against your temple. "you know," he cleared his throat. "i think someone came in when i was eating you out." "oh god." you murmured. "did they say anything?" "i was kinda busy to notice if they did." he chuckled lowly. "right, right."

the heat of your apartment woke you up in the middle of the night, lazily tugging the duvet of your sweaty body. subong's light snores became background noise after a press of a button, the air conditioning kicking in. in your sleepy state, you squinted at the time on the oven: 4:27 AM. shuffling to the bathroom, you emerged a few minutes later, filling a glass of water from the kitchen tap. after taking a sip, you walked to the ac unit, eyes closed whilst you cooled down, wind flowing modestly through your hair.

feeling refreshed enough, you headed back to bed. you carefully slid your glass onto the nightside table, hoping there was a enough space on the already small and cluttered surface—equipped with yours and subong's charging phones, hair ties, ibuprofen, whatever else you were too lazy to properly put away, and not lit since there was no room for a lamp—but guessed wrong, accidentally sliding both phones off. a loud clatter rang throughout the apartment, "shit!" you cursed under your breath, quickly eyeing subong. he didn't flinch, snoring peacefully. you picked the phones up, plugged his back in, and set them onto the table securely. a notif came up on his screen. by chance, your eyes glanced over. what was a mere peek became a full on stare.

it was from a crypto app. you didn't have to be a genius to know; the word was in the name of the fucking app. you read the notif before his screen went dark: You have an update on your investment. Tap to view. you have got to be fucking kidding me. you thought to yourself. without thinking, you unplugged his phone, tapping his screen to see it again. but the notif was now hidden, requiring his face id or passcode to view. is his passcode still the same as before? you wondered, thinking of those times he'd let you use his phone to connect him to the wifi, or send yourself photos from dates he'd always forget to. you look over your shoulder at his sleeping form, clueless. forget ethics, forget respecting privacy, forget trusting your partner; your brain was in overdrive. this better fucking work. you swipe up, typing 6969—it works. you tap the notif, the app loads quickly. your eyes run over an interface filled with lingo you don't know or care for and usernames that should be put on a watchlist, but then you find it: his profile. you click the icon on the bottom right corner, seeing the Investments tab with an encircled 1 next to it, clicking it, waiting for the screen to load. it only took a couple of seconds, but it was long enough to make you nervously gnaw at your bottom lip and tap your foot. then it loaded.

-850 MILLION KRW — in unmissable red at the top of the screen, above a graph you could only guess illustrated the fluctuation of his money, and other bullshit you couldn't comprehend in the moment. you stared. in silence, numb. before you knew it, the number changed: -1.19 BILLION KRW. your thumb acted before your brain could, scrolling, finding the extensive histories of his investments. he was betting hourly during the day with money he certainly did not have, losing thousands. you scrolled even deeper, finding investments from before you broke up. 50,000 krw here, 5 million there, 30 million another day .... he'd been lying that entire time. selfishly keeping more for himself, all the while consoling your crying state from not being able to make rent in time, even with what you suspected to be all he had ("i'm so sorry, baby. you don't deserve this. we don't deserve this. i'll fight your landlord for you, don't worry.") what utter bullshit.

it was all lies. it was all deception. and now he was back in your bed, peacefully asleep like everything was okay. you let him back into your life, thinking everything was going to be fucking okay. you squeeze his phone in your hand, arm shaking. your other hand sinks your fingers into your knee, as if to prevent from screaming; trying to find another outlet for the anger—fuck it! irate, you grab your glass of water and rush to his side of the bed, throwing it onto his face. he shot up immediately. you paced back and forth, eyes rolling at his coughing fit. "wha—what?" his voice was gravely, wiping his eyes. "was that—was that water?" he asked stupidly. "yes it was fucking water!" you spoke loudly, irritated at the sight of his barely opened eyes."what're you yelling for?" his voice was lower than usual, clouded by looming sleep. "it's, like, four in the morning, baby."

"don't you fucking 'baby' me." you muttered, marching up to him. you showed him his screen. "the fuck is this? hm?" "what?" he asked, wiping water off his forehead. you threw his phone onto his lap. "check your fucking investments." he picked up his phone and scrolled. he didn't say a word. you continued to pace like a madwoman, back and forth, nothing filling the air but the skid of the heels of your feet against the floor. you mentally cursed and screamed, thoughts so scrambled that if you opened your mouth all that would come out would be jibberish, so you paced. and paced. and paced. it could've been anywhere between five or ten minutes when you stopped. "well?" you asked sharply, arms crossed over your chest. "how much money did you fucking make?"

"why'd you look at my phone?" asked subong. he was trying so hard to avoid openly showing his shame; his pride prevailing. "that's—" you stuttered. "that's seriously what you're asking right now?" "yes, that's what i'm fucking asking right the fuck now." he looked up at you, meeting your eyes with an unreadable expression. "you just threw water in my face. i get to ask questions." "you're a billion in debt!" you whisper-yelled, afraid your eyes would water if you were any louder. you trudged to his side of the bed, eyes wide and finger to his chest. he stared at you blankly, a twitch of his eyebrow outed his mounting frustration at his stifled shame. "you're a billion in debt, subong. where did you ... where did you even get all that money?" you swallowed, taking a step back, eyes looking everywhere but him to thwart the mounting glossiness. "why did you lie to me? all those times, all those times where i felt like it was the end. where i felt like i was at a dead end." you gestured to the couch with your hand, staring at him. "and you ... you lied. you were selfish, and didn't want to help. i ... i saw everything, subong. i know you kept on lying about your earnings when we were together."

another beat of silence. "subong, why did you put so much money into—" "—why'd you look at my phone? hm?" he interrupted, eyes wide. "why couldn't you just mind your fucking business?" "you're a billion in debt—" "i didn't owe you anything!" subong suddenly yelled, catching you off guard. he ripped the duvet off, marching up to you, finger in your face. "i didn't owe you fucking anything." he repeated, breathing hard through his nostrils. "what was it you said to me? hm? that it's my money, my punishment to have? so let me fucking have it." "you owed me everything!" you yelled, smacking his hand away. "you owed me the fucking truth!" he turned around, walking to the window leading to the balcony, hands roughly rubbing his face and hair. "why didn't you just tell me? why did you hide—" "—i did it all for you."

your eyes widened and jaw fell, appalled. "oh my god." you muttered to yourself, but he overheard. "i'm going fucking crazy. i'm going fucking crazy." you ran your hands through your hair, pacing. "i know you did not just ... i know you did not just say that." you shook your head. "how could you be so fucking stupid. how could i be so fucking stupid?" subong whipped his head around. "hey! don't call me stupid!" he walked up to you, growing angrier with your ignoring him. "hey!" he exclaimed. "don't call me stupid! i'm not stupid for taking initiative, or, or doing shit because i care about you!" his arms flailed.

"oh..." you shook your head, facing him. he felt like a first grader being told off by his teacher, frustratingly shifting his weight between his feet, unsure of where to put this uncomfortable energy. "oh no, subong. this isn't caring. this is being a complete and utter dumbass." you said, eyes porous in realization. tears were no longer in the realm of possibility. now, it was just pity. "there's no coming back from this." you made sure he knew. "you're fucked." "i know that!" he yelled, vein tight in his temple. "you don't think i fucking know that!?" subong's eyebrows furrowed. it was his turn to avoid crying. he looked away hastily, cursing repeatedly under his breath as if it'd ward off his blurring vision. he blinked hard—"i ... i tried everything." he muttered, bottom lip quivering. "i ... made deals with dangerous p-people." he cleared his throat. "i slept on benches. my own mother wouldn't pick up my calls. i've disappointed her too many times. and you ... you," he cleared his throat again. "you weren't an option." he shook his head, a tear landing on his arm. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "but ... but i have this one last chance—"

"—you're hopeless." you cut him off. "you're the worst person i've ever fucking met." subong looked at you, silently pleading to take those words back. "no." he sounded wounded. "you don't ... you don't mean that." "i do. i mean every word." you nodded. "i must have done something really horrible in a past life to be cursed with loving someone as hurtful as you." "no ..." he shook his head, his palms flattening his hair. "you don't mean what you're saying." "i do!" you yelled, voice cracking, heartbeat in your throat. a shaky breath left his lips, eyes staring at the ceiling and blinking fast, waterline feeling heavy. "no ... no, no." he muttered to himself. he took your face in his hands, eyes darting around your features, making them out even in the meek lighting of the slowly emerging sunrise. you stared blankly at the floor, emotionless between his palms.

"you don't mean those words. i know you don't." he spoke aloud, trying to convince himself. "you don't mean them." his fingers combed your hair out of your face. "i've been trying so hard. i'm so fucking scared, baby." subong shook his head quickly, but it didn't halt his falling tears. "i f-fucked up so bad." he whispered, lips quivering. he pressed kisses to your supple skin, attempting to fill the eerie silence. "but i promise—" his lips peppering your face. "i promise i'm going to fix all of this. i have a plan." subong tasted something salty, seeing a tear having fallen down your cheek. "no, no." he tutted gently, kissing it away. "don't cry. you're too beautiful to cry over a loser like me, baby." he kissed that same spot. "no, no. don't cry. here, let me hold you. come here." his lips trailed to the back of your jaw, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. even in his desperation, he was unsure. his eyes glanced at the glimmer of your dainty diamond drop earrings. "the earrings look good on you. you've always had good taste." he muttered against your shoulder. you didn't move. nor say a word. the silence was killing him. "i've been scared for so long." he whispered. your shoulder felt wet. "please ... please hold me."

he said no apology. no "i'm sorry," no "i regret this." it was a tale as old as time: redirected sympathy; a murky, multi-layered distraction, him avoiding taking full responsibility. you sympathized with his pain, you felt his hurt and the monstrous circumstance, but at some fucking point, there is only so much you could do. there is so much strength one could muster; so much mercy a heart could offer. this wasn't your problem, and you weren't going to go out of your way to make it yours. it was time to draw the line. right here, right now. you didn't recognize the man before you. he was a stranger: "subong?" "yes?" he responded quickly, a hint of hope in his tone. "when were you going to tell me about your debt?"

subong was silent, but you spoke for him. "when i get a promotion? when i get laid off? when there's an eviction notice on my door? after we elope at the courthouse, or when i tell you you're the father of my baby? hm? when were you going to tell me?" your voice was unexpectedly gentle. his shoulders started to shake, quietly sobbing. "when, subong? when?" "forgive me." he pleaded. "forgive me. please, baby—" "—get off of me." you pushed him away, slipping out of his embrace. he wiped his face with the back of his hand. "you're—you're the best thing that's ever happened to me." "you're the worst!" you exclaimed. "it's exhausting loving you! it's torture! i'm decaying from the inside!"

you took a breath, looking at this pathetic form. "i've forgiven you too much." you shook your head. "you've made me a stranger to myself. you take, and you take, and you take. i share my home, i let you fuck me, i let myself think you respect me—" "—i d-do, baby, i do! i lo—" "—i let you into the deepest, darkest pits of who i am, and you let me cry over your fucking nail polish while you were throwing away millions into something that isn't even fucking real. and you have the audacity to say it was for me?" you gesture to yourself. "as much as i tried to fix you, stupidity is in incurable disease. you're the dumbest person i've ever fucking met. you're not even smart enough to say 'i'm sorry.'"

"i never want to see you again." you turn around, your back facing him. "you don't know me. i don't know you. get out." this was it. you didn't move your eyes from the kitchen floor tiles as you heard him collect his things—the clinking of his belt; his shallow breaths; his heavy, stuttered footsteps; the clean swoosh of his pants as he put them on; over-pronounced inhales; his shoving of his feet into his sneakers—punctuated by the slam of the door. you slowly turned around. the oven read 4:53 AM. you sat on the couch, the silence heavy, only moderately cut through by the sporadic chirping of the birds outside. you sunk into the cheap cushions, hands coming up to your face, chest convulsing.

subong didn't know how long he'd been walking for. he was numb; eyes wet, cheeks swollen, snot dried, sneakers carelessly dragging against the sidewalk. the sun had risen. he could hear the taxis driving by, or catch in his peripheral vision the sight of people hurriedly leaving their apartment buildings as the morning commute commenced, but his gaze never shifted from aimless. he was wandering; nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. his chest heaved and his heart pounded in his temples, feelings buried in an overly complicated web that made his ears ring. subong's tongue was dry from breathing through his mouth, but he was so out of it he didn't bother to close his jaw.

it was the ring of a pedestrian's bike bell that temporarily took him out of this trance, stumbling a few steps to the right, letting them pass. "i'm sorry." he muttered weakly. it was only then that he looked at his surroundings, realizing he was walking along a bridge. seeing the water flow below him without issue made him feel so inconsequentially small, almost as if the car driving by or the subtle whispers of the leaves rattling in the wind told him that no matter what he did, or what he went through, or what he said, nature will be there before and after. "excuse me, sir." a voice said. subong's head felt heavy, but he turned it nonetheless. it was the man in the suit from a week ago. "i forgot to give you this after our game last week." he handed subong what looked to be a business card. "my sincerest apologies. i kindly ask that you forgive me, sir." with that, he walked away.

you woke up on the couch in the late morning, having slept through your phone alarm. you had the day off, so that wasn't exactly a concern, only to jolt awake from seering pain on side of your neck and lower back from falling asleep in such a cramped, awkward position. it was hot in the apartment again. you gradually stood on your feet, carefully stretching. "fuck." you mutter under your breath. you moved to the bathroom. you peeled your clothes off, throwing them mindlessly into the hamper. before you stepped into the shower, the glimmer of your earrings caught your sight. you tucked your hair back, staring hard into the mirror. memories of the night previous came rushing back. your quivering lip made you mad all over again, quickly taking the earrings off, throwing them into the trash bin without second thought.

you did errands. you went to work the next day. you quit your job three months later, having landed a better paying one on the opposite side of the city. a year later, you were longed moved out of your small studio and into your one bedroom abode, equipped with an in house dryer and washer. you had new friends. you had a new life. in the end, you really did get your wish of never seeing subong again.

#squid game #squid game season 2 #choi subong #choi su bong #choi seunghyun #choi su bong imagine #thanos #thanos imagine #choi seunghyun imagine #bigbang #squid game imagine #choi su bong x reader #squid game s2 #squid game smut

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elf-trash · 4 months ago

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Solavellan Recommended Reading

I made a post like this for SilverV a million years ago and wanted to make one for Solavellan as well!

A few of these fics overlap with the ones I have linked in my current pinned post, but there are soooo many fantastic Solavellan fics out there that I decided to make a longer rec post so I could include more of them!!!

Without further ado, here are some of my favorites, in no particular order. Some of them are one-shots or shorter multi chapter fics, and some of them are massive long fics and everything in between. Some of them are new and still in progress, some of them are completed, and a handful of them are older fics. All of them are absolutely worth your time!

walk you to the shore - Scaryanne A beautifully written post-Veilguard one-shot about Solas and Lavellan having it all out in the Fade. Highly recommend!

the sun to burn - Pip (Moirail) An Inquisition re-write that goes off canon and does a phenomenal job at exploring a ton of aspects of the lore and story. Features fantastic character writing and takes really thought-provoking directions with the lore!

love is not a victory march - Brunchatthebookstore A Veilguard retelling where Lavellan is present at the ritual at the beginning that goes off book from there. It's beautifully, heartbreakingly written and off to a REALLY strong start with some truly devastating moments, so this one is absolutely one to watch.

miles below the surface of the dawn - gostak This fic is one of the most beautiful things I have ever read, period. On its face it's just 6 chapters of "there was only one bed" Inquisition-era Solavellan smut, but I stg the writer was channeling the spirit of Solas Dragon Age himself because it is the most perfect Solavellan smut I can imagine. Read this one, just trust me.

Martyr - existential_naptime If you like Solavellan angst, this one delivers in spades!!! It's set during Veilguard and explores what would happen if the Evanuris kidnapped the Inquisitor (and more specifically, how Solas would react). It is DELICIOUS and also extremely painful but well worth it!

Requited - cursedhag A beautifully written, pitch perfect Inquisition rewrite that fully checks all the boxes! Features a lot of excellent Solas POV that incorporates all the new lore reveals we learned in Veilguard. Do yourself a favor and read this!!!!

rook wins in the end - wiltedartist A great exploration of Rook's relationship with Solas in Veilguard. Solavellan, but focuses on the one-sided unrequited feelings that Rook develops for Solas. Really interesting angle that I haven't seen done better.

And Yet - say_lene Beautiful Inquisition-era Solavellan one-shot. All of this writer's fics are so beautiful and well-written, so I kind of picked this one randomly but ALL of their Dragon Age fics are worth reading. We stan a good smut character study!!!!!

In the Colours of Your Regrets - scribeofmorpheus Another excellent smut character study! Solas sadly jorkin' it in the Lighthouse to his own sad murals of his wife. 11/10 no notes.

Roses Where Thorns Grow - Bdafic This one explores what would have happened if, after Crestwood, Lavellan learned the truth about Solas and they rekindled their relationship. It's a beautiful story that stays true to character and explores some of their messier and more complicated relationship dynamics.

Servitude - niceasspavus Another really, really solid Inquisition rewrite that explores Solas and Lavellan's romance. Well-written with excellent details and characterization. Highly recommend all of this writer's other fics, as well.

These Hands, If Not Gods - Gefionne An AU where a pre-Inquisition Lavellan accidentally discovers an eluvian that lets Arlathan-era Solas time travel to her. Beautifully written smut and character development. AUs aren't often my thing, but this one is absolutely worth your time.

Looking Glass - Feynite This one is theee classic Solavellan fic and probably needs no introduction. It's a time travel Arlathan AU, and it still holds up even after all these years, even unfinished. If you haven't read this one yet, stop whatever you're doing right now and fix that.

Wildest Dreams - elf_trash Finally, this one is mine!!! It's a retelling of Veilguard with Lavellan as the protagonist (aka Lavellan IS Rook) that focuses on her complicated relationship with Solas. Starts near the end of Inquisition and will continue through Veilguard and slightly beyond. I plan on reincorporating a lot of scrapped ideas from Joplin.

This list is in no way comprehensive, as a) there are sooo many good ones and b) I haven't read everything (yet lolol), so please feel free to reblog this and add your favorites!!!

But in the meantime, do yourself a favor and check out all of these fics! Top tier stuff all around.

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a-hermit-pining · 3 months ago

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LaDS as Exes

AN: I don't need sleep, I need answers.

Pairing: LaDS boys x fem reader

Ingredients: 75 % angst, 10% sulking, 15% comedy (by 👃🏻🩲)

My Fav: Zayne and Xavier (seriously why do you guys force me to write so much angst, I love hate it? 🫂)

Xavier:

Somehow friend-zoned. Again. Just like every lifetime.

He’s around a lot. At work, at your apartment, hell, the man’s still your neighbor. And of course, there’s the past lore.

You were engaged once. It just didn’t work out. Right person, wrong time. The kind of joke your shared story arc thrives on.

But Xavier holds onto the hope anyway.

He knows he’s your soulmate. Has always known. And if that means standing by your side as a friend while you love other people, while you build a life without him, so be it.

He’ll wait. He always does.

Because maybe next lifetime… the timing will finally be right.

(hug him rn 🔪🔪)

Rafayel:

You both have a daughter.

But becoming queen, reviving his kingdom, giving him your heart, had been your breaking point.

You loved Rafayel. But loving a sea god was not your forte. It wasn’t the life you wanted, and that hurt Rafayel more than he lets on.

He couldn’t understand why you left something so perfect. A throne beside him, a daughter between you, a kingdom rebuilt through sacrifice, and you still walked away.

He keeps your daughter. Raises her with so much love it’s almost painful. But part of him knows he’s holding onto her in the hopes that you’ll come back.

For her sake. For his.

He’s heartbroken that you refuse to let go of your world, when he once shattered his kingdom to make you his.

He has waited to long but now...now he has an endearing daughter. His anchor.

Zayne:

He was never there. Not really.

You sort of drifted apart during the end credits. Zayne loved his work—too much. He worked to take away other people’s pain. But somehow, he always managed to hide his own. Even from you.

Your marriage withered slowly. The silence grew heavier each time you sat alone, waiting for him to come home. The distance hollowed you out, until you both existed in separate worlds under the same roof.

And when you left, he got worse.

He doesn’t go home anymore. He works until he collapses in a back alley or some dingy cafe. He ends up in the ER more than once. You’re called in, rushed in, drenched in wanderer blood, to sit beside him while the machines beep steadily.

He punishes himself for failing you. For failing at everything.

And sitting next to him, in the chaos of the hospital, you feel the weight of it all. The unfairness of it.

(You might just have to pull a Caleb and abduct him to a secret island)

Sylus:

Divorce? That didn’t happen.

Sylus is still your boyfriend. He’s delusional, but come on, you’re both fooling no one.

The epitome of on-and-off.

"I’m going to kill you," you groan, waking up next to him for the fourth time this year. It’s February.

"Good morning, kitten," he drawls, already pulling you into his arms. He ignores your glare and peppers your face with kisses until you give up struggling.

The baby monitor crackles. Your son’s cry pierces the air.

"Your turn."

Sylus grins. He gets out of bed, sliding into your robe (tearing the shoulder seam. Again). He always stretches it out, just like he always stretches his way back into your life.

This is your life. Messy and chaotic. But it’s yours.

And Sylus? Yeah, he’s not going anywhere.

Caleb:

lmao no.

Hell nah. Caleb would rather commit a felony than accept being your ex.

Either:

He’s in jail. (Domestic terrorism was involved.)

You’re in his basement. (Voluntarily or otherwise.)

He’s in a psych ward, hallucinating a life where you’re still together.

There’s no clean breakup with Caleb. He’s the man who does not share. If you leave him. He’ll find you. If you try to run. He’ll track you down. And if you betray him. God help you.

Because Caleb isn’t letting you go. Ever.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace headcannon #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #caleb x reader #love and deepspace reaction #angst #crack #Caleb being my comedy king

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starsinthesky5 · 3 months ago

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you are in love V part 1 || joe burrow x reader

description: this upcoming week will be monumental for you and joe. both of you have a chance to get to the top of the mountain in your respective careers, and for the first time, you are by each other's side through it all, and the whole world is watching

a/n: im baaaaaackkkkk! well, did I ever really go anywhere LMAO? anyway, sorry this one took so long ;) hope you enjoy it. this is part 1 of 2. the corresponding social media fic will hopefully be up this week!

warnings: SMUT mdni, fluff, hint of angst here and there

word count: 29.9 k

YAIL masterlist || YAIL lore → (this might clarify some things in terms of albums)

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyburrrow @joeyb1989 @softburrow @yelenasbraid @burrowbarbie @lovelyburrow @starkeyswomen @grittysbiggestfan @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @definitelynotdomanique

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

I'm so in love that I might stop breathing, Drew a map on your bedroom ceiling, No, I didn't see the news, 'Cause we were somewhere else

Scrolling through your latest track recordings always felt like the most rewarding part of your exhausting day in the studio—a chance to sit back and revel in the magic that had poured out of you. But tonight? Tonight, it felt different. It felt better. You know why? Because this one was a glitter gel pen song. Every take, every note, every perfectly stacked synth—it all fit together like a dream. It was carefree, light, the kind of song that twirled you around the room in a haze of champagne bubbles and whispered secrets. The type of song that felt like the drunk girl in the bathroom at a party, grabbing your hands and telling you that you looked like an angel. You leaned back, tapping your fingers against your wooden desk as the track played through the speakers, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. “Damn,” you muttered to yourself, satisfaction settling deep in your chest. “That one’s it. Two for two on those blends, Jack would be proud,”.

The way the melodies melted together, the shimmering production weaving through every lyric—it was magic. The kind of song that didn’t just sit in the background, but demanded to be felt. It had all the makings of a smash hit.

That is, if it ever saw the light of day.

Your album had already been finalized for a few months now and there were no intentions to add to it, but the thing was, you just couldn’t stop writing. It’s like every little thing was inspiring you; from his laughter, to his knee silently rubbing against yours under the table—teasing, comforting, constant—to the way he looked at you before you fell asleep in his arms. Hell, even the cheap wine you pretended was champagne which he had picked up in a haste before coming back home to celebrate you inking the deal with Vogue to be on their cover for the May edition.

Words. Lyrics. Poems.

That was all that filled your mind when you were with him—which, at this point, was quite often.

And there’s only one person to blame for that.

Joe.

The song you had been working on tonight—Paris—was loosely inspired by your little adventure across France last month. From the dazzling waters of Cannes to the stylish Parisian streets, it was a trip filled with firsts & so many moments that had you thinking of song lyrics like it was second nature (which it was). Every stolen glance, every drunken whisper while stumbling down the dimly lit hallways of your hotel, every moment that felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you—it all poured into the song effortlessly.

We were somewhere else

You could still picture it. The way his fingers laced with yours as you wandered through the cobblestone streets, the city lights reflecting in his oceanic eyes making him look ethereal. The quiet laughter over dinner in a tucked-away bistro, the kind of place that felt like a secret. The warmth of his hands on your waist as he pulled you close on the balcony, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance. You really were somewhere else with him, it felt like you two were separated from the world, so immersed in your bubble to the point where you didn’t know what was going on around you.

Privacy sign on the door, and on my page, and on the whole world. Romance is not dead, if you keep it just yours

Love wasn’t something you needed to prove to anyone. You had learned that the hard way.

During this trip, after months of speculation, silence, and blurred paparazzi photos, the world finally knew—you and Joe.

The pop star and the athlete. The girl with the guitar and the boy with the game ball. The lyricist and her muse. The songbird and her falcon.

The headlines were persistent, dissecting every past lyric, every old interview, every possible connection they could make between the lovers. But they couldn’t pinpoint what it was, how someone like you had ended up with someone like him. Two different worlds. Two different crowds. Yet somehow, your hearts found each other and something extraordinary was etched in the stars as a result.

It was a big step, terrifying in a way that only fame could make it. Because for the first time, you were willingly letting in the same people who had spent the last year ripping you apart piece by piece.

But you weren’t scared. Not this time.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t give a damn.

Because romance isn’t dead—not if you keep it yours. You had spent so long believing love needed an audience, that it had to be constantly flaunted and performed to be real. But now, you knew better. Love was in the quiet moments. In the space between heartbeats. In the way Joe looked at you when no one else was watching. You kept that privacy sign up—on the door, on your page, on your entire world—because peace was priceless, something valuable and unattainable for the ill-fated that once you found it, you’d do anything to protect it. The outside world might try to crack open the doors, to pry into your life, but you didn’t owe anyone that access. Some things were too sacred to be shared, and that was perfectly okay. You were only going to let them see things on your own terms, without any need to prove something to someone. You were unbelievably happy with your life with Joe, and you wanted people to know—but never once should it have to come off as forced. And that’s what was so different about your relationship.

Nothing about it felt forced.

Which is why Paris was a dream you never wanted to wake up from. It was so easy, it all felt so natural—like the two of you had stepped into a world where time slowed down just for you.

The city had always been romanticized in your mind, but being there with Joe had turned every moment into something straight out of a movie. Fashion Week was his grand debut into that world—his first time on the runway, and you’d never been prouder. He and Justin had taken the stage like they belonged there, breaking barriers with each confident step. You still remembered standing off to the side, watching as Joe walked with that signature focus of his, the same intensity he carried on the field. Except this time, instead of pads and cleats, he was draped in high fashion, and god, did he wear it well.

The fittings had been an adventure in themselves. You had spent hours in designer showrooms, watching him try on pieces that ranged from effortlessly cool—Joe Cool—to downright ridiculous. At one point, he came out in a look so wild you couldn’t help but fall over laughing, clutching your stomach as he just stood there, unamused. “Babe,” he deadpanned, turning to the mirror. “I look like a rejected boy band member from 2003,” and you only laughed harder.

When you weren’t wrapped up in the whirlwind of Fashion Week, you had slipped away to explore the city together. Mornings were spent wandering through art museums, fingers laced together as you admired centuries-old paintings. Joe had a way of tilting his head when he looked at something he didn’t quite understand, brow furrowed in concentration. “So…this is just a bunch of dots?” he had murmured as you stood in front of a Seurat painting, and you had to bite back a smile, squeezing his hand. “It’s called pointillism, babe,”.

Afternoons were for indulging in every pastry Paris had to offer, for letting him feed you bites of pain au chocolat, for stolen kisses between sips of espresso at a quiet café. And the nights…well, the nights belonged to just the two of you. Quality time in the hotel room, tangled limbs beneath silk sheets, whispered words and soft laughter echoing against the walls after he had just finished drilling you into the soft mattress.

But outside your little Parisian bubble, the cameras had followed, the questions had lingered, the online buzz had been relentless. The world now knew about you and Joe, and they had plenty to say about it. Some were supportive, some skeptical, some downright nasty. But none of it mattered when you were with him.

And now, here you were, back in your studio, lost in thought, lost in Paris, lost in him.

Paris wasn’t just a place. It was a feeling. One that lingered, even now, as you sat in the dim glow of the studio, layering harmonies over a melody that already felt like nostalgia. This song wasn’t just about your time in the city of love. It was about him. The feeling he made you feel.

And you were dancing to the beat of that feeling, letting it guide you wherever it wanted, just as you let him guide you through the unpredictability of love.

After going through the recordings, you decided to head back to the drawing board. The soft hum of unfinished melodies filled the room, blending with the distant city noise outside. You absentmindedly tapped your blue glitter pen against the pages of your notebook, eyes scanning over the lyrics you had scribbled down earlier. The scent of coffee and warm studio air surrounded you, holding you in this moment—just you, your thoughts, and the music waiting to be shaped into something real.

Wrapped in your Bengals blanket, you sighed, sinking deeper into the plush velvet couch. A new verse was forming in your mind, the words almost there. You took the pen from your lips, pressing it to the page, ready to chase the feeling. But then, your phone buzzed beside you, pulling you from your thoughts.

The screen lit up, casting a soft glow in the dark studio, and a smile rose at the corners of your lips. Your lock screen—a snapshot of a moment that felt like home.

Well, because it was.

Last November. A slow morning wrapped in golden light. The photo had been taken in bed, the white sheets tangled around your bodies, the warmth of sleep still lingering in your limbs. Joe had snapped it—his arm extended, his messy morning hair barely in frame, but the focus was on you, tucked into his chest, your cheek pressed against his bare skin, eyes still heavy with sleep, while he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

You didn’t even know he’d taken the photo until later that afternoon when he changed your lock screen himself, grinning like a kid who just got away with something. “You looked cute,” he shrugged, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

And now, every time your phone lit up, it was there—a reminder of warmth, of love, of the kind peace you never thought was possible to possess.

You then read the message below, seeing it was from your assistant.

Jen: new interview was released from paris! looks like lover boy had a few things to say about his lover girl ;)

“What…,” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat as another message popped up, this time with the link to the interview clip. You were aware that Joe had his own media run during your time in Paris, as the highlight of the trip was Joe’s Vogue World debut with Justin. It was something unique, something that broke the glass ceiling as these two American football stars took on the world of fashion and Anna Wintour like a hurricane. They were the center of attention during Fashion Week, so it was a given that there’d be an inquisitive microphone shoved in his face and a camera following his every move. Every step they took, every outfit they wore was analyzed and dissected by the press, but Joe seemed unfazed despite his initial nerves before the trip.

Your eyebrows knitted together out of curiosity, the only thought you had was, “He didn’t tell me they asked him about me,” and then you clicked on the link without hesitation, and there he was. You recognized the surroundings—seeing the racks of clothing, glam vanities, and cameras—and realized this must’ve been a BTS interview during his fitting that morning before he walked the runway.

You tapped play, and within seconds, his familiar, eye-crinkling laughter filled the studio, intoxicating and so freaking adorable, making your heart flutter all over again.

“What do I think of Y/N?” he repeats with a soft laugh, shaking his head as if he can’t quite put it all into words. There’s a blush creeping onto his cheeks, undeniable, even under the bright studio lights. “I mean, she’s great…honestly, she’s more than great. She’s magic. The literal best thing that has ever happened to me. She’s everything you could ever want in a girlfriend. She’s everything to me. A constant source of support, someone who understands the pressure I’m under because she’s in the same position as me but in her own career, someone who can make me smile and laugh harder than I ever have before,”.

