Would You Ever Do A Kimi Antonelli X Famous Actor Movie Star Reader! Who Is At The Met Gala And He Is

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. five

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝐘𝐎𝐔.

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

⭒ synopsis: The biggest night of the year. The Grammys. Cameras flash, reporters push for answers, and the world holds its breath as you and Ellie step onto the red carpet—together. But the night doesn’t end there. Somewhere between the champagne, the piled-up tension, and the magnetic pull drawing you closer, the inevitable finally happens. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 19,4k 𖥔 ݁ ˖ (i swear its worth it pls read😩)

⭒ content: smut, fluff, LOTS of tension, switch!ellie, switch! reader, strap-on sex (r!receiving), oral sex (ellie!receiving), praise, pet names, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, cursing, violence, afab!reader, MEN AND MINORS DNI, multiple part series, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

You took another breath. Then another.

It didn't help.

The mirror reflected back a version of you that barely felt you.

Hair sculpted to perfection—every strand smoothed, intentional, calculated. The makeup was flawless, airbrushed into looking almost surreal, every sharp line and soft curve enhanced just enough to look effortless.

But it wasn’t effortless. None of this was. It had taken hours. Layers of foundation, contour, highlight, hairspray, a meticulous blend of artistry and illusion. The kind of beauty designed to be captured in flashing lights, immortalized in high definition, scrutinized by millions.

You looked unreal. A vision. A spectacle crafted for the cameras.

And then, there was the dress.

It hung in the corner of the suite like an omen, untouched and shimmering under the golden glow of the vanity bulbs. Versace, custom-made, one of one. It was breathtaking—cinched at the waist, sculpting you like you’d stepped out of some dream, the fabric cascading like liquid metal. The kind of dress that would be studied, analyzed, labeled as iconic before the night was even over.

Because tonight wasn’t just a night.

Tonight was the night.

The moment you had fought for, bled for, lost sleep over.

Your first Grammys. Your first time stepping onto the biggest stage of your career, standing shoulder to shoulder with legends, breathing the same air as the voices you grew up idolizing.

And you weren’t just attending—you were nominated.

Five times.

Best New Artist. Best Pop Vocal Album. Record of the Year. Song of the Year. And the one that had made your hands tremble when you first saw the announcement—

Best Duo/Group Performance.

For She.

Your breath hitched just thinking about it. Thinking about how that song—the one you weren’t even sure if you wanted to record—had exploded into something bigger than either of you had ever anticipated.

And now, the Grammys were acknowledging it. The industry was acknowledging it.

But surprisingly, the thing that had you trembling with anxiety the most wasn't that.

No.

It was Ellie.

Ellie, standing next to you. Watching. Listening. Performing. Feeling.

Because Ellie wasn’t just Ellie.

She wasn’t just your fake girlfriend. She wasn’t just your partner in this beautifully reckless, industry-shattering lie the two of you had built.

She was Ellie.

And you were in love with her.

The kind of love that settled deep, burrowed under your ribs and made a home there, quiet and aching. The kind of love that swallowed you whole when she so much as looked at you.

And worst of all? It was one-sided.

The realization hit like a gut punch, sharp and breath-stealing, even though it had already settled into your bones weeks ago. Maybe longer. Maybe you had always known, in some small, unspoken way.

But knowing didn’t mean accepting. And accepting didn’t make it any easier.

This was it—the first official public appearance. The moment that would cement everything. The final nail in the coffin. The inescapable, undeniable proof of your relationship.

Your fake relationship.

Your hands clenched against the vanity, perfectly fresh manicured nails pressing into the polished wood as if anchoring yourself.

You had never been more terrified in your life.

"Breathe," Rachel’s voice cut through your quiet chaos, unimpressed but not unkind. "You’re gripping that vanity like it personally offended your family."

You forced yourself to loosen your grip. Barely.

She sighed, tossing her phone onto the couch. "Alright, what’s going on in that scary little brain of yours?"

"I think I’m gonna pass out."

"Please don’t. At least not before the performance." She grinned, poking your arm. "Want me to slap you?"

"Not helpful."

Rachel ignored that, gesturing towards the dress"You do realize Ellie’s about to see you in that, right?"

You rolled your eyes. "Totally forgot, thanks."

"Like, in less than an hour, she’s gonna turn her stupid little rockstar head and see you. In that dress. And she’s gonna fucking die."

Your heart pounded. Because Ellie wasn’t subtle. She never had been.

Rachel smirked. "I told you this would happen."

"What?"

"You. Her. This absolute circus you two created." She grinned. "You were always gonna take over the industry."

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"You should be thanking me. I manifested this."

You groaned. "This is so fucking stupid."

"No, what’s stupid is you acting like it wasn’t inevitable."

You glared. "Still not helping."

"I’m just saying! If it were me about to own the night, win a bunch of Grammys, looking like the hottest person in the room, performing next to the girl I was secretly in love with—"

"Rachel."

"—I’d be excited. Not terrified."

"Well, but that's certainly not my case. I'm fucking terrified."

Rachel ignored that. Instead, she wandered over to the dress, brushing her fingers over the fabric like it was something sacred. Her expression softened. “You don’t even see it, do you?”

You frowned. “See what?”

She turned back to you, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You’ve already won.”

Your stomach flipped. “What are you talking about?”

“The headlines. The industry. The world.” She paused. “Ellie.”

Your breath caught.

Rachel took a step closer. "Tonight isn’t just about the Grammys. It’s about you. About how you’re standing at the top of the fucking world, and no one can touch you."

She grinned, eyes sharp, like she was reading your future. “And you know what’s even crazier?”

“…What?”

“You’re not even at your peak yet.”

Your pulse stuttered.

Rachel winked, stepping back with a satisfied smirk. “Now put the damn dress on. You have history to make.”

Ellie Williams was going to die.

Not from anxiety. Not from the pressure of attending the biggest music event of the year. Not even from the seven Grammy nominations under her belt.

She was going to die because Dina wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

“Bro, you’re actually panicking.”

Ellie shot a glare at her, who was sprawled across the hotel couch like she didn’t have a single worry in the world. Meanwhile, she had spent the last hour pacing the length of the suite like a lunatic.

"For god's fucking sake Dina, I’m not fucking panicking!" Ellie snapped, running a hand through her hair before immediately regretting it, because of course her stylist had spent forty goddamn minutes making it look effortlessly messy instead of actually messy.

"Then why do you look like you’re about to projectile vomit?" Dina didn’t even glance up from her phone. "And don’t you dare raise your damn tone at me."

Ellie exhaled sharply, trying to calm herself down before speaking again. "I’m fine."

Dina finally looked at her, unimpressed. "Yeah. You sound real convincing."

Jesse, who had been watching the whole thing unfold from the armchair, finally sighed and set down his drink. “Dude. You haven’t even put your suit on yet.”

Ellie froze.

She looked towards the garment bag hanging by the closet. It was just sitting there, taunting her. The custom Dior was nothing short of perfect—sharp, impossibly tailored, stupidly expensive. Designed to make her look like she belonged. Like she owned the room before even stepping into it.

She hadn’t touched it. She hadn’t even unzipped the damn thing.

Jesse smirked. “You’re scared of the suit.”

She scowled. “I’m not scared of a suit.”

“You’re definitely scared of the suit.”

Dina whistled lowly, shaking her head. “Damn, didn’t realize fake-dating the hottest pop star on the planet was so hard.”

Ellie threw her a look. “Eat shit.”

“Els, I’m thriving. I'm attending the fucking Grammys. You’re the only one spiraling here.”

Ellie threw her arms up. “I hate both of you.”

Jesse clapped his hands together. “Sick. Now, put on the damn suit. Your girlfriend is waiting.”

Ellie’s entire body locked up.

Because that was the part that completely shattered whatever fragile grip she had on reality.

It was fake. The relationship was fake. But none of that mattered when she had to step out there—stand next to you, sit next to you, perform with you—while the entire world watched.

And the worst part?

She wanted it.

Wanted the cameras, the flashing lights, the screaming fans—to not be watching some carefully curated story, but something real.

But that wasn’t the deal.

Yeah.

She had never been more terrified in her life.

The elevator doors open.

And the air inside the lobby shifts.

Not just a slight change, not just a ripple—but a full, undeniable shift, like something unseen had just taken a deep breath and held it. The static hum of conversation, the controlled chaos of stylists, assistants, managers screaming into phones—it all dulled in an instant.

The cause? Ellie stepped out of the elevator.

And fuck—there was no preparing for that.

Rachel’s fingers tightened around your wrist, her breath catching. Jesse’s quiet holy shit barely registered, lost under the way the world seemed to still. Dina, for once in her life, was silent. And you—

You just froze.

The black Dior suit was a masterpiece—razor-sharp in its tailoring, draped over her lean frame like it had been stitched onto her skin. The blazer hung open just enough to catch the glint of a silver chain resting against her collarbone, a teasing flicker of warmth against the crisp fabric. Ink curled along her forearms, peeking through the rolled-up sleeves—an effortless rebellion against the suit’s precision, a contrast so sharp it sent a pulse straight through you.

Ellie carried it the way only she could—shoulders back, hands in her pockets, that faraway look in her eyes. A quiet storm wrapped in nonchalance, as if she wasn’t setting the entire room off its axis just by standing there. As if she didn’t look like she belonged on a goddamn movie screen.

But it wasn’t just the suit. It wasn’t even how she wore it. It was her.

The way her hair fell in perfect disarray, strands slipping messily over sharp cheekbones. The way the warm glow of the hotel lights cut shadows along her jaw, sculpting it almost criminally sharp. The way she walked—unbothered, gaze cast downwards, completely unaware of what she was doing to the room.

And then she looked up.

And saw you.

Ellie Williams—gritty, untouchable, rockstar Ellie Williams—stopped mid-step. The air around her shifted, something flickering behind her eyes, breaking.

And suddenly, she wasn’t a rockstar. Wasn’t untouchable.

She was just a girl.

The elevator shut behind her, but she didn’t move, didn’t speak, barely even breathed. Her gaze locked onto you like she had just walked into a wall.

Her gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, like a match dragged against phosphorus. She traced every detail—the way the fabric hugged your curves, the daring slit that teased against your thigh, the way the shimmer caught the light and set you glowing. She looked at you like she was trying to commit you to memory, like she wasn’t sure if she had the right to stare so much but was powerless to stop.

You finally decided to make the first move, taking a single step forward.

“Hey there, rockstar...” Your voice calm and measured, carefully testing the waters between you as you tilted your head. “Took you long enough.”

It was a bullet, hitting its mark with perfect precision.

Ellie blinked, lips parting slightly, like she had just been yanked out of a daze.

Jesse, amused as ever, let out a sharp laugh. “Oh my god! Say something Williams!”

Ellie dragged a hand down her face, muttering under her breath, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

She inhaled sharply, rolled her shoulders back, and just like that—the hesitation was gone. Whatever flicker of vulnerability had been there vanished in a second, smothered under that signature grin that sent the industry into a tailspin every time she flashed it.

She stepped forward, erasing the last of space between you in a few strides, her voice dropping lower.

“Damn... and here I thought I was supposed to be the showstopper.”

It landed deep in your chest, twisting something warm and volatile inside you. Your smirk faltered—just a fraction, just enough.

Her gaze flickered downward, briefly, catching the quick rise and fall of your chest before she looked back up, smirking like she had already won.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, fighting the way your stomach twisted, fighting the way her voice curled around your ribs and settled there, heavy and unfair. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Ellie leaned in just a little, enough that her scent—expensive, strong, devastating—wrapped around you like a second skin. Her voice dropped impossibly lower, just for you.

“You started it.”

Rachel, always the voice of reason, groaned loudly, shattering the moment like glass.

“Jesus Christ, can you two save the eye-fucking for later? We’re on a schedule.”

You blinked, stepping back as if physically reminded that there were other people in the room. Ellie exhaled, running a hand through her hair, her expression neutral but her pupils still blown wide, still telling.

Dina, meanwhile, looked utterly feral as she whispered to Jesse. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

You turned to Ellie, lifting an eyebrow, your voice smooth despite the warmth still buzzing beneath your skin. “You ready?”

She exhaled, flexing her fingers, shaking out her shoulders, grinning like she already knew exactly how the night was going to end.

“Let’s give ‘em a show.”

The limousine slowed to a crawl, and suddenly, the flashes of cameras outside the tinted windows became relentless—bright bursts of white light searing through the darkness.

You could hear them, muffled yet frantic, a chaotic symphony of voices and shutter clicks all bleeding together into one deafening roar. Your stomach twisted in response.

This was it.

Ellie inhaled deeply beside you, rolling her shoulders back one last time, exhaling slow as she turned her head towards you.

"You ready?"

Your breath came out unsteady. You swallowed once. Twice.

"No."

She grinned. Not the sharp, cocky grin she usually wore in front of cameras, but something quieter, something just for you. She leaned in—too close, her breath warm where it brushed against your jaw, sending a sharp thrill down your spine.

"Relax, babe" she murmured, voice soft. "I’ve got you."

The door swung open abruptly before you could even process her words.

The second an inch of your face was visible, the screams hit like a tidal wave, piercing and relentless. The flashing lights turned into a blinding, disorienting storm, a sea of white-hot bursts swallowing every movement. And in the middle of it all—you, suddenly the center of the universe.

Your designer heels met the pavement as you stand up. A mess of voices crashed over you all at once, a frantic mix of admiration and desperation.

"Over here! Look this way!"

"Who are you wearing tonight?!"

"Are you and Ellie actually dating?!"

As if summoned by that last question, Ellie stepped out behind you.

And everyone present officially lost. their. minds.

You didn’t need to turn to know the effect you both were having. You felt it. The sharp inhale of breath from fans pressed against the barricades, the stunned pause before the photographers remembered to press the shutter. The slight tremor in the reporters' voices as they called your names, eager and breathless. Desperate.

Desperate to capture you. Desperate to capture her.

Desperate to capture both of you arriving together.

The second Ellie stepped forward to pose beside you, the volume spiked—voices climbing over each other, cameras firing in rapid succession, flashes intensifying like lightning in a summer storm, rapid-fire.

You shifted, tilting your chin just right, your body angled perfectly for the cameras, letting the dress do half the work. The slit caught the light, the fabric clung in all the right places, and you heard the reactions—sharp whistles, murmured damns, the rapid clicking of shutters as they tried to capture every second.

Ellie leaned in, fingers pressing firmly against your waist, the space between you reduced to a breath. The cameras flashed, but they weren’t what sent heat crawling up your spine—it was her. Still, you held your perfect composure, even as your pulse betrayed you.

Ellie, however, wasn’t media-trained like you.

You caught it in the way she exhaled a beat too hard, the restless flick of her fingers against her cuff—an old habit you knew too well. So you turned, offering her a small, knowing smile. Just enough to steady her without a word.