He pauses for a second, running a hand over his jaw, a small smile playing on his lips. “Having her by my side over the past year has been nothing short of incredible. It’s been a blessing, a learning experience, a constant source of happiness in my life. Aside from being the most talented person I know—like, truly, watching her work, seeing her create, it’s inspiring—she’s also the most kind-hearted, down-to-earth person I’ve ever met. The way she carries herself, the way she navigates everything that comes with her career, it’s admirable. it’s one of the reasons I fell for her in the first place. I’ve learned a lot from her about how to manage my life in the NFL, privacy is a big thing for me and it’s rare…but she knows how to maintain it better than anyone,”.

His expression softens, voice dipping into something more intimate, like he’s forgetting for a moment that the cameras are rolling. “The world sees her as this superstar, this powerhouse who sells out stadiums and breaks records, but I see the girl who hums under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening. The one who stays up late, perfecting lyrics because she wants to make sure every word matters. The one who gives everything to the people she loves, no matter how exhausted she is. And somehow, I am lucky enough to get to be the person she comes home to,”.

The interviewer smiles, clearly intrigued by the connection between Joe and you, and then asks, “It’s clear you’re incredibly proud of her, but with both of you being in the public eye, do you ever feel the pressure of all the attention, especially when it comes to your newly public relationship?”.

Joe’s eyes flicker with thought as he ponders the question. His posture shifts slightly, and his expression softens as if the weight of it all settles in. He lets out a small sigh before responding. “I mean, yeah, there’s definitely pressure. We’re both in the spotlight, and people always want to know about us—about what we’re doing, what we’re feeling. It’s hard to escape that, sometimes. But, at the end of the day, it’s not about the noise around us. It’s about what we have. And we’re not afraid to show that,”. He lets out another laugh, shaking his head. “You know? Like…that’s my girl, that’s my lady. I’m not afraid to show that and own that. I’m proud of her, of us. I think when you have something that’s as real and rare as what we have, you should never take it for granted. You should protect it, yeah, but you should also be proud of it. Be happy. Show people how happy you are, but not so much that it feels forced and like you’re doing fan service. Do it for yourselves,”.

His grin turns a little playful, but the gravity never leaves his eyes. “She deserves that. She deserves everything good in this world, and I’ll spend forever making sure she knows that,”.

And then, the video ends, and the studio is once again filled with silence. But if you listen closely, you can hear the soft splosh of the teardrop hitting your phone screen.

You blinked, startled by your own reaction, swiping at the tear with the sleeve of Joe’s sweatshirt—the same one you’d stolen from him last night and refused to give back. A watery laugh bubbled from your throat as you stared down at your phone, the weight of his words still settling in your chest.

He called you magic.

He called you the best thing that ever happened to him.

He called you his girl. No. His lady.

You sucked in a shaky breath, pressing your lips together to keep from completely sobbing. You weren’t new to grand gestures or poetic declarations—hell, you wrote about love for a living—but this? This was different. This was Joe. And for the first time in your life, you were being loved out loud, without hesitation, without restraint.

No vague answers. No dancing around the truth. Just him, speaking about you the way you’d only ever dreamed someone would.

You replayed the video, just to hear the way his voice softened when he talked about you, the way his smile lingered long after he finished speaking. And maybe you played it a third time. A fourth. Okay…five times, but who was counting?

“God, I love you,” you murmured to the screen, even though he couldn’t hear you.

But he would soon.

An hour later

You wrapped up your work shortly after watching his interview, that giddy feeling in your stomach making you dizzier by the second. You planned on staying for at least another hour, but the urge to jump into his arms and kiss him until his lips were swollen and breathless overpowered every other thought in your mind.

The entire drive home, he was all you could think about.

The way he talked about you, with so much admiration and certainty…that he was your’s and you were his, like loving you wasn’t just something he did—it was something he was made for. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he rubbed the back of his neck when answering personal questions, that adorable little hesitation before he said something sweet, as if he still got shy about admitting just how much he adored you. Not because he didn’t want to accept it, but because he was so obsessed with you, it was so hard for him to stop talking once he started.

It had been nine months since your world had been turned upside down by the man who taught you the true meaning of love, yet every single day felt like the first. The excitement, the awe, the gratitude that you got to be his and he got to be yours—it never dulled.

And as you pulled into the driveway, barely remembering how you even got home in one piece, one thing was certain: you were completely and utterly wrecked for him.

Once you made your way inside, you slipped off your cream-colored Ugg slippers and padded toward the kitchen island, dropping your bag onto the cool marble countertop. Your eyes flickered to the stove, where two pots and a pan—ones that definitely hadn’t been there when you left—rested on the burners. The faint scent of garlic, butter, and something rich and savory still lingered in the air.

“He must’ve cooked dinner for us,” you murmured to yourself, a smile tugging at your lips.

Of course, he did.

He knew you’d be coming home late, probably exhausted from hours of staring at a screen, adjusting vocal layers, and maneuvering the microphone until everything sounded just right. He knew you’d be too tired to even think about eating, let alone cooking something for yourself.

You felt warmth bloom in your chest as you ran a finger along the cool surface of the pot, already picturing him standing right here, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully followed a recipe. Because while Joe wasn’t exactly the most confident chef, he tried for you. He always tried for you.

Even if he was working with the irrational fear that he’d give you food poisoning or burn the kitchen down.

Your eyes scanned the living room, and to your surprise, he was nowhere to be found. Normally, around this time he’d be sprawled out against the couch with a blanket, reading or watching some dumb movie to pass time before you came home.

Because that’s when the real fun started.

He couldn’t wait to wrap you up in the plush blanket with him, put on one of your favorite shows, and listen as you told him about your day—his favorite part being when your fingers found his hair, playing absentmindedly with the strands while he soaked up every word.

But tonight was different. He wasn’t following his little routine.

You wandered toward the stairs, assuming he was in your bedroom or office, slowly climbing each one as you felt the dull ache in your thighs return, a pleasant reminder of what transpired in the backseat of his Porsche last night on the way to visit his parents’ for dinner. One look at you in that denim mini-skirt and gray polo quarter zip sweater, and he was gone.

Flashback to last night

He exhaled sharply through his nose, “Watch it,” he mumbled, watching as your hand trailed up his thigh.

You grinned, loving the way you got under his skin, how easily you could make him spiral. “I don’t know what you mean,” you said innocently, but the way your fingers crept higher on his thigh told another story. You’d been teasing him all night, ever since you caught him watching you a little too closely, his gaze lingering on your ass when you leaned into the mirror to fix your hair. That hungry, distracted look in his eyes told you exactly where his mind had wandered—and your choice of skirt wasn’t helping.

He was trying, really trying, to be good tonight. To focus. To not think about how easy it would be to slip that tiny thing up and bend you over the nearest surface.

But you weren’t making it easy for him. Not one bit.

Joe let out a quiet curse, his free hand darting out to grab your wrist, stopping your movements. “You really wanna play this game right now?” he asked, voice laced with something dangerous.

You just shrugged, leaning closer. “Depends,” you murmured, your lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “What happens if I win?”.

Lucky for both of you, the highway was long behind, and now you were on the quieter, more familiar roads of his hometown. When he spotted a deserted shopping complex up ahead, the parking lot empty and a thick cluster of shrubs tucked away behind it, he didn’t hesitate. Without a second thought, he swerved the car into the lot, the tires skimming over the road with a satisfying screech. He threw the car into park and immediately turned to you, his eyes darker than the night around you—stormy, almost predatory.

“Get in the back,”.

A thrill shot through you at his tone, and you didn’t waste a second before climbing between the seats, settling against the cool leather as he followed closely behind.

You two had danced this tango quite a few times in the past, so you knew exactly how this was going to go. Flashes of the two of you, sprawled out in the backseat after picking him up from practice, his sweaty tank still clinging to his body, your legs spread over his lap as he groaned into your mouth, filled your mind. The thrill of being caught only added to the fire between you, his hands rough and impatient as they gripped your thighs, pulling you closer, pressing your back against the cool leather.

You knew exactly where this was going, just like all the other times—the way his lips would drag down your neck, the way his breath would hitch when you reached for him, the way his self-control would snap the second you rolled your hips just right.

His grip on your hips was ironclad as you straddled his lap, your denim skirt bunched up around your waist, the thin barrier of your panties already pushed aside. His head rested against the headrest, his lips parted, breath ragged as he watched you roll your hips against him, grinding your soaked core along the length of his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his fingers digging into your skin, barely holding himself together. “You’re such a tease, aren’t you?”.

You smirked, leaning in to brush your lips over his, teasing, taunting. “Maybe,”.

He sighed, his hands gripping your ass, pulling you even closer, making you feel just how hard he was for you. The teasing was short-lived, though—you both wanted it too badly. You lifted up just enough to line him up, his tip rubbing against your entrance, and then you sank down, inch by inch, until he was seated to the hilt.

A short gasp left your lips, your hands bracing against his shoulders as you adjusted to the stretch, the fullness of him buried deep inside you. Joe cursed under his breath, his hands flexing against your waist as he fought the urge to thrust up into you. “Shit, baby,” he rasped, his head tilting back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut for a second before they snapped back open. “You feel so fucking good,”.

You rolled your hips slowly, relishing the way his jaw clenched, his muscles tensing beneath you. Taking full control, you lifted up slowly before slamming back down, drawing a strangled moan from his lips. “Jesus fuck,” he gritted out, his fingers bruising against your skin, his need for control slipping with each bounce of your hips.

You set the pace, riding him hard and deep, your movements messy and so calculated as if it was muscle memory.“Mm, fuck,” you whimpered as the windows fogged up, the car filled with the sound of your moans, his deep grunts, and the filthy slap of skin on skin. His hands roamed under your sweater, pushing it up to expose your chest, his warm palms immediately cupping your breasts through your black lacy bralette, thumbs flicking over your hard nipples. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he murmured, his mouth latching onto your neck, sucking and biting as his hands greedily explored your body. “So perfect,”

You moaned in response, your movements becoming more frantic, chasing that high that was rapidly approaching. He felt it too, his hips snapping up to meet your thrusts, taking control in that way only he could.

“God, Joe—,” you gasped, hands flying to his hair, tugging as your body trembled.

“I got you, baby,” he groaned, his pace becoming erratic, his thrusts rough and deep. “Gonna cum for me?”.

You nodded, unable to form words as the pleasure overwhelmed you and the coil in your belly snapped, your walls clenching around him, dragging him right to the edge with you. His grip on your waist tightened, and in one swift motion, he lifted you just enough to slip out. “Gonna…fuck—,” he cut himself off with a deep grunt, his fingers digging into your sweaty skin as he pulled you flush against him, his faint—but there—abs flexing as he spilled onto your stomach, painting your skin in hot, sticky ropes of his release.

And god, you lost it.

Your fingers swiped through the mess on your stomach, bringing it up to your lips, licking the taste of him off your skin, moaning around your fingers as you locked eyes with him. “Holy fuck,” Joe choked out, his blown-out pupils darting between your mouth and your stomach, his jaw clenched so tight you thought he might break a tooth.

He grabbed your wrist, dragging your fingers back to your lips, his breath heavy as he whispered, “Do that again,”.

End of flashback

“Damn,” you muttered under your breath, a rush of heat rising in your body just at the mere thought of last night. You’d so kill for a repeat, but you were about two seconds away from passing out and sleepy, tired sex wouldn’t be enjoyable for either of you.

Once you reached the bedroom door, barely making it because your legs felt like they were about to collapse, the faint melody of an extremely familiar song wafting through the frame had you tilting your head in curiosity. The synth, the voice…the bass…it was so....

You slowly nudged the door open, and—oh.

Joe was sitting on the floor, shirtless, clad in just a pair of black sweats, glasses perched on his nose as he focused intently on the pile of Legos in front of him. Your breath hitched.

Oh my god.

The glasses.

He never wore them unless he absolutely had to, always opting for contacts since they were convenient, but he must’ve needed to give his eyes a break. And the fact that he was sitting there, all casual and domestic, building one of the many Lego sets you both had drunkenly ordered on the boat in Cannes?

You were instantly, irreversibly feral.

“God, dammit. He always does this,” you sighed and thought to yourself, the heat pooling in your lower belly.

But you kept it down. Barely.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted with an easy smile, still focused on clicking a piece into place on the Milky Way set he’d been working on. He looked so boyfriend right now. Too boyfriend. You didn’t even think—you just met him on the floor, crawled into his lap, clinging to him, burying your face in his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hands instinctively landed on your hips, completely forgetting the Lego’s in front of him as he steadied you. “You okay?” his voice was softer now, laced with quiet concern.

You nodded, exhaling against his skin. “Yeah. More than okay,” you whispered. “I just love you,”.

You felt him relax under you, his arms wrapping fully around your waist, pressing you closer. “I love you too,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes searching his face, and his expression was nothing but warmth. And god, he just looked so soft and babyish in those black glasses. He never wore these out in public, which is why you felt so special because he only lets you see him like this. This was the real Joe. Your Joe.

“I saw the interview,” you admitted, using your thumb to brush lightly against his cheek.

He hummed, a knowing look flickering in his eyes since he knew exactly what you were referring to since his own assistant had also alerted him. His thumb traced soft circles against your hip as he stayed silent. He didn’t need to say anything. He just held you, knowing how much moments like these meant to you.

Quiet love.

“You out-do yourself every time,” you muttered in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of coconut & hibiscus—your bodywash which he surely had stolen again. “Just when I think you can’t possibly be more perfect and sweet to me, you take it to the next level without breaking a sweat. And it’s so natural for you to just talk about me, like me. I’m such a mess but you see past all of it and somehow find all the redeeming qualities in me and I…,”.

As you trailed off, his hand slipped under the hem of your sweatshirt, pressing against the cool skin of your bare back. His fingers pushed into your plush-like skin, a subtle way of showing you that he was here, he heard you, and he felt you. “You deserve it,” he whispered in your ear, his other hand pulling you further into his lap.

“You deserve all of it, Y/N. I mean it when I say you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I mean it when I say you’re magic, because the way you lit up my entire world by just existing in it? That’s some houdini shit right there. I don’t know how you did it, but you did. And I’m gonna make sure everyone with an ear hears about it. You spent way too long clawing and fighting for someone to see you the way you deserved to be seen,” he said. “But baby, you don’t have to fight anymore. I see you. And I’ll never stop making sure the whole damn world does, too. If you’re a mess, you’re the mess I want,”.

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you surged forward, capturing his lips in an all-consuming kiss. You poured everything into it—every ounce of gratitude, every whisper of love, every unspoken promise that you’d never take a single moment with him for granted. Joe sighed into the kiss, his grip on you tightening as he melted into you, like he was just as desperate to hold on to this feeling as you were.

When you finally pulled back, your breath came in soft, uneven pants, your forehead still pressed against his. “You’re so good to me. You are literally magic, forget me,” you whispered, a breathless little laugh escaping you.

He grinned, his fingers brushing against your jaw, his thumb tracing that faint love-bite he left last night. “I love you,” he cooed, tilting his head, his nose nudging yours. “I’m gonna love you ‘til the end of time. That’s all. No magic, spells, witchcraft…even voodoo. Just love. My love,”.

You pushed your face back into his neck, his hands returning to their spot on your waist as you let out a contented sigh, relishing in the serenity that he brought to your life so easily. By just holding you close, letting you listen to the lulling thrum of his heartbeat. “Thanks for cooking tonight, by the way. You were a busy bee, weren’t you? Cooked and worked on the Legos,”.

He nodded, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek, “You’ve had a jam-packed week…long studio sessions, rehearsals for your performance on Sunday, finalizing everything for the weekend. I, one, wanted to take some of the load off you, spoil you a little, and make one of your favorites—,”.

Your ears instantly perked up. “Chicken Parm?” you interrupted, eyes wide with excitement.

He chuckled, shaking his head at how easy you were to please. “Yes, I made you Chicken Parm,” he confirmed, barely getting the words out before you started peppering grateful kisses along his neck, murmuring little hums of appreciation against his skin.

“And two,” he continued, voice slightly strained from the distraction, “I needed to keep myself busy because I missed you,”.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at your lips. “Missed me?” you teased, tilting your head playfully. “Damn, Joey, are you that attached to me?” your tone was light, teasing, but the truth of it made your stomach flip. The fact that he could barely go an hour without hearing your voice, three hours without seeing you—it was adorable. It was everything.

His grip on you tightened as he exhaled through his nose, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Do I really need to state the obvious?” he murmured, before slowly pushing himself off the floor, lifting you effortlessly with him. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands gripping onto his shoulders as warmth bloomed in your chest.

He led you both over to your massive California king bed, the plush duvet, which usually would be neatly folded, was now slightly messed up, evidence that he had been lounging here before getting distracted by his Lego project. He sat down on the edge, keeping you firmly in his lap, his hands roaming up and down your back in slow, comforting strokes. “In case you forgot,” he murmured, his lips attaching to your neck while he spoke. “I’m extremely obsessed with you,”.

Your hand found its way into his bed-head hair—soft, messy, with a lingering scent of rose—as you dragged your nails across his scalp. “Yeah? Is that why you were listening to my music before I walked in?” you teased, a confident smirk rising on your face as you gently pulled him away from your neck to meet his eyes.

You knew it was familiar—the production, the vocals—because it came from you.

Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve.

The magic you had created that dreadful night in New York, when the only way you knew to get your feelings out was through music. When the only thing you could do was either cry until your eyes shrunk, or sing until your voice was gone. When you couldn’t bring yourself to look at your phone, because every single headline popping up reminded you of the betrayal, the heartbreak, the way the world seemed to turn against you overnight. Every notification felt like a fresh wound, every cruel word from strangers a dagger to your already shattered heart.

So, you did the only thing you knew how to do—you poured it into your music. You sat in that dark studio, your fingers trembling as they hovered over the piano keys, your voice raw and aching as you sang the truth you could never bring yourself to say out loud.

Before you could get lost in the past, Joe squeezed your waist, transporting you back in the present, away from the place you so narrowly escaped. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “It’s different now. You’re different now. I’m here now,”.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you inhaled a slow, steady breath, calming yourself before the nerves could creep in and drag you under. You had fought too hard to climb out of that darkness, clawed your way back piece by piece. And he—he had fought just as hard to hold you steady, to be your anchor when the waves threatened to pull you under.

No.

You couldn’t let yourself spiral. Not now. Not when you had come so far.

“I’m better than that. I’m better now,” you reminded before taking another breath. Once you opened your eyes to meet his, you sighed, “I know,”. His eyes were soft, yet behind them were the faint remnants of the pain you’d been carrying for nearly a year. The pain he took upon himself because he couldn’t bear to watch your heartache alone. He had carried it with you, every step of the way, shouldering the weight even when you tried to tell him it wasn’t his burden to bear. But that was just who he was; loving you meant feeling everything with you, for you.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, his touch so light, so reverent, like he was trying to soothe away the ache that still lingered beneath the surface. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “I get it,”.

Joe hesitated, caught in the push and pull of his own thoughts. His mind pushed him to press further, to dig into the remnants of pain left behind by the smallest man who ever lived—to make sure not even a trace remained. But his heart? His heart told him, No. She’s happy…truly happy. You know that, and she knows that.

And when it came to you, Joe never listened to his mind. He always followed his heart, let it lead him like a compass pointing true north. Because if he did listen to logic, to the voice in his head that warned him to guard himself…well. Who knows whose hand he’d be holding right now?

Instead, he chose you because his heart did. Every time, in every lifetime.

His lips hovered over yours, his breath warm against your cool lips. “We’re both going for the gold, you know,” he smiled, his voice a mix of pride and promise. “Nobody does it like us. Literal IT couple. And it’s not even close. They wish they were us…this successful and hot,”.

This was his attempt at making you smile again, to shift the focus from your wounds to your wins. Because that’s what mattered now; not the past, not the pain, but the triumph waiting just on the horizon. This week was going to be intense, to say the least. Sunday, the Grammys, where your last album was nominated in every major category—including Album of the Year. Wednesday, the NFL Honors, where Joe was up for MVP. A whirlwind of milestones, each one a testament to the blood, sweat, and relentless dedication you had both poured into your crafts. And yet, success had never come without its shadows. Doubt, tension, the watchful eyes of those who lived to speculate, to pick apart your every move. But despite it all, you rose. You both did. Because nothing—not the noise, not the pressure, not the skeptics—could overshadow the truth: you worked for this. You earned this.

You internally screamed at his effortless transition, grateful for his ability to sense your nerves before you even voiced it. He knew that this would bring up something you didn’t want to think about again, and he wasn’t going to let you go there. Your fingers began toying with the collar of his sweatshirt as you focused back on what he was saying, “So you’re saying we’re untouchable?” you winked.

“Untouchable and Unstoppable,” he corrected with a smirk, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, pushing into the skin and watching it pop back into place. “No one comes close,”.

And they didn’t. Nobody could come close to the level of stardom you two had, and combined?

Forget NFL QB and Pop Star, you were The Royal Couple of America. The world had been obsessed ever since your relationship went public, and the frenzy hadn’t died down one bit. If anything, it had only grown stronger. With every new detail that was shared, every photo, every little crumb from your time together, they fell even more in love with the two of you.

A soft sigh left your lips as you melted into him, your head resting against his shoulder and your body shifting closer to his. “Are you excited?” you asked, voice quieter now. “For everything coming up?”

“Excited?” he scoffed, pulling back to meet your gaze. “I’m fucking hyped. I get to watch you set the stage on fire, and I get a front-row seat. Does it get any better than that?”.

You bit your lip, playing with the hem of his shirt. “I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Announcing the album, stepping into this new era…I’ve been waiting for this. I need this. To really turn the page. I just hope it goes the way I want it to. I really really love this album and I hope they don’t get caught in the revenge gimmick of it all when truthfully, this album is a love letter to you,”.

Joe’s eyes softened as he cupped your face gently.

A love letter.

A love letter to the man who had shown you the kind of love you’d always dreamed of, the kind you never thought you deserved. The way he’d supported you, held you up when you felt like crumbling, and how every moment with him felt like coming home. A love letter to those late nights, when the city was asleep, and all you could taste were his lips…your idea of luxury. A love letter to days in the sun, when you were drinking on the beach, with him all over you. A love letter to the king of your heart. To your endgame. To your Karma. To Daylight in human form.

“I promise it’s going to go the way you want, okay? You’ve worked so hard, put your heart and soul into every song, every little thing with this one. I can feel how special it is to you, and your fans, the ones who’ve stuck by your side since day 1…they’re gonna see it,” he assured you. “You’re about to kill it, baby. This is your moment,”.

A slow smirk spread across your face as you traced your fingers over his chiseled jaw. “And what do I get if I win?” you asked, your voice laced with heat, a kind of heat that sent a thrill through Joe’s body.

His expression turned mischievous as he dipped his head closer to your ear, his voice dropping to a deep murmur. “Lots, and lots, and lots of time in bed,” he rasped, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he gave it a teasing tug.

A breathy gasp left your lips as you pulled back slightly, your eyes flickering up to his. “Perpetually horny,” you whispered, your hands sliding up his bare chest underneath his hoodie, nails dragging along his belly, teasing him until he couldn’t handle it anymore.

Joe only grinned, completely unapologetic because he really didn’t care. He meant it. Every damn word.

“You love it,” he shrugged, his hands slipping beneath your sweatshirt again, fingertips tracing absentminded patterns against your back. His hands slowly inched closer to your bra clasp, and you weren’t going to stop him.

Because he was right. Damn, you loved it.

You loved the way he’d rile you up like this…subtly, with the most gentlest of touches. You loved the way he’d cover every inch of your skin with his mouth, like worship, like devotion. You loved the way he fucked the feelings out of you, made you forget about everything except him—except the way he felt inside you, the way he made you unravel, the way he whispered your name like a promise.

You loved when you got caught up in a moment with him, with lipstick on his face.

You’d let him do whatever he wanted to you, wherever he wanted, and whenever he wanted. Because with him you were safe. With him, you didn’t care. With him…you let things go they way they were meant to go.

Flashback

It was late. Way too late. But you didn’t care. The studio was dimly lit, the warm glow of the soundboard and the neon sign on the wall with your name casting soft shadows across the room. It was just you and Joe—your favorite kind of recording session. No producers, no distractions, just the two of you.

And so it goes…

You adjusted your headphones, eyes flickering to the glass separating the recording booth from the lounge area. Joe was sprawled out on the couch, his black hoodie slung over his shoulders, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He had his hood up, but you could still see the glint of his baby blues as he watched you intently, lips quirked up in admiration.

You pressed play, letting the instrumental flow through the speakers. The bass thrummed low, sultry, the beat crawling under your skin as you let the music take over.

I'm yours to keep, and I’m yours to lose…

Joe let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together. “Yeah, that’s my girl,” he grinned, dimples flashing. “Fuck, that sounds sexy as hell,”.

You bit back a smirk, running a hand through your hair before stepping back up to the mic. You tried to focus, but it was hard when you could feel his gaze on you—hot, unwavering, dripping with pride and something else that sent a spark of heat straight to your core.

You know I'm not a bad girl but I, do bad things with you

Joe groaned from the couch, shifting slightly as he felt a growing tent in his sweats. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Those lyrics…the implications of what you were saying. That’s what drove him mad. You weren’t a bad girl, but with him? It was as if you lost every shred of decency and shame in your body. From the risky late-night escapades after dinners in New York, to the way he’d press you against the wall of whatever storage closet you stumbled into at the facility just because he wanted to taste you—the primal urge taking over every one of his senses—to the way you’d scream his name as loud as you could while shaking underneath his sweaty body in the privacy of your hotel room…on a very public floor. You didn’t give two fucks with him, and that solidified the effect he had on you.

He was like a drug, blocking out every one of your senses and making you feel euphoric and untouchable.

Your lips curled into a smirk, taking note of his obvious discomfort, “You okay over there?”.

He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze dark and hooded. “No,” he murmured. “I’m struggling,”.

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to keep it professional—you really did—but when you stepped out of the booth, something in the air had shifted. Joe was already pushing himself off the couch, eyes locked onto yours as you met him halfway.

“This is soundproof, right?” he murmured, referring to the studio room, his hands finding your waist, tugging you flush against him.

You smirked, dragging your nails down his chest. “Mhmm. You’re dating a singer, baby,” you whispered, pressing your lips against his jaw. “We can be as loud as we want in here,”.

That was all it took.

In an instant, he had you bent over the soundboard, your palms splayed against the cool surface. He shoved your leggings down, not even bothering to take them off completely—just enough to give him access. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he smirked, dragging his hands over your ass, gripping the plush flesh hard enough to make you gasp. “Standing up there, looking like a fucking dream. singing those lyrics? You knew what you were doing,”.

“Joe—,”.

Your words cut off in a sharp moan as he slid two fingers between your folds, teasing, spreading your arousal. “So wet,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. “Always so fucking wet for me,”. You whimpered, pushing your hips back against his hand, but he pulled away, leaving you desperate and empty.

Then, the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. Your breath hitched, your nails scraping against the console as he pushed in, slow at first, making you feel every inch as he stretched you open.

“Oh…fuck,” you gasped, head dropping forward. Joe groaned behind you, hands gripping your hips tight as he bottomed out. “Jesus Christ, baby,” he muttered, voice strained from pleasure. “Always so goddamn tight for me,”.

He pulled back, just a little—then slammed back in, knocking the air from your lungs. “Joe!” you cried, your voice bouncing off the soundproof walls.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He set a ruthless pace, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixing with your desperate moans and his intense, breathless groans. Your ass bounced against his pelvis with each deep thrust, the force making the soundboard shake beneath you.

“Yeah, that's it,” he gritted out, watching the way your body responded to him, how you took every single stroke like you were made for him. “Look at you, baby. Taking me so fucking good,” your legs trembled, pleasure coiling tight in your belly as he hit that spot deep inside you, over and over again.

“Joe, please—,”.

“Please what, baby?" he chuckled, his hand moving down to your ass, kneading the flesh as he continued to rut into your dripping heat. “C'mon, baby. Tell me what you need,”.

“More,” you sobbed, rocking back against him, chasing your release. “Fuck me harder—,”.

His groan was guttural, almost pained as he watched your eyes roll back, your jaw slack and your hand gripping the console like your life depended on it. “Yeah? You need it?” he murmured, gripping your hips even tighter before fucking into you with reckless abandon, dragging you back onto his cock with each brutal thrust.

The pleasure was too much. Your body burned, feeling growing so intensely that all you could do was hold on, your moans turning into broken cries.

Joe loved it.

“Listen to you,” he groaned. “Screaming for me, just like that. Fuck, baby, you sound so good. So fucking good,”. His hand trailed down your back, nails leaving faint scratches to amplify the sensation you were feeling in your body. You were so close, teetering on the edge, and he knew it. “B- baby p..please, I can’t…agh,” you whimpered, the coil in your stomach tightening with each snap of his hips into your core.

His hand slid down further, fingers rubbing tight circles against your clit. “Cum for me,” he panted, his pace relentless. “Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, baby. Let me have it,”.

Your whole body tensed, a high-pitched moan ripping from your throat as the pleasure snapped—your orgasm crashing over you in a white-hot wave. “Ohhh, fuck. Joe, mmph,” you panted, his rhythm faltering as you walls clenched around him.

“That’s it,” Joe rasped, “Fuck, I’m gonna—,”. He thrusts in one last time, burying himself deep, spilling into you with a soft, lustful groan before loosening his grip on your hips. “Oh, fuck,” he panted, slowly coming down from his high while he remained buried inside of you.

The only sounds filling the studio were your ragged breaths and the low hum of the track still playing through the speakers, looping in the background like the soundtrack to this moment. your vision blurred, the dim glow of the LED panels above molding into something cosmic—like the city skyline outside, like the stars you and Joe traced with your fingertips whenever you stayed up too late on the balcony.

Joe finally pulled out, a soft kiss pressed between your shoulder blades as his hands soothed over your hips where his grip had definitely left bruises.

“So it goes?” you murmured breathlessly, looking back at him, your voice strained with the aftershock of your orgasm.

He chuckled, still breathless, forehead resting against your spine. “Yeah,” he nodded, pressing another lingering kiss to your bare skin. “So it fucking goes,”.

But he wasn’t done with you yet—not like that. Before you could even process it, he was moving, slipping out of your in search of something, leaving you cold and fucked-out against the console.

“Stay right there,” he said, voice softer now, filled with tenderness. A few seconds later, he returned with a small towel from the corner of the studio, one of the ones you always kept here for potential food or drink mishaps. He crouched between your legs, cleaning you up with the utmost care. “You okay?” he asked as he tucked your hair behind your ear.

You nodded, a lazy, blissed-out smile tugging at your lips. “More than okay,”. He kissed your temple, helping you adjust your clothes before handing you a half-empty water bottle from the table. “Drink,” he told you, before pulling you into him, arms wrapping around you. His fingertips traced slow, absentminded patterns over your thighs as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“I missed you today,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, like this wasn’t the hundredth time he’d told you that.

You hummed, nuzzling into him, the warmth of his body grounding you. “You’re insatiable,” you teased, but the way your fingers curled into him, the way you melted against him, told a different story.

End of Flashback

That night was the perfect example—messy, unrestrained, all-consuming. Whether it was those late hours in the studio, tangled up in the haze of music and lust, or the nights spent wrapped up in each other beneath the sheets, it was always like this. Intense. Perfect.

Like everything was falling right into place, just for the two of you.

His fingers toyed with the clasp of your bra, his touch featherlight, teasing, like he had all the time in the world to tease you. But the heat pooling between your thighs begged to differ. You needed him, now.

“Tell me,” he murmured, lips brushing over the corner of your mouth, purposely stopping himself from kissing you which he could see you so badly wanted. “Tell me how bad you want it,”.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling against the hard planes of his stomach. “Joe—,”.

“Nah, baby,” his voice was a low rasp, his hands sliding underneath the straps, fingers massaging your skin. “Say it. I know you were thinking about it, I can see it in your eyes,”.

Busted.

A soft whimper escaped you as you absentmindedly rocked against him, chasing the friction you craved. He chuckled smugly, that signature cocky confidence you fell in love with practically dripping from his body.

Because he already had you exactly where he wanted you.

And that was his favorite part.

—

A few days later — Los Angeles, California

Sunset Boulevard.

The Hollywood Sign.

The Walk of Fame.

Those same paved streets you used to stroll down years ago, when your innocence and naivety were still fully intact. When your dreams…well they were just dreams at that time. When the closest you’d got to stardom was accidentally being mistaken for a celebrity because you’d walked into a coffee shop on Sunset with those navy blue Prada shades perched on your nose and the matching bag around your shoulder.

Your first big girl purchases.

You remember how back then, you sat in your shoebox apartment in Studio City, textbooks and notebooks stacked high on the coffee table, mocking your so-called ambitions. Reminding you that a degree, a stable job, a normal life was your best bet. That making it in this industry was a long shot. That you’d never get there.

With the stars.

You spent hours refreshing your inbox, praying for a response to your audition tape…hell, even acknowledgment of the demo you’d sent out. Because back then, you thought acting was your best shot. That music—the real dream—was too far out of reach. But you couldn’t have been more wrong.

Because here you were now. In the heart of the city of angels. Sitting in a vanity chair with your name stamped across the back. Your team buzzing around you in your dressing room, makeup brush in one hand, a tablet with your schedule in the other, your custom Versace dress hugging your body like a second skin. At the Grammys.

Because you did make it. And you weren’t just with stars. You were the star.

Coming back here…to this city…the place that once was your dream, after everything? It was evoking a number of emotions within you. This was the city where you fought for every opportunity, where the recording booths and studio lots held your wildest dreams. But once you had it—once you lived it—you realized this wasn’t how you wanted to exist. That you couldn’t stand the constant pressure and spotlight on you.

You loved SoCal, the picture-perfect beaches, the electric pulse you’d feel while cruising down Beverly Hills. But beneath the glitz, the sparkle, the promise of it, this place was hell. The paparazzi lurking outside your house, trailing your every move, digging for dirt. The relentless scrutiny, the hidden jealousy that was deeply rooted in the people you considered your friends, the constant hunger for more.

So you did what you knew how to do best. When things got hard, when they stopped feeling right, when the life you built started to feel more like a cage than a dream—you bolted. Like hell. Straight to the city that never slept, hoping its restless energy would drown out the noise in your head. But in your rush to run away from it all, you didn’t stop to think. Didn’t stop to question if you were running toward something better or just away from the chaos you left behind. Your judgment was poor, and New York? It was the worst place you could’ve chosen to find peace.

You wanted to escape the loudness of LA, but New York was even louder. The flashing lights, the rapid pace, the way it swallowed people whole without a second thought. You tried to lose yourself in the towering buildings, the crowded streets, the music that pulsed through subway tunnels and rooftop bars. You tried to convince yourself that this was where you belonged, that the city would be your saving grace. And in a way, it was. It helped your career soar.

But at an irreplaceable cost.

Your happiness.

When the version of New York you had in your mind faded—the romanticized dream of it all—you realized that this place wasn’t for you either. The loneliness and chaos here was just as loud as it was in LA. Surrounded by strangers who moved with purpose, who seemed as if they had it all figured out, you felt like the outlier. The straggler. The one who had wandered too far from home, only to realize she had no idea how to find her way back. And the lingering question in your mind this entire time was…where was home? And just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, everything you’d built came crashing down—because of him. The biggest mistake of your life.

Those green eyes you once considered your safe haven? They were darker than you ever could’ve imagined. Like a storm brewing just beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It was as if, with one swift motion, he had taken his hand and wiped the chessboard clean, sending every carefully placed piece tumbling to the ground. The rules no longer applied. The game was his to control. And you?

You never even stood a chance.

But then, you felt it—the eerie calm in the thick of chaos, the kind that only exists in the eye of a storm. The world around you was still spinning, the remains of everything you’d been running from circling just out of reach, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t being pulled under. It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that made your ears ring, but the kind that coaxed you to open your eyes, to really look, to really see.

And when you did—when you finally dared to lift your head—there they were.

A pair of piercing blue eyes, steady and unwavering, cutting through the destruction like a lighthouse in the middle of a stormy sea. Eyes that didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch, didn’t turn away. They just watched you, saw you, held you in place when everything else threatened to slip through your fingers.

And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t lost anymore.

He took your hand in his and suddenly, the storm that had raged around you didn’t seem so terrifying. He didn’t just pull you from the wreckage; he became the place you could run to, the shelter standing strong against the winds and relentless downpours.

With him, the chaos dimmed to a quiet hum. The weight of the world didn’t sit so heavily on your shoulders. He wasn’t just a refuge; he was a promise—one that whispered, “I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone anymore,”.

You found yourself going back and forth, sneaking into his bed from that point on. You couldn’t resist the way he made you feel—like you were more than the world made you out to be. In his arms, you were whole. You were more than just a name or a face; you were someone deserving of peace, of love, of calm in the storm. When the cameras wouldn’t stop poking. When the headlines and comments became too sharp. When you needed to be held, to be reminded that you were still flesh and bone, not just a brand. You’d run to him. To his bed.

And in the blink of an eye, that bed became your home.

He became your home.

Joe became your home.

“Joe…,” his name slipped from your lips in a whisper, barely audible. You were so lost in your own daydream that you didn’t even realize you’d said it out loud.

Jen—your assistant—noticed the way your gaze had drifted, your fingers toying with the fabric of your dress. She knew that look all too well. It meant one of two things—you were nervous, or you were thinking about him. And judging by the soft, faraway expression on your face, she already had her answer. She smirked knowingly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the vanity. “He’s really got you in a chokehold, huh?”.

Her voice snapped you out of it, your eyes refocusing as you blinked a few times. “What?”.

Jen let out a soft laugh, shaking her head in amusement. “Joe. You were thinking about him, weren’t you?”.

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off, but the warmth creeping up your cheeks betrayed you. “I was just…zoning out,”.

“Mhm.”.

She wasn’t buying it. Of course, she wasn’t buying it. That’s because she was Jen.

Jen was an enigma—impossible to define with just a few words. She had a little bit of everything in her: sharp wit, relentless determination, and a heart big enough to carry the weight of all the people she cared about. She was kind, but with an edge that guaranteed she was never underestimated. Brilliant in her work, yet always a step ahead, using her cleverness like a well-honed weapon. And most importantly, she would do anything for you—not just because she was your assistant and PR manager, but because she was one of your best friends.

She’d been with you since day one, witnessing every mistake, every triumph, every late-night breakdown, every whirlwind romance, and every gut-wrenching fallout. She knew the struggles you had tolerated to get here, the price you paid for your success. And no matter how messy, chaotic, or impossible things got, she never walked away.

Her job wasn’t easy. You knew that. And sometimes, the guilt of it sat heavily on your shoulders.

But Jen? She never let you carry it alone.

And that meant everything to you.

“Zoning out about your football-playing lover, I assume,” she winked, knowing all too well what that glint in your eyes meant. When you and Joe first started hanging out, in that ‘get to know each other’ phase, you had carefully hidden it from everyone in your life. Friends, family, your manager, even Jen. But this woman could read you like one of her many floral notebooks, filled with detailed notes and perfectly color-coded tabs. She had a knack for spotting the things you tried to keep buried—especially when it came to him.

You should’ve known better than to think you could hide it from her. It was in the way your phone never left your hand, the way your smile lingered a little longer after a text, the way your eyes darted toward the door whenever he was supposed to be near.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, shaking your head as she smirked. “You think way too highly of yourself.”

“Maybe,” she hummed, reaching for your lip gloss on the vanity, “Or maybe I just know you better than you know yourself.”

“She knows me way too well, ugh,” you thought, sighing and finally conceding. “I just…this is a big night, you know? And it’s our first red carpet together. It’s…a lot. Tonight is a lot for more than one reason,”.

Jen nodded in agreement, her teasing smile softening into reassurance. “It is. But you’ve done this a million times, Y/N. And now, you get to do it with him. You finally have someone with you who wants to support everything you do, wants to be on your arm, and wants to let you have center stage. But you also have someone who wants to shield you, protect you, be that steady hand that won’t ever let go of you. That safety net that’s always ready to catch you.,”.

That part was true. You weren’t walking this carpet alone. You weren’t facing the flashing lights, the screaming reporters, the endless scrutiny by yourself. Joe would be right there, his hand in yours, standing beside you like he always did. But he wouldn’t do anything to make this about him. No. He’d never steal your moment, never even think about doing something to outshine you.

That’s what separated him from the rest. And that thought alone made everything feel a little easier.

As if on cue, your phone buzzed on the vanity table. You glanced down and felt your heart do that stupid little flip it always did when you saw his name.

joe: almost go time. how’s my girl doing?

You bit your lip, trying (and failing) to suppress your smile as you typed back. God, the way he sent butterflies through your stomach by sending such a normal, typical boyfriend-like text to you made you want to shove your face into a pillow and scream like a teenage girl.

you: nervous. excited. wish you were here already though. i miss you

Seconds later, the three little dots appeared.

joe: i’m on my way, promise. it’s just this stupid ass LA traffic like why are we just sitting here. they act like there isn’t multiple routes to get to the arena

you: welcome to grammy weekend in LA baby. get used to it ;)

joe: i wish i could just fly like superman or some shit. but i’ll be there. trust me. i’ll run all the way if i have to

The thought of him actually doing it—sprinting down the streets of downtown LA in a perfectly tailored black suit, breathless, sweaty, that wild determination in his eyes—sent a shiver down your spine. The image alone was enough to make your stomach flip.

“I’m so fucked tonight—especially because he’s wearing the suit,” you thought to yourself.

It had been your wish for the longest time—to see Joe in a suit, crafted by one of your favorite designers. You’d pictured it so many times, but nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The sharp lines, the way it fit him just right, the way he carried himself in it. It was almost unfair how good he looked.

You knew he preferred comfort, especially at events like this. He was never one for the glitz and glam, never one to trade comfort for something too flashy. And the last thing you ever wanted was for him to feel like a fish out of water. But tonight was different—tonight was important to you. And he knew that.

So when you casually brought up the idea, expecting at least some resistance, he surprised you. He didn’t complain, didn’t hesitate. He just agreed. Because if it mattered to you, then it mattered to him. Sure, the scratchy fabric and tailored fit would probably have him fidgeting all night, but he had you by his side. That was all the comfort he needed, the only thing that truly mattered.

As you got lost in the whirlpool of thoughts regarding how amazing and rewarding it would feel to peel his suit off his chiseled body tonight, after the hectic and tiring experience of it all, you saw another message bubble appear from him.

joe: which by the looks of it, i will be ;) good thing me and dak worked on cardio last off season

joe: but you know i got you. always. i’m gonna be with you soon. i promise

A smile rose on your lips at his last message, “He’s on his way,” you told Jen, admiring his text for a second more before sending him a white heart emoji and placing your phone back on the table. “I didn’t show him the look for tonight so…make sure you have an AED on standby,” you joked, settling back into the chair as your makeup artist finished applying the last bit of highlighter to your rosy cheeks.

Jen shot up straight, her movements suddenly precise and efficient, as if a switch had flipped in her brain. The moment your words registered, a silent alarm seemed to go off, setting her into motion. Without a word, she spun around on her heel and walked toward the couch, where your travel bag sat. You watched, brow furrowing, as she crouched down and carefully unzipped the side compartment with the kind of focus that made it seem like she was handling something far more serious than, well…whatever it was she was looking for.

Your curiosity grew as she rifled through your belongings, her fingers moving with purpose. “Uh…Jen?” you said, your voice laced with amusement. “What exactly are you doing?”.

She didn’t answer instantly, too busy locating exactly what she was looking for. When she finally pulled it out, she held it up like it was a crown jewel.

The thigh chain.

It was a gorgeous gold chain decorated with a pattern of diamonds and black jewels, which shimmered under the dressing room lights. The delicate ‘J’ charm at the center catches every glimmer.

This was the most important piece you had custom-made. The one you’d kept a secret, just like your dress.

Jen grinned triumphantly. “This,” she said, holding it up for emphasis. “This is going to be the thing that sends him over the edge,”.

You laughed, shaking your head as she handed it to you. “You think?”.

“Oh, I know,” she smirked. “You’ve been killing him with these little touches lately, and this? His initial wrapped around your thigh? He’s going to malfunction on the spot,”.

You bit your lip, glancing at the delicate chain in your hands before looking at your reflection in the mirror. The final touches were coming together, and you couldn’t have been more excited for the carpet. For the chance to show everything off now that you were coming back into the limelight. Your dress—custom Versace, stunningly sculpted to your body—was already a showstopper. The blacks, the golds, the silvers…it was as if you were wearing your album in clothing form. The snake ring and the stack of gold and diamond chains around your neck matched the aesthetic you were going for perfectly.

Oh, and how could you forget?

The bracelet.

The one he had custom-made for you by Cartier and had gifted you during your trip to Cannes. It sat around your left wrist, his initial and yours shining brighter than any piece of jewelry you were adorning tonight. It was the only personal addition to your look, partly because you never took it off, but mostly because you wanted just about everyone to know how much this meant to you. How much he meant to you. Show them how—just like the bracelet said inside the band—the stars all aligned. They aligned for you both and this moment you were sharing, and you were ecstatic to share a glimpse of that with the world.

But this? The thigh chain…this was even more personal. A quiet, intimate detail meant just for him. And well…whoever else’s eye it caught. Your fingers traced over the black and gold ‘J’ before you looked back at Jen. You knew he wouldn’t be able to handle seeing you with this on, let alone remain standing after he saw you in this dress. You felt awful for getting him so flustered by wearing things like this—whether it was a new bikini, a new dress, or a pair of jeans that hugged you just right—because you knew he paid attention to every little detail of your body. Every curve he ran his hands along, every expanse of skin he pressed his lips to, every crevice he was allowed to cherish.

But that was what made this so exciting.

“...Alright, help me put it on,” you grinned, your fingers sliding the fabric off your thigh to disclose the skin where the slit was.

She smiled, placing her hands on your shoulders and giving you a reassuring squeeze, “With pleasure,”.

—

Safe to say…Joe was in need of immediate medical attention when he walked into your dressing room.

The moment he caught a glimpse of you, everything else seemed to fade into the background for him. Like the world was draped in a dark cloak, and the spotlight was shining just on this beautiful figure in front of him—you. His blue eyes widened, his jaw slackened just enough to make you smirk, and for a second, he just stood there, taking you in like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

And when you did a little twirl—letting the dress cling and shimmer in all the right places—he damn near lost it.

“Holy—,” he started, but his voice cut off as he raked a hand through his hair, exhaling with a sharp breath. But then…then he saw the chain. The delicate gold and black diamond ‘J’ draped around your thigh, catching the light with every subtle movement.

“Is that—,” he said a little quieter, slowly walking toward you as his eyes remained glued to that specific piece of jewelry. You bit your lip, watching his reaction play out with pure satisfaction. Then, with the smallest tilt of your head, you shifted the dress slightly, unbuttoning the slit just a bit to let him see it better. His breathing hitched. “Is that…my initial?”.

He was right in front of you now, close enough for you to see the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his jaw clenched like he was trying so hard to keep his composure. But he was failing.

Miserably.

“Mmhm,” you hummed, your voice dripping with amusement.

Joe let out a low curse under his breath, dragging a hand down his face before shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, without a single warning, his hands found your hips, gripping tight enough to make you gasp.

“...Joe—,”.

He leans in, lips hovering just below your earlobe, “You’re killing me, baby,” he whispers, voice strained and raspy, which combined with the way he was hand was firmly placed on your hip, only meant one thing.

He’s horny.

Slowly, a satisfied smirk tugged at your lips as you felt the heat of his breath against your skin, his grip on your hips tightening like he was using every ounce of restraint not to lose himself right then and there. His nose brushed against the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and you swore you felt him shudder. “Wearing my initial on your thigh like that…you knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you?”.

You tried to stop a giggle from escaping your lips, but it came out as more of a breathless hum. “Maaaaaybe,”.

Joe groaned, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were dark, heavy with something deep and unfiltered. His jaw clenched, his fingers flexing against your hips before he sighed heavily like he was trying to shake off whatever thoughts were running wild in his head. “You expect me to just carry on after this? This dress is insane on you, and you’re already gorgeous as is but…damn, Y/N. Makin’ me feel a lot of things right now. You look so…so gorgeous, and I swear I’m about to short-circuit,” he muttered, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his downfall.

“You managed to make it here in one piece,” you teased, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against the fabric of his suit jacket. “Maybe that means your self-control isn't as bad as you think,”.

Joe let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah? You think so?” his fingers trailed lower, brushing against the exposed skin of your thigh, just above where the chain rested. His touch sent a shiver up your spine. “Because right now, all I can think about is how fast I can get us out of here,”.

You raised a brow, pretending to consider it even though you knew that you couldn’t skip this even if you begged Jen on your knees. “That would be a real shame, wouldn’t it? After all, I did put this whole look together just for you. Made sure I showed off just enough of everything to keep you on edge all night…so you wouldn’t get bored,”.

Joe's head tilted, his lips twitching in frustration. “You’re evil,” he muttered, his hands squeezing your waist one last time before he forced himself to step back. He dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath before shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m gonna need a damn miracle to make it through this night without ripping your dress off at any given chance,”.

You slouched your shoulders, feeling a little more at ease now that he was by your side. “And I’m gonna need a miracle to make it through tonight without having a manic breakdown,” you nervously chuckled, grazing over his suggestive joke and suddenly feeling the reality of the situation as if you hadn’t spent weeks preparing for this specific moment.

You’d have to face the buzzing cameras, the invasive questions, deal with the whispers and the constant attention—good or bad—for the first time in nearly a year. You’d been away from all this, and although you had slowly made your way back into the limelight during Cannes & Paris last month, treated it as a quiet reintroduction, this was the biggest test.

Because not only were you just walking the carpet, you were making a statement. A statement that you were back, not going anywhere anytime soon, and you were happy. Your smile would be brighter than the stars, genuine and heartfelt. But most importantly, the pristine image they created of you would finally crumble.

You could finally just be you.

This was the first time you were putting yourself back in the game, pushing yourself back into the fold of the business you lived for. The last time the world saw you, you were a ghost of yourself, swallowed whole by the weight of everything that had gone wrong. They had watched as your life unraveled in real-time, dissecting every misstep, every crack in the facade you had so carefully built. You had become their favorite tragic storyline.

But now, you were coming back—stronger, sharper, more in control than ever. Reclaiming your throne with more confidence, talent, edge, and zero fucks to give. And yet, not giving a fuck was what made this so terrifying. It was a constant tug of war inside your mind between the girl ready to make that statement and the girl who cowered in fear of the idea of this backfiring.

The sharp sting of those words echoed in your mind, rumbling through your chest, threatening to dim the light you had fought so hard to reclaim.

“Because when people fall out of love with you, there’s nothing you can do to make them change their minds. They just don’t love you anymore,”.

You had said it once. Spat it out like poison on a night when sleep was the last thing on your mind, in the dim glow of his living room, wrapped in the kind of grief that felt like it would never leave your bones. And those words were all you could think of currently.

Joe's expression softened instantly as he carefully watched your movements. He could see it—the way your fingers toyed with the fabric of your dress, the slight tremble in your breathing, the way your confidence wavered just for a second. And that second was enough for him to step in, to remind you why you were here, why you were meant to be here. “Hey,” he murmured, reaching for your hand. His thumb traced soothing circles along your skin, a simple but significant gesture. “You don’t need a miracle, baby. You’ve already got this,”.

You huffed out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to worry about the screaming paparazzi or interview questions designed to make you slip up. I swear to god if I hear one of them pass a single disrespectful comment or ask me about him. I’m walking right out,”.

Joe smirked, squeezing your hand. “And as you should. But you know, I do have to make sure I don’t black out the second I see you step onto that carpet, looking the way you do,”.

That earned him a small smile, but the nerves still lingered. He could feel it. He had become an expert at seeing right through you, even when you tried your hardest to hide your emotions from everyone around you. He’d only been with you for a short amount of time—compared to some of your friends and family—but somehow, he knew you better than they ever could.

So, he did what he knew best. He anchored you to him, his fingers tightening around yours as his blue eyes locked onto yours, and he spoke to you. And if there was one thing Joe Burrow was good at? It was speaking.

He was the best listener you knew, but even better at giving advice. Every word that left his lips was thought out, measured, and laced with a warmth that could bring you back from the deepest trenches of your mind. He had this way of making even the most chaotic moments feel painless, like everything wasn’t as terrifying as it seemed. And when he spoke to you specifically, his words were extra soft. Not once did he lose his patience, raise the tone of his voice, or even utter a word that would rub you the wrong way.

“I know this is big. I know it’s a lot all at once. But you’re not walking out there alone. You’ve got me, you’ve got Jen, you’ve got your team. And more than that? You’ve got the entire world watching, waiting to see you own that carpet and stage he way only you can. Waiting to see you come back and take what was always yours,” he assured while giving you a warm smile. “Remember everything we worked on these past few months, okay? Number 1. They don’t know you. Number 2. They don’t own you. Number 3. They can’t touch you. You control this game, now. They wanted you gone, so you did what they asked and you took your shit and left. Now, you’re back. And now, they’re all waiting out there for you. They follow what you do. They listen to what you say. And they are afraid of what you’re going to do. Not the other way around. You’ve made them wait for months to the point where they need you. You don’t need them,”.

You took a deep breath, letting his words sink into your skin. He was right. You’d spent months away from this world, rebuilding your life, your confidence. Spent all your time refocusing, rewiring everything they’d forced upon you.

He was right. They needed you.

They needed you because they could feel the weight of your absence, the lack of the kind of excitement only you could bring to the table. An empty hole in the industry that many tried to cover, but failed miserably. And that was because there was only one you. You’d taken the time to heal yourself and prepare yourself for the moment when you’d have to come back. And now? Now was that moment. And you weren’t just walking the carpet.

You were taking it back.

Your name.

Your reputation.

Without speaking a single word, you launched yourself forward, looping your arms around his neck and burying your face into his chest. You inhaled the scent of his expensive cologne, a warm mix of sandalwood, amber, and the faintest hint of something undeniably him. It was intoxicating, comforting, the kind of scent that wrapped around you like a protective shield.

Joe didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you in tight like he was trying to mold you to him, like he could hold you together even when the world threatened to pull you apart. And for a moment, everything else faded. The noise, the flashing cameras waiting just beyond the door, the weight of expectation pressing against your chest. None of it mattered—not when you were here, safe in his arms, breathing him in like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

“You good?” he murmured against your temple, voice laced with concern.

You nodded, but your grip on him tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit jacket.

“Liar,” he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You exhaled a shaky breath, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Those blue eyes that had saved you once before. That were still saving you now.

It was almost strange how effortlessly he could pull you back down to earth when your mind started to spiral. Joe excelled at just about everything—football, leadership, and being a role model for his fans. But if there was one thing he was truly unmatched at, one thing he did better than anything else…

It was being your person. And not once did he ever make you feel like that was difficult for him to do.

“Just…don’t let go yet,” you whispered, wanting to stay in the quiet calm of this special moment for as long as humanly possible.

Joe’s lips twitched, but there was something serious in his gaze as he ran a hand down your back, soothing you, steadying you. “Not a chance, baby. Not a fucking chance,”.

—

A half-hour later — Red Carpet

The moment your heels touched the edge of the carpet, a small wave of nerves crashed over you like the first signs of an impending storm. The sight of the flashing lights, the sound of the camera shutters…they were relentless. A blinding, dizzying storm of light and noise. You hadn’t stepped onto the actual center carpet yet since you were waiting for Joe to finish his conversation with Jen, but you could already hear the voices calling your name, overlapping in a chaotic symphony. You could feel their eyes burning into your skin, and that sensation made your skin crawl. God, you had almost forgotten how much you hated this part of what you did.

You took a sharp inhale, nervously adjusting the fabric of your dress with your trembling fingers as you waited for Jen to lead you over. Once you felt her gentle hand wrap around your forearm, you knew it was go time. “I’m okay…I’m okay,” you mentally chanted, but were you trying to convince yourself that you weren’t about to burst into tears…or everyone else?

But then, the second your gaze locked with the paparazzi—the eager voices calling your name—something in you shifted. Suddenly, the nerves, the hesitation, the creeping doubt? Gone with the wind.

“Well, that was easy,” you smiled to yourself, surprised at how all it took was the call of your name for you to calm down. But just like how it wasn’t easy for you to reach this point in your life—where you felt secure in the world you’d built, deeply in love with the man of your dreams, excited about your future—it wasn’t going to be easy to just waltz back into this world, despite how seamless it initially felt. And that fact hadn’t hit you just yet.

Like flipping a switch, you straightened your posture, lifted your chin, and stepped forward with a grace and confidence that had taken months to master. Your movements were effortless, your expression poised. This time was different. This wasn’t like the years before when you let them dictate your every move—the way you smiled, how long you posed, how much of yourself you gave away.

No.

This time, you were in control.

“Y/N! Over here!”.

Flash.

“We missed you!”.

“How’s Joe?”.

“A little to the right!”.

Flash. Flash.

“Y/N, look over here!”.

“Gorgeous! Stunning!”.

Joe stood off to the side, just beyond the madness, watching you with pure awe. He had seen you like this before from a distance—poised and radiant under the spotlight—but there was something different about tonight, about seeing it up close. Maybe it was the way the dress clung to your body or the way your presence commanded attention even when you felt like crumbling beneath it. Maybe even the way you were standing there as yourself for the first time, and not the version of yourself the media had created. Either way, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

But unfortunately for you, nice things don’t always last as long as you’d hope. You could feel it—the creeping anxiety, the familiar pressure pressing against your ribs because well, it was too good to be true. Did you really think they’d learned to be respectful and less invasive during the time you were gone? Please.

“Why’d you disappear?”.

Flash.

“What happened between you and him?”.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

“Did you cheat on him with Joe?”.

“The chain on your thigh, is that for Joe?”.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, and your chest tightened as the chaos began to overwhelm your senses. The cameras, the flashing lights, the sea of eyes dissecting your every move, it began to blur all into one maddening hum. That familiar heat crept up your spine, flushing your cheeks and burning your eyes.

And those questions? Those fucking questions?

Had they just…forgotten? Forgotten how he had shattered you, how he had stripped you down to nothing, piece by piece, betrayal by betrayal? Had they forgotten how it all came crashing down in one disastrous, very public fallout? The leaked texts, the photos, the posts that turned into headlines overnight?

Had they forgotten him? The man who made you doubt everything you ever knew about love? Because you sure as hell hadn’t.

They had the audacity to think you cheated? Did your previous album just write itself? Did you simply disappear for almost a year just because you felt like it?

And then it hit you. You were feeling exactly like how you felt nearly a year ago.

Like history was repeating itself in the worst way possible.

Like you were back in that hotel room, the one you fled to because the paparazzi had opened up shop outside your home, waiting for a glimpse at you. A glimpse at America’s new favorite tragic storyline—who couldn’t keep her picture-perfect relationship or career straight. It was like you were holding your phone again, hands trembling as you scrolled through an endless flood of headlines. What Really Happened Between Them? The Fall of a Pop Superstar. America’s Sweetheart: Not So Sweet After All?

Rumors twisted into daggers, and speculation sharpened into accusations. Each tweet, each article, each dissected frame of your past relationship pushed deeper into the open wound until you weren’t sure where their version of you ended and the truth began.

And now, here you were. Face-to-face with the past.

Your breath hitched.

Your body betrayed you, a subconscious step back—small, but telling. The doubt crept in first, then the fear, then the overwhelming weight of it all. For the first time in a long time, you felt her—the girl you used to be. The one who had crumbled under the pressure, who had let the world convince her she was nothing more than a failed love story.

Then, like instinct, like second nature, like it was all you knew, you turned your head in search of him.

Joe caught your nervous gaze in an instant, and he moved without a second of hesitation. He didn’t even need you to say anything, because he just knew. He saw it happen in real time, how your loose posture stiffened, how you dug your fingernails into your palm, how your radiant smile faltered for a split second.

He saw the way your eyes were slowly softening, crying out for him with a silent plea.

The second he was at your side, his presence wrapped around you like thick armor, shielding you from the suffocating fog that was forming around you, making it harder for you to breathe. His large, warm hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the black fabric of your dress just enough to let you know—I’m here. After he gave you that gentle squeeze, like clockwork, your shoulders dropped, your breath evened, your pulse no longer hammering against your ribs. It was like he turned down the heat just before the water boiled over, keeping everything steady before it could spill into chaos.

But even though you had relaxed a little, the cameras didn’t stop. The voices didn’t stop.

“Are you nervous to see him?”.

Flash.

“Is it true you have an album coming out?”.

“Joe, how does it feel knowing she wrote an entire album about another man?”.

Flash. Flash.

“Joe, how do you feel about her past?”.

Your jaw clenched, but before you could let the words settle in your mind, lose yourself in the nonsense, before the whispers could crawl under your skin, Joe leaned in, his lips brushing just below your ear. With a bold grin he murmured, “I cannot wait to fuck you tonight,” voice rough around the edges in a way that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “After you win everything and steal the spotlight like I know you can,”.

A breathy laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, all the cameras caught it. Thankfully, they couldn’t hear his words because they were being drowned out by the sound of their own relentless questions. God, you’d seriously never show your face again (for real this time) if they heard something that was strictly meant to be spoken in private. When you tilted your head to look at him, you looked straight into his eyes, instantly sensing exactly what he was doing. Calming you, distracting you, making sure you stayed with him instead of plunging into the chaos.

And damn it, it worked. Like a charm.

For once, his cheeky comments and shamelessness were to thank, usually they made you roll your eyes but now they were your saving grace. You still rolled your eyes, however, but smiled because of his silly, maybe even slightly insatiable way of getting through to you. “Watch your tongue, Burrow,” you grinned as you leaned into him for just a second longer, letting yourself relish in the heat radiating off of him, the way his fingers toyed with the fabric of your dress, his hand slipping lower and lower. But then…

“Joe! Kiss her for the cameras!”

“Give us something good!”

“Show us you’re not just the rebound!”

Your grip on him tightened, that last particular comment hitting a little closer to your heart than you would have liked. “They just wouldn’t quit, would they?” you thought to yourself, the idea of Joe, the man you’ve been calling your home for 9 months, being a rebound, was sickening. And Joe being Joe, once again noticed your mild discomfort instantly.

He turned to you, tilting his head slightly, blue eyes sparkling with something mischievous and entirely too smug. It was the shade of blue his eyes had been all those times he’d motioned for you to sneak off with him to one of the storage closets during practice. The shade of blue his eyes had been every time he pulled you into his childhood bedroom when you were visiting his parents, just because he needed you alone, because he missed the taste of your lips. The shade of blue his eyes were every time he asked you to run away with him.

And then, before you could react—he pulled you close and kissed you. He just kissed you so casually in front of an entire audience of paparazzi, in front of every single person in this room. The man who despised PDA, who hated flaunting his affection, just pressed his lips to yours in front of the entire world.

Not just a quick peck for the cameras. Not just a half-hearted attempt to silence the speculation.

No, this was a soft, warm, slow kiss. A kind of kiss that you two shared in private, away from the rest of the world because it was far too sacred to share.

A statement. The statement.

It silenced the whispers, shattered the doubts, and rewrote the narrative in real time. It wasn’t a rebound. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t a carefully calculated move for the cameras. This was real—undeniably, unapologetically real. It was a declaration, bold and clear, that your love was something to be celebrated, not dissected. That he wasn’t just standing beside you—he was standing for you. He didn’t have to kiss you, he really didn’t. But he wanted to, and he did it with no room for hesitation or doubt. This said that as long as he was here, no one could touch you, no rumor could shake you, and no ghost from your past could haunt you.

It was a testament. To him. To you. To the love you had built; one that didn’t just survive the storm, but came out stronger on the other side.

Your breath hitched, your body momentarily frozen as his lips moved against yours with the kind of certainty that made your head spin. You knew how he felt about things like this, but at this moment, it seemed like he didn’t care at all. The flashing cameras, the relentless voices, the suffocating atmosphere, all of it melted away.

It kind of reminded you of the first time you kissed him.

When he pulled back, there was a knowing smirk tugging at his lips, like he knew exactly what he had just done to you. “Oh,” you breathed out, blinking up at him.

Joe chuckled, his thumb brushing against your waist, his voice teasing as he leaned down again, just for you. “What? Didn’t see that coming?” he smiled.

No, you didn’t. That was exactly why your jaw went slack, eyes locked onto his as the butterflies in your stomach turned into a full-blown hurricane. The cameras flashed in rapid sequence, capturing every lingering glance, every effortless touch, every moment between you and Joe that was sure to dominate headlines by morning.