And when she smiled back, her gaze dipping—lingering at your waist, at the high slit of your dress—you saw the exact moment she tried to stop herself.

Tried.

Because it was already too late.

You caught it.

And so did the cameras.

Just as the moment threatened to spiral into something neither of you were prepared for, a voice cut through the chaos—

"Ellie! Some shots with The Fireflies?"

You took a few steps away for your solo shots, moving with practiced ease—but not before glancing back at Ellie. You met her gaze, and, just to push your luck, tossed her a wink.

Ellie huffed out a breath, shaking her head with a smirk—half exasperation, half something else. But then, effortlessly, she brought two fingers to her lips and blew you a kiss.

Casual. Smooth. She didn’t even have to think about it.

The cameras exploded.

Before you could turn away, movement in your periphery caught your attention—Jesse and Dina closing in on Ellie. They both looked unfairly good.

Jesse was all sleek confidence in an all-black suit, sharp and effortless. Dina, wrapped in emerald silk that shimmered under the flashing lights, looked radiant—her curls framing her smirk as she nudged Ellie’s side.

“Didn’t take you for the PDA type, rockstar” she teased, just loud enough for Ellie to hear over the chaos.

Ellie rolled her eyes, but the pink dusting her ears gave her away.

“Over here!”

The cameras ate up the sight of the three of them standing side by side—the infamous Fireflies, rock’s favorite rebels, draped in luxury but still looking like they belonged on a stage rather than a red carpet.

“Jesse! How does it feel to be here tonight?”

Jesse grinned, reaching up to adjust his sunglasses despite the fact that the sun had set hours ago. "It’s surreal, man. We’re just some idiots making music, and now we’re here? Wild."

Dina snorted before flashing the cameras a dazzling smile. "Speak for yourself. I knew we’d be here eventually."

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd.

"Seven nominations this year! That’s huge. How are y'all feeling?"

Ellie shifted her weight, rolling her shoulders back, letting the reckless persona slip fully into place. "Feeling good. Feeling grateful. It’s crazy, you know? We put everything into this album, and to see people connect so much with it—it’s the best feeling in the world."

"Any category you’re hoping to take home?"

Jesse chimed in before Ellie could, slinging an arm around her shoulder. "Oh, we all know she wants album of the year. She won’t say it, but we know."

Ellie groaned, shoving him off. "Shut up."

Dina smirked. "He’s not wrong, though."

Ellie sighed dramatically, but there was a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Listen, if we win anything, I’ll be happy. But yeah—album of the year would be pretty fucking cool."

"Dina, you co-wrote a few songs on the album. Any personal favorite?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think. "Oh, definitely 'Ghost Town.' That one’s special."

Jesse scoffed. "It’s because she knows that song makes people cry."

"Is that true, Dina?"

She grinned mischievously. "I mean… I’m not trying to make people cry. But if it happens, it happens."

More laughter. More cameras flashing. The Fireflies had a way of making these events feel less rigid, less scripted—something about the way they didn’t take themselves too seriously, even when the world was watching.

"Over here! One for Vogue!"

You turned, giving them the shot. A slight tilt of your chin. A slow blink, just enough to let the moment linger before moving on.

"Five Grammy nominations! How does it feel to be one of the most celebrated artists this year?"

You smiled, measured—but genuine. "It’s unreal. Truly. I still don’t think it’s sunk in yet, but I’m beyond grateful. Every single nomination is an honor, especially alongside so many incredible artists."

"Which nomination means the most to you?"

You let out a soft laugh. "That’s like picking your favorite child—you just can’t do it. But… Best New Artist? That one truly means a lot."

"And if you win it tonight?"

Your gaze flickered to the side for just a second—to Ellie. She was responding to the reporter's questions with her band, one hand raised to the back of her neck, lips pressed together like she was holding back a smirk.

"Then I guess I’ll have to celebrate properly" you teased.

"Speaking of celebrating, is Ellie your good luck charm?"

The question hit as if they had been waiting for it.

Your smile didn’t waver. You turned slightly, gaze drifting again towards the woman in question, standing a few feet away, all angles and ease and damn suit.

"I mean... she’s definitely something" you said smoothly.

A ripple of laughter, cameras flashing faster.

"Ellie, any speech prepared if you win?"

Ellie rubbed the back of her neck, a dead giveaway of her discomfort. "God, no. I don’t plan that shit. I’ll probably just black out and hope for the best."

Jesse clapped a hand on her back, grinning. "Or she’ll get all emotional. It could go either way."

Ellie shot him a glare, but her mouth twitched, fighting a grin.

"Is there someone special you'll be celebrating with if you win tonight?"

Her eyes flickered to you—just for a second. And that was long enough.

"I think we all know the answer to that."

And just like that, the internet went up in flames.

"Final question—What do you think of her dress?"

The question came loud, eager. Jesse and Dina tensed, bracing for her usual deflection. But Ellie didn’t dodge. She turned toward the cameras, that infuriating smirk curling at the edges of her lips. And then, without hesitation—

“Gorgeous.” A pause. A flick of her tongue over her bottom lip. “But a problem.”

A frenzy. Shutters clicking, voices overlapping, the question fired back at her from all directions.

"A problem? What do you mean?"

Ellie exhaled slowly, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve, the corner of her mouth lifting like she knew exactly what she was doing.

"No further comments."

The press erupted. If the energy had been electric before, it was nothing short of combustible now.

Ellie barely seemed to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

Because her eyes found you again, this time with no attempt to hide her ogling—taking in every inch of you. In just a second, you felt her fingers flexing against your waist. It was just a twitch, like she needed something to hold on to, something to keep herself grounded.

She leaned in. Close enough that you felt the heat of her breath against your skin, close enough that the world outside this moment didn’t seem to exist.

“Missed you, pretty girl.”

The words licked through you like a live wire, igniting something low in your stomach.

And oh, fuck her.

Yeah... fuck her...

You barely had time to collect those thoughts before you spotted Jesse and Dina waiting by the entrance. Jesse looked like he was one second away from losing it. Dina wasn’t even pretending to hold back.

The moment you reached them, she grabbed Ellie by the shoulders and shook her, dramatic as ever. "You fucking menace."

She groaned, shoving her off. "Jesus Christ, Dina—"

"Did you have to say that?!" she wheezed between cackles. "‘Her dress is a problem’?! Ellie, you’re the damn problem!"

You raised a brow, unimpressed. "You really just said that?"

Ellie scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "What else was I supposed to say? It’s the truth."

Jesse slung an arm around Ellie’s shoulders, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. "You do realize you just handed them six months’ worth of headlines, right?"

Dina wiped an imaginary tear from her eye, still grinning. "No, Jesse, she might as well have just proposed."

Ellie groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

You bit back a laugh, tilting your head at her. "You should focus, Williams."

Ellie’s tongue flicked against her cheek, a telltale sign she was biting back something reckless. "Right. Focus. That’s exactly what I’m doing."

The look she gave you said otherwise.

Rolling your eyes, you nudged her toward the entrance. "Come on, before they shove another mic in your face."

Ellie muttered something under her breath—still pink around the ears—but she followed.

The second you stepped into the arena, the energy slammed into you.

The flashing lights, the deafening roar of the crowd, the electric tension of the biggest names in the industry all packed under one roof—it was overwhelming in the best way.

By the time you reached your table, the show was minutes from starting. The stage loomed ahead, glowing under colorful lights, and the weight of it all finally started to sink in.

Ellie pulled out your chair like it was second nature before settling into her own. She stretched an arm over the back of your seat, leaning in just enough—like she belonged there. Like this was normal. Like you weren’t about to perform together in front of millions of people in just a few hours.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to focus.

The ceremony erupted to life—blinding lights, deafening applause, an opening act that shook the arena to its core. You clapped along, laughed when you were supposed to, tried to focus on the performances, but the night moved in a blur—too fast, too loud, too big.

Every so often, Ellie leaned in—just close enough for you to feel her there, to murmur some dry remark about the show, to let you catch the faintest trace of that infuriatingly expensive cologne.

It was criminal.

She had no business smelling that good, looking that good—especially when the cameras had made it their personal mission to capture every single interaction between you.

Then she looked at you again. But this time she didn’t just look, she stared.

That sharp, cutting kind of gaze that made it really fucking hard to breathe. The kind that peeled back layers, left you bare, made your stomach flip in ways you weren’t prepared for.

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your chair. “Stop staring at me like that."

Ellie smirked. Lips moving just enough for anyone watching to read them perfectly.

"Nah. You look too fucking hot right now."

And before you could even glance at her, the entire place detonated in wolf whistles.

Rachel choked on her drink. Jesse and Dina damn near lost their minds.

And that's how you realized those 5 seconds of interaction were aired live. Broadcasted on the giant screens above the stage. Beamed straight into the homes of millions.

Your heart stopped. Ellie just grinned, slow and lazy.

You barely swallowed down a groan, heat rushing up your face as you leaned in, voice low and sharp. "You did that on purpose."

Ellie tilted her head, eyes glinting with pure mischief. "No clue what you’re talking about, babe."

It was ridiculous. You weren’t even trying to give them anything, but every glance, every flicker of tension, every barely-there smirk on Ellie’s lips sent the crowd spiraling into another round of shrieks and whispers.

Rachel, seated beside you, was thriving.

"You two are a headline machine" she snorted between rounds of applause.

The night raged on—but no matter how many Grammys changed hands, the energy never settled. The internet was already a crime scene. Tweets flying, reaction lives multiplying, people analyzing every frame of a broadcasted thirst scandal like their lives depended on it.

And then, it happened.

One of the hosts, a comedian notorious for dragging celebrities for sport, strutted onto the stage for a mid-show bit. The crowd buzzed, half-focused, half-drunk on the night’s chaos. But the second he spoke, the place got quiet.

“So, listen. I know we’re here to celebrate music—” He made air quotes, grinning, “—but let’s be honest, half of you are only watching for the drama.”

Scattered laughter. Some knowing applause.

The host smirked, tapping the mic. “There’s been a lot of big moments already. But I think we all know the biggest.”

You already felt it coming. That sharp prickle at the back of your neck, the one that always crept in right before you were about to be publicly dragged. Next to you, Ellie straightened like she smelled blood in the water.

A pause. A slow, menacing turn towards the camera.

“I mean, damn, Ellie Williams, way to keep it subtle.”

The arena got as loud as it could get. Laughter, cheers, people fully losing their minds.

The cameras caught Ellie letting out a slow breath, masking it with a shameless smirk—while you groaned, dropping your head into your hands in utter defeat.

The host grinned. “Oh, don’t get shy now! We all saw it.”

And then, without mercy—

The clip replayed.

Ellie, smirking, gaze trailing over you like she was seconds away from bending you across the table and ruining you beyond repair. Not even a second later, she mouthed the words—slow, crystal clear—"You look too fucking hot right now."

Screams. Someone banged their fist on a table. The most famous artists of the world clapping along like it was the national anthem.

Ellie dragged a hand down her face. You felt your soul ascend to the astral plane.

“Now, I don’t know about you guys, but that didn’t sound like a casual compliment to me. That sounded like someone five seconds away from violating FCC guidelines.”

Rachel choked on her drink. Jesse was doubled over. Dina smacked his arm so hard he yelped.

The camera darted in the moment Ellie finally cracked, shaking her head as she lifted her glass. She called dryly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re sooo funny!”

"I know right?" The host sighed, utterly delighted, milking the moment like this was the best material he’d ever been handed. “Listen. This isn’t just a relationship. This is cinema. This is a public service. So, on behalf of the people—”

A smirk. “Keep being messy. We love it.”

"And the Grammy for Best New Artist goes to…"

The presenter let the moment stretch, his pause winding the tension impossibly tight. You swore you could hear your own heartbeat over the silence. Every muscle in your body coiled, bracing for impact.

"Y/N!"

Your jaw dropped.

The world blurred.

Earlier, you had already stood twice on the stage, had already felt the weight of gold in your hands when they announced you had won Best Pop Vocal Album and Song of the Year.

Those moments had been surreal enough—standing there, overwhelmed, trying to string words together while your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

And yet—this felt different.

This wasn’t just an album or a song win. This was you. Your career being cemented in history, branded with a title that only a handful of artists had ever held before.

It hit you all at once—the deafening roar, the rush of movement around you, the sheer weight of what just happened. Rachel’s hands were on your shoulders, shaking you with unfiltered joy, her voice an unintelligible blur of triumph in your ears. Jesse and Dina were yelling, clapping, cheering like you had just won the Super Bowl.

And Ellie—

Ellie was right there, standing beside you, her expression unreadable for a second before it cracked into a grin.

"Congrats, babe," Her hand found the small of your back, her lips brushing just close enough to your ear to send something hot racing down your spine. "Knew you'd win."

Her voice was low, smooth, laced with something that wasn't just confidence—it was certainty. Like she'd seen this coming before you ever could.

Your breath caught, but there was no time to process it. You rose to your feet, hands trembling, legs carrying you up the stage like you weren’t entirely sure this was real.

The Grammy was placed into your hands. Solid. Heavy. Yours.

You could barely breathe, barely think. All you could feel was the rush—that dizzying, overwhelming realization that you had just won the biggest award of your career. Somewhere in the madness, you swore you could hear Rachel screaming your name like she was personally responsible for your victory.

You stepped up to the mic, fingers tightening around the Grammy like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away. You took a deep breath, exhaled, the music starting to lower.

"I—" Your voice cracked before you could even start. A breathless, disbelieving laugh slipped out, and the crowd responded with warm applause.

You swallowed. Steady.

"I don’t even know how to put this into words." Another pause. Another shake of your head. "God." You let out a shaky breath, glancing down at the golden award in your hands. 

Your eyes flicked back up to the sea of people, searching for something—someone.

Ellie.

Still standing. Still watching.

Amusement still played at the corner of her lips, but her eyes held something else entirely. Deeper, almost reverent, like she wasn’t just looking at you now but at every version of you that had fought to stand here.

And if you weren’t so utterly oblivious, you might’ve caught it—the way her gaze lingered, soft and unguarded, completely giving her away. Hopelessly, undeniably enamored.

"...I started this journey with nothing but a voice and a dream. And for a long time, that felt like all I had. There were moments where I thought—maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe I wasn’t enough. There were nights I played to empty rooms, days I poured everything into songs no one would ever hear. I wrote lyrics on the backs of receipts, on napkins, in the notes app at three in the morning because I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted this. How much I needed it.”

A hush settled over the room, the kind that only happens when people are truly listening.

You swallowed, steadying yourself. "I wrote in tiny apartments, on shitty couches, in the back of tour buses running on fumes. I lost sleep. I lost myself, sometimes. And I thought, if this never happens for me, at least I’ll know I tried. At least I’ll know I gave everything I had.”