You barely had time to process it before you felt his hand glide back to your waist, his fingers pressing firmly into the fabric of your gown as he subtly angled your body toward the cameras. And then, like this was the most natural thing in the world, he pulled you in just a little closer, flashing that signature Joe Burrow smile—the one that had fans wrapped around his finger and the paparazzi eating out of the palm of his hand.

He was giving them a show. Giving them exactly what they wanted while maintaining the wall that prevented them from prying into your carefully crafted safe space. And the thing was? He wasn’t even trying.

You held onto him a little tighter, standing tall beside him, your confidence growing under the ardency of his touch. A few more poses were made, some designed specifically to show off your thigh chain, which was making Joe’s body temperature rise by the second, but also should be doing numbers online by now. You gave them a few more smiles, a few more adorable moments caught in the flashing lights as you made your way down the carpet. But suddenly, as you were nearing the end, it felt like the energy shifted; like the clouds outside had become dark with warning, like the stitches along your heart—the one’s Joe placed—were being picked at.

The yells started again. Louder. More urgent.

“There he is!”. “Y/N, look!”.

You felt your heartbeat come to a sudden pause, your breath hitching and your stomach churning all in one go. It was the feeling of pure dread curling in the pit of your stomach, like ice-cold water was rushing through your veins. Your body tensed instinctively, muscles freezing as your eyes darted toward the paparazzi who were all looking back. The room suddenly felt like it had shrunk, the walls closing in as the once-deafening crowd faded into white noise. You could hear the blood pounding in your ears, and feel the weight of every inhale, every exhale, as if the very air had condensed around you.

Your fingers tightened at your sides, “No. Not here. Not now,” you muttered under your breath. And when you followed their gazes back onto the carpet, your entire world tilted on its axis in a way it hadn’t since last year.

You saw him. He was there. He was here.

Your ex.

His piercing green eyes locked onto yours with an unsettling sharpness, as if he was trying to tunnel his way back into your soul, back into the very place he once claimed as his own. The same soul he had cradled with whispered promises and sweet nothings, only to stab away at it with his insecurities, his flaws, his selfishness.

And you hated it.

What was worse—what made your skin crawl—was the way he dared to smile at you. That same cheshire cat smile he used to flash when he wanted to smooth things over, to lull you into compliance, to make you forget the way he had gutted you time and time again. As if he thought he still had that power over you. As if he thought he had the right to look at you like that after everything he had done—after turning your love into a battlefield, after making you question your worth, after reducing you to nothing but a fractured version of yourself.

And the cameras? They were capturing every second of it.

They weren’t catching the invisible scars he had left behind, the ones that only you could feel. They weren’t catching the nights you had spent fraying in the dark, trying to piece yourself back together from the wreckage he had left behind. They weren’t catching the way he had rewritten your reality, made you second-guess everything you knew about yourself.

No. They only saw the spectacle. The headlines. The narrative. And the worst part? He didn’t even care.

The blissful bubble you had been floating in popped in an instant, a flood of memories hitting you like a freight train. The things he said to you, those poisonous words that you thought were the truth, they came rushing back.

“You’re exhausting, you know that? It’s always something with you,”.

“Nobody actually cares about you in this industry, they just care about what you can give them,”.

“Maybe if you weren’t so needy, I wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere,”.

“You act like I hurt you so badly, but you should be thanking me. I made you relevant,”.

“You’re never satisfied. I could give you the world, and you’d still find something to complain about,”.

“You act like you’re perfect, like you never did anything wrong in this relationship,”.

“She’s just a friend, stop being like those other girls, Y/N,”.

The way he made you question yourself. The guilt trips. The gaslighting. The loneliness that had stewed even when you were right beside him. It all came back to you, making you feel like it was just yesterday when your entire world, the only one you knew, crumbled to pieces and went up in flames.

You didn’t even realize you had zoned out until you felt Joe’s touch, and when you did, you jumped from the warmth he brought back to your ice-cold skin. “Hey, hey,” his voice was softer now, laced with concern. His fingers brushed over your hand first, then your cheek, coaxing you back to him. “It’s okay, It’s okay. I’m here,”.

He had seen him too, and the anger Joe was feeling was far worse than anything you were. He had to control the urge to walk over there and swing at him, make that pathetic excuse of a man feel the same kind of pain he inflicted on you that had you feeling like this even months later.

Joe didn’t have to say his name for him to understand how you felt. He didn’t have to ask because he knew what you were feeling, because he could recognize the look in your eyes. His other hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek in soothing strokes. He dipped his head, forcing your eyes to meet his. “I love you,” he murmured, quiet and soft enough just for your ears to catch. “I’m here now. It’s going to be okay. He can’t hurt you,” he said, the look in his eyes drawing you in. They were endless, like the deep ocean at midnight, swirling with something extensive and unlimited. Small streaks of lighter blue shimmered like stardust caught in the waves, galaxies trapped beneath his irises. There was something magical about them, something that made you feel light, like if you stared too long, you might get lost and never find your way back. But you didn’t want to look away. His eyes held everything—comfort, love, a silent promise that you were safe, that as long as he was here, nothing could touch you.

He had spent the last nine months proving that your past didn’t scare him. That the baggage you carried wasn’t a burden, but something he wanted to help you hold. That love—real love—didn’t come with conditions, ultimatums, or twisted justifications. Joe had seen the cracks in your foundation, the places where love had once lived before it was shattered, and instead of stepping around them, he had sat beside you, helping you piece yourself back together. He didn’t ask you to forget, didn’t rush you to heal—he just stayed and waited.

He loved you when you were radiant and untouchable, standing under the bright lights with the world at your feet. But more importantly, he loved you in those quiet moments, when you couldn’t stand on your own. When you were lost in the shadows of your past, gasping for air under the weight of memories that tried to drag you back.

And right now, that love was all you needed to believe in. “...Okay,” you nodded, eyes fluttering shut as you breathed in his comforting scent and melted under his touch. You needed to remember that he was the past, no longer a factor in your future, a future that was as bright as the light shining on you. No longer something you’d let yourself be defined by because you were defined by the things you loved.

You had healed. You had grown. You were happy.

And you did all of that without him. You did all of that with Joe.

Joe kissed your forehead softly, lingering for just a second before gently guiding you off the carpet, ignoring the chaos behind you and bringing you back to reality. His eyes locked with Jen, who was already rushing to your side along with the rest of your team. You felt her hand gently grab your free hand, a sign of confidence given as she gave a firm squeeze, “You did amazing, Y/N. I had no idea he would be here, let alone get on the carpet right after you. But you did great, seriously,” she assured you, and after taking another deep breath, you returned her sentiments with a soft smile.

“You need to thank Joe, you know,” you laughed quietly, nudging his hand to get his attention as the two of you made your way through the doors toward the entrance to the main hall. The distant hum of the crowd buzzed through the walls, a persistent reminder of where you were, of what was waiting just beyond the next turn. “I may have been toeing around the manic breakdown territory line, but he did what he always does,” you smiled up at him.

“Save you?” he simply asked, tightening his grip on your hand as you both passed more paparazzi, who seemingly took a step back once they saw the look in Joe’s eyes. One that screamed: That’s enough of that. Freak her out again and I’ll throw you across the room like a football.

You stepped through the last curtain, the dim backstage hallway meshing with the electric glow of the arena. The moment you stepped into the open, the mere scale of it hit you like a tidal wave. Hundreds upon hundreds of people filled the seats on the floor and throughout the arena, the air vibrating with excitement and anticipation as this night was known for when musicians left their marks and had their moments at the center stage. The massive stage was illuminated in deep silvers and golds, shimmering under the lights and it stole your breath, just for a second. It was like this was your first time being here, and in a way…it kind of was?

It was your first time here as the new you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around Joe’s as your eyes traced the stage—the very place you had poured your heart out, which felt like a lifetime ago, where your voice had carried through every inch of this arena, where you had left pieces of yourself behind in every lyric. Seeing it now, bathed in light, surrounded by the crowd’s buzz, made something settle in your chest. Pride. Awe. A little disbelief.

Who knew you could have missed the sights and sounds of this place so much?

Joe squeezed your hand, bringing you back to him. “Hey,” he murmured, ducking his head slightly so you’d meet his eyes. “You okay?”.

You nodded, exhaling, your lips curving into a small smile. “You don’t need to save me,” you finally answered, glancing up at him. “You do that thing…with your eyes, and your touch. Like you’re asking me to run away with you without actually saying it…when I get like that. All zoned out and nervous,”.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “And would you?”.

You leaned into him, heartbeat calming, a comforting heat radiating between you as you looked back at the stage—at the place where you belonged. “Every time,” you whispered, a little breathy as if the shimmering lights, open stage, and sleek black microphone had cast a spell over you, making it hard for you to focus on him.

And as he led you toward your seats, his fingers laced with yours, thumb sliding up and down yours out of habit, you knew the past couldn’t touch you here. Not with him by your side. This was your night, and nothing would stand in the way of taking back what was once yours. But most importantly, Joe wouldn’t let anything get in the way. Whether it was your own nerves threatening to take over and strangle your confidence or the ghost of your past trying to cast a shadow over your moment, he was there to shield you.

He had seen you plant the seed of this night long ago, watching you from afar, from the screens, before he got to know the woman behind the art. He watched as you nurtured this album through storms of doubt and heartbreak, as you tended to it with passion and dedication. And now, as it finally bloomed into something magical, something with the potential to be extraordinary, he wasn’t about to let anything ruin it.

You had grown, and flourished despite everything meant to break you. That was the most admirable thing about you. Your strength, your ability to rise from the ashes time and time again—like a flower pushing through the cracks of concrete, refusing to fall—were some of the biggest reasons he had fallen in love with you.

Joe had always known you were special, but watching you now, still standing tall under the pressure of it all, he was reminded of just how unstoppable you truly were. No matter how many storms had tried to destroy you, you had only come back stronger, more vibrant, more you than ever before. And to him, that was the most beautiful thing in the world.

—

The ceremony was in full swing just a half hour later, and once it all commenced, you felt yourself easing into the moment, the tension in your shoulders loosening bit by bit. The spectacle of it all—the glittering stage, the flashing cameras, the sheer magnitude of the night—had initially been overwhelming, but now, surrounded by the best company, it felt a little less daunting.

You were seated with the perfect group—Joe, Jack, Margaret, Taylor, and Sabrina—each of them a pacifying presence in their own way. Laughter bubbled up between sips of champagne, conversations floating effortlessly between catching up and playful banter. For a moment, it almost felt like just another night out with friends—except, of course, for the hundreds of people in the arena, the millions watching from their homes, and the fact that your name had already been called more than once by the presenters on stage.

That’s right…more than once.

Three times to be exact.

Once for Best Pop Solo Preformance, which had you frozen for a good 10 seconds once it was announced, then for Record of the Year, which you nearly missed because you were in the bathroom, and finally—one of the most important categories—Song of the Year.

It hadn’t registered in your brain that this was really happening, that your talent and work were being recognized in the highest regard. You really came into this expecting absolutely nothing, especially after the year you had, and well, pissing off your ex-boyfriend’s dad who happened to be the very respected CEO of your former record label doesn’t exactly increase your standing in the industry. But regardless of everything that happened, the label switch, the breakup, the drama, they were celebrating your piece of work and you without any hesitation. But you were still confused as hell each time you heard your name, like…did they actually care? Because it sure as fuck didn’t feel like they did when you actually needed them in your corner.

That’s why you couldn’t believe it when you heard your name come from the stage…again. You were mid-sip of champagne, fully convinced that Taylor would win for SOTY, already half-turning toward her to celebrate her moment—until the words actually registered in your head.

“And the Grammy goes to...Y/N for ‘Is It Over Now’!”.

For a second, it felt like the world stopped. The golden lights blurred above you, the roaring applause barely reached your ears, and all you could do was sit there, mouth slightly open in shock, processing what had just happened.

Then, Joe was in your line of vision, his eyes wide before they crinkled with a proud, almost cocky smile. Before you could even think, you stood up and launched yourself into his arms, a squeal leaving your lips as he caught you effortlessly, lifting you slightly off the ground. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you tight as he pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your lips. The cheers from your table—hell, from the entire arena—only grew louder at the sight of it.

Joe swayed you side to side, his hands gripping your waist as he leaned back just enough to beam at you. “You did it, baby. 3 for 3 so far, like I told you. Full sweep,” he murmured, his voice filled with so much love it nearly made you tear up on the spot.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you turned, immediately dapping up Jack, who grinned and pulled you in for a tight hug. “I fucking told you!” he laughed, shaking you slightly. “Song of the Year, baby! Look at you!”. When you looked over you saw that Margaret was wiping at her eyes, her happiness for you—someone she considered a sister—coming out in the form of tears. Sabrina was screaming, letting everyone around you know that you just did that, “Look at her!! That’s my fucking girl!”. And Taylor? She looked both proud of one of her closest friends and in awe of how Joe was, once again, openly showing this much affection towards you in front of everyone.

It was perfect. So freaking perfect.

Heart still hammering against your ribs, you made your way to the stage, your entire figure shimmering and dazzling under the lights, and as you took the golden trophy in your hands from the presenter, you exhaled sharply into the mic, still dazed. Still unsure of how the hell you got up here in one piece.

You don’t remember what you were saying in your acceptance speech, almost feeling like your mind was detached from your body and you were moving on autopilot, but all you could sense was that whatever you were saying had everyone in the room looking up at you with a genuine proud smile. The same room of people who you had thought turned their backs on you a year ago, had stabbed you in the back when you were at your lowest, were celebrating you.

The only thing you did remember from your speech was something you wouldn’t normally do.

A dig.

The old you would never shade someone like this, let alone at all. She would quietly accept her award, give everyone their flowers, downplay her role in her own accomplishment—emphasis on her accomplishment—and leave the stage. Because that’s what she had been trained to do.

The new you? Oh, she didn’t care whose feelings were hurt, who was offended that they didn’t get a shout-out, or if he was listening.

Which was why…

“—And of course,” you added, voice laced with a syrupy sweetness that didn’t quite match the glint in your eyes, “A very special thank you to the one who inspired this lovely, lovely Song of the Year,”. You let the words sit in the air for a second, flashing a knowing, almost dangerous smile. “He knows exactly who he is,” you smirked, locking your eyes with the person you had so sweetly called out in front of an entire arena filled with celebrities, studio execs, media, and his own peers. “Thanks for that! ‘Cause now I got one of these,” you smirked, nodding towards the golden trophy in your palm.

The crowd lost it. Laughter, gasps, and even a few whoops filled the arena. They all knew who you were talking about, it’s not like your album and even this song was lacking any clues, and their reactions were doing exactly what you needed them to do. Make him nervous and show everyone your newfound edge.

When you scanned the crowd again, this time searching for something sweeter rather than sour & bitter, you saw Joe, still in his seat, throwing his head back with a laugh, shaking it in pure amusement. “God, she’s so good,” he chuckled to the rest of the table, his heart swelling with pride because he was witnessing the by-product of months and months of deprogramming and healing—unshakable confidence & the balls to grab the bull by the horns.

You grinned, shifting gears as you returned to what you originally meant to do up here. “But really, this means the world. Thank you for letting me do what I love. Thank you for letting my pain turn into something beautiful. And most importantly…thank you for letting me prove that I could still do this,”. You lifted the Grammy slightly in the air, a silent moment of gratitude before nodding at the crowd. “I love you guys. Thank you, again!”.

With that, you made your way offstage, an echo of applause filling the air, your heart still pounding, your hands slightly shaking from disbelief, but the moment you locked eyes with Joe again—all you felt was peace.

After the show went to commercial, you spent a few moments chatting with your peers as they came over to congratulate you, even allowing them a chance to formally meet your date, a few of them even wanted to take a photo with him because well…he’s Joe Burrow. You weren’t paying that much attention to what they were talking to him about because your attention was being held captive by the performance stage, feeling the nerves creep back in as you were soon going to be up there and doing what people came here to do—make their marks on the night where artistry was honored.

Once the conversations around you died down and the crowd dispersed, you eased back into your seat, letting out a breath of relief as you let yourself sink into the familiar fervor of Joe beside you. Your fingers absentmindedly tapped against your thigh, your eyes sweeping over the room, scanning for any trace of Jen. There was only one thought in your mind now, only one sound really.

The sound of the clock ticking.

Then, you felt it—Joe’s hand coming down over yours. The touch alone made your breath hitch, but it was what he did next that made your chest tighten. He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His lips were soft, the heat of his breath tickling your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The simple, intimate gesture calmed you, pulling you back from the whirlwind of nerves spinning in your chest.

His voice was quiet, just for you. “That was badass,” he murmured, his lips curling into a smirk against your skin. “Calling him out like that? You had the whole damn place eating out of your hand again,”. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, his blue eyes locked onto yours, filled with something intense—something that made you feel like the only person in the room. “You deserve every second of this, and I’m so fucking proud of you,”.

Your stomach fluttered, heat rising in your cheeks. Joe had always been proud of you, and had always been your biggest supporter, but hearing it tonight—after everything—hit differently. It settled deep inside your bones, quieting the self-doubt that sometimes crept in.

“I just spoke my truth,” you shrugged, squeezing his hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “And, okay, maybe I had a little fun doing it,”.

Joe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “A little fun?” he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to that husky, intimate tone that always sent a thrill down your spine. “Baby, you set the whole damn place on fire the second you touched the carpet. I seriously think the entire city will fall after you announce the album. Like triggering an earthquake not caused by the San-Andreas fault line,”.

A breathy laugh escaped you but it was unfortunately short-lived, the importance of what was coming next settled over you once again; the realization that you couldn’t escape the inevitable. The performance. The moment that would redefine everything. The moment you had been waiting for ever since you started recording reputation back in August. Your pulse quickened at the mere thought of being on that stage, singing those lyrics that nobody had heard yet, wearing those colors that were meant to usher you into a new era. You were excited about this, no doubt about that, but you were feeling those jitters again since you hadn’t done this in a very long time.

Joe must have sensed it because he gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze. “You ready for this?” he asked, looking at you with the most gentle smile humanly possible. He knew how to handle you in moments like these, with words that held the same kind of intensity his pep-talks to his guys during half-time would, but conveyed with a softness that allowed you to be vulnerable with him.

“I don’t deserve him,” you thought to yourself, a pout forming on your face because of how he could easily tell when something was bugging you. Before you could answer, some movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention. Jen was making her way toward you, her earpiece in place, phone in hand, her signature smile on her face. “It’s time,” she said, voice stable but laced with uncontrollable excitement as she also had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers tightening around Joe’s one last time before you stood. His eyes never left you, steady and sure, his silent way of saying, You’ve got this. I believe in you. You turned back to him before you walked away, your voice softer this time, but laced with that newly developed cocky confidence of yours that he adored so much, “Are you ready for it?” you asked, leaning down to plant a kiss on his smooth cheek.

His smirk deepened, something mischievous flashing in his eyes when he looked into yours after you pulled away. “Let the games begin,” he winked.

You stared into those beautiful blue eyes for just a few more seconds, fully taking in the last few moments of peace you had before you let Jen guide you backstage so you could get changed into your performance look. The moment you stepped behind the curtain, the energy shifted. The bass of the music thrummed in the floor beneath your feet. The buzz of the crowd vibrated through the walls. The anticipation was thick, electric, and ready to explode the second you stepped onto that stage.

“And next, she makes her long-awaited return to the center stage! A special performance by Y/N!”.

A breath shuddered from your lips as the wardrobe team rolled up the rack carrying your performance look—an all-black, sparkling bodysuit that shimmered like something unreal under the lights, knee-high boots—sleek and powerful.

The final nail in the coffin.

You flexed your fingers, rolled your shoulders, breathing through the last lines of nerves. “You got this…You got this,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else, shaking your arms to ease the tension and loosen your body.

Just behind the curtain, the stage was waiting for you. The entire world was watching to see what you were going to do, what your next move was going to be. Would the headlines in the morning be drenched in praise, commanding your return? Or would they drip with disappointment, another story of a star who couldn’t reclaim their light?

You refused to let it be the latter.

Fingers tightening around the edges of the vanity table, you stared into your own eyes through the mirror, searching for the fire that had carried you this far. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself against the whirlwind of nerves and adrenaline crashing through your veins.

Then, with quiet confidence, you whispered to your reflection, “Remember who you are,”.

—

The arena hummed with electricity as the lights dimmed, the murmurs of the crowd turning into a haunting silence. They didn’t know what was coming—nobody knew except for Joe and the people at your table. You had kept this a secret, held it close to your chest like a hidden weapon, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. They all expected you to perform your hit single, it was the most logical thing to do since it was your leading nomination tonight and the most safe move you could make after coming back to the scene.

But since you were in an era of unpredictability & breaking through the standards people set for you, you were going to do the exact fucking opposite. Safe is great, it’s comfortable and familiar, but risk is even more thrilling. You had been preparing to perform two unreleased songs from reputation for the past month, and this was it. Here it was.

The lights shifted to a dark mix of crimson red and black, the first haunting notes of Don’t Blame Me rang through the speakers as you stepped onto the stage. Your voice was sultry and controlled, your figure cloaked in the shadows as you hummed the opening melody of the song.

And then a few seconds later, the lights around you flickered away, a spotlight shining behind you highlighting your silhouette as the shadows moved in sync with the pulse of the song.

“Don’t blame me, love made me crazy…,” you sang slowly, your body gradually being revealed by the spotlight, cheers and applause ringing through the arena as you came into their lines of vision. “If it doesn’t you ain’t doing it right…,” you continued, now starting to walk forward towards the center of the stage—your stage.

Then, a flurry of background dancers and backing vocalists came onto the set, taking their places behind you as you smirked at the audience, fully immersed in the adrenaline that was coursing through your veins. And damn, it felt so good.

Like you were coming home. Like your thirst was being quenched for the first time in a century.

“Oh lord, take me, my drug is my baby, I’ll be using for the rest of my life,” you belted as the backing vocalists made the lyrics echo throughout the room through their voices, your own voice dripping with raw intensity, dripping with power. The bass rumbled through the stage beneath your boots as you continued, vibrating in your chest as the music built, electric and intoxicating. Your dancers moved behind you in perfect synchronicity, their bodies swaying, their movements sharp yet fluid, feeding into the dark, hypnotic energy of the performance.

Your arms stretched out, head tilting back as the lights flashed in perfect time with the crescendo, bathing the stage in pulses of deep crimson, gold, and black. You felt it—the power, the desire, the sheer force of hundreds of voices screaming your words back at you, feeling every single lyric as deeply as you did.

You continued through the song, your vocals had never been better, and you were hitting every move with an effortless ease that drove the entire crowd mad, giving them looks—the pettiness, the confidence, the change all shining bright.

The realization hit you right then and there—Joe was right. You were absolutely untouchable and unstoppable, the crowd goes wild at your fingertips. You surrendered yourself to the music and the choreography, allowing the drug that was performing on stage to overwhelm your senses and the euphoric rush to kick in.

As this song neared its end, you found yourself back in the center of the stage, your breaths coming in pants yet remaining controlled as you continued to the final verse. But just as they expected this game-changing performance to end here, you kept going.

With a wicked grin curling your lips, you let the words drip from your mouth like honey laced with poison. “Don’t blame me, don’t blame me, don’t blame me for what you made me do…,”. Your gaze swept across the crowd, calculated, searching. You weren’t just performing anymore—you were hunting.

And then, you found him.

Tucked away at one of the tables to the right of the stage, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. His skin had gone pale, his hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, his entire body stiff as if he had just seen a ghost.

You tilted your head, smirk deepening as you zeroed in. Slowly, you raised a single hand, finger raising like a loaded gun, pointing in his general direction. And then, you moved. A slow, calculated fall, lowering onto your knees with grace, eyes never leaving his. The lights shifted, bathing you in deep crimson again as you let the final words roll off your tongue, each word laced with venom. “Don’t blame me, don’t blame me, don’t blame me for what. you. made. me. do,”.

Boom.

The bass dropped, the lights pulsated, and the transition was seamless—Look What You Made Me Do crashing into the track like a strike of lightning, the guitar echoing through the air like thunder, like a second heartbeat pounding against your ribs.

The entire arena erupted.

It was an explosion of sound—cheers, screams, the electricity of bodies moving in sync with the rhythm. Every flick of your wrist, every strut across the stage was met with unrelenting energy from the crowd. This wasn’t just a performance. This was a reckoning. A return. Another statement.

The kick. The power. The sheer, indescribable high of being back where you belonged, doing what you did best. You had missed this—the stage, the heat of the lights, the deafening sound of your own name being screamed by thousands of voices.

You had starved for this moment. You had waited for this. You worked for this. From the looks on their faces, they had too. The question hung in the air, unspoken but loud—Why the hell did she disappear? Because watching you now, with all that fire, all that command, all that untouchable, magnetic presence—it was impossible to believe you had ever left.

You twisted and twirled, your dancers following in perfect sync, the dark, theatrical magnificence of the set shifting around you. Your lips formed a knowing smile, the adrenaline thrumming in your veins, pulsing with the beat, with every perfectly timed pause and drop.

And then, you reach the favorite part of your song. You mimicked a phone with your fingers, raising it to your ear as you looked out to the crowd, “I’m sorry, but the old Y/N can’t come to the phone right now,”. You shrugged, “Why? Oh…'cause she's dead!”. The bass drop that followed sent a bolt of electricity through the room, the strobe lighting, the movement of the dancers, your movements—it all came together. Those lyrics, it was a message to everyone. Bold, loud, and irreversible.

The old you, the one they all knew, she was gone. Your past was gone, and you were moving forward. The cameras caught every second—flashes of the audience, the stunned faces, the way everyone was fully, hopelessly, entirely enthralled.

And the man who supported you in getting here was watching it all. Joe stood at your table, eyes locked on you like you had personally rewritten the stars. He’d never seen anything like it before, the way you commanded the crowd with your enchanting voice, how everyone was stunned by the theatrics of the performance you’d spent hours designing with your team. His heart swelled at the sight of seeing you up there, so confident and sure of yourself, especially because he knew how nervous you had been for this. He had always believed in you, but seeing you like this? Seeing you reclaim every ounce of what was stolen from you—owning it—had him completely, utterly mesmerized.

You smiled when you saw that his phone was in his hand, recording every second of your performance which he would surely watch back with you tomorrow and give all of his adorable commentary. His jaw clenched, his lips twitching at the corners as he mouthed along to the words. The giant smile that played on his mouth displayed his pride, his awe, it was something deeper—something that made you tighten your grip around the microphone.

Then…your eyes met his directly. It was like a slow-motion collapse of everything around you, the world quieting to nothing but a faint hum, the screams and flashing lights fading into the background. It was just you and him. The man who was your anchor, your constant, and your everything. And in his eyes, you saw everything you needed to.

His heart swelled, his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and the look he gave you was filled to the brim with love, making your breath catch in your throat. Seeing how proud he was of you just made your love for him increase to a level you never thought was attainable, it physically hurt.

But in the best way possible.

After the performance — Backstage

“Oh my god! That was perfect,” Jen shrieked as she pulled you in for a tight hug, your breaths coming out in pants as you were trying to take in the moment. You had just finished the performance, your brain still hazy and legs feeling like jelly from everything that had just happened, and you had absolutely no idea how you made it backstage again, but somehow you did.

“Mm, Holy sh- shit,” you breathed out, looking around at the buzzing energy surrounding you. Everyone was beaming, clapping, celebrating like they had just witnessed history being made. And maybe they had? You couldn’t really focus on any of that right now because you were still riding the high you had from the performance. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, heart battering in your chest, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins like liquid fire.

You reached up, running a shaky hand through your hair, a breathless laugh escaping your lips as you tried to wrap your head around it. You had actually done it. You were back back, hadn’t missed a single beat, and somehow you were better than ever before. And it felt even greater than you could have ever imagined. “That was unreal,” someone said, patting you on the back. Another crew member handed you a bottle of water, which you eagerly accepted, taking a long sip to soothe your dry throat.

Jen was still gripping your shoulders, eyes lit with pride. “You owned that stage. Every single person in that room is losing their mind right now. Do you hear them?”.

You smiled at her mention of the crowd because you absolutely could hear them. Even backstage, you could hear the lingering echoes of cheers, the mere force of the crowd’s energy refusing to die down. There were probably about a million questions floating through their brains right now, and they’d all be answered soon—hopefully at least.

It sent another thrill down your spine. You let out another breath, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, I missed this. I really, really missed this,” you said, getting a little emotional as you felt tears start to pool in your eyes. You’d been away from the one thing that you lived for far too long, had to learn to let go of this all because it wasn’t doing you any good, but now you were back. And you were coming back so strong.

Jen grinned, her excitement oozing out of her as she gave you a gentle shake. “And this missed you,”.

Your fingers curled tightly around the water bottle, fingers rubbing against the condensation so you could cool yourself as you let the moment settle in. You could still feel the heat of the stage lights, the pounding of the bass in your chest, and the way the world had disappeared the second you locked eyes with Joe.

You knew that every time you looked into his eyes the world around you would disappear, go fully silent—whether you were quietly staring into them before you fell asleep in his arms or in moments of panic like earlier on the carpet. But you had no idea that it would happen while you were performing, thinking that the rush you would get would overpower everything else. But no, you were wrong.

He overpowered it, overpowered it all. Every single time, it was always him.

“…Joe,” you murmured absentmindedly, your mind drifting just like it had earlier when you were getting ready for the carpet. But the distant sound of the announcer’s voice snapped you out of your haze.

“And coming soon, the award for Album of the Year!”

“Oh, shit,” you muttered under your breath, not wasting another second to get back out there and with him. You knew that you wouldn’t have a lot of time with him before the final award of the night would be presented, no matter the outcome. Whether you win or lose, you’d become occupied by press, media, your team, and peers considering you would either A. announce/heavily tease your album in your acceptance speech, or B. immediately post the announcement on your Instagram page. Both outcomes meant little to no time to just exist with him, time you valued more than anything else in the world. So, after murmuring a quick, “I need to change,” to Jen, you slipped away from the commotion and made your way back toward the dressing room.

You slipped back into your dress, put all your accessories back on, and spent a few minutes adjusting your hair and touching up your makeup, replacing your black performance lipstick with your signature pink/red mix. “That really happened,” you laughed to yourself in the mirror while adding a little more lip liner to your bottom lip, “I…really…I really did it,”.

It took months and months of blood, sweat, and tears. But you actually did it. It was beautiful to see the difference that a year away from all of this could make in your life. For the first time, you felt at ease in every aspect—career, family, relationship, and friendships. You weren’t worried about what people were thinking, what criticism was running through their poisonous minds, you didn’t even care about if they liked the songs you just performed or not. Even better, you didn’t give a fuck about what he thought. He spent months tearing your name down in front of the same crowd you just performed in front of, and now? Now it was your turn. And this time, he would sit back and watch you reclaim the land that was always yours.

“That’s the last time I let someone take this from me,” you smiled, smoothing out the wrinkles in your dress before walking towards the door, your body filled with that kind of confidence you never thought you would be able to have.

When you made your way back into the main room, the energy in the air was filled with anticipation, which only meant one thing. The final awards were being presented—important ones, no doubt—but they were just the final steps leading up to the moment everyone was waiting for. Album of the Year. The pinnacle of the night.

Navigating through the sea of tables, you felt every brush of a hand, every nod of approval, every quiet applause from your peers as you passed. The high-fives, the murmured words of admiration—it all fueled you, straightened your spine, lifted your chin higher with each step. You had done that, they all were acknowledging it, and you felt like the hottest thing in the entire city of Los Angeles right now. You had earned this moment.

And then you saw him.

Joe was right where he had been before, standing at your table, his back straight, shoulders squared, but his head turning, scanning the room. Searching. For you. The second his eyes met yours, everything about him shifted. His pink lips parted slightly, his eyes softened, but there was something else there too. Something deep. Something raw. A fire burning just beneath the surface. A fire that was lit within him from just watching you up on stage, being effortlessly you.

And just like that, the rest of the world ceased to exist...again.