You let out a shaky breath, a small, self-conscious laugh escaping. 

“And now—now I’m here.”

The applause was thunderous. A few cheers rang out. You blinked hard, feeling the burn behind your eyes.

God, you were really going to cry.

"This album—this album was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was terrifying. I put my entire soul into it, ripped myself open, laid every piece of me bare for the world to see. And you guys—” Your voice cracked. “You listened. You understood. And that means more to me than I will ever be able to say."

The cameras panned to the crowd—to fans wiping their eyes, to artists who got it, who knew exactly what this moment felt like.

You took a breath, a real, deep one, grounding yourself. "I have to thank my team—the people who held me up when I couldn’t stand on my own. The ones who fought for me, believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. My incredible producers, my friends, my family, and especially Rachel, my manager, who I love very deeply and deserves every award ever for putting up me.”

The cameras cut to Rachel, who threw her hands up dramatically and mouthed, You’re a nightmare, but I love you too! The crowd erupted into laughter as she shook her head, pretending to wipe away a tear.

You let out a real laugh, rolling your eyes as the applause swelled. “And my fans. God, my fans. You are the reason I’m standing here right now. You built this with me. You made me feel like my voice mattered when I wasn’t sure if it did.”

"And to everyone who inspired this album…"

The shift was instant. The room seemed to inhale all at once, thousands of people leaning in, waiting, hanging onto your words like they were the only thing in the world.

You let the silence stretch as your eyes found Ellie’s again.

And there it was.

That look. Soft. Steady. A gleam of something warm, knowing, impossibly fond.

A smirk threatened the corner of your lips before you murmured.

"You know who you are."

She exhaled a quiet chuckle, teeth biting her bottom lip like she was actively holding herself back. Like she was resisting the urge to make things worse.

But then—

The camera darted to her as she mouthed something. Loud and clear, every syllable unmistakable.

"Say my name next time, babe."

The entire place detonated. Someone—probably Rachel—screamed so loud you swore the walls shook.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead, fighting back a laugh. “Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head.

Ellie just leaned back, grinning, completely unbothered, looking far too pleased with herself. And, because she was insufferable, she raised her glass in a taunting toast.

You exhaled, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Tried to collect yourself, to focus, to push past the way your heart was damn near sprinting out of your chest. 

“Alright, before this completely spirals out of control—” A knowing chuckle rippled through the crowd.

“Thank you to the Academy for this incredible honor. For giving me a seat at the table. For giving me this unforgettable moment. I'll never take it for granted.”

A standing ovation, a hurricane of applause, waves crashing over you, unrelenting. You let yourself feel it, let it sink into your bones, let it root itself deep inside the part of you that never thought you'd get here.

You swallowed hard, pressing the Grammy to your chest.

“Thank you.” you said one last time, voice thick with emotion.

Backstage was chaos. The kind that crackled in the air, thick with heat and adrenaline, pressing in from every angle. Crew members rushed past, earpieces buzzing, boots thudding against the concrete.

But it was the moment that solidified everything, the confirmation of what the world already knew, what still lingered in the air.

She had won the Grammy for Best Duo/Group Performance earlier that night, a victory so deafening, so inevitable, that when your names were called the entire place erupted before you even stood up.

The footage was already looping across every major network, social media imploding under the weight of it—Ellie’s stunned, breathless laugh, the way she’d grabbed your hand without thinking, the way you’d both held onto each other like you were afraid to let go.

The rest of the speech blurred in a mix of gratitude and disbelief, lost in the rush of emotions, the sheer, unreal magnitude of the moment. Even as you left the stage, Grammys in hand, cameras flashing, the words wouldn’t stop looping in your head.

But it was offstage, away from the world for just a second, were Ellie’s fingers brushed your wrist. She leaned in, breath warm against your skin, murmuring,

"We fucking won, love."

The way she said it.

The way love sat in her mouth, heavy, real, certain.

That was the moment that made your heart skip a beat.

And now, an hour later, standing under the blistering heat of the backstage lights, about to perform that song for the first time in front of the world, the weight of it settled between you.

This was history. 

And somehow, it still felt like just the beginning.

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down your black leather bodysuit—sleek, form-fitting, sculpted to your frame like a second skin. Silver zippers running along the sides, glinting under the dressing room lights. Fingerless gloves hugged your hands, the worn leather creaking as you flexed your fingers.

Your hair was a masterpiece of controlled chaos. Styled in tousled waves, effortlessly messy, strands falling just right to frame your face. A few loose pieces skimmed your cheekbones, adding to the sharp, untouchable edge of your look.

Your reflection stared back at you—calm, composed—but your pulse told a different story.

Ellie stood across from you, rolling her shoulders, fingers flexing over her guitar. But her eyes—her eyes were on you.

"You good?" Her voice was low, edged carefully.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. "I think so. You?"

Her lips twitched between a smirk and a promise. A fleeting brush of fingers. “Always.”

A tech shoved an earpiece into your hand. “One minute.”

Jesse and Dina flanked the stage, all sharp focus, no laughter now. The whole thing was a message wrapped in spectacle, and you all were at the center of it.

“Hey” Ellie dipped her head, voice softer. “You’re gonna be incredible.”

Your breath hitched.

The countdown buzzed in your earpiece. Three. Two. One.

A final squeeze of your hand, then the lights dropped, plunging the arena into darkness.

A breath. A heartbeat. A single second of silence stretched impossibly thin—then shattered.

A lone, drawn-out note curled through the speakers, slithering into the dark. The crowd inhaled all at once, their anticipation a living, breathing thing.

A spotlight.

It hit Ellie first.

She stood center stage, shoulders squared, guitar slung low, head bowed just enough for strands of auburn hair to shield her eyes. The soft glow of the lights carved sharp edges into her silhouette—her presence commanding, electric.

She wore a fitted black leather vest, the worn material unzipped. Underneath, a dark, sleeveless shirt clung to her frame, fabric stretched taut over lean muscle. The vest’s open sides exposed the sculpted lines of her arms—sinewy, strong, ink curling up her biceps, disappearing beneath the fabric. Her jeans, dark and low-slung, sat comfortably on her hips, belt hanging loose, silver buckle glinting under the stage lights.

She strummed once.

The note rumbled through the floor, through your lungs, through every goddamn inch of the arena, rich and deep enough to sink into your ribs.

Then came the drums—Jesse’s steady, pounding heartbeat behind it all. Dina followed, her bass humming low, sticky and intoxicating curling through the air.

The second spotlight ignited.

You.

A sharp inhale from the crowd. A deafening roar that barely registered because you weren’t looking at them.

You were looking at her.

Ellie’s head lifted, her gaze finding yours through the dim haze of stage smoke, and it felt like a click into place. Like a gun being cocked.

A slow smirk curled at the edge of your lips as you reached for the mic. The metal was cool beneath your fingertips, grounding you, anchoring you against the whirlwind of sound swelling around you.

Then—your voice.

Soft at first. A whisper, stretching into the space between you.

“Nine in the morning, the man drops his kid off at school...”

Ellie exhaled, barely audible, but you heard it. Saw it. The way her grip on the guitar tightened. The way her lips parted like she was trying to breathe through something thick, weighty.

“And he's thinking of you… Like all of us do…”

Your voice dipped, teasing, stretching each syllable like elastic.

Ellie's pupils where blew wide, her fingers moving with almost violent precision, wrenching every note from the strings like they owed her money. Her jaw clenched, her body taut with restraint, like she was holding back.

The second chorus slammed into place faster than you expected it.

Ellie took a step forward.

You mirrored it.

Closer.

Closer.

Until the heat of the stage lights wasn’t the only thing licking up your skin.

Your breath hitched when she leaned in—not enough to touch, not yet, but enough that the space between you felt razor-thin, stretched tight.

Her lips parted. And she whispered.

"Sing it for me."

Not a request.

A dare.

Your fingers curled tighter around the mic, knuckles white, pulse hammering beneath your skin.

Staring straight into her, you sang with your voice steady, resounding stronger now.

“She... she's lives in daydreams with me…”

The bridge erupted, scorching through the speakers, and with it—Ellie’s solo.

She played like she was setting the world on fire.

Head tilted back, throat exposed, the column of her neck glowing with sweat. Her fingers tore up the frets, raw, unrelenting, a force of pure instinct. The way her body moved, hips shifting with each brutal strum—was hypnotic. 

And fuck, you had to get closer.

You pressed in behind her, your back flush against hers, bodies fitting together like a perfectly tuned chord. You lifted your leg slightly, letting the weight of your head tilt fully and rest against her shoulder, the heat between you palpable, searing.

From the side, the camera caught everything—the way your bodies aligned, the sharp contrast of her dark outfit against your exposed skin, the slow drag of your breath against her neck.

The scent of sweat, leather, and something distinctly Ellie flooded your senses. Intoxicating, overwhelming.

And you felt it—the sharp hitch in her inhale, the way her fingers trembled over the strings, her solo faltering for the briefest, nearly imperceptible second. No one else would have noticed.

But you did.

And she did too.

Still, she kept playing. Hands moving with lethal precision, veins standing stark beneath inked skin as she willed herself to stay focused.

Your breath ghosted along the side of her neck—just enough to make her shiver, just enough to make the fine hairs at her nape stand on end. Your lips hovered a fraction closer, as if you might close the distance, and hell, you wanted to.

But you didn’t. Instead, you stayed there, tormenting, teasing, giving her just enough to feel it everywhere.

And then—your hand. A slow, burning trail down her side, fingers grazing the hem of her vest, skating over the sharp line of her hipbone. Taunting. Dragging just beneath the thin fabric of her shirt where the heat of her skin burned against your palm.

You felt it there. Her heartbeat. Not just fast. Not just erratic.

Pounding.

Together, you were a collision of power and sensuality, raw and unrelenting. Every movement between you carried an electric tension, so thick the air itself seemed to hum, as if the very stage couldn't contain that kind of charge.

On your own, each of you commanded the stage—Ellie with her wild, untamed energy and you with the fierce, magnetic intensity of your presence.

But together?

The force you unleashed was almost unbearable, so overwhelming no one in the audience could look away, not even for a second.

Ellie’s fingers danced over the guitar, every note slicing through the air like it was meant just for you. Your movements synced in dangerous harmony, bodies aligned with ruthless precision, each touch building a storm that was impossible to resist.

The crowd was losing themselves in the performance, screams and chants rising in deafening waves, as if the entire room was pulsing with the same energy. The air crackled with raw power, each note vibrating through every soul present.

But you could feel it—the moment Ellie was teetering on the edge. Her eyes flickered with something dangerous, a storm brewing just beneath the surface, and the crowd, blissfully unaware, was urging her to let it all go.

You held her there, turning to face her and stare right into her darkened eyes, your energy pushing back like an undeniable force of nature.

The final note struck.

A breathless, stretched-out second. Suspended. Waiting.

The silence held still. The entire world watching held still.

And Ellie finally snapped.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, grip firm—possessive, like she was anchoring herself to you, like letting go wasn’t an option.

And then—

Her lips crashed against yours, shattering the space between you in an instant.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was fierce, breath-stealing—like a match to gasoline, like every second leading up to this had been waiting to ignite.

The world outside collapsed into static—flashing lights, deafening screams, history fracturing in real-time. Millions, no, billions watched, but none of them mattered.

Not here.

Here, there was only the heat of her lips, the tremor in her hands, the breathless inevitability of it all. Nothing else existed in this moment, in this single, suspended second, where Ellie Williams was kissing you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Like every lyric, every chord, every goddamn heartbeat had been leading her here. To you.

Nothing about it was controlled. It wasn’t measured, wasn’t practiced, wasn’t meant for anyone else. 

It was rough, frantic, a collision neither of you could contain any longer. Your gasp vanished into her mouth, her teeth grazing your lower lip before she deepened it, before she took more. A push and pull, a battle neither of you were trying to win.

Your fingers found her hair, twisting, tugging, needing. Ellie groaned—low, wrecked, lost to it. Her grip on your hair tightened, her body pressing harder against yours, the strap of her guitar caught between you, digging into her shoulder as if it was the only thing holding her to reality.

The kiss wasn’t that long.

But It didn’t have to be.

Because in those reckless, unscripted seconds, everything else ceased to matter.

The lights dimmed, the edges of the world dissolving into darkness. The deafening screams of the audience blurred into white noise. Still, neither of you moved. Neither of you even dared to breathe.

Ellie lingered, forehead pressed against yours, her breath mixing with yours—uneven, ragged. Her fingers didn’t leave your hair. Your hand fisted the collar of her shirt, holding her there, refusing to let go.

Then, with maddening slowness, her lips brushed yours again. Just once. Just enough to send a fresh wave of heat through your body.

And then—

She bit down her bottom lip, smirking, eyes half-lidded, ruined.

The screen behind you cut to black.

A sea of voices drowned the arena, the sheer force of them shaking the ground beneath your feet. Artists at nearby tables howled, clapped, banged their hands on the table like they were watching history unfold. Because they were.

It was chaos, hysteria, the internet already imploding, the moment already immortalized in the camera of the biggest stage in music.

But you weren’t thinking about that.

Because Ellie was still looking at you.

And you were still burning.

The performance had left the world in ruins.

The stage still pulsed with the aftershock, smoke curling in lazy ribbons toward the rafters, echoes of the storm you’d just created. Ellie’s skin still glistened with sweat, fingers twitching, as though the strings of her guitar had burned into them.

You hadn’t even spoken since. You’d both just gone backstage, mechanically peeling off the layers of the performance—Ellie changing back into her suit, you changing back to your gown, both gazes distant.

There was no triumph in the air between you, just an unspoken weight that neither of you was ready to acknowledge.

Sitting in the table, Jesse kept cracking his knuckles, each pop a reminder of the nerves winding tighter around all of you. Dina had kept her distance, eyes darting between the two of you, a knowing smirk playing at the edges of her lips.

Rachel, ever the instigator, shot a teasing comment your way. “Well, that was an interesting little moment, wasn’t it?” she’d muttered, though you didn’t even look her way. You couldn’t. Not when the only thing on your mind was Ellie.

She continued to make jokes, though no one was really listening. Jesse and Dina exchanged glances every second, but it was clear that nothing was really being said about what had just happened—what the fuck was actually happening between you and Ellie.

At least not yet.

But somehow, that moment wasn’t even the peak of the night.

This was it. The most important award. The one that meant everything.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the final award of the night... Album of the Year.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the presenter slowly opened the envelope. Every second stretched longer than it should, and you felt the weight of it bearing down, thick and suffocating.

“And the Grammy goes to…”

She dragged it out, eyes skimming over the sealed envelope, making everyone in the room lean forward in anticipation. Finally, the words everyone was waiting to hear came crashing through the silence.

“Louder Than Fate—The Fireflies!”

For a second, Ellie didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her brain short-circuited, thoughts crumbling before they could form. The roaring applause, the screaming, the flashing lights—it all blurred into a deafening wave of static.

Then your hands were on her. Tugging her up, shoving her happily towards the stage. But she didn’t let go. Instead, Ellie grabbed you, pulling you into her arms with a force that nearly knocked you off balance. 

Her arms locked around you, face buried in your shoulder, and you felt it—her breath, shaking, the way her heart was slamming against her ribs.

“We fucking won!” she choked, half laughing, half gasping. “We won!”

“You won Els!" You grinned, squeezing her back with pure joy. She deserved this more than anyone. "Now go! Get that fucking Grammy!”

She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze—eyes wild, cheeks flushed, looking more alive than ever. And in that moment, you felt something tight in your chest. It wasn't just being proud of her. It wasn't just admiration.

It was sharp, deep and inescapable.

It was love.

But before either of you could fully grasp the warmth spreading between you, she pressed a quick, burning kiss to your temple.

And then she was gone, practically sprinting towards the stage, Jesse and Dina right behind her.

This wasn’t just another Grammy. This was the Grammy. The one that cemented legends.

Joel sat in the leather armchair of his mansion, the soft glow of the television screen casting flickers of light across his weathered face. He had a whiskey in hand, untouched for the moment, his eyes glued to the screen. The Fireflies had just won the Grammy for Album of the Year. His daughter’s name—Ellie’s name—echoed in the air like a bittersweet symphony.

It had been a year since they’d truly spoken, their relationship frayed by time and distance, the kind of tension only a father and daughter could understand. He wasn’t sure when it had all fallen apart, but now, sitting there in the quiet of his home, he felt a pang in his chest. Ellie had always been something extraordinary, even from the first time he’d heard her sing. The way she commanded a stage, the way her music bled raw emotion—it was all her, and yet, he felt like he had missed so much.

He’d won that same award long time ago, before his life had taken a turn. But watching her now, so alive with success, it felt like he had lost something more precious than an award. The distant ache of their fractured bond settled deep in his bones, but there was something else too. Tender, almost imperceptible. Pride.

Watching her up there, winning it all, made him realize he had underestimated her—hadn’t really seen the depth of the woman she’d become. And in that moment, Joel let himself feel it. Just for a second, he allowed himself to believe she was still his little girl, the one with the wild dreams, the one who made him proud.

He swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat as the camera panned to the group rising to the stage. Ellie’s face—elusive, yet radiant—flashed across the screen, and he finally brought the glass to his lips, taking a long sip, trying to drown the swell of emotions that had quietly crept up on him.

Jesse grabbed the mic first, running a hand over his face like he was still trying to convince himself this wasn’t a fever dream. “Holy shit.”

Laughter rippled through the audience. Dina shook her head, eyes already tearing up as she pressed her hands together.

“I swear, I blacked out for a second. This is—God, this is unreal. Six out of seven? We—” She exhaled a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to her chest. “We grew up watching this. Watching our heroes stand here. And now we’re here. With this.” She lifted the golden award, her voice trembling.

Ellie shifted, her fingers white-knuckled around the mic. She looked out at the thousands of faces staring back at them, the flashing lights, the cameras—the weight of it all pressing into her ribs. Her voice came slow, measured, but full of something real.

“We made our first album in Jesse’s garage,” she said, shaking her head. “We had a shit drum kit, a borrowed mic, and no idea what the hell we were doing. We fought for everything. We didn't receive handouts. We almost quit. More than once.” A small chuckle escaped her lips. “And somehow… somehow, we didn’t.”

Jesse nudged her. “Somehow.”

“It’s funny how some people think everything comes easy. Like success just lands in your lap because of… I don’t know, circumstance.” She shrugged casually, the corner of her mouth lifting in a subtle smirk. “But no, we did it the hard way. Built this from the ground up with no silver spoon involved, believe it or not.”

Her gaze wandered for a moment, distant, as the weight of the words sank in. All those times people had talked shit about her, calling her a nepo baby because of her dad, because of Joel. She could almost hear their voices now, the constant judgment, the assumption that she’d only made it because of who she was related to.

Ellie’s jaw tightened as the thought lingered. She’d proven them all wrong, of course.

But even now, in the midst of everything, part of her couldn’t help but miss him. The man who had shaped her, the one who’d once believed in her in ways no one else did. She wished he was here—just for a second, just to see her now. To see that it wasn’t about him, not anymore. It was about her.

But that was the way of things, wasn’t it?

There was always more left unsaid than spoken.

She shook the thought off with a breath, a smile tugging at her lips once more, focusing on the crowd again, ready to move forward.

“We just had a dream, a shit ton of hard work, and a whole lot of blood, sweat, and tears. That’s it. We kept going, even when it was hard. Even when the industry told us there wasn’t space for a band like us. Even when it felt like we were screaming into the void. We kept going.”

She exhaled sharply, blinking at the crowd.

“And now we’re here. And it still doesn’t feel fucking real.”

The applause rumbled through the room, crashing over them like a wave. Ellie hesitated, her fingers tapping absently against the mic stand, as if searching for her next words.

And as Ellie spoke, all you could do was watch her, your chest swelling with so much love it almost hurt. It was overwhelming—this ache that crept up on you, filling every part of you until it felt like it was going to swallow you whole.

You couldn’t focus on the lies, the half-truths, not in this moment. All that mattered was the way she stood there, alive with passion, her eyes scanning the crowd, completely unaware of the effect she had on you.

For just a few seconds, you let yourself sink into that love, letting it fill you up as you watched her from a distance, knowing that this was the closest you'd been to the truth in a long time.

Then, her gaze shifted, locking eyes with you. The instant it happened, everything around you seemed to blur. Ellie’s focus softened, just for a moment, and you could see her breath hitch in her chest, her expression flickering between surprise and something else—deeper.

You were watching her, eyes wide, shiny with unshed emotion.

And without even noticing, it was a reflection of everything you felt but couldn’t say.

“But before Jesse and Dina get into the thank-yous, there’s something I need to say,” Ellie spoke, her tone now softer, eyes still locked on yours. For a moment, it was like she wasn’t speaking to the crowd at all, but to you alone.

“There are people you meet who change you. Who rip you apart and put you back together in ways you never saw coming.” She paused, her lips curling just slightly. “And even when they drive you crazy, you know, deep down, you’d be lost without them.”

Her words hit you harder than expected. The weight of them pressed into your chest. Your breath caught in your throat as the room seemed to shrink, the noise from the audience fading into a distant hum. Ellie’s gaze didn’t waver.

“And you’re that person for me.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. The cameras darted between you and Ellie's face, your shocked expression and glinting eyes displayed in the big screen.

Ellie's grip on the award was tight, knuckles white, but there was a tremor in her hand—a barely perceptible shake. She swallowed hard, a flicker of something in her eyes before she steadied herself again.

“You inspire me,” she continued, voice now steady, almost intimate. “You inspire me every damn day. Hell, you inspired this whole album... and I just wanted to say that…”

The floor beneath you seemed to slip away. The room felt smaller. The world felt smaller. You were frozen in place, watching her, feeling the weight of her eyes on you like she was unraveling something deep inside you.

And then the words came, quiet yet impossible to ignore. Her voice wavered, just barely, but she didn’t look away. And when she spoke, it was like everything she had just built up finally fell into place.

A confession wrapped in certainty.

“…That I love you.”

The room surged with cheering and screams again, but this time, you didn’t hear it. You didn’t even feel it. You were trapped in a quiet storm, the impact of her speech unraveling the last threads of control you’d been desperately holding onto.

You wanted to move, to do something, but everything was frozen. And as Ellie stood there, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just changed everything.

The afterparty was a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, pulsing bass, and bodies moving in a haze of champagne and sweat. It was loud. Chaotic. The kind of place where reality blurred at the edges, where the night stretched endlessly, threatening to swallow you whole.

Somewhere between the high of winning and the rush of being pulled from one congratulatory hug to the next, you had changed. The gown was gone, replaced by another custom made Versace dress that clung to you like a second skin, the short silky fabric skimming over your curves with every movement. It was dangerously low at the back, exposing the smooth line of your spine.

Rachel dragged you in with the momentum of celebration, her excitement infectious, but your mind was splintered elsewhere—fractured between the weight of what had just happened on that stage, the burn of alcohol as you downed another drink.

The Fireflies had just won six Grammys. You had four in your name. The entire room revolved around you, shifting in waves of congratulations, camera flashes, and clinking glasses. Industry giants, celebrities, people you barely knew but whose faces were familiar from screens and headlines—they all gravitated towards you, drawn in by the sheer magnetism of victory.

People stopped you every step, hands on your shoulder, flashing smiles, toasting to your success. Someone handed you a drink. You took it. Someone else pulled you into a picture. You smiled. It was autopilot at this point, the buzz of alcohol smoothing the sharp edges of your thoughts, but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Because Ellie was there. Somewhere.

Your chest was still a war zone, torn between the weight of her words and the gnawing doubt that followed.

You hadn’t spoken since the speech. You hadn’t even had the chance to. Because what the hell were you supposed to say?

Ellie hadn’t acted any different after stepping off that stage. No grand follow-up, no explanation.

So you drowned it in alcohol.

But some minutes after, you felt her before you saw her, an electric current crawling under your skin, an awareness that set every nerve ending on edge. When your eyes finally found her, she was leaning against the bar, whiskey in hand, gaze flickering over the crowd but never quite landing on you. Not directly.

But she was aware of you.

You could tell in the way she shifted, restless. The way her grip tightened around the glass when someone got too close to you. How her jaw clenched every time you threw back another shot, like she was silently daring you to stop.

She had changed too. The suit jacket from earlier had been abandoned in favor of a dark button-up, the sleeves rolled up –as always– to reveal the ink on her forearms. The fabric stretched across her shoulders in a way that made something inside you tighten. She had swapped the slacks for black jeans that sat low on her hips, her belt loosely fastened, like she couldn’t be bothered to care.

That outfit was nearly identical to the one she wore the night you first met—so much so that the sight of it sent a shiver through you, your insides twisting, almost unbearable. A rush of memory, of déjà vu, of the moment all of this disaster began.

Pulling you out of your thoughts, Jesse chuckled beside you, draping an arm over your shoulder. “Alright, pop princess. You’re celebrating a little hard, don’t cha think?”

Rachel smirked, tipping back her own drink. “Nah, let her. She just got love-bombed on international television. If I were her, I’d be drinking too.”

The words were meant to be playful, but they sank their teeth deeply into your feelings.

Love. 

What the fuck even was that?

That made the next shot go down easier than the last.

The crowd shifted, bodies pressing closer as the music swelled, bass rattling through the floor. People were dancing now, energy buzzing through the air, and before you could process it, hands were pulling at you—Dina, Jesse, Rachel—dragging you into the current of movement.

Your pulse stuttered when Ellie moved too. Not towards you, but close enough. A phantom touch in a sea of strangers. Your body moved on instinct, swaying with the beat, the vodka humming through your veins, but your mind was still stuck on her.

And then—her hands.

Light at first. A graze at your hip as she passed. Fingertips at the small of your back, testing.

Then firmer.

A hand splaying against your waist as she leaned in, the scent of whiskey and that something so distinctly her curling around your senses. Your breath hitched, but you didn’t turn. Didn’t face her.

Couldn’t face her.

“You tryna drink yourself unconscious?” Her voice was low, rough. Close enough that you felt the words more than heard them.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because what the fuck were you supposed to say?

No, I’m trying to forget the way you looked at me on that stage?

No, I’m trying to figure out if you actually meant that ‘I love you’ and everything else that came before?

No, I’m trying to stop loving you?

Instead, you laughed, sarcastic and bitter.

“Yeah. Guess I have a lot to celebrate.”

Ellie hummed, a quiet sound lost beneath the music. But she didn’t move away.

The room pulsed around you, neon lights catching on the sweat-slick skin of bodies pressed too close. Jesse and Dina had lost all semblance of control. Jesse had taken to spinning in slow circles with his arms out, eyes shut like he was ascending to another plane of existence. His drink sloshed wildly with every rotation, soaking his sleeve, but he didn’t seem to care. Dina, meanwhile, had climbed onto Rachel's back at some point, shrieking in laughter as she staggered under her weight.

You couldn't help but wonder…

When did my manager, Rachel, become so close with the Fireflies? Maybe she was undercover and didn’t tell me.

Ellie exhaled, shaking her head at the sight of them. "They’re gone."

You hummed, lips quirking. "They’re celebrating."

Ellie’s fingers flexed against your waist. "And you?"

You turned to her then, properly turned, and the shift in air between you was immediate. Her gaze dropped to your lips long enough to make your breath catch.

"I’m celebrating too." you said, voice heavier.

How much time had passed? 

Seconds? Minutes? Hours? 

You didn’t know what the hell was happening anymore.

More drinks pressed into your hand.

Whiskey, tequila, champagne, something that burned but went down too smooth. The world tilted, blurred at the edges. The pulse of the music, the flicker of lights, the heat of bodies moving—it all felt distant, hazy, unreal.

Every time you lifted a glass, it was like the world slowed down just enough for the chaos to settle into a haze, a blur of flashing lights and slurred speech.

Except for Ellie.

Somewhere in the same room, her presence was the only thing keeping you from slipping under.

Jesse had become a blur of limbs, his laughter ricocheting off the walls as he wobbled towards Rachel, trying—and failing—to lift her into a ridiculous dip. Dina, still draped across Rachel, was far too gone to notice. Every time she tried to speak, her words came out in a string of nonsensical giggles.

But you were beyond them now.

Your feet barely knew where the floor was, your body swaying alone with the pulse of the room. The shots had come in quick succession, the tequila numbing whatever had been left of you, blurring everything that happened—what Ellie said, what Ellie did. What the hell you were doing.

You hadn’t even realized how close she was until she was right next to you again, her shoulder brushing yours as she caught her breath. Her hair messy, few strands sticking to her cheek as she wiped a hand across her face. She was drunk.

But so were you.

The world tilted once more as you tried to steady yourself on her, your arm reaching out for balance, but her body was already against yours, both of you teetering on the edge.

She turned her head slowly, locking eyes with you. There was something in her gaze—a hazy, distant look that wasn’t quite her usual sharpness. It was like she was still here, but not really here, lost somewhere between the alcohol and the weight of everything unsaid.

“You’re... still here.” you mumbled, the words slurring slightly as they slipped out, your mind struggling to keep up.

“You really thought you could get rid of me that easily?” she asked, her voice low, thicker than usual. There was more behind her tone—frustration mixed with something else you couldn’t quite name.

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog in your brain, but it only made things more blurry. “We’re both a fucking mess.”