You moved toward him without thinking, your pulse thundering in your ears, but for an entirely different reason now. His hands were on you the moment you were close enough—pulling you in, gripping you like it was instinct, like he had been waiting for this exact second. No words. No hesitation. Before you could even take another breath, before you could fully process the rush of everything around you—he kissed you. His lips moved against yours with a cadence that made your knees nearly buckle, as if he was trying to say everything he was feeling without uttering a single word. His fingers curled around your waist, the tight grip of his hands steadying you as the noise of the room melted into nothingness.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly like he couldn’t believe you were real. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your cheek. “You were insane up there,”.

You exhaled a breathless laugh, still trying to process the way he was looking at you, like he had just witnessed something divine. “Yeah?” you asked him.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice low and steady, like he was making a promise. “I’ve never seen you like that before. You looked so…in control of everything. Like you could do anything your heart wanted. Like you had something else rushing through your veins, kinda like me when I’m out on the field. You didn’t even miss a single beat, no rust or anything. It was insane, Y/N. You were so amazing. You sounded so good, looked even hotter, and god, the way you were controlling the crowd? I’m in awe of you,”.

He had this twinkle in his eyes when he was speaking to you, like he couldn’t believe what he had seen, like he couldn’t comprehend the fact that this side of you existed. His brain was actively short-circling, and you could see it behind his pupils.

Adorable.

A blush creeped up your cheeks as you let him guide you back to your seat around the table, your hands still tangled in his for just a few extra seconds before you finally let go. But he didn’t. His arm draped over the back of your chair, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your shoulder, like he needed to keep that connection. “You feel it, don’t you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, just for you.

You turned to him, eyebrows raising. “Feel what?”.

His blue eyes scanned over your face, studying you like he was trying to commit every inch of you to memory. He didn’t have to explain. You knew exactly what he meant. That rock—the one that had been pressing down on your chest for the past year—was gone. That heaviness, the burden of expectations, of pain, of loss. It had lifted.

You weren’t carrying it anymore.

“You sound different,” he continued, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, almost in disbelief. “Not just on stage. Right now. There’s…something in your voice,”. He paused, tilting his head, eyes flickering over your face like he was searching for the right words. “Like a breeze. Like it’s lighter. Fresh. Cool,”.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by how deeply he saw you, how effortlessly he could put into words something you hadn’t even fully acknowledged yet. But he was right, and that made your heart burst. That ache that had lived inside you for so long was gone. The feeling of everything—the heartbreak, the exhaustion, the doubt—it had lifted the second you stepped onto that stage. And of course, Joe noticed. He always did. “I missed this,” you admitted, voice softer now, more vulnerable. “I missed…feeling like this,”.

Joe’s grip on your shoulder tightened slightly, his thumb pressing into your skin, promising and constant. “You never lost it,” he said firmly. “You just had to remember it was always yours,”.

A lump formed in your throat as you met his eyes again, thick and unmoving. It was all there—etched into the smooth curve of his lips, the softness of his gaze. The pride, the love, the relentless belief in you. It had never once wavered, not even in the moments you had convinced yourself you weren’t enough. Not even when you had crumbled, doubted, disappeared.

You wanted to tell him something, but you didn’t think you could because if you did you’d never stop crying. But not from unhappiness, but from overwhelming joy.

Thank you.

That’s what you wanted to tell him. Thank you for loving me when I couldn’t love myself.

Thank you for seeing me when I felt invisible, for holding me when I swore I was unlovable, for standing beside me when I thought I had nothing left to give.

These past nine months had been nothing short of a dream—one you had once been too afraid to believe in. From the quiet, stolen moments wrapped in his arms, when the world outside felt like too much, to the nights he stayed up just to listen. To remind you. To tether you back to yourself when doubt became too loud. Every whispered “you got this,” every brush of his fingers against yours, every look that said, I see you. I love you. I believe in you.

Every moment had led to this.

And the truth crashed over you all at once—you wouldn’t be standing here without him. But before you could say anything, before you could even take another breath, the presenter’s voice rang through the grand hall.

“And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for—Album of the Year!”.

The atmosphere changed in an instant. The quiet murmurs silenced, the entire room holding its collective breath. This was the moment that could change the trajectory of artists’ careers…or solidify their spot amongst the greats. This was the moment when they would declare whose year it had been, and which piece of music had captured everyone’s attention since the beginning. Which artist created something so special that it was impossible to overlook?

The competition was fiercer than ever this year. It had been an outstanding year for music—one that felt like a renaissance in its own right. The category was stacked with diversity, a seamless blend of genres that painted a vibrant picture of the industry’s growth. From pop anthems to soul-stirring R&B, from country storytelling to genre-bending masterpieces—every nominee had left their mark.

This could be your moment, and the thought of that made your stomach twist, your fingers instinctively gripping the fabric of your dress as if it were a pool floatie preventing you from drowning. Your previous album, Woodvale, had won big last time, you were leading the headlines for the entirety of the following week, but the one category that it didn’t win in, was this one. Even the media was stunned that you had managed to win in nearly all the big 4 categories, but somehow missed the mark for Album of the Year.

Back then, it had all been about your rookie year, about proving yourself, about what you could do with your first real shot at greatness. It was about potential, about possibility. About making a name for yourself. But this time…this time, the meaning of it was different. Heavier. More personal. This award wasn’t just about the music anymore. It wasn’t just about the headlines, the charts, or the record-breaking moments. It was bigger than that. It was everything. It was the months spent piecing yourself back together after the breakup, the nights that stretched into mornings as you fought through the doubt, the exhaustion, the voices in your head that told you maybe you weren’t enough. It was every lyric scribbled in the margins of your notebooks, every melody born from the deepest parts of your heart.

It was you. All of you. This award—if it was yours—would be a symbol. A testament to the resilience, the pain, the healing, the love, the sheer force of will it took to make it back to this stage.

And now, it all came down to this moment. Would they hear you? Would they see you?

Joe’s hand slipped under the table, finding yours in the dim lighting. His fingers curled around yours, soft and assuring, lacing them together like they always belonged there. The simple gesture made your chest tighten, your eyes flicking toward him. “You got this,” he whispered, the confidence in his voice pushing out the doubt creeping into your body.

Your pulse pounded against your ribs. The envelope was in the presenter’s hands now, their fingers curling under the flap, tearing it open with deliberate slowness. Your breath felt stuck in your lungs, the anticipation stretching out unbearably, like time itself was dragging this out just to make you sweat. Joe leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, calming you in a way only he could. “I love you regardless,” he murmured, his voice softer now, threaded with something so deep it made your heartache. “You're still number one. You always have been and always will be,”.

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as his words settled deep in your chest. That was all you needed to hear. Win or lose, the truth remained the same—you had already won in the ways that truly mattered. No trophy, no accolade, no industry recognition could ever measure up to the happiness he gave you, to the love that consumed you. You had already won the greatest prize of all—a life with him.

When you looked back up at the stage you saw how the presenters smiled at each other, dragging out the suspense, the golden card in their hands holding the answer that would either send you soaring or leave you swallowing disappointment.

A pause.

Your fingers tightened around Joe’s.

“And the Grammy for Album of the Year goes to…,”.

A heartbeat.

“Is It Over Now! Y/N!”.

For a moment—just one fleeting, impossible second—you didn’t react. It was like your brain refused to process the words, like you had misheard them, like they were meant for someone else.

But then the room erupted.

Cheers. Screams. Applause so loud it shook the walls. The sound crashed over you, a tidal wave of celebration, of validation, of everything you had fought so hard for. Your hand flew up to your mouth as the realization sank in, the camera capturing every second. A choked sob escaped your throat, tears instantly welling in your eyes.

Joe was on his feet before you could even move, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you into him like he had been waiting for this exact moment all night. Like he had always known it would happen. “You fucking did it,” he breathed against your hair, his voice carrying that light, drunken energy that made your cheeks blush—his grip impossibly tight.

Your hands clutched at the back of his suit, clinging to him as the first tears slipped down your cheeks. “I– I can’t believe it. Oh my god,” you whispered.

But it was real.

Your name was being called. People were standing, clapping, cheering for you. Your peers, your idols, the very people who had shaped you as an artist—they were all on their feet, celebrating you.

Joe’s grip on you tightened for a second, like he didn’t want to let go just yet. His hands trembled slightly against your skin, his chest rising and falling unevenly. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice nothing but a breath, a promise. “I told you this was yours,” he whispered. “I told you from the very beginning. And I will keep telling you every single day. I’m so proud of you, Y/N. I love you, superstar,”.

Your heart clenched, and for a moment, it wasn’t the flashing cameras or the roaring applause that filled your senses—it was him. His touch, his belief, the way he had always seen you, even when you couldn’t see yourself. You clung to him for a beat longer, forehead pressing against his, as you leaned in for a kiss. Before you pulled away, his hands slid down your arms, reluctant, but he let you go.

Because this moment was yours.

Jack was one of the first people you saw when you turned, hands in his hair, yelling, “I told you! I told you!” before practically tackling you into a hug. He was beaming, shaking you by the shoulders like he couldn’t believe it, like he could but still needed to make sure this was real.

Margaret was crying, again, hands clasped together in front of her mouth before she reached out to squeeze your arm, whispering, “You deserve this,”. Sabrina was standing a few feet away, eyes glassy but full of joy, nodding at you like she knew exactly what this meant. Like she understood every step it took to get here.

And then there was Taylor. She had been one of the first to rise, clapping, smiling so big her dimples showed, eyes filled with nothing but pride. The second you met her gaze, she mouthed, “Go. Go take it,”. The moment wrapped around you, overwhelming, breathtaking, years of hard work, pain, resilience, everything leading up to this.

And as you turned, taking that first step toward the stage, Joe called after you, his voice laced with everything he was feeling. “Go show them why you deserved this,”.

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, the kind that only came when you were overwhelmed with happiness. You nodded before turning back and going toward the stage again. Your legs felt shaky, your chest tight with emotion, but every step forward felt like proof. Proof that the sleepless nights, the pain, the doubt—it all meant something. Proof that no matter who tried to break you, you had built yourself back up stronger.

And now, as you reached out to accept the golden trophy, standing under the blinding lights, the applause still booming around you…You knew for certain.

It was never over. It had only just begun.

You stepped up to the mic, “Oh my God. Oh my God,” you say as you clutch the award, trying to catch your breath, voice already shaking. “I…wow. I don’t even know what to say right now,” you laugh tearily, your eyes pooling with tears while you scan the crowd. Every single person was standing for you, smiling for you, you couldn’t believe it.

You took a deep breath, one to calm yourself, before continuing, “This album…this album came from the hardest, messiest, most painful time in my life, as you all know,” you said, watching a few nods come from people in the audience. “I didn’t know if I’d ever feel okay again, let alone be standing here, holding this. When I was making Is It Over Now?, I wasn’t thinking about awards or charts or accolades—I was just trying to…survive. I was trying to put words to the heartbreak, the betrayal, the absolute destruction of everything I thought was real. And now, standing here, looking at all of you, I realize…maybe it all had to happen this way. Maybe this was always how the story was supposed to go,”.

You raised your hand to wipe the tear slipping down your cheek as you continued, “To my team, Jen, my producers Jack and Aaron—every single person who stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. I love you. We made something so real, so honest, and I’m so proud of what we created,” you smiled, pointing towards Jack at the table, watching him mouth a “Love you,” back to you. “And my fans…my god, my fans,” you laughed, allowing a moment for applause before continuing. “You guys have been with me through everything. Every high, every low, every moment where I thought I couldn’t keep going, you reminded me why I do this. You screamed these lyrics like battle cries, like prayers, like you knew—you understood me in ways I didn’t even understand myself. You defended me when I couldn’t defend myself. You stood by me when the world pulled me apart. And now, we stand here together. I hope you know that this isn’t just my award—this is yours. Because without you, I don’t know if I would’ve made it here,”.

You pause for a moment, eyes searching the crowd until they find him—Joe. Standing there, his eyes glistening, his hand swiping at his cheek, trying to hide the tears that he can't quite contain. But even through the emotion, his smile is wide, brighter than anything in the room, and it’s like the world fades away when you look at him

You’ve never talked about him like this before—not on a stage like this. Not in front of the world. But here, now, it feels like the right time. The moment feels like it’s meant to be.

Here we go.

“...And Joe…oh, god, Joe,” you laugh through the tears, a smile forming on your lips again as you make eye contact with him. You see his face soften immediately, his hand swiping at his cheek, but the proud, teary smile never fades. His eyes glisten, and you swear you see a flicker of disbelief behind them—like he can’t quite believe this is real, but it’s happening.

“You just waltzed into my life with those signature Cartier shades on your face, looking like the coolest guy in the room, with that grin of yours that’s practically been trademarked by now, and that Joe-Cool persona that’s become a part of you over the years,” you laughed, watching him tip his head back slightly, the familiar chuckle that only he could pull off escaping from his lips. “You came into my life when I honestly didn’t even know if I had one left,”. You paused for a moment, the words catching in your throat. Joe’s eyes softened as they always did when you got emotional, his hand brushing across his jaw like he was trying to hide the way his heart was swelling at every word. “When I thought love was just another lie, when I didn’t trust anyone, especially myself. And you didn’t try to fix me, you didn’t try to change me—you just stayed. You let me fall apart, and then you showed me I didn’t have to stay broken. I will forever appreciate you for that. These past few months with you have been everything I could have ever wanted, filled with so much love, and happiness, and so much carefree energy. Energy that I never knew I needed. You’re the first person to hear every song now, the one who sits on the floor with me at 3 a.m. because I have an itch to scratch and you want to be a part of it, who listens to every rough demo, every messy lyric idea, and somehow, you make me feel like every single thing I create is magic, even if it’s unserious and deliriously written,” you chuckle, the audience laughing along with you, some of them even having their hands over their hearts because of the way you were speaking about him.

“You changed my world the second you walked into it, like literally,” you smiled, remembering the night at the white party, the way he had looked at you with that easygoing grin, as if you were the only person in the room. “You told me I didn’t need to be perfect, like that silly football joke you cracked when we first met. You said, ‘I might throw a perfect pass on the field, but I’m still trying to figure out how to land a date without fumbling the ball’,” you laughed, the memory so clear, his voice, his playfulness, like it was yesterday.

He chuckled softly, nodding at the memory. That goofy, endearing smile that always had the power to light up the room. “You were so wrong, you know,” you teased him gently, “You didn't need to throw any passes. You already had me from the moment you looked at me,”.

You continued, looking at him, your heart swelling. “You made me believe in myself again, in us. And I will spend every single day for the rest of my life thanking you for that. Everything you touch is filled with love, with light, with joy—and I love you more than I could ever find the words to say,”. Joe’s eyes softened at your words, his gaze full of warmth. You could feel his heart in every look, in the way he just was with you, always there. “You know, I’ve got a lot more to say about you...but I think some things are better kept in the music, don’t you think?” you winked, giving him a subtle nod, knowing how much he loved those little secrets. The clear allusion to your next album sends waves of murmurs throughout the audience.

“I think the next chapter will be something special,” you added, a smile creeping onto your lips as you imagined what the future would hold, “And I can’t wait to share it with you. You are everything I never knew I needed, and so much more than I could have ever hoped for. Thank you…thank you for loving me the way you do,” you finished, feeling the weight of your love for him in the air between you both. And in that moment, it wasn’t the award, the spotlight, or the applause that mattered most. It was him. Always him.

You take a deep breath, your heart still racing, but this time, from a place of defiance. “And to the people who doubted me, who called me an industry plant, a one-hit wonder, who said I was only here because of someone else…oops,” you smirk, holding up the trophy as the crowd cheers once again. The specific dig aimed at the haters, the media, and even your former record label, lands with the perfect blend of sweet satisfaction.

You took a final deep breath, your gaze sweeping over the crowd. The applause was still rippling through the room, but now, you felt something deeper—something that had been building for months. “This album, this moment, everything—it's been a journey. A journey through heartbreak, through self-doubt, through finding myself again. I disappeared for a while, didn't I? I had to. To heal. To rediscover what I wanted to say. And it wasn’t easy. But sometimes, you have to step away to step into your truth,” you paused, your voice trembling slightly but filled with conviction.

“I’ve learned that growth comes from the toughest moments. The ones that break you open. The ones that hurt the most. And you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing. Every tear, every sleepless night, every song written in the dark, it all led me here, to you. To this stage. To this award. To a place where I can finally say, ‘I’m not afraid to be myself anymore’,”.

You smiled, your heart swelling with pride and something else, something new. “This album is a reflection of everything I've been through—the heartbreak, the lies, the lessons I never wanted to learn. It’s a journey from confusion and denial, through the painful realization of what was lost, to finally finding the strength to walk away. It’s about facing the truth, no matter how hard it is, and finding a way to rise from it,”.

The crowd cheered, and you raised the trophy slightly, a subtle nod to the story you'd just shared. “But…if you think this is the end? Well, you’ve got another thing coming,” you grinned, knowing exactly what that meant, knowing what was waiting to be unleashed.

“Because just like any great story, there's always more to tell. And trust me, the next chapter is going to be...unforgettable,” your voice dropped slightly, the weight of what you were hinting at sinking in. “I’ve shed my skin. Now it’s time for you to see who I really am,”. you smirked, the audience was on edge, eager for what was to come. After that, you winked and blew a kiss into the air, stepping back from the mic. “Thank you so much for this award! I’ll see you soon,”.

And just like that, you left them wanting more.

The second you step off the stage, the world behind you simply fades away. Joe’s hands are already around you, pulling you into a tight, all-encompassing hug that nearly makes you fall back. It’s not about the flashing lights, the cameras, or the millions of people still watching from their screens—it’s just the two of you in this moment, and that’s all that matters. His warmth floods through you, grounding you, making everything feel real as he sways you back and forth. “I am so damn proud of you,” he murmurs into your hair, voice laced with emotion, as if every word is a weight he’s been carrying since she walked out there. “You fucking killed it, baby. Congratulations,”.

This was like your Super Bowl, and this was the moment when the significant other would rush on the field to congratulate the champion. He was congratulating his champion.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the tears rise again, even though you thought you’d run out. You exhale shakily against his chest, clutching the award like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. “Did that really happen, Joe?” you ask him, threading your fingers through his hair, your voice soft and shaky, asking him as if you weren’t the one out there just now.

Joe pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands coming to your face, like he needs to hold you still, to savor every second of this. His thumbs gently brush away the stray tears on your cheeks, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you. “Hell yeah, it did. Believe it,” he says, his voice quiet and firm. “No one deserves this more than you, Y/N. You worked so hard for this,”.

The satisfaction in his eyes makes your chest tighten, and you can’t help but smile through the tears. It’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’re finally home. He’s not just proud of you; he’s in awe of you. And you can feel it in every touch, every look. You’ve always known he’s your biggest fan, but hearing it from him, seeing it reflected in his gaze—it makes everything worth it. You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “I…thank you,” you whisper, your voice breaking with a mix of gratitude and disbelief. “You’ve been with me through everything. And I just…I can’t believe you’re here, with me, in this moment,”.

Joe’s smile softens, his forehead coming to rest against yours for a brief second. “I’m always here,” he murmurs, like he’s trying to make you believe it’s true, even though you already know. Then, he smirks, rubbing his hand along the curve of your hip, each press of his fingers sending a jolt of heat through your frame. “Also…that speech?”.

You giggle through your tears, wiping your eyes as you shake your head. “Too much?”.

“Too much?” he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Baby, you just torched the place. Hit every topic, addressed everyone you needed to, and hit ‘em where it most definitely would hurt,” his laugh bubbles up from deep in his chest, pure joy in the sound. “That ‘oops’ line? You were perfect. I love this version of you,”.

You can’t stop the blush that creeps up your neck, a mix of pride and embarrassment. “Good,” you tease, leaning into his chest, finally letting the tears fall freely. “I’m glad it wasn’t too much. I just had to let them know…,”.

Joe laughs softly, but there’s something in his gaze that makes your heart flutter. He’s always been so humble, but when it comes to you, he has this way of holding you with such admiration, like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. And in this moment, you know that’s how he sees you. Always.

“You were perfect, baby,” he whispers again, his voice barely audible as his hands cradle your face. His gaze holds yours, soft but filled with that familiar heat you’ve never been able to get enough of. “You know I don’t care about anything else, right? The trophies, the lights, the cameras…none of that matters. I just want you. And I’m so damn proud of you. Of us. I know it wasn’t easy for you to do this, to do this with me, but you did it anyway and for that, I say thank you. Thank you for trusting me, for letting me in, for letting me love you,”.

You lean into his touch, letting yourself get lost in him for a second because in his arms, you don’t need to pretend. You don’t have to hold it together. Here, with him, it’s just love—raw, real, and safe. “I love you,” you whisper against his chest, pressing a kiss to his neck, your voice barely more than a breath. “I love you so much, Joey,”.

Joe’s smile is soft, his lips brushing against your forehead as he presses a lingering kiss there. “I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know. I’m so proud of you,”. Your eyes fill with a new wave of emotion as you step back slightly to look at him. His eyes are so full of love, so tender, and you know that in this world of chaos, the spotlight, and the noise, there is no one else you’d rather have by your side. “Let’s get you out of here,” Joe says softly, pulling you back to him with easy confidence. “Celebrate properly,”.

You smirk, arching a playful brow as you run your hands along his clothed chest, “And by celebrate, you mean?”.

Joe grins, his playful glint never leaving his eyes. “You’ll see,” he teases, leaning in for another kiss, just enough to remind you of how real this love is. He pulls back just a little, his hand resting on your waist, keeping you close. “Trust me, it’s going to be our kind of celebration,”.

And with that, you realize it’s one of those rare moments—etched into your memory, a quiet but monumental piece of your shared journey. A moment that’s entirely yours, carved out amidst everything else. It’s not about the awards or the albums or the headlines. It’s about what you’ve fought for, what you’ve built together, and the future that’s still unfolding.

As Joe’s hand wraps around yours, pulling you close, you can’t help but feel a surge of gratitude. This, this is everything—the foundation of your love, the strength of your bond, the unwavering support you offer each other. No spotlight, no accolades, no applause could ever compare to the certainty that you’re in this together, through it all. And as you walk side by side, you know that this—the quiet moments, the connection, the love—is what truly matters.

And the best part? This was only just beginning.

—To be Continued—

stay tuned for part 2!

you are in love: big reputations part 1 (social media fic follow up)

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fic #joe burrow fan fic #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow bengals #joey b #joeburrow #nfl #nfl fan fic #nfl imagine #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x y/n #taylor swift #yail #yail asks

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burntheedges · 16 days ago

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Falling For You - Part 2

Joel Miller x f!reader | 10k | 18+ | masterlist | fic masterlist | ao3

fic summary: Joel Miller gave up on the idea of a soulmate at least 20 years and one apocalypse ago. But it turns out the universe hasn't given up on him quite yet.

Part 2: Joel was pretty sure he couldn't do this.

a/n: hellooo it's time for part 2! where did Joel run off to? let's find out! see tags/warnings below and check the fic masterlist for the full tags. Thank you again @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta!! 🧡

tags/warnings for part 2: fluff, angst, panic attack (Joel), more family fluff, some pretty negative inner monologue (Joel), more soulmate lore, pregnancy mention (Maria), stop reading here if you like surprises, hand holding, a bit of other (PG) touching, reader has a brother who died, hand kiss, cheek kiss

Part 2

Joel was on the other side of Jackson before he registered his surroundings.

He came back to himself leaning against one of the houses they were working on, clear across town, chest heaving. He was covered in sweat but he felt ice cold all over.

He couldn’t breathe.

His chest felt tight, like it couldn’t expand far enough to let in any air, like he was trapped in a vice. He pushed back and leaned harder against the wall until his feet started to slip out from under him on the grass. He slid and stumbled his way to sitting against the wall in the dirt.

Joel knocked his head back against the wall and groaned.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” he muttered aloud. He couldn’t breathe.

And that was how Tommy found him.

“Whoa, shit,” he heard from his right and grimaced. “Joel? What the fuck–”

Tommy cut himself off as he dropped on his knees next to him. “Shit,” he repeated, reaching forward to grasp Joel’s shoulder.

Joel shuddered. “Can’t–” he tried to suck in a breath and failed. “Can’t breathe.”

“Alright, hey, big brother,” Tommy said, sounding a bit winded himself. He grabbed one of Joel’s hands and put it against his chest, and then flattened his own over Joel’s heart. Joel reached up and grasped it. Tommy pushed on his chest, just a bit, and Joel felt like his lungs opened up with the pressure. “Breathe with me, Joel. Just try and do what I’m doin’.”

He tried, and he couldn’t for a while. But Tommy was patient and after a long while of no sounds in their little corner but Joel’s breathing and Tommy’s voice, low and encouraging, he felt his breath begin to slow.

When Joel could finally draw in a deep breath again, he realized his hands were shaking.

“Shit,” he said, the first words he’d said in god knows how long. “Fuck.”

Tommy huffed a laugh and collapsed next to him against the wall. “You got that right. Shit and fuck, Joel.”

He clasped his hands together and focused on his breathing. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I know.”

“That happen often?” Tommy asked, looking over at him.

Joel closed his eyes, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “Not so much lately. That’s what… I told you about it. Before.”

Tommy let out a long breath. “Yeah, I remember.” For a moment neither of them said anything, their breathing the only sound aside from the light breeze rusting the grass and the leaves of the tree that was shielding them from the road.

It turned out that out-of-his-mind-with-panic Joel was good at finding hiding spots. Huh, he thought, looking around.

“What…” Tommy sighed, cleared his throat. “What set it off?”

Joel could tell by his tone he was worried Joel wouldn’t answer. He definitely didn’t want to answer but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to hide this. Not in a town this small. “She–” he coughed. Took a long, slow breath. “Tommy.”

“Joel.” His brother nudged his arm with his elbow and Joel sighed again.

“It’s… fuck. Ok.” He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. “Bolts.”

There was a pause, and then Tommy said, in a slow, confused voice, “what about her?”

“She’s– Tommy, she’s my–” He couldn’t say it. How could he say it? He didn’t know how to say it.

Tommy turned towards him on the grass, eyebrows raised. “Wait. No. No fucking way.”

Joel groaned.

“No, you’re shitting me.” Tommy was starting to smile, then, and Joel closed his eyes again. “She’s what, Joel? Say it.”

Joel sighed what felt like the heaviest, longest sigh of his life. “She’s my…” he shook his head and he swore he could feel Tommy roll his eyes.

“She’s your one, ain’t she?” Tommy was outright grinning now, Joel could hear it. That little shit. “Holy fucking shit, Joel. Goddamn. Bolts is your soulmate?” Joel gave in and looked at his brother and the excitement on his face almost made him want to hide again.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking down.

“Shit, Joel.” Tommy nudged him with hand. “What are you doin’ all the way over here?” He gestured at the yard around them.

Joel shook his head, brow furrowed. “I panicked,” he said, voice low. “Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Just… panicked. And ran.”

“You what?”

“I fucking ran, Tommy. What do you think I was doin’ over here, meditatin’? I ran and I couldn’t fuckin’ breathe and I don’t even know how I got here.” Joel was pissed at the universe for doing this to him, but most of all at himself. He felt his chest start to heave again until Tommy reached out and squeezed his upper arm.

“Hey,” he said, “ain’t no way you’re the first person to panic at meetin’ their soulmate.” Joel side-eyed him. “What, it’s probably true! Just– just go back and talk to her, it’ll be–”

Joel was shaking his head. “No,” he said, voice as firm as he could make it. “No way. I’m not goin’ back.”

“Joel–”

“No, Tommy. I won’t.” He didn’t know how to say what he was thinking, that she deserved better and he was broken, anyone could see it, why would he inflict that on anyone else and this? all this was… god she was so fucking beautiful. What would she think of him?

“Joel.” He could hear the exasperation coming back in Tommy’s voice. “You can’t–”

“I can.” He said and struggled to his feet. “And I will.”

He could hear Tommy’s sigh all the way down the block.

…

Joel spent the next two days hiding. There wasn’t a better word for it. He couldn’t pretend, not in his own head.

At one of their construction projects he managed to find and swap with someone who had patrol assigned the next day. He let Ellie know at dinner, and she grumbled again about not getting to go but didn’t seem to notice that Joel was very carefully not looking around the dining hall. Ellie was going to have a longer day again anyway, with some sort of special project at school in the afternoon.

Patrol kept him outside of Jackson for a while, and he felt his shoulders release the moment he rode through the gates. It was a boring route but just interesting enough to keep him from thinking.

Perfect.

That night he convinced Ellie to have dinner in, at home. He’d thought about it on patrol – now that he knew what Bolts looked like, he was certain he’d seen her around. He was certain he’d see her at the dining hall, too.

He squashed his brain’s attempts to linger on how perfectly he could picture her, after such a short time seeing her.

On the second day he went and dug into one of their projects on the outskirts of town, losing himself in the mindless tasks of ripping up carpet and sanding wood floors.

It was mid-afternoon before he realized he’d forgotten something important.

He froze when he heard Tommy stomp inside the building with Darren, knowing that meant it was well after 2 o’clock. It was Thursday, and therefore a day Ellie didn’t have school in the afternoon.

A day when she would go pick up supplies from Nuts ‘n Bolts. And he could ignore Tommy – he had years of practice, after all – but he wasn’t going to ignore Ellie.

Fuck.

…

That night Joel walked to the dining hall full of dread. He’d wracked his brain all afternoon and failed to come up with another excuse to eat at home. Besides, Ellie was a smart kid – she’d see through him sooner or later. And he had a feeling it would be sooner if she’d talked to Bolts.

Not that he thought she’d say anything. Not that he knew her, but from the way Ellie talked about her…

Joel very purposefully stopped thinking about it.

He stopped outside of the doors and took a deep, slow breath.

“Hey, brother,” he heard from behind him, and stifled a groan.

“Tommy,” he greeted, turning to look.

Tommy was squinting at him. “Showing your face today, hmm?”

“Shut up.” Joel walked inside without looking back.

At dinner, Joel used his Ellie and Maria buffer from Tommy to the best of his abilities. He kept Ellie talking about school and found himself asking Maria questions like he never had before.

Tommy eyed him the whole time.

“Hey Maria,” Ellie asked towards the end of the meal, looking thoughtful. “How many soulmates are there in Jackson? Tommy made it sound like a lot.”

Tommy laughed. “I didn’t say a lot, I just said it had happened at the gate before.”

Maria raised an eyebrow at her husband. “I’m not sure, Ellie,” she smiled. “According to George it’s more than the general population, Before. Percentage-wise. He was a sociologist.”

“What’s that?” Ellie asked, leaning forward.

“Like a scientist who studies societies and human behavior.”

Ellie sat up straight. “Cool! George from the stables?” Maria nodded and Ellie grinned. “Nice. I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

Joel looked over at her. “You goin’ to the stables tomorrow?”

Ellie nodded, looking smug. “I’ve got a delivery and a pick-up to do for Bolts.”

Joel coughed and clung to his neutral expression with every ounce of willpower he had.

“What?” Ellie said, eyeing him.

“Nothin’,” he wheezed and took a sip of water. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

Ellie rolled her eyes and patted him on the back. “What, are you too old to eat unsupervised now?” Tommy laughed and Joel scowled at him.

“You know, we’ve had a few more new people,” Tommy said, tone way too innocent. Joel narrowed his eyes. “Maybe we’ll be hearing about some new soulmates soon.”

Ellie perked up while Joel glowered, trying to transmit stop hinting into Tommy’s annoying little mind. “Ooh, yeah! Maybe I’ll get to see it next time.”

A few minutes passed without Joel realizing he’d stopped listening, until Ellie elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted and raised an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“What’s with you?”

“Nothin’.” Joel knew the moment the word let his lips it was the wrong move – she’d never believe him, and now she was insulted.

Ellie narrowed her eyes at him and he sighed. “No,” she said, tone suspicious. “Something is up with you.” Joel felt Maria’s gaze land on him too and stifled a groan. He was certain Tommy was grinning. “I’m going to figure it out, you know.”

Joel shrugged. “Nothin’ to figure out.” His tone was mild but he knew it probably sounded as forced as it felt. He needed to get out of there, out from under the too-knowing gazes of his brother and his kid. Not to mention Maria, who didn’t know him that well but was probably the smartest person in this damn town.

Not that he was going to tell her that.

Ellie glared at him for a minute and then allowed Tommy to change the subject. Joel didn’t trust it for a second.