She let out a laugh, but it came out too harsh, too wry. “Aren’t we all?” she muttered, her eyes flickering away from you for a moment, as if she was trying to hide from your gaze.

The alcohol was starting to hit you harder now. Everything around you felt like it was spinning, but you couldn’t stop drinking. You couldn’t stop focusing on her—the way she was so close, the way her presence anchored you in a way you didn’t understand. The words from earlier were still in your head, cutting through the fog.

What had she meant by them? What had you meant?

Ellie’s voice was at your ear again, low and teasing. “Why aren’t you joining them? Thought you wanted to celebrate.”

You squinted, trying to focus on her face, but everything was softening at the edges. “I—yeah, I do,” you slurred, struggling to keep your voice steady. “But you—”

“I know,” she interrupted, cutting you off with a soft chuckle. "I get it."

Her words hit you, hard. The way she said it—like she understood, like she knew exactly what you were feeling, even if you didn’t know it yourself.

Her hand brushed the small of your back, warm against your skin, and before you could pull away, her arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. You inhaled sharply, the air thick between you as your pulse quickened.

She leaned in, her lips brushing the side of your cheek, her breath hot against your skin. “We don’t have to talk about it, but... we can drink about it.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow, filled with bitterness. “Is this your big plan? To just forget it all with more whiskey?”

Ellie’s laugh was reckless. “Yeah, pretty much,” she said, her voice dropping to something more serious.

“Because, you know... it’s working.”

She took another long sip from her glass, her fingers tightening on your waist as she pulled you even closer. Her touch was daring now, almost possessive, and it was too much. You shouldn’t have let it happen. You shouldn’t have let yourself get lost in the heat of the moment. But you did.

And for a moment, all that mattered was the way she held you.

Until the music changed, the beat dropping low, heavy. Bodies around you surged forward, people dancing even more recklessly now. Ellie pulled you with her, a tight grip on your wrist, and before you could even catch your breath, she was dancing with you—bodies pressed together, moving, swaying, too close.

She was intoxicating.

She was a disaster.

But so were you.

Jesse and Dina had collapsed onto a couch, giggling hysterically at some private joke only the alcohol could explain. Rachel was still upright, her face a mix of amusement and disbelief. They were far beyond drunk now.

And you and Ellie? You both were spiraling together, floating in that heady space where nothing mattered except the feel of the other’s body, the rhythm of the dance, the pull of the alcohol.

Neither of you were talking about what had happened earlier, about the weight of those words, about the things you both wanted to forget.

Instead, you drowned in each other, desperate to escape the weight of reality.

And yet, even as the night wore on and everything blurred into a mess of laughter, touches, and sweat, that feeling—that unbearable tension between you both—lingered. Unspoken. Waiting.

The last thing you remembered was the cold night air biting at your skin as Ellie steered you out of the club. Her hand was firm against your back, guiding you through the crowd with a force that felt almost possessive. You were stumbling, barely keeping your feet under you, the world spinning around you like a dizzying blur.

Then, before you could even register what was happening, her arms were around you, lifting you with ease as she tossed you over her shoulder. Your body felt weightless, and though everything seemed slow and dreamlike, her grip on you was steady.

You mumbled, too drunk to care about the mess of words. “Ellie... what are we doing? Where... where are we going?”

Her voice cut through the haze, rough and unsteady. “Shh... Just let me get you to the room, okay? You need to rest.”

But even in your fog, you couldn’t let go of the questions gnawing at your mind. “I don’t... I don’t get you, Ellie. You act like you don’t care, but then... then you do stuff like... like this," you slurred, trying to lift your head enough to look at her.

Her grip tightened slightly, a grunt escaping her as she adjusted you. “Don’t start with that now, okay? You're drunk as hell.” There was an edge to her voice, one that made you feel like you’d crossed some invisible line.

“No... no, I’m serious,” you murmured, struggling to get the words out. “I don’t get it. You don’t... you don’t say things, but you do them. And then you just... leave me hanging.”

Ellie paused for a moment, her pace slowing. You could feel her tension, like she was trying to work through something herself, her body shifting uncomfortably.

She muttered. “You’re drunk. I’m drunk. Let’s not... Let’s just not do this right now.”

Your head lolled against her shoulder as she carried you towards the elevator. The motion of the lift made your stomach turn, and for a split second, you felt the world tilt beneath you.

Ellie adjusted you again, tightening her grip, almost like she didn’t want to let go, but there was still something distant about her. Like she was trying to hold you close but keep herself guarded at the same time.

You tried to speak again, but the words came out jumbled, not quite fitting together.

“Just sleep it off, alright?” Her voice softened, but there was something else beneath it—Frustration? Guilt?. You couldn’t place it, but it made your chest ache, made everything feel even more confusing.

You blinked slowly, the alcohol in your system starting to wear off as your mind began to swirl with thoughts, anger bubbling up from the pit of your stomach.

Did she think you were stupid?

You were no longer floating in a hazy blur.

You were sharp, aware, and pissed.

The elevator door slid open with a soft ding, and Ellie stepped forward, carrying you towards the hotel room. She was trying to keep everything under control, to keep things quiet, but the tension in her movements was palpable. It told you everything you needed to know.

You were both walking on eggshells now.

As she pushed the door open, the soft click of it closing behind you felt like a weight crashing down, marking the threshold of everything that had been left unsaid. The room was heavy with silence, and you could feel the gap between you both stretching farther.

You were awake now—more awake than you’d been in hours—and everything that had been foggy just moments ago was now painfully clear.

Ellie walked you further into the room, but before she could adjust her grip to steady you again, you yanked yourself away from her. The move was harsh, almost frantic, and the shock of it hit both of you. You didn’t care if you stumbled or if your legs barely held you—there was too much rising inside you.

The alcohol had faded enough to let your frustration burn bright, and you couldn’t take the way she held you anymore, like you were a problem she needed to fix. 

You needed space. You needed answers.

Your feet hit the ground with a solid thud, but it was nothing compared to the force of your emotions crashing against you. The distance felt impossibly more wide as you took a few steps away from her.

“Why do you do this to me?” 

The question left you before you could stop it, your voice trembling with frustration as you broke silence. You clenched your fists at your sides, heart hammering in your chest.

Everything inside you was breaking, and you couldn’t keep it in. Not anymore.

"Why do you keep pushing me away?”

She froze, her body stiffening as her gaze met yours. For a moment, you saw something in her eyes—raw and vulnerable—but it quickly disappeared, replaced by that cold, distant mask she always wore. 

She sighed, voice low and defensive. “Don’t start with that now. I’m not having this conversation like this.”

But you couldn’t let it go. Not now, not ever. Not when it felt like everything was unraveling in front of you. 

"No, Ellie," you bit back, voice harsher than you intended. "I can't fucking take it anymore. We need to talk. And we need to do it now."

Ellie’s gaze shifted then. A quick flash of annoyance, then that cool, detached mask slipped into place as she crossed her arms.

"Fine, you wanna talk about it? Then we’ll fucking talk about it," she snapped, voice biting with cold frustration. 

"You think I don’t know what this is? You think I don’t get it?" Her tone was venomous, each word like a lash across your chest. "We both agreed from the start—this was nothing but a PR strategy. No feelings. No strings attached. And don’t pretend we didn’t set up those rules together."

Her words were like a slap in the face, and it made the anger inside you swell even more. 

She still hadn’t answered your question.

She hadn’t said anything real, anything that would make sense of this mess you were in. So, you pushed again. You had to. You couldn’t let her off the hook. 

"So that’s it? It was all just a game to you?" You growled, the bitterness lacing every word, the anger and hurt burning through you. "Just for the cameras, and none of it ever meant a damn thing?"

“Don’t twist it and act like you didn’t play along," she shot back, her voice tight with frustration. "We both knew what we were getting into. It wasn’t just me."

She wasn't answering any of your questions.

"Yeah, we did," you shot back, stepping closer, the space between you suffocating. "But I need to know if you ever felt anything."

Ellie’s eyes flickered. She seemed to hesitate for just a second, her fingers twitching by her side like she wanted to reach for something—anything—but she stayed frozen. 

"I already told you," she muttered, fire draining from her tone. "This was never supposed to get so complicated."

The words hung there between you, thick with everything you couldn’t say out loud.

You weren’t sure if you were ready to face whatever truth was buried under Ellie's defenses, but it didn’t matter anymore. You weren’t backing down.

"Then why the hell did you kiss me on that stage?" The question tore through you like fire, your voice breaking at the end. "Why did you make it feel real when we’ve both agreed it wasn’t?"

"It’s not like I wanted to—"

"Then why the hell did you say all that?" you interrupted, voice rising again.

The memories of the speech, the way she had looked at you, the weight of her words in front of everyone—it was all too much to swallow. 

"You said you loved me, Ellie! Right there, in front of the whole damn world! Don’t pretend like that was a mistake. Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything."

She shouted, her voice sharp with panic now. "You were down there, looking at me like that, and I didn’t know what the hell else to say! I-"

Ellie’s face twitched, and for a brief moment, it looked like she might crack. But instead, she took a step back, as if she was trying to pull away from the weight of her own emotions. 

"So instead, you keep me at arm's length and make me feel like I don’t matter. You kiss me on stage, say you love me, act like you care, and then you pull away before things actually get real. What the hell is that, Ellie? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

You could feel the rage inside you growing, but now it was a mix of anger and heartbreak, and you could barely breathe with how tight your chest felt. 

Her eyes softened for a split second before they hardened again, and she rubbed the back of her neck, frustration spilling over.

"You wanna know the truth? The truth is I didn't want to hurt you," she snapped, but her tone was shaky. "I didn’t want to drag you into something messy, because I knew I was already in too deep."

You felt the tears prick at the back of your eyes, the weight of her words crushing you as the confusion tore through you like a hurricane. 

"So why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why didn’t you just say something? Anything!"

Her face crumpled, and for a moment, she was completely exposed. All the walls she had built between you were crumbling, and you could see the rawness in her—tangled with guilt and frustration. 

She was trembling now, and not just from anger.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doing," Ellie finally whispered, her voice breaking as she took a shaky step closer to you. "I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to care this much. I kept telling myself it was just chemistry, just... just a game, but every time you looked at me like that, I—I couldn’t stop it." Her voice cracked, and you saw her lips tremble.

You were almost afraid to breathe as she closed the distance between you. 

"You—you’ve always been more than I could handle. I couldn’t stop myself from wanting you," she murmured, voice breaking as her eyes searched for yours desperately. "But I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to admit it."

"Then admit it now." You gasped, the question escaping in a broken breath, the weight of it all crashing down on you. "What you said back there—was it true?"

Ellie’s breath hitched as if your words had shaken something deep inside her she had been trying to bury. Her eyes searched yours, as if trying to see past the hurt and confusion she had caused.

“All of it was true." 

She whispered, her voice ragged and thick with emotion. Her words cracked with vulnerability, the kind of honesty she’d been holding back for far too long. 

"Everything I said, everything I did—it was real. Every goddamn thing, even when I pretended it wasn’t. I love you, and I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t say it sooner."

She stumbled over her own words, the panic and guilt so evident in her voice, but you couldn’t focus on that. Your heart was beating too loud, the air in your lungs suddenly scarce.

The world felt too heavy, too full of things you had never been able to say—things that had been buried deep inside both of you for far too long. Your chest tightened, a lump rising in your throat, and just as the overwhelming emotions started to consume you, you finally broke. 

"Ellie, I love you too" 

You whispered, the words trembling on your lips. The weight of your confession settled in the space between you, raw and honest, and you could feel the shift in the air, like everything was about to change.

Before you could process it, before you could even understand the force of what had just happened, her lips collided against yours. 

This kiss was different from any kiss you had ever shared. It was raw, hungry, and everything you've been craving but were too afraid to ask for. She was kissing you like it was the only thing that mattered in the world, like she was trying to pour every single feeling into the kiss—everything she had hidden from you for so long.

You melted into her, your hands moving on instinct, sliding up to wrap around her neck, pulling her closer. Her lips were demanding, insistent, and as her tongue brushed against yours, you gasped, feeling her heart race in time with your own. 

There was no pretense now—no walls, no doubts. Just Ellie, just you, tangled together in the most chaotic, beautiful mess you had ever known. 

The kiss turned desperate, raw, like neither of you could stand the space between breaths. Ellie’s hands gripped your waist, rough and unyielding, her lips tracing a burning path from your jaw to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a hickey. You gasped, head tilting back, offering her more, needing more.

“God,” she rasped against your skin, voice wrecked and needy. “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”

Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her back just enough to meet her gaze. You didn’t have to say it back; she saw the answer in your eyes before you crashed into her again, mouths crashing, desperate, starved.

Ellie’s hands slid beneath your dress, fingers skimming over your thighs, your stomach, tracing the soft curves. The dress rode higher, bunched around your hips, and then she was pushing it up and over your head, tossing it aside like it was nothing. 

You barely had time to shiver from the rush of cool air before she was on you again, her touch hot, reverent. She pulled back just enough, eyes raking over you, like she wanted to memorize every inch of you all over again.

Like this was your real first time together.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, fingers tracing along your side. “You’re—” She stopped, shaking her head like words didn’t stand a chance.

You smirked, dragging your hands up her arms before curling them into her hair, giving a slight tug just to hear her breath stutter. “Speechless?”

Ellie let out a shaky laugh, but her gaze softened. “Something like that.”

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, pushing it off her shoulders, and fuck—she was unreal. The way her breath hitched, the way her perky nipples hardened, the way her chest rose and fell, the freckles dusting her skin, her lips swollen and parted, ready.

Then, with a whispered curse, Ellie grabbed you, lifting you with ease, her hands firm and sure. You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the sheets, her body flush against yours—warm, solid, hers.

She loomed over you, her breath warm against your skin, her touch slow—too slow. Her fingers skated over your ribs, your waist, teasing, like she was savoring the feeling of you beneath her. Like she wanted to take her time.

"You have no idea what you do to me," she rasped, lips grazing your jaw.

A shiver ran through you, heat pooling low, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough when it came to her.

You arched into her, nails digging into her bare shoulders. "Then stop fucking teasing," you whispered, half-command, half-plea.

Ellie let out a breathy laugh, her hands gripping your thighs, pushing you further into the mattress. Her eyes flickered down, starving, a smirk tugging at her lips. 

"Needy," she murmured, almost to herself. "That’s cute."

Your frustration only made her hungrier. She surged forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, all tongue and teeth, swallowing the soft whimper that escaped you. 

And then, just as suddenly, you flipped her over, pressing her back into the mattress.

Ellie barely had time to react, her pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. She looked wrecked already, and you hadn’t even done anything yet.

That sent a sharp pulse through you.

She swallowed hard, fingers twitching against your hips. "What?" she rasped, voice rougher than before, like she was trying to catch up to the shift in energy.

You just smiled as you traced your fingers down the line of her toned stomach, manicured nails ghosting over her skin.

“Just thinking,.." you murmured, pressing a teasing kiss just below her jaw, "That an album of the year winner deserves a proper celebration."

Ellie blinked, eyes flickering between disbelief and hunger. "Oh—"

You didn’t give her a chance to finish. Instead, you pinned her down completely, pressing your weight into her, reveling in the way her breath hitched. Her hands gripped at your sides like she wasn’t sure whether to stop you or pull you closer.

"You good?" you asked, voice softer now, even as your hands moved with strong intent.

Ellie let out a shaky exhale, her lips curving between a smirk and a dazed expression. "Didn’t think you’d—fuck—take over like this."

You grinned against her skin, kissing your way southbound, taking your time.

"Better get used to it, rockstar."

Ellie let out a breathy chuckle, but it melted into something deeper when you pressed another kiss lower, trailing down her stomach with a kind of unhurried confidence that made her body tense beneath you.

"Shit…" she muttered, voice caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation.

You smirked against her skin, hands gripping her thighs as you settled between them. "Relax, baby" you murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against the inside of her knee. "Just let me take care of you."

"I'm just… not used to this," she admitted, quiet. 

You glanced up, meeting her gaze as your lips grazed just above the waistband of her pants, breath warm against skin. Your voice barely above a whisper, but settling deep into her bones.

“Then just feel, Els.”

You don’t give her time to think, pulling them down her boxers and pants in a quick move. A sharp inhale punches from her lungs as cool air kisses the heat between her legs, making her jolt. 

She exhales shakily, thighs bracketing your head, warm and freckled—constellations scattered across skin you want to map out with your hands, your mouth, your entire being.

If you were in a different headspace, you’d trace each one like a star chart, but right now, the only thing you can focus on is her—trembling above you, caught between restraint and surrender.

But the real sound—the one that sets your pulse hammering—is the gasp she lets out when you spit, a slick warmth against her aching clit.

“F-fuck…” she breathes, brows knitting together, voice unsteady.

You glance up at her, fingers flexing against her thighs. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Her jaw tightens, a mix of frustration and need flashing behind her darkened eyes. “Nothing.” It’s a lie, and you both know it. She’s unraveling, and she’s impatient.

A smirk tugs at your lips as you let your fingers drift, tracing lazy patterns up her waist, feeling the way her stomach tenses beneath your touch.

“Tell me...” you tease, voice smooth, coaxing. “Use your words.”

Her body betrays her, arching ever so slightly towards you, silently pleading for more.

Then, finally, she gives in.

“Just—” Her voice cracks as she shifts, movements becoming more desperate. “God, just— please.”

Holy. Shit.

Ellie motherfucking Williams—flushed, wrecked, and now begging like she needs you more than her next breath—is a sight so devastatingly hot, it short-circuits every thought that was left on your head. 

Yeah, that definitely wasn’t on your bingo card.

The way she’s unraveling beneath you is something you’ll never forget. And if the raw, desperate way she’s looking at you is any indication, it’s an ego boost you’ll be riding for the rest of your life.

You smirk as her breath stutters when you drag your fingers lower, sliding through the warmth of pussy, slick and ready from both you and her own burning need. 

It’s intoxicating—the way she reacts, the way she shudders at the slightest touch. You don’t hesitate, don’t waste a second before lowering your mouth to her, claiming her like it’s the only thing you were made to do.

The moment your tongue finds her, she keens—a sharp, needy sound punched from the depths of her chest before she could stop it. And just as she starts to adjust, just as her body begins to find some semblance of rhythm, you push deeper, tongue slipping inside, filling every soft, sensitive place that has her thighs trembling.

Ellie chokes on a moan, hands flying to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling, her grip desperate and unsteady as her hips jerk upward, chasing the friction. 

“J-Jesus Christ, babe,” she gasps, voice wrecked.

You hum against her, the vibrations pulling another strangled sound from her lips. Her thighs twitch, threatening to close around your head, but your hands tighten against her hips, holding her steady, guiding her through every wave of pleasure that crashes over her.

Your own clit pulses, desperate for attention, but it’s the last thing on your mind. Not when your face is buried between the thighs of the woman you can finally love freely— and that just happens to be the most famous rockstar in the world at the moment.

"You're—fuck—you’re insane," she pants, voice breathy, desperate. But she doesn’t push you away. She never does.

And God, she never wants to.

Her fingers flex against the sheets as your other hand drags down her stomach, dropping to trace fast circles on her clit, her breath catching at the sensation.

Your grip tightens, grounding her as she chases it—hips rolling, breath shattering, body tightening like a bowstring drawn too tight. Every sound she makes is addictive, every gasp, every bitten-off whimper, every choked-out curse. 

She’s using your face like her own personal masturbation pillow, grinding down like she was made for this, and you swear—if this is how you go out, you’d die the happiest person alive.

“Holy shit– I-I’m gonna–”

And then—she falters.

You feel her orgasm before it fully takes hold—the way she twitches, the way she clenches around your tongue, her entire body locking up as the tension inside her snaps. Then, the release floods your senses, warm and intoxicating, dripping down your chin. It’s sweet. Best thing you’ve ever tasted.

But you don’t stop.

You keep going, your fingers still drawing slow patterns on her clit, your mouth still drinking up every last drop until she’s shuddering, gasping, her fingers weakly tugging at your hair in protest.

Only when she whimpers—spent, trembling— you finally relent, pressing one final kiss to her ruined cunt before using your tongue to clean her up with reverent care.

Her chest rises and falls with deep, uneven breaths, and a final shudder runs through her as she tries—fails—to gather herself.

Silence lingers, thick and electric, the only sound between you the sharp pull of ragged breaths.

Then Ellie mutters, voice rough, wrecked, “You’re so fucking—”

A slow, satisfied grin tugs at your lips as you press a lazy, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Incredible? Talented? The best you’ve ever had?”

Ellie groans, throwing an arm over her face with an exasperated huff. “Yeah. That—and insufferable.”

You chuckle, fingers tracing idle patterns along the warm skin of her hip, reveling in the way she shivers under your touch.

She peeks at you through the mess of auburn hair, cheeks still flushed, lips still parted, eyes heavy with something you recognize all too well.

She looks fucked out. She looks beautiful.

And then, to your surprise, she smirks.

“But I hope you’re ready for payback.”

And yeah.

You know you’re screwed when Ellie buckles up her dark purple strap—the one you know way too well by now. When her fingers work the straps, tightening them with practiced ease, she rolls her shoulders like she’s getting ready for something intense. 

But more than anything, it’s the way she looks at you—like she’s already imagining you undone beneath her, like she’s savoring every second before she ruins you.

There’s heat in her gaze, yes, but there’s something softer too, something intimate in the way her hands settle on your hips, grounding you, claiming you.

Her index finger slowly traces the curve of your spine, touch featherlight as she guides you forward, nudging you onto your hands and knees. You shiver under her touch, your body hypersensitive, still buzzing from the way she fingered you minutes before.

“Fuck,” she murmurs as she kneels behind you. Her hands trace along your waist, slow and steady. “You look so fucking pretty like this.”

Your breath catches when she presses closer, her chest warm against your back, the silicone nudging against your entrance. 

She takes her time, dragging it along your slick heat, teasing, making you feel every inch before she even pushes in. Her lips find your shoulder, pressing soft, deliberate nibbles and kisses there, a contrast to the overwhelming need that thrums between you.

“Tell me you want it”

You exhale, arching your back against her, craving the connection, the feeling of being completely filled by her. 

“I want it,” you breathe, tilting your head just enough to catch her gaze over your shoulder, eyes soft, pleading—the doe-eyed look you know she loves. “I need you, Ellie.”

A quiet curse slips from her lips—almost reverent.

She has never been good at restraint.

So with one steady thrust, she gives you exactly what you need.

Ellie groans as she sinks into you, her fingers tightening around your hips, like she’s trying to hold herself back, to ease you into it, to savor the moment. But you both know better.

Patience has never been her strong suit—especially not when it comes to you.

“Shittt” she mutters under her breath, rolling her hips forward, filling you inch by inch. You can feel how tense she is, how hard she’s gripping you, like she’s trying to stop herself from losing control too soon.

Your arms tremble beneath you, a loud moan leaving your lips as she sets a slow, deliberate rhythm, dragging every inch of her strap against your sensitive walls. The stretch is perfect, the pressure just enough to make your toes curl, to make your breath hitch in your throat.

Ellie leans in, her chest flush against your back, her breath warm as it fans over your shoulder. 

“You take me so damn well…” she murmurs, her voice rough but tender, like she’s not just saying it to tease—but because she means it. “Always so good f’me.”

A sharp, breathy moan spills from your lips as your forehead presses into the pillow, your body caught in the push and pull of pleasure so intense it’s almost unbearable.

Ellie feels it. The way you tense, the way you tremble. She hears it in the way your breathing turns ragged, in the way you press back against her, desperate for more.

She breathes, her voice thick, possessive. “That’s my girl.”

The words send a whole new wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening, teetering right on the edge. You can feel it, that overwhelming, dizzying pleasure building, threatening to pull you under.

But just when you think she’s going to push you over, she slows.

Your whole body jerks, a desperate whimper escaping you as she pulls out completely, leaving you empty, aching.

“What the hell?” you pant, your voice rough with need as you glance back at her with half-lidded, dazed eyes.

Ellie just smirks, looking entirely too pleased with herself as she settles back on her heels, her hands smoothing over your hips. Her green eyes are dark, intense—but there’s something warm there, too.

“Ya know what?” she murmurs, voice soft but certain. “I wanna try something new. C’mere”

She tugs you gently, guiding you up, and you let her. Your legs are shaky as you shift, turning to face her, straddling her lap. The toy presses between you, warm where it’s caught between your bodies, but all you can focus on is Ellie—on the way her hands settle on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh teasingly.

“That’s better,” she murmurs. “Wanted to see that gorgeous face when you fall apart for me.”

And that’s when you know exactly what she wants—to watch you take control, to watch you break her in the best possible way.

So you don’t give her the chance to tease, to taunt. Instead, you reach down without a word, wrap your fingers around the base of the strap, and sink onto it in one slow, deliberate motion.

Ellie curses under her breath, her fingers gripping your ass tighther as she tilts her head back, watching—completely mesmerized, completely wrecked.

She lets you set the pace, lets you take what you need, and the way she looks at you under the dim light—like you’re something holy, untouchable—sends a fresh wave of heat straight through you.

“Fuckkk,” she rasps, the base of the strap bumping perfectly against her aching clit. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smirk, breathless, rolling your hips just to watch her shiver beneath you. Then you cup her jaw, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet your gaze.

“Yeah?” you murmur, voice dripping, dangerously sweet. You drag your thumb along her bottom lip, watching her shudder. “Then I hope you’re ready to go out like this.”

Ellie groans, and you swallow the sound as you kiss her, deep and slow, letting her feel exactly what she’s done to you.

Your body moves like it was made for this—for her. Every slow, deliberate roll of your hips has Ellie sinking deeper into the mattress, her hands gripping your hips and ass with a desperation that only makes you want to push her further.

She breathes, eyes flickering between where your bodies meet and your face. “Look at you… riding me like you own me.”

You smirk, dragging your nails down her stomach before bracing your hands on her chest, using her body for leverage as you start to move faster, harder. Ellie groans beneath you, her head tipping back, auburn hair splaying across the pillow as she lets you take control.

“S-so deep,” you murmur, voice breathy, teasing.

Ellie’s fingers twitch against your skin, her pupils blown wide as she watches you move. “Yeah?” she rasps, voice rough, wrecked, barely holding herself together.

She swears she’s never seen anything more perfect.

The way your body moves—hips rolling, muscles tensing, sweat-dampened skin glowing under the dim light—it’s enough to ruin her. Her hands roam over you like she doesn’t know what to grab onto first—your waist, your thighs, the soft curve of your ass.

Fuck.

Your tits.

The way they bounce with every sharp snap of your hips, the way your nipples harden as she rolls and pinchs them in her fingers, the way your chest rises and falls with every shuddering breath—it’s mesmerizing.

And your face, flushed and blissed out, lips parted on gasping little moans that are just for her.

She swears she could die like this, buried so deep inside you she doesn’t know where she ends and you begin, wrapped up in you so completely she could stay here forever.

Her jaw clenches, her own pleasure building fast, unbearable, threatening to pull her under right along with you. “God, you’re so fucking hot,” she babbles, completely lost.

And that when she finally loses control.

She sits up, arms locking around you, pulling you down until there’s not a breath of space left between you. She thrusts her hips up to meet yours, matching your rhythm. Your slick bodies press together, burning hot, every frantic rise and fall of your chests syncing as she slams into you, deeper, harder.

The new angle knocks the air from your lungs, your mouth falling open on a strangled gasp.

Ellie holds you tight, so tight it feels like she’s afraid you’ll slip away—like if she lets go, even for a second, she might wake up and find you were never here at all.

“Jesus fucking christ…” she murmurs, hands roaming over you like she can’t decide where to touch first. Every inch of you belongs to her, and she’s claiming you with every pass of her palms, every hungry grip of her fingers. “Taking everything I give you—fuck– you’re so good f'me.”

You whimper, thighs trembling as you grind down, chasing the pressure, the fullness, the fire curling low in your stomach.

Ellie groans, the sound reverberating through you as she buries her face in your neck, her lips dragging over your pulse, over sweat-slicked skin.

“You were made for this,” she breathes, voice wrecked, reverent. “Made for me.”

Your moan catches in your throat, fingers tangling in her hair, tugging just enough to drag a low, broken hiss from her lips. “Ellie—”

She cuts you off with her mouth, swallowing your gasps, your pleas, kissing you so deep it steals what little breath you have left.

“Say it,” she murmurs, voice rough, cracking at the edges. “Say you’re mine.”

And you do—because you are.

“I-I’m yours, Ellie!”

A sound rips from her chest—low, guttural, wrecked—like the words just undid something deep inside her. Her grip tightens, arms locking around you as if she could pull you into her, fuse you together, make you hers in every possible way.

Then her fingers move—slow at first, teasing—before pressing down just right against your clit, sending a sharp bolt of pleasure through you.

“Come on, baby,” she urges, her free hand splaying across your back, pressing you closer, until you’re nearly one, until your forehead is against hers, your breath mixing with hers. “Let me have it.”

And you do.

Your whole body jolts like a live wire, a choked gasp breaking free as the tension inside you snaps too fast, your release drenching her lower stomach. Your thighs tighten around her, fingers clutching at her back, at her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto as heat builds, swells, consumes you.

You can’t think, can’t speak—you can only feel. Ellie beneath you, inside you, around you, anchoring you even as she pushes you to the brink, holding you steady as you come undone.