…

She didn’t ask him about it when they got home, which put Joel even more on edge. She didn’t ask about it before she went to bed, either, or in the morning before school.

Joel was rusty but he recognized the paranoia that settled over him, the paranoia of knowing his kid was plotting something. Even if he didn’t know what.

Sarah, too smart for her own good, had done this to him more than once. There was the year she became determined to find her Christmas presents early. She’d launched an investigation in their house like nothing he’d ever seen, but still never found them. (They’d been at Tommy’s apartment the whole time.) And then there was the time she’d tried to set him up with her soccer coach (who was happily married, though Sarah hadn’t known that, and who had thankfully thought it was hilarious).

So when Joel found himself looking over his shoulder for a small, too smart menace all day, at least it felt familiar.

Somehow she still managed to catch him completely unawares when she pounced.

“You’re frowning even more than usual, so it must be bad,” she said, appearing from absolutely nowhere inside the house he was working on. Joel did not jump a foot in the air. He certainly didn’t make any noise. And he definitely didn’t launch his screwdriver 10 feet across the room.

“Jesus Christ, Ellie, make some goddamn noise,” he said, heart racing. He leaned against the wall next to him and turned to look at her. She was leaning against the doorway looking far too smug. He grimaced.

“You know your face is gonna get stuck like that.” She grinned at him. He’d said that to her on the road and now she said it to him every time he frowned. He didn’t think she’d noticed yet that he frowned more now because it made him feel warm inside every time she said it, when she picked up stuff like that from him.

Joel sighed. “I’m fine.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Sure. You’re not being weird at all, just like this morning when you left your coffee on the counter and didn’t drink it, or two days ago when you insisted we had to eat dinner at home and miss that weird chicken you like, or when you suddenly swapped patrol shifts with Pete rather than do whatever you’re doing in here. Totally normal Joel behavior. Nothing to see here, folks!”

Joel was a bit taken aback. “Ellie–”

Her face fell and he felt it like a fist around his heart. She seemed unsure of what she wanted to say but frowned. “We’re supposed to be honest with each other, Joel. If you don’t– if–”

“Hey,” he said, and held out a hand. Ellie came over and sat next to him as he slid down onto the floor. “I’m alright. I… It’s nothin’ like that. I’m just— I’m thinking through something’. Gettin’ my mind around it..” He winced internally, knowing he’d promised her already that he’d talk about soulmates, if and when it happened. Maybe he could put that off indefinitely. “It’s nothin’ bad. I promise. Just…” he sighed. “I need to think a bit. Let me figure it out, ok?”

She squinted at him again and nodded. “Ok. I can’t believe you didn’t drink your coffee, though.”

Joel groaned. “Me neither.” No wonder he felt like shit.

“And you have to tell me eventually.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I know, kiddo. I know.”

…

After all that, he couldn't muster the effort to even be surprised when Tommy was waiting on their front porch when they got home. Time’s up, Joel thought to himself, sighing. Just three days and he was already being cornered.

“Evening, folks,” Tommy said, smiling. Ellie doffed an imaginary cowboy hat at him before she scooted inside and Joel smiled against his will.

“Tommy,” he said, voice wary.

Tommy eyed him. “We need to chat.”

“Tommy–”

“Joel.” Tommy raised his eyebrows. For a moment they just looked at each other, and then Joel sighed.

“Get inside, then.”

Tommy followed him in and took a seat at the kitchen table. Joel heard the back door shut as Ellie went into the backyard. He sighed. “Well?”

Tommy leaned forward and didn’t waste time. “When are you going to talk to her?”

“I’m not.” Joel crossed his arms and frowned, looking away from his brother.

Tommy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Joel, you live in the same very small, rural, post-apocalyptic commune. You’re renovatin’ the damn town and she’s in charge of our supply inventory. How exactly do you plan to manage that?”

Joel frowned down at the table.

“Don’t answer that, I know you don’t have a plan. You’re just hidin’.”

Joel looked up at his brother, scowling. “I am not–”

“You are,” Tommy said, pointing at him, “and we both know it. You’ve done it before, Joel. When you met Sarah’s mama? When our mama found out you quit football and didn’t tell her?” Tommy counted each item off his fingers. “It’s not the first time you’ve run off to think about somethin’. Sure it won’t be the last.” Tommy tapped on the table. “But there ain’t no other way this ends, big brother. You have to talk to her.”

“Tommy, I don’t…” he trailed off. He took a deep breath and finally let out the question that had sent him running, that had been crowding behind his teeth for 3 days no matter how he tried to choke it back. “Did you ever think about what it meant, that you found Maria here? Here and now, in Jackson.”

Tommy sighed. His face fell, and Joel knew that his brother understood what he was asking. Of course he did, Joel never should have doubted him. “You mean, this whole business is supposed to be fate, right?”

“Right,” Joel said, wincing. He wanted to get up and walk away from the conversation but he knew Tommy wouldn’t let him. Wouldn’t put it past him to sit on him and make him have it. It wouldn’t be the first time, and even if he never said it out loud, Joel knew he was getting old. Older than the last time he’d wrestled his brother, for sure. He curled his hands into fists and pressed them into the table.

“And if fate brought you here, what’s that mean about everything else that happened?” Tommy’s voice was soft and knowing and the words hit Joel like blows.

He blinked and dropped his face into his hands. His hands were shaking. “Tommy–”

“Joel, I been thinkin’ about that for years, now.” Joel looked up to find Tommy frowning, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “And I don’t think it works like that. No, hear me out,” he said, raising a hand when Joel started to protest. “Maria and I have talked about everything at this point, everywhere we’ve been since, you know, and even before that. And Joel, wouldn’t you know it, but we almost met twice before this.” Tommy raised his eyebrows.

Joel blinked. “What? How–”

Tommy nodded. “Once in Austin. Once when I took that trip, Before, out to California.” Joel’s jaw dropped. “We were even in the same room once.” He laughed, and Joel couldn’t help but huff a startled laugh in response. “It was a big room — well, a mall, technically, at the food court — but still.”

“No kiddin’?”

Tommy laughed again. “No kiddin’. So, way I see it, the universe is bringing us together, somehow, but it wasn’t necessarily meant to happen now.” He shrugged. “I won’t pretend I’m some genius. But it feels right. And George told me it’s not uncommon for that to be true, for people to have near misses like that. Even more common now after everything.”

Joel sat back in his chair heavily. Could it be? He wanted to believe and wanted to run away from it, all at once. He couldn’t bear the thought that any of this – Sarah, Tess, Bill, Frank – he cut himself off. He couldn’t bear the thought of any of that being fated. It made him want to scream, made him want to tear things apart. Tear himself apart.

But if Tommy was right… for a long moment he just closed his eyes and breathed.

“Shit,” he said finally, and Tommy smiled. “I can’t… I need to think.”

But of course Tommy wasn’t going to let him. “So,” Tommy said, leaning forward again. “When are you going to talk to her? You gotta, Joel.”

Joel’s heart was racing as he came down from the rush at what Tommy had just told him. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and groaned. “What do I even say, Tommy? ‘Hey, sorry for the massive fuckin’ disappointment I’m sure it is to be my soulmate, nice to meet you.” He shook his head, waving a hand at Tommy when he opened his mouth. “Don’t even start. We both know–”

“Soulmate?!” Joel whipped his head to the right and found Ellie standing in the doorway, hand pressed against each side of the door frame. She was leaning forward into the kitchen, face and tone incredulous. “Joel, what the fuck–”

“Ellie,” he groaned and then glared at Tommy, who raised his hands in front of his chest.

“No, Joel, what the fuck,” she repeated, stepping inside. “You found your soulmate?! When?!” She slapped both palms down on the table. “Who is it?”

Tommy looked between the two of them and then opened his mouth. Joel leaned forward. “It’s–” Tommy started.

“Tommy,” Joel growled, cutting him off.

Ellie and Tommy both started talking at once.

“Joel, you can’t–” Ellie said, crossing her arms.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “It’s not like you can keep it a secret forever, brother,” he said.

“I know that,” he said, voice tense. “Let me tell her.”

Tommy nodded, leaning back in his chair.

“Ellie, it’s–”

“Is this what you were hiding?” She interrupted, frowning.

He nodded. “I just… needed some time.”

She looked at him for a moment and then looked down and set her jaw. “Joel, we said we’d live. That was the deal.”

“I know it was.” He leaned towards her.

“You said you’d tell me, because it seems like getting to know your soulmate might be part of living.” She looked up at him and then back at the floor as she recited his words back to him. “Because FEDRA was full of shit, right? About pretty much everything.” Her tone said she wanted him to tell her that was true. It was something they’d talked about on the road, a bit, an idea she was still getting used to after growing up in their care.

“Right,” he said, voice firm. He didn’t want her to doubt that for a second.

She nodded. “And soulmates must be something good, then. If they didn’t like ‘em.” She sounded like she was reminding herself as well as him.

Joel nodded, watching her. “Yeah.”

“Who is it?” Ellie asked again, finally, and Joel leaned back.

“It’s Bolts,” he said, and her head flew upwards, mouth dropping. “When we met the other day. We heard it.”

Her mouth made a little ‘o’ of surprise and he felt himself smile. “Really?!”

He nodded. “Really. I, uh. I wasn’t… I just needed some time,” he repeated again, grasping for the certainty he’d felt for the last three days, that staying away was for the best. It was slipping away from him and he knew he wasn’t ready for what he might find in its place.

Ellie moved forward and leaned against the table next to him. She poked him in the shoulder. “Maybe you can take your time and talk to her at the same time. Or something. Bolts is cool, man, you’ll see.”

“She is,” Tommy agreed.

Joel looked between his brother and his kid and he knew he was outnumbered.

“Ok,” he said, and they both smiled. “Ok, look, if I promise to talk to her, will you lay off?” He looked between them. “Both of you. I can’t…” He scrubbed one of his hands through his hair. Ellie reached out and ruffled it up some more and he smiled. “I’ll talk to her but let me take my time, alright?”

They nodded. Tommy stood up. “Alright, Joel. Let me know if you want to talk about it. I’ll see y’all at dinner,” he said, and squeezed Joel’s shoulder on the way out.

When the door shut behind him, Ellie started to move away, but Joel caught her arm. “Hey,” he said, voice soft. “You know… you know you come first, right?”

She furrowed her brow but met his eyes. “What?”

Joel sighed. “I’m not… I’m not rushin’. But you know, no matter what. Soulmate or not. You come first for me. It’s you and me, Ellie. Before everythin’ else. Ok?”

Ellie wavered for a second, looking a bit like she had no idea what to do with that information. “Joel–”

“Just need you to know that, is all,” he murmured, poking her in the arm.

She grimaced and then grinned as she poked him back. “I do know that, Joel.” She looked shy and he smiled.

“Good.”

“Yeah, ok, enough feelings.” She pretended to puke and backed away from him. He laughed, feeling lighter than he had since he’d heard the music.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go find dinner, kiddo.”

…

Promise made, Joel knew his time had run out. Still, he managed to push it three more days, until Monday. He drifted through those three days and tried not to think too hard about what he was going to do.

Ellie kept giving him looks, though, so he knew he couldn’t get away with going any longer than that. But she kept her word and she and Tommy both laid off of him.

When Joel stood up from his desk on Monday afternoon, though, Tommy grinned. “Where ya headed?”

“Mind your business, you old busybody,” Joel said, and stalked out of the office before Tommy could tell him he sounded like their mother, who used to say that often.

“Ok, mom!” Tommy yelled after him, and Joel sighed as he headed out the front door.

The walk to Nuts ‘n Bolts was quicker than he would have liked, and Joel grimaced when he stood outside the door. He tugged at his shirt sleeves and then sighed. Not like it’s gettin’ any better than this, he thought.

“Alright, Miller,” he muttered to himself. “Buck up.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and stepped forward to open the door.

He’d barely taken three steps inside when he heard her voice and froze in his tracks. “I’ll be right there,” she called, and he closed his eyes. Had her voice sounded like that last time? Or the time before?

So warm?

He clenched his fists and cleared his throat. “It’s me,” he said, and it came out garbled. He cleared his throat again. “It’s me,” he repeated, clearer that time. “Um, Joel. Joel Miller.” He winced.

The room suddenly felt still and he realized she’d stopped whatever she was doing.

“Oh,” she said, voice light, so low he almost didn’t hear it. He took a step forward. “I… let me–”

“I’m sorry,” he called. He hated the hesitance he could hear in her voice. “I… can we talk? I won’t run away this time.” He winced again and took another step forward and to the side so he could peer around the shelf. He still didn’t see her.

“You promise?” her voice sounded closer and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Promise?” he asked, overwhelmed. He could hear her footsteps and he knew she was nearby.

Bolts turned the corner at the end of the row, and Joel felt his breath catch in his throat. She was somehow more beautiful than he’d remembered, just more in general. He traced his eyes over the lines of her body and felt himself start to turn red.

“That you won’t run?” she repeated, and took a single step forward. He nodded and met her, step for step. They were so close now, only a few feet away from each other.

“I promise.”

…

You weren’t sure he was going to come back.

You’d heard all about Joel Miller before you met him. The whole town was full of gossips who loved to talk about anything new. Add in the fact that you were usually supplying the people he worked with on a daily basis and, well…

Safe to say you’d heard all about him.

He was tall, he was strong, he was scary, he was tough, he was only soft with his kid, he was grumpy, he had a great laugh, he never laughed, he was patient. He frowned all the time, but no, when he smiled he was so handsome, and did you see him lift that pillar into place? Did you see his arms? Did you see how careful he was with his big hands when he showed the new kid how to strip a wire?

You might have been eavesdropping at dinner for that last bit.

But for a while that was all he was to you – rumors. Until Ellie started dropping by to pick up their orders. That’s when you really started to learn about the man behind the stories, because he was all Ellie wanted to talk about.

“Joel says everyone Before wanted to be a contractor when they grew up. Is that true?”

“Joel told me about paintball, did you ever play? Sounds sick. Bet I would’ve destroyed that old man in paintball.”

“Joel said parents used to ‘ground’ their kids as punishment. Were you ever grounded? Was it really just staying home and doing nothing? It sounds like it should mean you have to, like, lay on the ground or something.”

“Ok, we were talking about the Olympics and Joel told me about water polo and luge and ski jumping and I need a second opinion. What? Like, what?”

Ellie was hilarious – every time she visited, Bolts found herself grinning and laughing. Especially at the puns.

You saw her with a man you presumed was Joel a couple of times, but they were always busy. And so for a while that’s who Joel Miller was to you – that broad-shouldered guy who ate dinner with Ellie, a good dad who clearly doted on his daughter.

And then, finally, you met him.

One of the patrols had brought you back some new supplies to sort, and you were waist deep in it (literally) when Joel finally stopped by the shop again. You could hear him moving towards you through the store, and found yourself grinning at the box you were leaning into, amused at the easy banter flowing between you.

When you turned and looked at him, still smiling, you froze.

He was gorgeous – brown hair, warm brown eyes, easy smile. You’d been right about his shoulders – so broad, so sturdy. He looked strong.

Somehow you managed to notice all of that despite the music blaring in your head.

You could barely wrap your mind around it. This man, this incredibly attractive man, was your soulmate? This man that you knew to be smart and capable and a great dad?

Your soulmate was still alive?

The music started to fade and you felt yourself shiver, breaking whatever spell had held you in place. You stepped forward, and said his name…

And felt your stomach drop when he turned and ran.

…

You might have avoided the dining hall for a few days after that.

To be honest, at least with yourself – and you’d gotten pretty good at that over the last two decades of apocalypse – you avoided pretty much everything that wasn’t work or your little house nearby.

You didn’t want to see anyone. You couldn’t get the look on his face when he ran out of your head and by the next day you’d pinpointed it.

Joel had looked panicked.

You wavered between worry that you had caused his panic and worry that he really did not seem to be interested in the idea of having a soulmate.

And it’s not like you were on the edge of your seat, waiting for yours. You’d given up on that years ago, as nice as it sounded. There had been a lot going on after all.

But the idea of finally finding them? Finding him?

Well. You might have been excited, until you saw his reaction. Now you weren’t sure what to think.

Maybe he just needs time, you told yourself, wincing.

When Ellie came in as normal, like nothing was wrong, you knew he hadn’t told her. You knew it hadn’t really been that long, and he’d clearly been upset, but you also felt a pinch of hurt at that.

You shoved it down somewhere deep.

By the weekend, though, you felt like your secret was bouncing around inside your chest trying to get out. After you closed up the shop on Friday you sighed.

You needed your best friend.

…

Thankfully, when you stepped inside their house, Tommy seemed to be out.

“Maria?” you called, looking around the corner into the kitchen.

“Upstairs!” you heard her call, and turned towards the stairs. “Come on up!”

You found her sitting in the baby’s room sorting little onesies. You knew she’d been collecting them for a while, both from others in town and Tommy on the lookout on the patrol.

“Think you got enough?” you asked, smiling. She rolled her eyes at you and laughed.

“More than,” she said, leaning back in her chair and placing a hand on her belly. “Got about half the hand-me-downs this town has to offer – Isabela has the other half.” She took a deep breath and settled back. “What’s up? Did we have plans?”

You shook your head and sat on the floor by the pile of clean clothes. “Want me to help fold?” you asked, and she nodded. “I, uh, need to talk to you about something.” you reached for the tiny t-shirt on the top of the pile – it said “taco time!” with a cartoon taco that appeared to be dancing – and snorted. “Where’d you get this one?”

Maria smiled. “Donation from someone. I have it written down somewhere.”

“Course you do,” you said, starting to move through the pile. The shirts felt almost too small to fold, which made you smile.

“Talk about what?” she asked, reaching for another onesie to fold.

You sighed. “So, um. I might have…” you put the shirt you were holding down – this one said “donut worry, be happy” with a picture of a donut with sprinkles – and covered your face with your hands. Maybe it would be easier to talk about if you didn’t have to look at anything. “I might have found my… my soulmate.” You coughed.

There was a moment of silence, and you peeked through your fingers.

Maria was frozen, staring at you, jaw dropped, onesie hanging from her fingers unfolded. As you made eye contact she started to grin. “No fucking way.”

“Way,” you said, and let yourself fall backwards onto the floor. Staring at the ceiling, you said, “on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?!” she said, incredulous. You felt something hit your chin and lifted your head – she’d thrown the onesie at you.

“Seriously?” you asked, holding up the onesie.

“Tuesday?” she said again, holding her hands out.

You sighed and dropped your head back onto the floor. “Tuesday,” you confirmed. “I… he ran away.”

There was another silence, but this time you counted down in your head. 3… 2… 1…

“WHAT?”

You smiled at the ceiling. Maria sounded pissed.

“He did what? Who is it?”

You shook your head. “I think… well. He looked pretty panicked. I think he wasn’t expecting it.”

“Has he been back, talked to you again?” she asked and you shook your head, rolling it back and forth on the floor.

“Nope.”

“Who. Is. It.” Her voice was implacable and you knew you’d run out of ways to avoid the question.

“Don’t freak out, ok?” You lifted your head and glanced at her, and found she was staring at you, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “Don’t freak out.”

She sighed. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

You fell back again and covered your face with your hands. “It’s Joel,” you said, voice muffled. There was a long pause.

“Did you just say,” she said, and her voice was carefully even, “Joel?”

You nodded.

“Joel Miller?”

You nodded again, hands still covering your face.

“Tommy’s brother Joel Miller?”

The evenness of her voice was starting to freak you out, so you peeked out from behind your hands. Maria’s face was carefully blank, and you winced.

“Yeah,” you said, heaving yourself into a sitting position. “That Joel.”

Maria stared at you. You wondered if you were about to hear another Joel freaking Miller rant from Jackson’s Number One Joel Skeptic, but after a moment the tension seemed to leech from her shoulders. She sighed again and rubbed her eyes.

“Ok, well clearly I must be at least a little bit wrong about him, if he’s your soulmate.”

You raised your eyebrows, shocked. “What?”

Maria groaned as she leaned forward, but waved you off when you moved to help. “I know you. I hope I know what kind of person would be your match.” She sighed, and it sounded like she’d rather step on legos that say what she said next. “If he’s yours, there must be parts of him I haven’t seen yet.” She grumbled something under her breath that sounded like “all the good parts, probably.”

You smiled. Maria may be stubborn at times, but she was the best friend you’d ever had, and it showed. “From the way Ellie tells it, he’s the best person in the world.”

Maria snorted. “Let’s leave that for another day.” You laughed. “Ok, perception-of-the-world-altering news aside, did you really just meet Joel on Tuesday?”

“Yep.”

“How is that possible?” She looked stunned. “You’ve met Ellie. Hasn’t he even been to the shop? Isn’t he constantly ordering supplies?”

You shrugged. “He left quickly that one time, never saw his face. Ellie picks up all of their orders now and she loves it.”

Maria hummed. “You know, you might have set the record in Jackson for the longest time in town before realizing you’re soulmates.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t that long.”

She eyed you. “Sure.”

“But anyway. He freaking ran. Not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Maria shook her head. “Now that I know it’s Joel?” She shook her head again and sighed. “Makes more sense. Probably couldn’t handle his feelings.”

“I mean, maybe. He looked so panicked, though.” You bit your lip and looked down at your hands. “And from what I’ve heard from Ellie, he’s plenty up front about his feelings when he needs to be. She’s a good kid, you know? You can just tell he’s pretty open with her. And you can see his parenting in things she says.”

Maria sighed. “Yeah, I know he’s a good dad. Just surprised to learn he’s got room for anything else.”

You frowned, thinking of the look on his face before he’d turned away. “Well, he might not.”

Maria shook her head slowly, looking thoughtful. “I assume you don’t want me to talk to Tommy about this.”

You winced. “Not yet. I need… a little more time.”

“Alright,” she said, and picked up a new onesie to fold. “But hey,” when you looked up, she was smirking. Uh oh. “You know, now that I think about it,” she grinned, “not sure I’ve ever met anyone more your type than Joel Miller.”

“No,” you said, but she kept going.

“Tall, messy hair, broad shoulders? Those arms?” She waggled her eyebrows at you. “I’ve seen those hands. They must be genetic, because you know how I feel about Tommy’s.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “Maria–”

“Shoulda guessed the moment I saw him.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not that bad,” you said, shaking your head.

She hummed. “Sure,” she said, and you knew she was mocking you.

You sighed. “That was my first thought, when I heard it,” you admitted. “Oh shit, he’s hot, basically.”

Maria laughed. “You know it was the same for me, with Tommy. From the first moment I couldn’t help but think, well damn, just look at him.”

You both laughed. “Guess those Millers have good genes.”

She shook her head, still laughing. “They really do. Bet this baby will be so cute they get whatever they want forever.” You both smiled at the thought. She sighed. “Jesus. What are the odds, us and them?”

“I wondered about that.” You smiled a bit wistfully. “Maybe George would be able to tell us.”

You both laughed again, and for a moment you let yourself feel the warmth of it – that you’d found your soulmate, and he was your best friend’s brother-in-law. What were the odds, really?

It was hard to feel very hopeful about it, but for a moment, you tried.

…

By the time Monday rolled around, you were wondering if you might need to be the one to seek Joel out. It felt like the ball was in his court, though, and you really didn't want to chase after someone who didn’t want to be chased. You figured eventually you could call in the cavalry, anyway.

The cavalry being Tommy, of course. You wondered if Joel had told him.

You lost yourself in your work, sorting supplies and filling orders, and before you knew it it was almost time for lunch. You’d just started sorting through your last order, eager to take a break, when the bell over the door tinkled.

“Be right there,” you called absently, frowning down at the pile of metal hooks in front of you that seemed to be tangled. How did these get so bad?

You heard whoever it was clear their throat. “It’s me. Um, Joel. Joel Miller.”

You froze, staring down at the tangled hooks in your hands.

Joel.

You needed to say something back. You shook yourself and dropped the hooks. The clank of their impact on the countertop made you wince. Your voice came out strangled. “O..oh. I… let me–”

But he interrupted whatever you were going to say. You weren’t even sure, yourself.

“I”m sorry,” he said, and you felt your stomach swoop. You had no idea what your face was doing, and you were suddenly glad he couldn’t see you. “I…” he trailed off and you had no idea if you should say something.

What would you even say?

“Can we talk?” he continued. “I won’t run away this time.”

You heard him take a step and it startled you into motion. You turned towards the door and took a step towards the shelf you knew was probably hiding you from view. You took a deep breath. He won’t run. “You promise?” You stood just around the corner from where you knew you’d probably find Joel and froze.

“Promise?” He sounded confused and you wondered if he was just as overwhelmed as you suddenly felt.

You can do this. You nodded to yourself and, after nervously straightening your shirt, stepped around the corner.

He was just as tall and broad as you remembered, even though he was leaning a bit like he was trying to make himself smaller. He was repeatedly tightening one of his hands into a fist and then releasing it, a nervous movement that caught your eye before you met his gaze.

He was looking right into your eyes, and he was so handsome.

“Um,” you said, shaking yourself. “That you won’t run?” You took a step forward and Joel nodded. He took a step forward, too, and you found yourself only a few feet away from him. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his.

“I promise,” he said, voice low. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, along with a lot of worry.

You smiled, and it grew when his gaze dropped down to trace over it. “Ok then.” You reached forward and lightly brushed your fingertips over the back of the hand he had strained in a fist. “C’mere,” you said, wrapping your fingers around his hand and tugging. His fist finally relaxed and he let you slide your hand into his. You felt a tingle slide down your spine.

You turned and led him through the maze of your shop to the back area with its little green couch. Tommy had helped you drag it back here when you’d first decided to use this space for inventory. It was just big enough for you to nap on, or for you to sit on with Joel without touching. You sat and turned so that you leaned slightly against the arm. He sat next to you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You looked down and saw his hand resting next to his leg. Now that you’d touched him, you couldn’t help but want to touch him again. You reached out, slowly crossing the distance between you, and brushed your fingertips over the back of his hand. His hand twitched and you started to pull away, but he followed you – he slid his hand slowly along the couch between you, palm rasping over the worn fabric, before flipping it and taking your hand in his. He squeezed it lightly and you felt the corner of your mouth lift in a smile as you looked back up at him.

“I–”

“I’m–”

Joel started talking at the same time you did, and you both smiled. He ducked his head but lightly squeezed your hand again. “Go ahead,” he said.

You shook your head. “No, you first.”

He raised his head and met your eyes again. He gave you a half smile that made your heart start to pound in your chest. Handsome.

“Had the sudden urge to say ‘ladies first.’ Don’t think I’ve said that to anyone in years.”

You snorted a laugh. “I don’t think anyone has said that to me in years. I’m not exactly a lady. And there’s not a lot of time for pretence in an apocalypse.”

Joel shook his head, still smiling. “Being here, it’s so…” he looked around your little shop. “Normal? Not exactly like it was Before, but…”

You nodded. “It was never going to be like Before. But it is weirdly normal. Still gets me sometimes.”

He looked back at you, eyebrows raised. “Still gets you?” He huffed a laugh. “Haven’t you been here for years? Guess it might be a long while before I get used to it, then.”

You shrugged. “I think it still gets all of us, sometimes. Makes it easier not to take it for granted.” You turned towards him a bit more, lifting your knee onto the couch between you. Your hands came to rest next to it and you tried not to notice the heat of his hand against the side of your thigh.

Joel looked down and took a deep breath. “What were you going to say, before?”

You smiled again and let your eyes trace over the shape of him on your couch – his tousled hair, the line of his neck, his broad shoulders. His hand in yours. “I was just going to say, I’m glad you came back.”

He raised his head and met your eyes. “Me too.”

“I, uh…” you trailed off, glancing over his face. “I wasn’t sure you were going to. Come back.”

Joel grimaced, but when you started to pull your hand away he held on. “I’m sorry. Again. I’d…” he sat up straighter and turned a bit towards you. The side of his thigh came to rest against your knee and you felt your awareness begin to narrow to all of the places you were touching. You felt it like a tingle over your skin. It was so easy to touch him, you realized, and you wondered if that was part of being soulmates. His voice startled you when he continued, “I’d like to explain. Or, try to. If that’s alright with you.”

He looked at you, and for a moment you simply looked at each other. It hit you, suddenly, that you were looking at your soulmate. Your soulmate. You smiled again. “Have to admit, I’ve been curious.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said, and you noticed he seemed to be tracing you with his eyes the same way you’d done to him a moment ago. You felt your face start to get hot. “Must’ve been disappointin’... hearin’, um. Hearin’ it. And then me–” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“I won’t pretend I wasn’t upset,” you said, but squeezed his hand. He was there now, after all. He came back. “But I might have been a bit distracted, you know, in the moment. The upset settled in after.”

“Distracted?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow.

Your face burned. “Um,” you said, looking down. You peeked up at him through your eyelashes. “You’re, well. You know.”

Joel started to smile and you knew he knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “I know?” His tone was teasing, and something inside your chest came alight. Your soulmate.

“Joel Miller, you know. Don’t make me say it.”

He leaned closer, just a bit, and his full smile took your breath away. “Would it help if I said I think you’re beautiful? Thought it last week and again today.”

You grinned. “Well, that does make it easier for me to tell you I think you’re handsome.” You bit your lip. “‘S those shoulders.”

“My shoulders?” he said on a laugh.

You nodded. He had a great laugh, but you noticed it seemed to surprise him every time he did it. “Definitely. And, well.” You hid your face. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

He flushed, suddenly, and your eyes narrowed.

“Joel?” you asked, and he started to lean back. You reached out and tugged on his sleeve with your free hand. “What?”

“I, uhh…” he trailed off. “Nothin’.”

“Thought you were going to explain.” When he looked up you smiled, trying to make it clear you were teasing.

He shook his head, face serious. “I’ll… let me do that. Explain.”

“Alright,” you said, softly, squeezing his hand to encourage him. When you did, you realized your tangled hands were now resting on your thigh, you’d moved them sometime in the last few minutes without noticing. You bit your lip. “Go ahead.”

Joel sighed and dropped his head back to rest against the couch. “Well, I’m sure it was obvious that I panicked.” He peeked at you and you nodded. “I figured my soulmate had died. Long time ago.” He shrugged. “Never thought I’d find you here.” As he said that he let his head fall to the side so he could meet your eyes. “Never expected it.”

You nodded. You knew the feeling.

“But, um.” He took a deep breath. “Alright. Let me get this out, not sure if I’ll be able to. But I want to try.” You squeezed his hand. He shut his eyes. “I had a d– a daughter. Before.” He cleared his throat and you could hear how difficult it was for him to say this. You leaned forward.

“Joel–”

He shook his head and squeezed your hand. You squeezed back. “Sarah.” Saying her name seemed to leave him breathless and you wished you’d known him long enough to pull him into a hug. You figured holding hands was already pushing it. “And T–” he stumbled over his words. “Well, I’m sure we’ve both lost people. Important people.” His free hand, resting on his left thigh, was shaking. You reached across his body and slipped your hand into his. He let you tug it towards you, turning his body so that both of your joined hands were resting in your lap. His eyes were still closed. “And I couldn’t–” he sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed both of your hands. “I couldn’t bear the idea that any of that was m– meant,” he took another deep breath. “Meant to be.” He almost whispered the last few words and you felt it like a vice grip around your heart.

“No,” you said, voice firm. It startled him, and his eyes flew open. You could see the emotions swirling in them. “I don’t believe that. Never have.”

“No?” he repeated, leaning towards you. You could feel his full attention on you and you swallowed roughly.

“Never have,” you repeated. “I don’t believe in fate.”

He looked taken aback. You weren’t surprised, it wasn’t the first time you’d gotten this reaction. “You don’t? What about–”

You shook your head. “My parents weren’t soulmates,” you said. You still felt a pang, all these years later, just thinking about them. You shook it off. “And they were happy. And there are so many people out there who never find them.” You smiled, wryly. “Could be more now.” He nodded. “Way I see it, there’s someone out there who just fits you,” you squeezed his hands, “but that doesn’t mean everything’ll be sunshine and roses when you find them. You still have to work at it, to choose them. And…” it was your turn to trail off, emotions clogging your throat.

Joel leaned forward, seeming to realize you were suddenly having trouble. “Hey, you don’t have to–”

You shook your head, and he squeezed your hands. You realized he had turned more and your knee was now resting on top of his. Somehow it grounded you. You cleared your throat. “My brother. He– Outbreak day.” You took a slow breath in and out. “He met his soulmate young. They weren’t ready. They were just starting to…” you shook your head. “Anyway. It’s not always easy, even if you fit. You might meet at the wrong time. And you still have to try, to want it.” You looked at Joel again and found a look on his face that told you he knew exactly what you meant.

“I should be honest,” he said, and something about how he said it sent ice down your spine. You almost started to pull away but he wouldn’t let you. “No, listen, darlin’. I want you to hear it from me. I spent years scoffin’ at the idea of findin’ my soulmate. Tommy’s heard me say it, wouldn’t be surprised if he talked about it. But it wasn’t really because I didn’t want one.” He slipped his right hand free from yours for the first time since you’d sat down and your breath caught when his fingertips brushed against your cheek. His hand dropped back into his lap and you missed its warmth. “I think I always did. Want one. I just…” he grimaced. “Was pretty sure no one would want me. No one should, anyway.”

Your eyebrows flew upwards in surprise. “What?”

Joel tilted his head. “What?” he repeated.

“Joel.” you said, leaning forward. “Why wouldn’t someone want you?”

He blinked, taken aback. “I… well. Tommy’d say I’m a stubborn asshole. And I’ve done…” he shook his head. “Things that weren’t…I wasn’t… there’s not a lot of me left.” He struggled to put whatever he was thinking into words, but you were pretty sure you knew what he was getting at.

“Joel,” you said again, and he looked at you, eyes wide. “We’ve all done things we didn’t want to do, or things we regret. And more things we don’t, plenty of terrible things we’d do again if we had the chance.” You lifted your free hand, wondering if you could touch him the way he’d touched you, but you chickened out and dropped it on top of your hands that were still tangled together. “Seems like there’s plenty of you left, Miller.”

“How d’you know?” He sounded like he wanted to believe you but wasn’t sure if he did.

You smiled at him. “I’ve heard all about you from Ellie, you know. You’re a good dad, Joel.” You watched as he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Ellie, she… I was different. Before her.”

“I think I get that,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “I was a different person before I came here.”

You both took a moment to just breathe. You were starting to feel a bit runover from all the emotions you’d just spilled and Joel looked like he might feel the same. You decided to take a chance.

“Besides,” you said, smirking, “I’d say there’s exactly the right amount of you, Joel.” You watched as he started to blush, again, and grinned.

“Really?” he said, tone wry.

“I already told you I think you’re handsome,” you said. “I meant it.” You let your eyes trail over him again and bit your lip.

Joel coughed. “Earlier, when I said it was nothin’.” You nodded – you did want to know what he’d been thinking when he’d blushed that first time. “The first time I saw you, you were, ah…” he trailed off and turned even more red.

You thought back, trying to remember… and oh. Oh shit.

“The box?” you said, feeling yourself get hot. “Oh no.”

He nodded, and suddenly his gaze was different. It was deeper, somehow. “Oh yes. The box.” He smiled and leaned forward. “I was already thinkin’ how funny you were, and how much I was enjoyin’ talkin’ to you.” Was his voice deeper? You shivered. “And then I turned the corner and, well. Shit.” He laughed and shook his head. “Might’ve been my first thought when I saw you. Those jeans looked real nice on you, darlin’.” You shivered. You realized you’d shivered every time he’d called you that. You wanted to hear him say it again.

“Maria said she wasn’t surprised when I told her,” you said, grinning, “because you’re exactly my type.”

Joel looked surprised. “You told Maria?”

“Oh,” you said, but well, of course you had. “She’s my best friend.”

He nodded. “It’s– that’s fine. I told Tommy and Ellie. I’m just surprised you still want to talk to me.” He grimaced. “Maria ain’t my biggest fan.”

You laughed, and laughed a bit more when he sighed. “Oh believe me, Joel, I know. But I think she’ll come around.”

He looked skeptical. “Not sure I agree with you but you know her better’n me.”

His words finally registered with you and you couldn’t help but ask, “what did, ah… What did Ellie say?”

Joel smiled. “She likes you a lot. And me and her, we made each other a promise. About livin’ here.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “A promise?”

He nodded. “That we’d try. Try and live, I guess. Try and make it work. So… I would have talked to you either way, I want you to know that. But like I said, I’m stubborn. I might’ve been a bit slower about it without her remindin’ me.”

You laughed again. “She’s a force, that girl.” You knew he could hear how much you admired her in your tone because he grinned.

“She is,” he said, and you could hear how much he loved her. “I also promised her I wasn’t in a rush. And, well. Is that alright with you? If we take it slow. I want to get to know you, I do, just–”

“Of course, Joel.” You squeezed his hand again. “Of course. I… it was a surprise for me, too, you know. I’ve been on my own a long time. Even if you are way too handsome.”

He blushed. You grinned.

“Well then, darlin’,” he said, and you shivered again. He must’ve noticed that time because he smirked. “How do you feel about havin’ lunch together? Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’d like that, Joel.” You were feeling warm, now, and much more settled than you had in days. You figured Joel had the right idea, getting all of this out in the open early. “Here? Away from the peanut gallery.”

He smiled. “Sounds perfect. I’ll bring somethin’.”

As you fell into an easier silence you both seemed to realize that you were sitting with your knee propped on his and both of your hands tangled with one of his. You both sat back and gently disentangled.

“Alright, then,” he said, and made to stand.

You leaned forward before he could. “Joel?” He nodded, looking at you. You leaned forward even farther, into his space, until you could feel the warmth of him. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and tried not to think about how much you liked the way his beard felt against your lips. “Thank you for coming back,” you murmured, close to his ear.

Joel turned his head slightly, and suddenly your faces were only an inch or so away from each other. “I was always comin’ back. Promise.” He leaned forward nudged his forehead against yours. “Thank you for waitin’.” As he leaned back he took your hand and lifted it to his lips. He kissed your knuckles softly and you gasped.

You nodded. “Of course.”

Joel stood, finally, and you let him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, darlin’.”

“Tomorrow,” you agreed, and you watched him walk back towards the front of the store. When he was out of sight you fell back against the couch and sighed, head swimming from the way he’d just kissed you. And you’d kissed him.

Holy shit.

...

a/n: !!!

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #x reader #ffy fic #falling for you fic

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edenspoem · 4 months ago

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𝐧𝐨 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧.

summary. ★ ┆ in this numbing winter wood guarded by her hunting-adroit family, ellie believes she is safe. but her tracking methods are not so familiar with the intelligence and vigilance of sadistic creatures—of invisible kinds. reader discretion heavily advised. ★ ┆ dark content (not dubcon/noncon, think of murder, manipulation and abuse), smut, angst, horror, major character death, prey!hunter!ellie x predator!vampire!reader (prey and predator dynamic, the kink is sort of involved), enemies to lovers to enemies again, apocalypse au, lore-centered, flashbacks from centuries ago, ellie is almost a dead-ringer lover, religious references, biting, blood sucking, reader is a bit of a stalker (vampire behavior), reader is an undeniable evil, gunshot wounds (she thought guns would work), bites don't turn people here, forbidden romance with a touch of corruption; starts out sweet, ends up ugly, one instance of physical abuse (that is not endorsed. it is shamed), arguments occur, relationships with wayward and delusional vampires are not for those who fall easy—and deeply. ellie for sure isn't thinking when it comes to you; reader is the first to touch her (she has freaked other girls but never received freak reciprocation, if you catch my drift), sub!leaning!ellie, fingering (e!r!receiving), oral(e!receiving), tribbing, masturbation, subtle overtones of masochism, drugging (with herbal tea, and for reasons that aren't violation), neck and hand fixations, slashing, victim blaming, ellie tends to sub here but energies do match. memo. ★ ┆ here comes a very long-awaited fic (circa five months ago). tried to make this one as long as i could to percolate the tension. expect bittersweetness. actual blood sweat and tears went into this thing i think. info. ★ ┆ wc: 10.9k proofreaders: @baptismbaby, @elstattoo, @meganegatari, @vifilms (thanks to each one of you for ur commentary!) masterlist. discord. palestine masterpost.

𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓

Guns will not save you, sweetheart.

There she is. Sweet opalescent girl, woolen in gear from head to toe, scrunching her nose and squinting her eyes out in the winter clearing, the girl you have long pursued. You are watching her. Chasing her, silently.

The grove is dense where snow slipped down to die.

She sticks close to her mechanical savior: a coal black rifle up in her arms like a swaddled babe. It befits her act tremendously. She, a human solely, would not want to penetrate this forest every sacred Sunday without her guns. They have provided her plenty. Pelts, savory meats, skulls above the fireplace, fabricated potential. Some guns even go as far as scoring her family the thinning rations of a sorry trespasser.

But they will not save her.

She knows somebody—or something, is out there. Lurking in alder, hounding in spectacularly painted shade. You can tell her treading is expectant, and alert. Even the way in which she points her gun is inviting. But, on the other side, a paradox invites you.

She is paranoid. Paranoid people are alert, but easy targets. Vampires feed on easy. She hears everything in paranoia; she hears her muscles shift. Bones scrape. Eyes wake. Heart race.

But, of course, never you.

Lastingly, a forever has passed; the Millers have bid no farewell to their scriptural, woodland acreage, and never plan to. So, graciously, your recent years have been ones of watching. After all, you do have all the time in the world, so you spent some learning about this girl in the blind spots she's oblivious to. The romanticism of her not knowing you, or your presence, is that you know nearly everything about her. Much about that is to be smiled over. Even the memorable, quaint little name she has.

Ellie.

And, for a lasting time, she has been your unrequited wife of obsession.

Gorgeous girl. Thin, smart, a labyrinth of limbs and sunspots and reclused words. Hibernates in her room, as far as you can tell. She always has these interludes of solitude, cried on by sunlight, and you linger by the window whenever so. Invisible, of course, but there. Observing how long it takes a human of artistic design to perfect a mere stroke. Once on the canvas, twice, and thrice over. And sure, she ceases seclusion some days to help in pastoral tendings, hunting and patrol; but she always crawls back inside her little paintings, and shuts the hinges on relatives. She is a protagonist of silence.

No lovers, little friendships, a small existence in a small room. Alone, as of late. Never too fond of wayfaring strangers that trickle in like maple seeds. And yet today you have herded her, silenceless, to the throat of this thick forest. Confused by the sounds it produces.

“Where the fuck am I?” she grumbles to herself, voice husky under her snared lip. The intricacies of her gun creak as she points in restless circles, aiming the long spire everywhere. She is inclined to kill the next noise. “Swear to god, if that bunny ran off already..” For a second, she looked like she wanted to bail and forget about it. But a heavy sigh falls, and the reluctance in her body goes cold. “Too deep now, Ellie. Gotta come back with somethin'.”

She is desirably late; the bunny in question is already disposed in a berry bush off the white avenue. You had to be quick, as she is too. It's almost impressive. Rather than her invigilance in sleep, or solstices of the day, you prefer her now.

Running.

Yes, a strange fixation—you are wary. However, where is the thrill in feeding if not in the chase? This is tradition.

Wonder how sweet she is.

“Shit.” Her startled whisper blurts at a spitting distance, not that far. Careful footsteps crunch in your ear. “Who got you?” You left a ribbon of blood on the ground for her to find, which she did, and now she is investigating it. This opens her up.

From your place, you could lunge and snare her now. Bite her, even. Nothing inhibits you, and her flesh is singing to you, but you want to wait. My, that invigorating sound of her blood rushing and her heart thumping. You often listened in by her windows, speculating what occurred based upon the volume; a healthy and vicious rhythm was rage, and you fucking loved the sound of her rage. It gulps the mind. Pounds the somnolent heart.

Even inches away, you can hear it.

Scent is markedly a distant world, though. All these hardships at home; you can smell the regret outside her window sill. Alcohol, sweat, wounds. Those are the main ones you use to track her, and heed the elusive, perfect moments to leave trinkets for her.

Flora, odd bones and bits—guns off the usual unsuspecting victim. You often killed things with your own two hands, and dragged them over for her, too. Makes her the lesser hunter, huh?

There is a revolver stashed in her waistband, one you left for her.

“Not seein' anything out here,” she rasps.

Pocket knife, too. She came prepared, just not for you. With her focus swallowed, and mind inside of her gun, you stroll up from behind. Your hand plants on her shoulder before she can brace herself.

“Looking for something?” The question makes her snap around, but you behave like light.

Shoving her into the crisp ground goes smoothly, but not without a first impression. A gunshot is cracked from her rifle before you can disarm her of it. When you manage to, she flits into flight mode. Violent protests writhe under you.

Her pale face is screaming red. “Fuck! Get the hell off me!” Milk and roses, like the rest of her. She pounds her fists into your chest.

She is not easy. She is a rainstorm under your control. You have to put the weight of the world on her to chastise and limit the struggle, pinning her wrists into the snow and straddling. This subdues her, given your vampiric stamina, and your nose has never been closer. Her neck—a secodont temptation in human flesh. The scent filling you makes you laugh delightedly.

Her soft pink mouth is slightly agape, and filtering cold breath in your face. It envelops your eyes, fogs up her features, yet watching it enter, and leave her lips, fascinates you. Love is a rooting thing; you look once, and you never want to stop looking.

“Hey pretty eyes,” you allure, honey escaping your throat instead of venom. You never sound this sweet. “What are you doing so far from home?”

Ellie appears clueless to your nature. Rather, what things lie inside your mouth—sharp, and starving things. She flickers her eyes like a violent womb over your face, your blinkless eyes, and mentions nothing of it. Therefore, besides this being an obvious first encounter with a vampire, she won't expect it. Not like she can combat it, really; your strength precedes you.

Her chords tremble quietly, angrily, brows anchored low. “Fuck are you doing?”

Experiencing her voice so close and so personal makes you visceral. Lust enshrouds. “Hunting.. gathering..” you fade into a seductive coo, lips rolling over her neck. “Same as you.” Muscles in it flinch when you steal a short stroke with your tongue. Every part of her flinches.

Disgust then crosses her expression, and she blurts, “Are you a fucking cannibal?” Turning her head away. This only exposes her ripe neck more.

Either your tone, or the fact that you might be a flesh-eating killer, lifts her heart into her throat; pulses thump against your lips, so intoxicatingly. You want them in your mouth, in your memory. Somewhere they can exist and nurture you forever. “Mhh, so close.” You try to give her a hint by scraping your fangs along her sensitive carotid.

It seems to work.

She whimpers.

This was it, in her shallow mind. Eternal rest is calling, and she has nothing but her paintings and thoughts alone to rot without her. Ellie would die and have to bear the winter sun as her witness—her only witness. God, her heart breaks just thinking: Joel will be confused. Tess will send a rescue team for a corpse, and Joel will be lost when he has nobody to give the ol' regulation lecture to. Nobody to be a worried, old man for. Simply because of something she thought only existed in fiction and fairytales. How fucking rich!

“Fuck you!”

The night has a thousand eyes, and the day has but one.

You comb three attentive fingers into her hairline, and tip her head back. The gesture is too gentle for how ugly, mangled and sanguinolent the bole of her breaths is to be made. You are too gentle doing this. Scraping your teeth, wetting her skin; you have the social grace of a sycophant, and the conduct of a lover. Eat her whole, why don't you? She is your apple to keep. Eat, eat, eat.

You crumple the sage collar of her jacket, whispering, “Hold still for me, huh?” Quiet, and cold as the forest she relies on. As your opening lips.

And that is just what she does. Tighten as your teeth sink, motionless as these very trees. When you take her blood inside, you find her absolutely celestial. And you carve your teeth into her like she is a pietistical mural to make impure. Dying as a falling angel, she squirms. The penetralia of her throat is the main thing moving: tensing muscles, swallows pushing out a river of subtle, pained sounds. Crimson breaks, and draws in lithe lines down the base. Stains the crossroads of your sucking lips.

You make a soft-spoken voice crawl out of her. “Fuck,” she curses. Her teeth leap from her plush lip, and stay open. You imagine the pain is a gentle torture for your inexperienced victim. You are feeding on a sensitive silhouette, and she is staring up, quietly at the thistle drapings above. Misty-eyed, probably. Fingers tugging on your clothes just the way you need them to.

Blood thickens as your composure thins. She tastes sickeningly sweet. There is a pure hideosity reaching under your chin and down to your collarbones, because your hunger is beginning to precede you. Some ancient, voracious and cacodaemoniacal thing is wanting, and wanting hard. From your throat, from the cavity of your torso; somewhere desperate. Wherever it is, it wants a deep mouthful of Ellie, and you aren’t morally-deposed to take her to that dark there quite yet.

Your hungry grunt stifles. She has gone soft and pliant now and is holding your arm. As a grounding measure, you think, but it sends a pricking through your spine.

“Mhh,” you hum, slowly extricating from the side of her neck. Stronger gushing flows from the holes left behind as if the wound was crying in ease. Heaven, crying.

The cracked partings of her mouth shudder around a soundless gasp, and she reaches for the intrusion you left. Something was given and something was lost; she feels the raised punctures. Gets blood on the precious tips of her fingers. Lets her still-alive pulse hit against her palm. You took from her lifeline, and left a cruel epilogue.

Are you truly this savoring with it?

Maria said that something was out there—something uglier than infected. Creatures lie dead rampantly, and in cryptic, clean ways that denote sentient procedure. Nothing a brainless, living dead would have the capacity to do. So now that she has drawn you, a secret world exposed, snapped like bone, she has to say something. Do something. Joel drilled that incentive.

It knocks her into fleeing like fucking hell.

As in any exciting, horrific prologue, it begins in a scatter. Ellie clambers with milk knuckles in the self-same snow, grappling to slide out from under you, and manages a slim much. Her countenance is kneeled eyes and a gaping mouth, puffing clouds every which way. The face of escape; as if she had woken in a surrounding of her own blood, which is an embroidered, but hovering truth.

You watch with an empty one. She stands up and wrestles the approaching mist for her disposed handgun, flecking up snow with her footsteps as she dashes.

Adrenaline flees with her. If she is wise, a search team will be enlisted after your whereabouts. Carnage will break in these white woods an evening hence, under vacant cover of night, and she will no doubt be a curious murderer; searching for you under a false sense of safety, in the grove here.

But if you are wise, you will be there. Waiting for her.

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋

Evening begins in a whimper.

Or in sequences of them.

Troops shall not be drawn out, she decided. It grates her to sift this weight of knowing, this imperative information. But she is a waking potential, who has slipped her head under a crossroad and found a world of gnashing. She does not want to be the girl who cried vampire.

Well, winter is tired now. Snowfall has whirled, died, and crepuscule has crept in through the window sill. Everyone succumbed to it, except for her; still awake, still remembering. Hunched on her bed, she wads an alcohol-dredged cotton ball to the sickly white punctures on her neck, sipping harshly through her teeth. Stings like a fucking bitch. “Shit.”

But why is she still alive?

Ellie still feels the shape of your teeth in her neck. Skin flushing and pumping around them, or engraving some sort of scriptural curse. It was not painful, so much as it pained like death to think she would die. But she is here, and she feels misplaced. Watched, her faith in safety loosening.

The cotton ball is agitatedly discarded into a drawn-out trash bin, littered by all the cotton fumbled before. She pushes up at the knees and drags her ankles into the bathroom, fingers already reaching for the sink.

“Just gotta sleep this off, Ellie.” The faucet cries, its gentle stream pouring right into her asking palms. She uses it to splash her eyes, fingers rubbing around them to wipe the water away. Rinse, and unlearn the memory.

Try, at least.

She needs solacing rest. Forest duties will call her name in the youngest morning, and without a shroud of doubt, will be the warm, shepherding drawl of her father. She is fortunate enough to hang from him, his good name, who is the least bit hard on her. But others—such as her in-a-sense, patrolaholic aunt—would reproach him for his tender loving.

So, to cut the bullshit, she tries to lead a responsible life. Before, it was imprudence plentiful. But taking the inebriation, the heartbreakers, and the snuck-in cannabis out of her grasp has led her somewhere good. Somewhere she can feel like a worthwhile girl in one fucked up socket of the world. It seems to be valuable; she holds the highest count of infected shot in a single patrol.

Her concentration is immeasurable.

But she begins to doubt her resilience as she stares into the center of her sullen eyes.

She snags her lip to the left, contemplating. Ellie is alive for a reason. She fucked up; forgone each principle of the forest, of the hunt, omitting the signs and senses that beheld her in the stout snow. Yet, here she is, flesh in the mirror. And something else clicks: the inescapable leaving of unusual objects on her window sill face trial too. All that clattering and scratching at walls she thought was a rodent seems to align with it pretty well. Not to mention the disembodied touchings of her head and hair in deep-sleep dreamings, and awoken to in chapel-cold sweats to find nothing there.

It distressed her mind: how long should a human wonder, until it is lethal?

She concludes with the idea of a stalker.

Fucking vampire stalker.

It introduces a shiver. “Okay.” One she has to pursue genuine warmth for; she crosses her arms and kills the bathroom light, the ends of her fingers lingering up her sleeves as she crosses the threshold. Between a introspective bathroom, and an infiltrated bedroom.

Neither are soft with the home; its safe wood walls, weeping willow scents, and inborn temperatures. She is open to the outside. She is the centerpiece for the thousand eyes of night. Cold, bare. The bed welcomes her weight in a billowing hollow for her body—yet, is the most unsettling thing she has slipped against her skin. The question of whether you manifest on this meaningful night, or let your eluding presence delude her into searching for it, begs for sleep before it can transfigure into an answer.

Her quiet, petal-soft lids droop closed. Trying to sleep conceives like death; it’s as if the air seeping her bedroom is a miasma, each breath in getting her drowsier and drowsier. Soon, all sound fades, and the inhibition whether or not hunger will find you at this crescent of night, and on her pale neck, is forgotten.

Time is forgotten.

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

This is where she nestles—dreams. Pretty, isn’t she?

She is water and the way it settles. She is poetry scribed in the summer month of June, feeding on its younger, more innocent, springtime chassis in which it longs to return to. Gentle petrichor, plush skin, and lashes of an auburn fire. She is beautiful; but much harrowing is to be combed inside, underneath.

Dreams and pain lulled you. But after you first sought her, watching over her in the deepest sleep on the most painful of nights, it became ritual for a farther reason:

You fell in love. Again; love is a rooting thing; you look once, and you never want to stop looking.

Never.

Seams adore and finish the girl with eliciting interest. Low-cuts under the arms, in between the legs; it leaves less frou-frou and forest to the imagination than raised with. She really is auburn all over. She really, really is. You could not desire it any different. Peek-ins to temporal changes—when she strips plaid from pale and peels rough, woven blue and button from her muscled hips—excited you before, and they excite you now. Flesh has never been dangled in front of you as it’s in this time.

An arm is slackly risen above her pillow, and she clads a sleeveless. You can see it; the autumn forest.

But the instinct to protect, and nurture from her is worse now. And with the precedes of last afternoon—yesterday, the first of her blood taken into your vitals—you feel evermore lustful for it, leading you here at the foot of her bed. She looks peaceful now: unlatched lips, ribs that swell and wane, moon-shine on her neck. Your eyes land, in particular, on the sleeping shape of her fingers, curling slightly into her palm, which is against lilac-colored sheets.

Gods, she has the sweetest, speechless gesture of telling you where to bite.

You sidle upon the edge, tucking both legs and straightening both arms into a slow crawl until you reach that hand. It, limp at the wrist, delicately fits in yours, and you take it to your teeth.

Before you intruded her somnolent skin and trickling veins with your lust, you admired the feel of her freckled flesh against your lips. The hairs there tickled. The scent made you feen; a heavenly sigh stretching through your throat. And that sigh led your mouth open.

You bite the apple.

She slowly creaks awake—the hinges of her eyes fluttering with a slow, white surprise. “Uhn—what the?” And when she notices, they blow wide with an olive ring. “Fuck!”

She stumbles up on her bottom. The wrist in your mouth supplied you a sip of blood before it was ripped from you and fled in excretions of that crimson nectar—wasted. It stains her sheets. Writes the event in blood. Crucifies the affrighted face of the auburn girl who grips her leaking wrist with a pressure you can hear tighten.

And she bleeds, and she bleeds—and you watch.

Like a lover.

You fawn, pouting all sick-and-sweet. “You know you could injure yourself more. Doing that.” It contorted a sicker-looking sharpness in her glare; staring from under her pricked brows. You unwind, and reach for her, “Here, let me.” But she flinches, a fitting punishment for a monster.

“Who are you?” She sounds instinctive, grit in her tone. “And what the fuck do you want with me?” The old, frightened-lamb act of her afternoon self seems to have diminished, painting her a volatile violence. She weaponizes her eyes; lacerates your red ribbon secrets into a bleed. Tries to, at least.

You never made it simple.

Well then, resilience it is. Quite stunning when she stomachs it up from her throat—a pretense swollen from hiding. Perhaps, this relenting will entertain you more. “Mmm, a secret admirer,” you intone, limning circles on the bed with your pointer. Then, you remember the situation, and chuckle. “Not so secret anymore though, I suppose.”

She looks the least bit impressed.

You still your finger, sighing. “Right.” And you plummet sights upon the silent, clothing-riddled carpet in spontaneous thought.

Her stare wanted to carve an entire confession out of you, and unfortunately—your truth is ancient, and incomprehensible. Not the safest knowledge for humans. But seeing as she said a precise ‘who’ are you, and not a ‘what’ are you, implies she knows enough not to require too much more. Eager to soften her, though, the portion she carves is a thimbleful of sugar; a sweet, harmless idea.

It starts with breath filling your windpipes. “Infected make life impossible, but you already understand that perfectly fine. At least on your end of things.” You squint, contorting the somethings of a musing expression.

She gulps, and it pulls her lids with it into a pensive blink.

“We vampires, on the other hand, have it so desolate.” Your voice is softly crawling inside of her. “It makes us desperate.”

Her brows narrow. “So, you still feed on unsuspecting victims?”

“Well, is that not just the naturalistic nature of vampires?”

“Tch,” she scoffs, kneeling up from the bed. “Fucking pathetic.” Her footpath to the window is sharp. The latch clangs under her finger, and the panes are palmed open, swallowing inside the cold airs of the forest. “Now, if you don't mind—could you get the fuck out?”

You cock your head and immerse. To her, you are a thorn in the flesh; some creature she did not invite into the home of her body, and certainly not her life. You staring at her makes her want to rip out of her skin.

“What, am I supposed to empathize with you or some shit?” Her hand casts out, shrugging at you with a disinclination she conjectures as obvious. “No fuckin’ way.” It drops to her thigh.

Thus, you relapse. The mind bends into itself and what it sees is springtime—her most earning months, and you, victorious to have earned her heart that is caged. Being aware of her nature made it easier done than said, but you have your secret stash of lilies; your thornless guise. You want it to be real. You would utter anything for it to be real.

“You're lonely,” you blurt, smooth and seductive, evocative of the moonlit shadow you sit sedentary in. Tension is born in a confounded gulp from her you hear so clearly. “You starve for some sort of company, right?”

She tuts, stares off. “Not with you.”

“Who else?”

You prick a nerve.

And her countenance seems eager to linger: lips tugging over her teeth in such a simmering fashion—so you begin again.“See—Ellie, I myself am quite alone too—”

“‘Course you know my fuckin’ name.”

“I know you watch the stars every night. For a reason, too.”

She softens at the mouth. What you said gets her skin raised; it has nothing to do with the original conversation, yet makes an eerie sense. Of course you know.

Bring up space, and she is all ears.

“Did you ever wonder how alone they are, too? Big, blindingly bright things in the sky that yet have an eternal cling to the empty, cold nothingness?” Your voice reflects the poignant contents. And in that poignant, in-between silence, your stares are battling each other. “I know it well. It drives you to rather deplorable things.”

She still says nothing. Her eyes are shifting with a million things she could, but she casts them aside and settles her lids.

“You know too.”

The sound creases her brows.

Hopeful creatures prance in the night. It is night; you are a creature. The bed rustles with your hopeful movement—legs pouring from the edge to the floor, and drifting your way over with so much as a quiet prance. You intend not to scare her, or harm her, but to persuade her of your good—in other words, ambivalent—will and soul. “Think of my feedings as a special little hello. I don't regularly interact with the human world as much as I fend from it.”

Ellie repositions herself along the sill when you join her, a chastened flinch.“Huh.” She crosses her arms. “Okay. But, like—what do you want outta’ this?” she questions, and her brows have a stronger downpour when she espies you; clenched, cautious things.

“Sanctuary.”

Her breath groans. “English, please?”

“I speak as you do.”

“Wh—okay well,” Her tongue stumbles. Articulation is never her strong suit, unless it is an articulation of rage. She pinches the bridge of her nose, crumpling her inner-eyes and pitches herself to the window, leaning on it. “Forgot you're like fuckin’ ancient, probably.”

You thought you forgot how to laugh—but there it springs, the age-old sound. And you expect her to be offended because of it, but she eyes you in her hung position without a crack in her expression. Nothing-faced. Throat cold and tongue soft; this must be what compliance looks like. If it is, then it’s all you need.

Self-indulgence steals you. You enclose the warmth of her hand in your palm, and shape it like an alcove. Her rough skin made for a captivating texture.“Smart girl.”

You expected her to scoff—least of all, to blush, and conceal it by turning to the paned, outside world—scoffing.

Tingles run down your spine.

“So, am I granted?”

Ellie blankly snaps her head from the window. She blinks for a couple beats. “Huh?”

“To stay here—it’s what I was asking of you before.” You take a step forward, prudent and slow. Her soundless mind made you preclude; you cannot read it, but you understand where her heart is and its sensibilities. She is logical, she wants reasons. Chances are, her response will be apprehensive, and you intend to reel it out without it snagging on the gentle inside. You need to be on her level. “Housing is scarce and less sustainable than it ever has been. Surprise, surprise.”

She also loves sarcasm.

“Tch—” She straightens her spine, slipping in a fleeting smile. “What’s wrong with where you live now?”

“The others are all heartsores,” you deplore, tone elongating. “Groaning on and on about tradition and ethics.”

“By others, I’m going to assume you mean.. other vampires?”

“Indeed.”

The conversation interludes with a sigh, deep in her chest. She covers it with her arms crossed. The question then seems to fester; her lips rub together without an answer—but more thinking, and then her eyes thread up through another inhale. “Fine,” she says. With a heart softened. “Guess an invisible roommate wouldn’t be so bad.” Loneliness has convinced her. The window locks shut with a clack, a flick of her fingers. “My blood is one-hundred percent off-limits, though.” She shoots you a half-serious, half-sarcastic face—intending one over the other.

“Ah,” you wince, bending at the knees to accentuate your comment. “But it’s so sweet.”

And she cringes at it, but with faux mirth; a guarded, disgusted chuckle. “Don’t say that, either.”

You heed her wish with a small sound, “Hm.” and a mirrored smile. The sentence itself feels as though it will become repertoire. Several things do. The events here today are a stain, a crimson, violent-smelling one that cannot be washed out.

You hear the sound of fabric shifting. “Take the couch.” An indigo, plaid wool blanket is stripped from her bed, and chucked onto the quaint window-seat across, which is satin-like with moonlight; an edgeless, dull gleam reaching for it. It drapes with erratic procedure. “Don’t leave my room, don’t leave the house during the day, and don’t drag in any dead animals..”

“Do you think me uncouth?”

“Well—ugh.” She pinches her eyes together. Then, she rolls her head around.“You know what I mean. Just act like a human and don’t get fucking caught.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

She huffs. “Good.”

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐓

She promised you it was off-limits.

But still it persisted. The ancient hunger, the memories of her inside.

Humanity can be a limiting thing.

There, a conflict was born. You could eat from any tree you wanted. Tear it apart, watch it foam at the mouth for mercifulness. Nothing—not a thing that is tangible—is stopping you, or stopped you in the past. So, what meaning does that conviction hold when you spot the most beautiful, available, and abundant tree; beautiful with her freckles, available in her sleep, and abundant with the thing she lives on to survive and you drink to survive?

The indolent sound would not leave. It would not soften, it would not climb.

It would flow, and flow mercilessly.

It was upon her bed the night she resigned. “Fine,” she sighed, and it was said so softly in spite of the original promise. Time around you had softened her. “Just a little, right?”

But even as it left her lips, her fingers were reluctant in folding up the hem of her sleeve. You noticed the careful pace. The second thoughts in her eyes, whispering to her fingers that this would be a potential regret, and soon a routine. The implications in her features scrunched as she watched you come closer.