She swears she’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Her own release follows fast and hard, a deep groan rumbling through her chest as her hips jerk up into yours one last time. Her arms tighten around you as she buries her face in your neck, her breath hot and uneven against your sweat-damp skin.

For a long moment, you just hold each other—panting, trembling, completely spent.

Her fingers trail over your spine, slow and steady, tracing mindless patterns against your sweat-slicked skin. She presses a lingering kiss to your temple, whispering something too soft for you to catch, but you don’t need to hear it. You feel it.

When she finally pulls back enough to meet your eyes, she looks completely wrecked—but softer now, vulnerability flickering beneath the haze of pleasure.

“You okay, love?” she murmurs, her voice low and raspy.

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah,” you whisper, pressing closer. “More than okay.”

She huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, fingers trailing lazily down your spine. “Kinda wrecked you, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the teasing lilt in her voice makes you smile. “Shut up. That was a team effort.”

Ellie grins, but then she pulls back just enough to see your face, brushing a few strands of hair away from your forehead. Her touch is so gentle, so careful, like she’s still grounding you, making sure you’re okay.

“No, really,” she says, softer now. “You good?”

The tenderness in her voice makes your chest tighten. You cup her cheek, thumb brushing over the freckles beneath her eye.

“I promise,” you murmur. “I feel perfect.”

She studies you for a second longer, then nods, satisfied. “Yeah. You look perfect.”

A comfortable silence settles between you as Ellie shifts, exhaling softly as she reaches down to undo the harness still strapped around her hips. Her fingers work it off with practiced ease, the leather slipping away before she tosses it aside like an afterthought. Only then does she move, slipping away just long enough to grab a warm, damp cloth.

She cleans you up with that same effortless care—gentle, thorough, her eyes flicking up to yours every so often, like she’s making sure you’re still right here with her. When she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside, and she pulls you into her arms again, tucking you against her chest like she never wants to let go.

Ellie’s fingers stroke your arm, slow and soothing, tracing patterns only she knows. Her touch is grounding, familiar, safe.

Then, softly, like a truth that has always existed between you, she says it again.

But now it's not in a panicked confession. Not in a speech meant for the world to hear.

But here. Now. After the most intimate, most vulnerable moment two people can share.

“Love you.”

It’s not hesitant or uncertain. There’s no grand declaration, no embellishment—just those two words, simple and solid, like she’s always known them to be true. Like saying them is the easiest thing in the world.

Your breath catches. For a second, the world seems to still around you. When you glance up, she’s already watching, waiting—not nervously, not fearfully, but open. Bare. Like she’s laying her heart right there between you, trusting you to hold it, to keep it safe.

You don’t hesitate.

A tender smile spreads across your lips as you press your forehead to hers, closing the small space that still remains. 

“Love you too,” you whisper, the words slipping out like they’ve been waiting forever to be said again. “So fucking much.”

Ellie tilts her head, kissing you slow, savoring, like she has all the time in the world. Her fingers lace with yours, holding on like she never wants to let go. You feel her heartbeat under your palm—steady, real. Yours.

She swallows, voice softer now, full of something fragile and new. “Can’t believe we can finally say that to each other now.”

You blink up at her, your own chest tightening at the weight of it.

“I know,” you admit. “Feels unreal, doesn’t it?”

The past months settle between you—every stolen glance, every touch that lingered too long, every moment spent pretending not to be hopelessly, helplessly in love with each other.

Ellie exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “We spent so much time pretending,” she murmurs, her fingers tightening slightly around yours. “So much time making it look real for everyone else.” She pauses, searching your face, like she needs to make sure you understand. “And it was real. This whole time.”

You nod, brushing a hand down her arm, grounding her just as much as she’s grounding you. “Yeah. We’ve been real stupid.”

She hesitates, lips parting like she wants to say more, but something holds her back. You don’t push. Instead, you press a soft kiss to her jaw, reassuring, anchoring.

“But we’re here now,” you whisper. “We have this. No more pretending.”

Ellie’s eyes soften, and you watch the last of her walls crumble. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice steady, sure. “No more pretending.”

Her arms stay wrapped around you, bodies pressed together, bare skin against bare skin, as if letting even a sliver of space between you might shatter the fragile, beautiful truth of this moment. As if, after everything, neither of you can bear the thought of slipping away now that you’ve finally found your way back to each other.

Then, almost so quiet you barely hear it, she says it.

“…Be my girlfriend.”

You freeze, breath catching in your throat. You shift just enough to meet her gaze, and what you see there makes your chest ache—hope, something that you’ve never seen in her eyes before.

“For real this time,” she continues, voice steadier now. “No more PR, no more rules. No more of that fake bullshit.” Her thumb brushes your knuckles like she’s afraid you’ll slip away. “Just us.”

The moment hangs between you, charged, heavy with everything you’ve been waiting for.

And it’s terrifying, how easy it is to say yes.

You cup her face, running your thumb over the curve of her cheekbone, memorizing every freckle, every tiny detail. 

“Ellie,” you whisper, searching her gaze, letting her see everything—every quiet yearning, every moment you spent wishing for this. 

“I’ve always been yours.”

Her breath stutters, something breaking open in her expression. She looks at you like she’s seeing the world for the first time, like she can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Yeah?” she murmurs, almost disbelieving.

You nod, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “Yeah.”

A slow, relieved smile spreads across her lips, and when she kisses you again, it’s different—it’s certain, deep, filled with a quiet promise.

When you finally pull away, her arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. And for the first time, there’s no distance between you. No barriers, no walls—just the two of you, completely and utterly tangled together.

“Just you and me,” Ellie murmurs against your skin, her voice like a vow. “Finally.”

And as your bodies press closer, as your hearts collide, you know—this is where you were always meant to be.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑟 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑥 → taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @kaykeryyy @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag  @jujueilish @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaii @firefly-ace @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OMFG GUYS. THIS CHAPTER IS THE LONGEST THING I HAVE EVER WROTE IN MY LIFE, so TYSM IF YOU READ IT ALL. I did like 100 FUCKING PROOFREADS, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on the permanent taglist for this series!

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

#mydreamjobiscomingtomenow

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

≛ LONELY IS THE MUSE!

❝ ABBY!CENTRIC ONE SHOT ❞

feat. bodyguard!abby x famous actor!reader

warnings. eighteen+, suggestive nsfw content: reader fell first nd and abby fell harder, some angst, fluff, slightly coded fem reader, personal trainer!abby, just two idiots pining. i saw the discourse for some romance and i wanted to do my part. enjoy friends.

LONELY IS THE MUSE, entangled in an endless web of a high profile life, everyone waiting on you hand and foot, hollywood’s star in their prime — everyone needing a piece for themselves. yet the mysterious blonde who has not a clue to who you are catches the eye of the lonely muse.

wc. 8k

“You know you don’t have to stand this close to me.” Abby counters, but her words didn’t make you move an inch. Not that she really thought they would. Secretly, she enjoys your gentle touch. She likes how comfortable you feel around her. The downpour in New York has your arm entangled with her own, your hand gripping her bicep as she holds the umbrella.

“Maybe, but I don’t want to ruin my hair.” You replied gently, as you rested your head against her relaxed bicep.

“God, forbid your hair be in ruin, sweet girl.” Abby’s wet lips look inviting, especially when she’s smirking at you. Delectable, enticing, desired seeping underneath your soul as you try your best to keep them at bay. 

“Now that would be positively tragic, wouldn’t it? Just a paparazzi’s wet dream. Need my hair in ruins for them to get a handsome payday.” Abby shakes her head, the budding smile threatening to reveal itself. You can see how it grows, despite the effort she makes to disguise it. 

“I think you do enjoy my company. Paid or not, I bring some light into your life.” You play with the ends of her hair. The blonde feels a tingle pricking at her skin. She ignores it. 

“I can see that smile.” 

Better than anyone, Abby knows the gleam in your eyes is too dangerous to entertain, so she looks forward. It’s what she's paid to do, to keep you safe. Not to entertain some weird crush that will soon pass when you move on to the next actress, artist, or producer. She doesn’t need a reminder of how different your world is, she’s already abundantly clear on where the both of you stand. Worlds apart from each other, even if you’re leaning against her, the greedy hands of the public grab onto you first, mercilessly sucking the life out of anyone who enters your life. 

All it does is isolate you, making your life incredibly lonely. Trapped on the throne you built with your raw talent, but the industry is a double edged sword, as much as it appears to lift you up, it impales any sense of normalcy at a private, peaceful life. You take pride in these little moments you have with her. It’s the only time you get to have a taste of normalcy, even if you did have a bodyguard, which wasn’t entirely normal. Yet, Abby is a gentle reminder of a life she wishes to have. Someone who is kind, and loving; a soul that exists for no selfish gain, greed, or selfishness. 

Sometimes, you take advantage of it. 

Abby knows you crave physical affection. Ever since your messy break up, you’ve been finding any little excuse to justify it. Abby didn’t really mind at all. Even if she tried to deny it in her head, she’d miss it if you stopped. The incessant need you have to be close to her at all times, your essence bleeding on to her, suffocating her with everything she wants, but knows she can’t ever let herself dip into the deepest edges of you. 

Especially, not when you are still attempting to decode the wreckage of your last relationship. 

Abby hates seeing you like this, but she knew there was little she could do to help. All she could do is let you ride the wave of heartbreak, take in the silent tears hitting full cheeks, and hope it would all end soon for you. For now, she would allow immediate proximity.

You’re hurting. You need it.  

The first few weeks, even a couple months after, she expects it. Now it’s month four, and you were still touching her all the time. Lame excuses falling from your lips daily and Abby was sure you didn’t even believe them. She thought about bringing it up to you, establishing healthy boundaries before she crosses a line.

Yet, it feels…nice.

It felt good to be needed. The reason she had taken this job in the first place. It wasn’t what she had imagined for herself – a bodyguard of a famous musician. She jokes about it now, but it's a twisted fate for the two of you. Your eyes shine bright whenever someone asks, and you always take the lead.

Abby has always been more reserved, and your personality is as bright as the sun. She liked Abby the second she laid eyes on her. Not because she was beautiful or the most gorgeous human she’d ever seen.

Which she is.

No.

Her stupid pounding heart, the one she felt beating violently out of her chest, loves you, has no idea who she is.  She had thought possibly the blonde stranger was putting on a front, some did. They liked to conceal their intentions behind greedy eyes and malicious intent.

But Abby turned out to be different.

When a blossoming friendship turned into a job opportunity, it took Abby through a loop. It was the very last thing she was expecting from you. You’d kept her in the dark and when you announced exactly who you were, Abby really didn’t know. Never was she really a fan of social media, didn’t really partake in it unless someone was showing her the latest trend going around. She’s a little old fashioned but she likes it. It worked in her favor when it came to you. Unknowingly, for the first time since your fame struck as quick as lightning, you had the pleasure to befriend someone who had no idea who you were. 

As fresh as breathing your first breath of air, you took pride in the circumstance. Someone enjoying your company for who they are and not just for your social standing, fame, or most importantly the money. Before either of you could really even fully come to it, Abby has become such an influential person in your life, and then you were attempting to entice her with a job opportunity, and she accepted. 

You thought it would take longer and knew from the moment you had asked. But her life was uprooted by you, and she felt guilty about how much it fills her up with glee. 

In the last year, Abby became the only person worthy of your trust, the only one who would keep your confessions confined, not letting the secrets drip like cheap wine down the drain. Rather more as if she was out in the vineyard, carefully hand picking the grapes for the wine as she crafts it herself. Giving it the love, care, and attention it needs to flourish into fine beverage. From one sip alone, knowing she would crave for the taste. 

Getting to know you in ways some would dream of. Often, the mass of the public did, but you’re more selective who you let in your life now. Swiftly, you noticed how easily Abby listened. 

Listening and seeing you for who you are, not some strewed version the media made you out to be.  

She understood why you felt the need to and maybe why you felt comfortable with her. You spent time with her more than anyone. After two years together, she had learned every little detail about you. Where you liked to get your morning coffee, your favorite brunch spot, which bar you like to frequent when you had a night to give, which gym was your favorite, and to not speak with you until you’ve had said coffee. 

It’s these little things Abby remembers, constantly getting her in trouble.

When paparazzi are around, you always accept her hand as she guides you through the swarming crowd. Abby knows you despise it. How inhumane it makes you feel. You feel like an attraction, an object the masses had come to see rather than being viewed as an actual person. In these moments, you cling onto Abby the most. While she’s intimidating to all, there leaves a small exception for you, never has she once been anything to you more than just a sweet, gentle giant she wants close to her at all times. 

Her stature is standing a little over six feet tall. Her arms always looked too good against the tight fabric of her shirt. The one you grip onto as she is navigating through a crowd with you in tow, she’s always focused. The remainder of your team was behind you, while she was always in front of you.

At all times, protecting you.

But it was moments like today, you were grateful for. You blended with the hectic life of the city. You were just two people waiting at a crosswalk, waiting to get to your next destination.

Abby tries not to pay too much attention to how you’re squeezing her bicep, with a strong grip further indication you weren’t letting go anytime soon.

She supposes it’s better than feeling your hand in hers. There were times when Abby deemed it necessary. She would grab it whenever she needed to get you through from point a to point b, quickly. It made you follow her pace instead of lingering behind. She didn’t even know how she was supposed to feel with your head resting against her arm, your body so close to hers.

How was she supposed to act normally?

The rumors were already getting bad. You denied them when asked, and you did gracefully each time.

All Abby could think about if this moment was captured, it would be perceived as intimate. It felt like it was, but she didn’t want the entire world to see. Not when she felt the two of you walking this very nimble line of friends, something professional, and something more. She didn’t need thousands of eyes giving their two senses in a situation she didn’t even fully understand yet. All it took was one person to snap a photo if she gets too close to you. If her touch stayed on you for too long, or if she let the love reach her eyes. The ladder was the most difficult to control. It’s a part of her just as much as the air in her lungs.

This life is new to her. At times, Abby wondered if she’s biting off more than she could chew.

The only reason she’d left was for you. She had a small, quiet life. Abby’s life was very average, a cloud of normalcy hovered above her before the two of you met. A personal trainer full time and she resided in a cabin about half an hour from where she worked. She chopped wood to relieve stress, Her girlfriend liked it at the time, and she did too. She had her two dogs, and a darling kitten. 

She enjoyed the privacy. The isolated countryside her sweet family could reside in. Abby had built this life she was proud of, and it made her happy. For a time, it worked. She was genuinely content with where she was. There wasn’t a need to stress or control where her life was going. It felt like a huge relief. She tended to live inside her own head, not be present in what she has right in front her.