“Just a little,” you reaffirmed. You kissed that node in her wrist with it, too. “Nothing more.”

The moon hung a little past three in the morning when she was up, and you were hungry. Slightly hungry. Soft urges are enough a reason.

Sensations were high that night. Teeth buried into her leather-cushion skin and it felt like a velvet drug; Ellie loathed and loved, whined and writhed for you. It fed you and silenced her. That is a sanctioned schedule. You would drink it in a this-or-nothing, soft-fondling manner and she would give it past midnight—all nights. Most times, sleep would befall, and she would need your voice to guide her awake before you decided to feed. As long as you are in accordance with time, place, health and spectation—she never minds.

Weeks flowed, and it persisted.

“You have a strange-ass routine. ‘M still not used to this,” she laughed, bolstering fatigue in her tired eyes that fluttered. Down, and down.

Perhaps you loved opportunities.

Her skin fits tight and warm in your mouth; alive and pulsing and ever so whistling blood. It was no longer massacres under your lip, it was clean, and she made little sound—besides when she had something dull to weigh in.

Your lips sutured together, imbibing that last stria of delicate red. “Me?” you pitched, and secondly smiled as her laugh riled it in you. “You wake at this hour regardless for inessential nothings. You are strange.”

She scoffed with character. “What?” And had it in her to laugh a little louder—praying it didn’t bleed outside the room: that and the beheaded nonsense. “The only reason I get up this early is because I have.. shit to do, people to feed..” She crinkled her nostrils and sniffled.

“Taking care of yourself for me?”

“Uh, what makes you think that?”

“Your skin tastes of honey,” you declared this alongside your caressing fingers, rolling over the fresh wound, the honey skin in question. It met like silk. “Do you want to impress the impressed?”

Either it was your question muddling her—or your statement and its ring of truth, that made her features crinkle up.“No?” Such a failured liar. She conserved not a clue about the accumulating chaos in her bathroom, whom she had no mind other than hers to blame: herbs all around, sweet liquids, ingredients you find in self-made soaps but nonetheless in heaps and scattered. She thought you were clueless to it. She tip-toed around it. “Fuck, is this just you wracking my brain again with your weird phrases and your.. old—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, darling.”

Her cheeks seemed to redden on the spot.

This unadulterated sweetening to her flesh was a decision. Raw, home-harvested honey that she lathers to sanctity herself—or satisfy you. It added up to this this little, unspoken—but traceable—secret she had slipped into, though exposed; she hadn’t treaded the feeling in years. You saw her, heard it beat in attempts to catch up with her running thoughts.

She likes you.

Her behavior reminded you of your darling years abounding the Enlightened Age: in love with a pair of frilly, fern eyes that often wandered, and robin-bellied hair: a girl who roamed the court with gut and courage, but could not pave it through the same.

You loved her.

But she was taken from you.

Ellie mumbled,“Not dumb,” with her mouth under her fingers and pupils disengaged. She wiped at the corner with the crook of her thumb until she thought of something else. The tone was written on her face beforehand. “Just being.. considerate?” She knew it wasn’t the right one. So, she laughed and spared you her timid stare, shrugging. “Dunno’. You tell me.”

You laughed too, scornful. But not harsh. “Bit of a brat today, huh?”

Staying acclimated this other hunger. This pure, gentle, moan of a hunger. It is simple to say you believed in love; wished it upon others, witnessed it, longed a little for it. But it isn’t your function. Isn’t your toy to play with. You denied it.

There reached a strange night: your spine was against the black-wood headboard and sacrum further down, blooming with an old sensation, and your hands were on her. Groping, guiding. Admiring the naked skin of her hips, which twitched, and writhed with sounds and sights you prefer to have faith in no one else seeing. Not in a while, at least. These lines of midnight-light wavered over her movement, her teardrop breasts, even catching the mess in between her thighs she tried to hide rubbing in between the spreading of yours. Wet and wanting and abandoned and—you remember all too much.

She is beautiful down there.

Tears form in your heart.

Ellie was close to the edge. You could hear it in her voice. “Fuck—if you'd just stop playing hard to get, coulda’—uhn, had this way sooner.”

The phrase confounded you. “Hard to get?” Lots of her speech confounds you; there was a love-hate relationship to be had with that. On her side, though. You found it cute.

“Just—shut up, please.” She climbed a partial note, turning grunts into whines. As soon as she said that, her fists crumpled and her tension released. You, in your long life, have never seen such an overwhelmed girl. Her cheeks were smitten-red. Cum was trickling down the stretch of her shaking, muscled thighs, and she could not help it; she was lead with it. Ellie was wobbling once you were finished.

But she loved it.

Then, there it was in the derelict chapel. The strangeness again. Down her panties was your hand, training back the seam, and in the air her cries. Angelic ones. Pushing you into substantiation; you did love her.

And you felt selfish.

“You are too paced for yourself. Go slow, like this.”

You had pushed her own hand out prior. She was palming herself in a book-sprinkled office a short couple minutes after initial arrival. You aren’t even supposed to be here with her, in this house of God, scavenging for supplies—let alone outside. She should be paired with someone Joel trusts, someone Maria has seen kill. Human, good-hearted.

The quick, and snagging circles she performed with her fingers never compared to the attention and care you made with her. Like she was in a rush, and you had a blade to stab into the axis of the world. It did constitute sense: she was blushing with shame when you walked in on her—jeans almost off her hips—giving you the idea that she meant to finish in a dreamlike minute. But she didn’t slap her own hand for its perversion. She wore the helpless look.

“How long before you decided to tell me?”

“When we left.” The heart of her thighs compressed your hand. She was getting restless under your touch, twitching into your hand to earn more friction, biting down on her lip. Ellie can only do so much as huff when you rearrange the twining of her legs again. “It was aching s’fuckin’ bad, babe.”

You are certain that she lied. She had the velvetiness, drip and need of someone who hasn’t handled their problem since morning; it was pooling in her underwear. “Before a house of God?” you whispered, your voice a small softness in the mush of her mind. “You really are a strange one, my girl.” She couldn’t care less. You were tugging her just right and that was all she attended to. Numb-locked.

She mouthed a curse. Breath hitched in her throat. “Bite me,” she breathed out.

“Oh, you want it?”

Her face was pinching with pleasure. “Mhm.” Lips rolling over each other.

The once isolated and responsible Ellie you coerced for blood, was now tilting her chin up like a sunflower in bloom. Sometimes, she rolled her shirt up or pulled her pants down, letting you feed in clandestine places; her open thighs became a fast favorite, and dipping in between to that slickened parting made you want to write a poem with your teeth. An introduction to the core. For the thrill, for the devotion—it set the belting green in her eyes thin no matter the bite.

It made her feel loved.

But should it; being a strange thing to love?

Cracked moans curled out her neck. You noticed their swell, their added breath when your tongue caught her clit and wrote with it in circles, pulling her wound-ridden thigh over your shoulder. Lips, pinker than her vestal love, dropped open. You trained her voice to not be so swallowed, hidden, and conscious of being heard. You would not stop without hearing it. “Come on, Ellie,” you would coax. “Let me hear you.” And she would use it. Splutter it. Choke it.

“Fuck!”

“There, there..”

She is no virgin. She was no virgin. But, her mind made by the girls of Jackson she poured eyes—or poured lips—over, most in for casuals, or nighttime flings, neglected itself. She gave, and never seemed to receive. Ellie didn’t know if she was ever going to; then, there you were. Her heartbeat was running centuries ahead, and it gave you life.

You assumed, with an assuming inherence, to protect her from that loneliness. The loneliness you get from other people—not from the lack of them. You have her in that sort of catching grasp that feels suffocating, but ends up a pleasant surprise.

She thought you must be magic for that reason.

And the Devil for another.

“Jesus—are you listening to me?” Her voice wanted to break. It wanted to flood, it wanted to sting, it was a rough invocation that you never heard before, and her hands pranced the air. In anger. “You dragged a dead animal in here. You did exactly what I fucking told you not to!” Then, they crossed into her warmth, and the thrash song of her heart went muffled. “You fuckin’ kidding me?.”

Everything in the world went silent to listen in. The birds, the trees, the surrounding matter. But your guilt was just as quiet when, for a change, it should have been sobbing loud.

You caressed the words strolling from your mouth, a complacent gesture. “I was careful,” you tempted, tracing circles around that facetious hole in your face. “So careful.”

Her fingers turned to fists. “You..” Her mouth, in contrast, was a pert snag. But it soon had to face a laugh for coping. “You don’t get it, do you?.”

“I do.”

“Right.” She flinched into the light. Moved into the cold.

You get it when blood in droves leaves distasteful secrets, clinging to hardwood floors. You get it when others are involved and get dragged into it. What you do not get is the desire to see it happen. The stomachs that turn at you for not fitting into their forgivable frame. What should one expect?

Is she really this soft?

Oh, how your poor heart aches watching her not watching you.

Ellie continues at the mouth. Irritated fingers drag her under-eyes from their sockets. “Shoulda’ known this was a fucking mistake, Ellie.” Though your oral worship was stunted; you couldn’t see her whisper these things, you knew they were real. You knew she meant them.

You knew it would ring in her head.

That night, an attempt to instill a different idea ends in a laceration, and a throb in your nail beds. Because you thought she had done the one thing you would bleed her for:

Stopped loving you.

You rhymed her with reasons. You extorted your very own, amended morals for relief, with palms cupping her cheeks—and she cut a statement too deep: “Huh. Doesn’t fuckin’ seem like you’re any different than those bastards you ran with until—”

Her hair was the last thing you felt before the tear.

No, no, no. You are different.

Crouching, you clutched her chin with sharpened, hidden fingers, and a controlling thumb. You stole her tears from the wardrobe panel they wept to. “My darling,” you coaxed—as sickening as the dull blade. She twisted you inside herself; staring up at you through her soaking, shining lashes, made for internal conflict she could not put a finger on. “Does it hurt?” She is right, under the condition that you are gospel. What was she thinking?

She wiped her fingers in the openings of her blood, and examined them. A sniffle cut between looking at them, and looking toward you. “Y-Yeah.” It was a painfully awkward, and docile croak. Her irises were thin with shock, breathing laboured.

Ellie was bleeding from her cheek, to the tip of her philtrum, and to the edge of her apologies. Yet, you only cared how it..

Tasted.

“Shh, shh..” You swept her stained fingers from her face. “Let me take care of it,” whispers scattered. In her head, she was packed in litanies of heavy cotton; woolgathering. Paid the littlest bit of attention to your tongue, it lapping up her septum, furling back with blood, and how it should feel strange. But, it did not. She felt nothing. She felt the same. She still wore that lost, dreaming-eyed stare.

Why?

It is vile.

All is forgotten in time.

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄

“Ah, shit! Fuckin’ knife.”

Ellie hasn’t been her usual.

And neither have you.

You have been feeding less this cycle, and it’s put her into this stir. Divine, enigmatic stir. Questions upon worries upon interventions—headstrong hands and kitchen knives—curdle up in her gut. Are you bored of her? Has her nectar gone sour? Have you found another source? The silence in the room is louder than usual. Whether it was your intention, or its own result, Ellie has gotten used to this agriculture of give and pleasure; she inclines her wrist without your word. She opens her neck without your teeth.

The cabin, for once, is empty this day. So is her head.

You’re stood off to the side.

Ellie—who loves getting called stupid by her girl—pricked her finger for you. She was handling delicate produce on the counter, and her far more delicate fingers stood stockstill in their position, meeting the sharp tip of that knife in that headstrong hand. Her brows rucked, or already were; she had something on her mind. Some enchanting idea.

She sidles up against you. “Hey, babe.. mind cleanin’ this up?” Ellie wiggles her finger in an awkward and sultry manner, signature to she and she alone. There is a small, shining, seed of blood forming on the wound.

You consider it. For a second, or more, you consider feeding into her sweet little game. And she continues to pitch that finger east and west like a last chance, but it comes into question first. “Should you be handling that knife?” you answer—and she lets a disgruntled sound slip.

Also, you have seen your guaranteed share of slit fingers. That girl in the court had a graceless aptitude.

Ellie finds a smile to laugh at you with: insulted, asymmetrically dotted, with all the crinkles of someone who thinks so different of themselves—but it’s pretend. A softened wire in her brain molds into the warmth of your perception. She did it for Joel, once. “Guess not,” Ellie mumbles, bringing her finger down to stare at it. It almost bugged her that it wasn’t immediately in your mouth. The blood long-reaching.

Instead, you enamored yourself with the syrup-orange tea in front of you. Stirring, stirring.

Her throat clears. “What’s that?”

You turn, at last, with knuckles bending around the base of the porcelain cup seeping with heat. It feels cold in your hands. “For you.” You press it to the middle of her chest.

Her fingers come up to palm it, glancing at your face for a sign that another word would leave your throat. Eyeing up, and then down; she hopes you will make sense. You just hand it off to her. “Well, that answers my question halfway,” she sighs, cocking her hip against the counter. “Thanks.”

You lop a smile as nothing else seems to spring to mind. Turn away, turn away.

How should you begin—to a girl you met at the pulse of a throat—explaining that the contents in that cup can and will send her to sleep? Should you distress concern and mention how she has been missing it? Should the room go silent, and she as well?

A confession has been smothering your thirst for weeks.

You are bored.

Vampirical instincts have sat restless and upset in the sockets of your fangs. You feel tired, you get cravings that seem to climb and climb each hour, and at the crest of night, you prowl the short corridors in this house with suffocated footsteps, listening to the heartbeats of others with a small, specking guilt. You can quench it however you please, but the one thing that will not change is that you are a winter-blooded predator. You should be hunting; you are not. It nags at you. Months with her in your hands, in your mouth—and it isn’t enough. It was never going to be.

Last night went as usual. You rush to fill the bed before she finds it empty. Then, as you are shifting the sheets, her sleeping tosses and turns find you, and on your waist, her slender hand finds a spot made for her to fill. Her lips find something in her dream to grin about.

You brushed it under your thumb. “My sweet dove.”

Beside her, she assumes you sleep well. Then, in the morning, she mistakenly traces her mind for a memory recording her forgetfulness, tapping the unshut window, contemplating. The animal blood isn’t in her palms— you somnambulist.

Tomorrow, you would let instinct feel hunger again. Hunting is a desideratum. A deep-in, desired ultimatum.

Then, tomorrow came.

On the couch, you give in and draw her cut fingertip into your mouth. Sucking, silent and sensual. Ellie had the tea swirling around her limbs: weighing down her arms, slumping her legs, and her nose twitched with each escape from nodding off—and yet, she was still stubborn to lie down. Though you, twirling and twirling two fingers on her arm, inspired no help for her either. Perhaps, the swirling affect is a dreaming cling to you; your touch is a sleeping reverie.

Ellie jabs, with her free thumb, into her waterlines and digs around the stiffness. She can hardly lift them. Then, a low grunt follows. “Ugh, so tired.” She is the softest thing in this room. Nothing could compare, not you—not ever. “How did I get this tired?”

Your stained lips peel from her finger. “Abandon at night?” Clasping the tip as you talk. “You avoid sleeping.” Sucking blood from its tip feels more pretentious than it used to. Your tongue is climbing out, wasting time to be sure she watches you do it with your eyes shut in concentration, and she does.

Her eyelids droop imperceptibly watching you; a gait that out-performs centuries; your cold-fleshed lips wrapping around her warm finger, hands cupping hers, and suctioned as if it were your mortal first. The careless sanction is gone. The inaction to eating her whole—is gone. You deepen the length her finger reaches, and it hits near the back of your throat, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Licking each ridge of it, quietly cannibalistic.

Loving left and swept with you, greed.

“Babe..”

Ellie has moonshine eyes when you open yours. Green irises that no longer hold their color. Eyelids that are dog-eared, deepened and—brown-lashed, saddening. Not the eternal same. Spring is coming; why is there nothing?

After a silent pause, she answers. “I can’t sleep.” Rasp in her chords.

You dislodge her finger from your mouth once more. Sigh in the warmth fleeing you.

She ruffles her hair. “But it’s never this bad. Jesus, I just can’t fight this.”

The innocence, and lack of detection present in her springtime-longing attitude feels wrong—and is perfectly your fault. So, that conflict scars. You tighten your throat. Cause a hesitant strangle. Forever has passed; you believe you are tasting your own blood.

You flinch into partial shadows. Drop her arm. “Just—get some rest.”

Ellie frowns at your abrupt resistance. You can hear it when she tries to plead you backwards. “Hey,” her voice cracks in that special, air-pitched tune that stops your feet against hardwood: a tired Ellie, and the couch shifts with the sounds of her sitting up. “What are you doing? Don’t go.”

You imagine that arm is reaching out to you now.

“Cleaning up.” Stifled breath leaves you with a drop of your shoulders. “You will see me, first thing when you wake.”

She giggles. “Hm, okay.” So willing to trust.

For the first time, it sickens you. And for the last time, it make sense in your head full of heart what you can be. In her world—painted and threaded and canvas-white underneath—you can be her secret. But in yours, you are her open wound; latching condition. With no color but red. Everyplace, in every opening, red. She sees so much more than that. But she, afraid to blotch outside the lines, and you, bleeding throughout and into others, made for a conflicting pact. Messes, everywhere. And then, you understand it seems right that you feel sick.

She just assumed you were faithful to take care of them. “Love you, babe.” Even if you never pled for her faith, and her warm voice doesn’t stop you now.

You need to eat.

𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

The mourning sun wept, for what you hoped, was the first and final time.

In your Georgian years, you were introduced with transubstantiation; you often tripped on your own flounces as a little girl, but carried into bridalhood with the pearl-blue poise a faith-wielding-mother-to-be should have. No longer did you intimidate crowds with ill etiquette, but rather, with what you became—and who you turned to in fawning innocence.

Wise men. Innovators, practitioners, maestros of trade. All of them had futures under their belt, and you had a single, untouched one. God, did men feed on that.

It was temporal. Men later found your intelligence to be intimidating, and in personal accords, offensive—for a woman. Your heart was a church on fire; knowledge crept in and you crawled out of your own mouth, spreading those words. Disgusting, secular truths. The court censured you for it. Kept you from attending banquets, beat you with threats of asylum, and rose torches to your beloved solace for it. It was a quiet hatred hailed, and yet performed so loud: your ears throbbed in pain each night.

But it never stopped you.

“Why do they cast you out here?” A voice—curious and delicate—whipped your intrigue out of your head, for a change. You peeked, with wide eyes, from under your brow and quivered over the silhouette leaning against the quaint terrace opening. It nudged off, and only then did its fern and fox-orange features become apparent, small pockets of light raining across. “With the dogs?”

Then, you knew it; it was her. Smiles creased in your throat. “And why do you wear pants?” But you showed just one, a subtle one. “And come to banquets smothered in coal?”

Albeit, she was clean; the wares of her straining day in the mines clung to noses. She pinched her coat open, and sniffed out either a truth, or a lie. The flinching of her nostrils proved one. “Ah—damn, guess I made a pitiful attempt at washing my own coat, huh?”

Her self-blaming quip pushed those smiles right up. Even, in your eyes. “Mhm,” you hummed, and it seemed to peel her lips back even more, off-centered teeth shining.

You tried to get her to simper, always. Seeing the slight gap in her teeth, all while inappreciable, pounded your unsettled heart.

Spring came in droves. It came with the bushels, it tore with the rain, and it ended with lips against your ear that promised you the period inbound was helpless. The summer was going to be helpless to your happiness.

“You don’t care for their thoughts,” she told you. “You grant yourself everything. It’s beautiful.”

Her white-hot breath burned through skin. Where did your sense of abandon go—you wonder? She was telling you to be free, but with lissome arms around you, you wanted a limit. You would rage without a hand to settle you where it wanted. And when you got too quiet, it moved; your invisibleness to being a lover menaced her to bits, but it was just that—invisible. There, buried. Low in the meadow.

Your arm leapt from rest. It wrapped with care. “No,” you whispered, a scared tremor in her hold. “Don’t go.”

Refusing her romances for little whiles, she never expected it—but expected you.

She laughed. “See?” Because you do get what you want.

You do lose your freedom.

Rain clung to blades of grass. Your phrase was foreseeable, but you had your ears folded and feet bare in the garden. The meadow before, beheld by two, and now yourself alone. At least, you assumed you were alone. If loneliness—and happiness, medlied together—felt as pasture and moisture did free under the pallets of your toes, the wet blades between, then it was fine. You would be fine with it, with this. The latchet heels you refused to wear, as a girl and then, hung from your fingertips.

But staring at that puncture of light high up made your concepts swell. Fine is not fine enough, if her being there made your days even finer. Love couldn’t abide longer; you tossed your heels in the vendure, lifted your drapings, searched for her through the atrium openings and contended with a stride that made it to the exits.

And out of them again.

Sharp fingers clutched you from behind, and it sent you a shrill. Your throat grated with it. “Let me go!” But as soon as the world rolled upside and around your throat, it collapsed being pounded into the ground tandem with insertion of pain. You constricted with prayers left inside.

Strange, pitched siphons of a dead kiss; a pair of coldnesses attached there—faceless as it lies too close—and drained the blood. You went silent. You were terrified feeling drips of blood escape your carotid and the mouth of the thing, ending up in that green grass. Pitiful, the tears. Vision gone wet and dull, this was it. In your mind, gentle for some end: this was it.

And then, you became again.

The creature replaced loss with a new fiber. While you were drifting into numbness at a glacial pace, no longer staring beyond your eyes, sudden flows of cold liquid were pushed and bursted. The pain waned, then it abated. Warping into a strange, something-else phenomenon. For a second, all the sound in the world emptied and nothing replaced it. Even in the hollows, where air is invited and dismissed, it was hauntingly quiet; you weren’t sure if you were breathing at all. Then, as a whip is lashed, it pops.

The first sound of this life, was a gasp. “Oh, god!” you choked from the air present inside you. It almost hurt to breathe, and your windpipes suffered a severe whiplash, strangling you to cough, cough, and cough until whatever pearl-shaped bane that was in there—was out. But as you clutch the flesh upon your chest, your heart drops. You are sitting up—free, without a thing to hold you in place.

Was it a dream?

For mornings you relapsed to the same conjecture; waking up felt no different than falling asleep. Cotton breathed, winter continued, and sunshine eclipsed in real life as it does in a dream. In the prologue of summer, you could never fall asleep. You were never tired enough. Wanted less of light and more of night, and you could not put a finger on it.

It became an ode to transient living—which you could sing no more.

But, something ached. From your throat, to the seedless pit of your stomach, something was wanting for you—wanting hard.

Conniption. That was all you needed. Tangled ligatures of conniption, a communion, and the weapons to do it. You went prepared: a knife was laced tight into your undergarment, accessible from the breach of your pressed breasts, but not once did you evince it. You did not need it.

You figured that out with your first victim. The blood—oh, it poured from the base of his voice into his shirt and it wrote your name in the stone tiling. In red, it whispered to you. Luring, convincing. You imagined claiming the possessions on his person, and returning your stolen virtue to its place in-heart was his result, but then you began to precede yourself.

Thoughts from another age trickled in. His skin, pulsing inside your teeth before you made the bite. It was meant to be.

Inside chapel doors, it was quiet and cold. To you, it was; the temperature perceived has a scattered origin. Summer heat coagulates against the windows, pulses inside the stone and almost boils the pool of blood under his head, but you are what you have changed into. Sucking, with hunger and without a stomach, it warms your lips before it chills and dissipates. Weird—love often operates as so.

Those doors groaned open. Behind your attention.

A relieved sigh starts. “God, I was searching all about for you,” that familiar voice said. Her knowledge was perfect, but on a peripheral edge; she had figured you were inside because your equine presence was outside, but she did not see you as soon as she entered. Blood left a curious trail. “What in.. God..” Into a forest of devotional pews.

God abandoned centuries ago.

“Joel!” Ellie reaches for him with a scream. “Get the fuck off him!”

With a mouthful of blood, her pale lips are focused on. You rise, teeth crimson, and she is standing there in the melting numb with nothing to protect her but flannel, wide-eyed with this waking world. Had the tea not kept her? “Ellie,” you rasp. The hole in your throat left with the fear of your failure—factured to her being here, and not on that couch. She hates. She hates your guts. She is staring at you, watching, and it is a shifted stare you hope upon none. Your throat goes swollen: understanding it.

You wanted to protect her.

Her fingers writhe in careful spasms. Lips fold in. “Joel?” She wants to be confused. But her guts sinks considering if she were to have slept, she would have missed this. Missed Joel, in confusion.

The swollen sounds that so much as struggle, and die in the windpipe. “I couldn’t do it, Ellie.” You draw the last breath you feen to kiss her with. You scrape toward that chance; step in a careful line.

Ellie regresses—she denies your approach. Her flinch is all too familiar. “You..” she trembles, and deprives you of beholding the one thing that fascinates you from reason: her unprecedented eyes, a green gift from the mother underneath. Tears dilate in the corners. Lumps in the throat toughen her swallows. “Couldn’t do it?” Her mind is hers, again. “You fucking killed him!”

Him?

When she wails, is when she trades you her look again. Brighter, sharper, raging and horrible. Space between your bodies diminishes as she closes it, but it is a meant punishment; to reach the man behind you. She comes near, and not near enough. “Joel..” Sobs will her mouth unhinged. “Joel, please..” Heaven cries.

Is he more special than you?

Both knees thud into the ground. She bare-hands the blooded snow, clenching it into a fist. Screaming, mouth wanting to curl into itself—louder, louder. “You killed him.. You killed him!” Ellie chants, and snow crumbles from her grip as she replaces it with the fabric over her blue heart, hysterical. Her own throat chokes her. “He’s fucking dead.. Look, he’s fucking d—d..” Icicles could form on her philtrum if it were a month earlier. Hunger admits; it could have been.

Really, you never learned who he was to her. Father, saviour, a nevermind-stranger. To you, or for you, everything about this home was a secret. The doors, not to touch. The floorboards, given to screeching. Other humans—she made sure your eyes kept her way. His firewood scent lit the halls at night, pulse calm; your judgement relied on the stories you felt throughout the house.

The smell of estrangement.

God, it reeked. Alcohol settled on his windowsill for nights along months. It seemed foreign. Not meant to be. Misplaced, you attempt to recall. You wipe at the blood that won’t go away.

Curious thing: you don’t recall his name being a craving.

Winter fills you again, and when you decide to sidle up against her in the snow waning to spring, she does nothing. For a moment, she is still curled—deadened—to his chest. That stubborn auburn strand has shifted from its tuck, adhering to the snot on her lip. You touch her to return her some life.

It works, to your disbelief.

She sniffles.

You breathe out, “Ellie?” close to her nape exposed, gentle enough not to shatter silence. “My girl?” But it gets fabric to shift under you. Attention to be given.

She turns slowly, and without a word. Stares without a drought in her waterlines. Your reflection consumes you in them, as both hands consume her at the sides, cupping her delicate, mourning-blue face. You could eat her. Sweet as an apple: round, shining, blooding whooshing to the surface. But you would begin with her lips. From her lips, to her love, as you did your girl before.

Yes, see? You are different.

You are different, and she loves you. “I love you.” You kiss her. Unrequited and soft. Though, the gesture snags curls into her lips. Yes, yes—please keep smiling.

Her lips part to utter something. Throat moves with the shape of a word. But, it does not dislodge. She swallows it, her lips snaring with it, pushing into this frown of undelight you could never have foreseen; doll-wide eyes and knife-point brows cutting into her own flesh. And then, puncture.

Your chest opens up.

It burns. It slides in. What is this sensation?

Out of that sudden choke-up, you drop your interests to the foreign parting. Seeing it, you stop living; silver protrudes from your chest, ribs holding it in place, and her hands are the guide. Fingers wrapped with love and promise, whitened from the pressure, around this blade and its hilt. No, not the blade you left for her; this one is a stranger, intrusion. The sacred invitation.

Its embrace is warm, not cold.

The dense snow is not when you plummet spine-first into it. It is warmest thing soothing your body ever since her last touch. You’re staring up at your freckled angel, high up—hopeless, but not confused. She has nothing more on her mind that you need to hear.

Revenge is her concept.

You cannot intimidate her to return. There is none. There is no return. This is not a punishment.

Your happiness is helpless; it is spring.

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meownotgood · 1 month ago

Text

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion. tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found.

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device.

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position.

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine.

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired.

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why.

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity.

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did.

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device.

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response.

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you.

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them."

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust.

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder.

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible."

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in.

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm.

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork.

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight.

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock.

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance.

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise."

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then."

Viktor answers, "As anticipated."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached.

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge.

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?"

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers.

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit."

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all."

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement.

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement.

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system."

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors."

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job."

"It is."

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold.

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself.

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon."

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing.

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular.

Viktor notices.

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected."

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright.

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?"

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you.

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?"

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss."

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken."

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous."

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms."

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald.

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you —

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask.

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later."

Anything you want.

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours.

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?"

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside.

"Good."

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside.

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault.

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken.

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess."

Beep, beep, beep.

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move."

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong.

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously.

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-"

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move."

Beep, beep, beep.

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster —

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs.

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion.

—

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?"

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez."

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly.

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt?

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him.

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already.

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed.

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again.

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor.

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter.

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.)

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand.

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings.

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered.

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open.

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out —

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead.

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose.

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there.

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things.

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure.

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch.

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep.

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe.

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges.

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective.

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are.

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent.

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place.

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then.

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become.

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable.

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up.

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you."

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore."

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open.

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist.

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming.

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in."

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it.

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously.

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating.

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed.

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?"

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions."

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand.

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms.

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-"

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it."

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist.

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere."

You groan, tossing your head back.

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense."

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them."

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck.

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald.

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework.

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?"

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it."

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute."

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-"

"I disagree."

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault."

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point."

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly."

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen."

"Fine."

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you.

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching.

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at."

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-"

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way."

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm.

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up.

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static.

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand."

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all.

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly.

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice.

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest."

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening.

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald.

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence.

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver."

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left.

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him.

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage.

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement.

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go.

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this.

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together.

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?"

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably.

"Yes?"

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?"

"I thought you did not want to talk about this."

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me."

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open.

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut.

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield."

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed —

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee.

"I guess that makes sense."

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?"

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-"

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind."

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart.

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern."

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all."

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction.

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy.

"I need you to listen carefully."

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening."

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything."

Right. Just your life.

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over.

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned."

"Potentially."

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same.

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter.

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you."

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now."

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name.

So, you let it.

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you."

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully.

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam.

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing."

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course."

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside.

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system.

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open.

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation.

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no."

"Ah. I will take it from here, then."

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings."

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics.

It's… a lot.

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within.

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry.

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system.

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but.

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one.

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart.

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself.

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul.

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.)

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too.

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides.

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve.

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal.

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation.

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations.

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee.

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling.

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced."

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand.

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies.

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?"

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit."

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term."

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?"

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you."

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest.

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside.

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered.

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck."

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold."

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish."

"Give me your hand."

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his.

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits.

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you."

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact.

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe."

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do."

"Correct."

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed.

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted."

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose."

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh.

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?"

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch.

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you.

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation."

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close.

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down.

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir.

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave.

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks.

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath.

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs.

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them.

And yet, here you are.

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles.

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch.

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?)

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic.

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?"

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart."

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-"

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many."

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in.

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape.

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible."

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension.

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you.

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes.

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed."

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench.

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?"

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it."

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons.

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten.

You glance up. "Good?"

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise.

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands."

"Alright. I can do that."

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck."

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise."

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module."

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it."

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires."

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely.

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in."

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat.

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn."

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit.

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control.

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage."

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully.

"Sorry. I'll go slow."

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover.

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire.

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going."

"Does this- am I hurting you?"

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine."

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar.

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it.

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps.

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust."

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely."

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them.

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now."

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy."

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake.

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.)

You really need to focus.

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done."

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire."

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller.

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik."

"You may need to come closer, then."

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty.

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool.

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller.

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire.

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his.

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it."

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in."

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor smut #machine herald x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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