It had been months since she felt like that. It’d felt good and she was proud of herself for not succumbing from within and really coming to terms with what she had built around her. This was the most difficult route for her to take. To allow herself to be open, even if there was a chance of her falling.

Abby really should have felt remorseful for leaving it all behind.

Nora was sweet. The most caring partner she ever had, but there wasn’t much she could compare it to. Besides her, there had only been two, and she didn’t even count Owen. A long misstep until she landed where she needed to be. He did care for her, and he seemed to be more kind-hearted than most men, but the bar was set so low, he should’ve exceeded expectations.

And he did, in some areas.

Others, he fell more than flat but there was little to nothing he could do about it. Abby likes girls and he wasn’t one. Her sexuality shattered their relationship into a million pieces – leaving neither of them any option but to move on.

Nora felt real. This genuine connection she’d never experienced before. Abby knew it one year into their relationship. The pair had built this life together, one where she didn’t feel trapped in, and one Abby could be proud of. She felt acknowledged and loved Nora. There wasn’t a sliver of a doubt in her mind this where she needed to be.

She tells Nora when she needs space, and she isn’t ashamed of it. If she didn’t want to go out, Nora wouldn’t guilt trip her into it. Abby didn’t feel pressured to intertwine her identity with Nora just because they were together. Nora hardly ever gave Abby a reason to be upset. She showed up like partners were supposed to, even when Abby didn’t.

But it was a heavy weight to carry for Nora. Being her first serious queer relationship, Abby was left stunted in areas where Nora had to lend a helping hand. She never made Abby feel bad about it, but the two of them could feel the string keeping them threatening to snap.

Often, it frustrated Abby. To always be the one receiving help and never giving it. She didn't blame her partner, but she was left at a crossroad. 

She never understood Owen more and it really pissed her off.

To no fucking end.

But Nora was far more patient than Abby had ever shown. Maybe it was the testament to love or maybe Nora was just a good person and Abby is shitty. She had more patience than Mother Thersea herself, and it amazed her. Always guiding Abby with a gentle hand, never getting upset with her even when she let her anger shine through.

It makes her feel undeserving of a love she could never earn.

This pure and untainted love had never touched her before, and she’d never fallen this hard. Abby didn’t want to be anywhere but here. She really thought this could be it. Nora could be the one. They could get through those hardships together, right? 

Then you came and overwhelmed her like a tsunami.

She was running late, which was completely out of the ordinary for Abby. Instead of her neat braid, her sun kissed-blonde hair was in a low bun. Underneath her eyes was evidence of her lack of sleep. She hadn’t been getting any as of lately and the bags only seemed to get deeper.

Abby wouldn’t call the fights constant, but it sure did feel like it.

The back and forth, having the same fight consistently. Abby was more than frustrated. The biggest efforts she made were dismissed by Nora, even making her upset at times. She was trying too hard and being annoying, or not doing enough and then it meant she wasn’t present in the relationship.

Abby felt her stuck at a wall, Nora on the other side of it and she couldn’t hear a damn thing.

So, she was running late.

One of the many fights  they’ve had with each other as of late. Nora is tired of dealing with a “baby gay” as she likes to remind her in the heat of their arguments. Abby gets offended, her lips forming into an even deeper pout, her porcelain skin flushed in anger before she gives them both space. 

Contemplating about the future of their relationship in the shower, causing her to be late to work in the process. 

Astronomically behind – her client arrived at the gym she worked at half an hour ago. The most recent argument with Nora plagued her morning. All they seem to do is argue, trapped in what they both need from the relationship, but all the two of them could do is argue, argue, argue.

But neither of them makes a move. They are still as the eerie silence that carries them into questioning. 

It’s when she’s too inside her head, fearing about the future, when she violently bumps into you. Body colliding with yours, Abby’s stone-like build causes you to crash into the pavement, your belongings scatter along with Abby’s. 

“Fuck. Are you alright? Sorry, I’m in such a hurry, I’m sure I wasn’t even paying attention.” You let her pick you from the ground, she does with ease. She looks right through you and you expect the excitement, the excited tears, or to be asked for a picture but it never comes.   

“For a moment I thought I ran into a wall—” You giggle to yourself. “Really, I’m alright.” You spoke softly. You pick up both of your belongings that had slipped from both of your grips, returning it to its owner. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Abby asks again. 

You think it’s cute how much lace of concern is conveyed in her cerulean eyes, full of light and wonder, so beautiful it stops you in your tracks. 

“No no! I’m fine! Really don’t worry about it.” 

Honestly, you’re still in amazement she has no idea who you are. It makes your fondness of her grow even more. The two of you depart quickly, go about your day, and you think nothing of it until you go to unlock your phone to message your manager and it’s not a picture of the moon you’d taken during the eclipse, it’s the mysteriously hot and kind woman you’d run into before. 

Shit. She has my phone. 

Lucky for you, Abby was coming to the same realization. Ready to bring out the workout she had planned out for her first client, opening her phone to access where she had written everything out only to find this isn’t her phone. Well, fuck. 

Abby hollers at Dina to take over the client for a moment, excusing herself for a moment before retreating into the office to call from her direct line. 

Idiot Anderson. Now you get to make an idiot of yourself, twice. 

Way to go. 

She calls her phone and it rings a few times before the familiar voice chimes through the speaker, the one she heard this morning during her fit of anxiety. 

“Please tell me this is the woman I ran into earlier or else I’m going to be even more embarrassed for answering a stranger's phone.” 

“Well you’re in luck.” 

“Oh thank fuck—” You curse yourself before being so vulgar with someone who you didn’t even know. “Sorry! God, this is all my fault. I must have swapped our phones when I picked them up and didn’t even realize.” 

“It’s okay, really, if I was paying attention where I was walking this morning it never would have happened. Did you wanna meet?” 

“No! Let me. Please, this is all my fault. I should at least be the one who makes the drive.” 

“Are you sure? It’s really no trouble. I don’t mind.” 

“I’m really sure.” 

Abby offers the address of work, thinking once after she does if it’s a good idea, a total stranger knowing where she works but she’s already giving the street name and suite number before she can even make her mind. Abby usually doesn’t get nervous but this situation has sent her into a frenzy, thinking about how dumb she could have been. Nora will get a good laugh out of it she thinks, then she is reminded of the fight the two of them were still in. She wonders if she’s even tried to reach out to her yet or if Nora’s just waiting until Abby’s anger rolls over. 

More favorably, the ladder. 

Until the two of them have the comfort of their lives, the cushion they have between their shared friends and the home they share twenty minutes out of the state, until it comes up again and they’ll be contemplating it all over again. Anxiously, the front desk girl, Bevs, the younger girl who has a crush on her, shyly comes up to her. 

Bevs says what she assumes is your name, confusing Abby in the process. 

“You know her?” 

“How could you not? She’s one of the most famous actresses ever.” Abby is stunned to say the least. Truthfully, she had no idea. Her lack of social media keeps her out of the loop and as much as her friends tease her about, if Abby knew who you were the first time around, she’s sure she wouldn’t have been able to say more than two words. Clearly, you’re a fresh face to her. Already, Abby knows Manny is going to have a field day when Bevs lets this information spill in her sheer excitement. 

Great, she thinks. 

“Oh.” 

“I put her in your office. Some of the clients were already starting to have questioning looks, putting the pieces together. Hey! Maybe they're as clueless as you.” 

“Bevs, go back to the front desk.” With a curt nod and realizing she has pushed too far, with a tail between her legs she retreats back to her post. 

Okay, Anderson, let’s get this over with. 

Abby smells you the minute she steps foot in her office. It’s not the usual pinewood scent the candle in her office radiates. There’s a lingering smell of lavender with just a hit of vanilla. It’s sweet as it engulfs her nostrils, she finds herself sniffling slightly, a silent beg for more of it. You’re standing the minute you’re aware of her presence. Painfully, Abby is aware of her lack of clothing. The tight sport jacket is left unopened, her black sweatpants, accompanied with her sports bra, abs on display as she watches your eyes examine her carefully. 

She’s not sure how to feel about it. 

There is a moment, a short one where your eyes go to her chest, the silver barbells constricting against the small fabric, clear as to what lies beneath. 

Abby does smirk at that. She’s only human. 

You keep staring at her for a minute longer, well it feels like one but Abby deems it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” 

“It’s really not a problem.” The more time goes on, the sweeter you are. “It’s pretty close to where I live.” 

Abby didn’t know it then but you were lying straight through your teeth. The trainer didn’t know you moved around your entire day to make the phone swap or the butterflies swarming your stomach from just how attractive and nice she seemed to be. There was something about her that sent your caution flying to the wind, drifting in the leaves with the rest of your pride. 

“Well I appreciate you coming out this way, even if it’s in your area. I really wouldn’t have minded taking the drive.” Abby pulls out your phone as she hands you yours. It’s simple, transactional, and it should have just been left at that but you had a fondness of putting your foot in your mouth. 

“Are you a trainer here?” 

“Uh, yeah. Been doing it for a few years actually. I spent so much time here already, now I get paid for it. Can’t really complain.” 

“Do you ever do private sessions?” 

“Um-” Abby scratches the back of her awkwardly, not sure if you’re asking her genuinely or if you’re trying to insinuate something else entirely. 

“Oh fuck no! I didn’t mean it like that. I just have a….job opportunity I have to get in shape for and you just look like you know what you’re doing.” Abby thought you might as well point to her physique but if anything she was flattered. It was always nice knowing something she’s been working on for years, her longest standing commitment besides Nora, is appreciated. 

“Sure, we could work something out.” You slightly smile before you exchange phones, this time on purpose, to put in the other’s number. Normally, she didn’t give out her number to clients, but Abby makes an exception for you that day. To this day, she’ll never outwardly admit why she did, not even to herself. 

- 

Two years later, she’s single from her life being turned upside down by you. The casualty being her own relationship, leaving Nora behind was one of the hardest decisions she’s made. Nora never agreed on Abby taking the job. As much as Nora wished for Abby to be more open about their endeavors, as soon as she accepted an offer that could drastically expand the trajectory of their life, Nora couldn’t be asked to compromise another thing. 

That was that. Not even two months into Abby working for you and Nora had called it quits. Abby never talked about it, only you knew she had a girlfriend she used to talk about when you began training with her, and then it was just silent. Back then, you didn’t know her well enough to pry, so you didn’t. 

Even as time passed, the two of you became friends through your employment, spending all your time with her during press season for your upcoming film, Lonely Is The Muse, together. Today was the only day you had off, even if it means Abby technically had the day off, you insisted that both of you leave the hotel and go out for the day. It's the most peace you felt during the European leg of the tour. Only one more day of dealing with your sensory issues, people in your face telling you when and where to go, or the distasteful question regarding your past public breakup instead of the work you were promoting. 

Some interviewers were kind enough to let the drama go but some wanted to get their own viral moment, waiting for you to say the wrong thing. As the industry likes to say, any publicity is good publicity. 

When you’re America's sweetheart actress of the century, such luxuries can’t be afforded. 

As your manager likes to remind you, there’s a reputation you have to protect. 

“Would you like to head back now? Long day tomorrow. Last day of interviews and then your flight leaves first thing in the morning.” 

“Did Stassie put you up to this?” 

“Maybe.” 

“I thought you were supposed to be the fun one.” 

“Mhm, your definition of fun is letting you do whatever you want.” 

“And the problem with that is?” 

All Abby can do is chuckle. 

“What do you want to do then?” Abby asks. She takes note of the sparkle in your eyes, as blinding as the sun but obtaining the serenity of the moon. “I’m all ears sweetheart.” 

It’s how the two of you end up here, a rooftop party, a friend of a friend you said. The party was lowkey, more than the typical ones you would get invited. Maybe because you weren’t in Los Angeles, Miami, or New York — but tucked away on another continent — or perhaps everyone here is just discreet. 

There’s only two fans that come up to you instead of twenty. You’re thankful for some sense of normalcy, one night where you can just feel normal. It still never gets old, people coming up to you as they confess the impact you’ve had on their life. It feels unbelievable at times but you’re grateful for the luxury life you’ve been granted. 

“Here. No liquor tonight.” Abby hands you a glass of red wine, your favorite beverage of choice when you couldn’t have tequila. 

“Yes Ma’am.” You playfully salute her. More than anything, you enjoy the not so subtle chuckle. “Not that I don’t love your company but isn’t Stassie supposed to boss me around?” 

“She felt under the weather. Plus, we both know you don’t listen to her.” 

“And I listen to you?” Your hand plays with her loose blonde hair, smoothing out the white button she’s wearing. 

“Yeah, you do. I wonder why that is.” Abby is playing with fire tonight. Possibly due to the fact that you wouldn’t leave her side, not even for a moment, keeping your body close, practically gluing yourself to her. Yes, she’s charged with keeping you safe and protected but it seems you find enjoyment bringing it to another level entirely. 

“You’re much nicer to look at, that’s all.” It’s light, a quiet whisper, not meant to be heard by anyone — not even for Abby to hear. “Don’t wanna make my handsome bodyguard upset.” 

Faking your pout as you let the words leave your lips, Abby chuckles as you get closer to her, her body standing strong as you push your weight onto her. Stoic as always, while you lean on her, she keeps her eyes peeled. Ensuring your safety at all times. 

“Flattery isn’t going to get you a shot tonight.” 

“I’m just stating the obvious.” 

Abby chuckles, again. She’s delighted you’re enjoying yourself, even if it comes at her expense. There’s a soft jazz song playing outside, couples dancing to the music, you zone out for a moment as you look upon one in particular. 

They are older, possibly in their forties, raven hair beginning to gray, fine lines crinkle when they smile at each other but it’s hard to take note of anything else but the way the couple looks at each other. Your mind wonders how long they’ve been together, if it’s been for years, months, a couple weeks. 

It doesn’t really matter. You just want that. 

The feeling isn’t lost on you, especially when you’re in the arms of the woman you love. For her, she’s being protective, doing her job but you wish it was different. A bubbling desire dripping off your tongue, a need to have her close to you but because she wants. Not because she’s paid to. 

“If I can’t have any tequila shots, god forbid, you have to dance with me.” You down the rest of your wine, placing the empty glass on the bar. “C’mon, you can give Stassie an earful later.” 

Pulling her towards the makeshift dance floor, Abby leads as your head rests against her chest. The steady, soft heartbeat soothes you, a reminder of the safety you feel with her. Caught in the riptide of her kind eyes and heart full of gold. It’s what makes her so unique, so loved, so her. With a surprisingly good tone, Abby sings to the music softly before twirling you around and spinning your body back to her. 

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Your hand rubs lovingly on her lower back as she holds you in her arms. You take pride when it doesn’t feel transactional. When she holds you and it feels as if she was meant to. There’s nothing else comparable to it, her frame melting into yours as your soul finds solace in her warm embrace. 

“There’s plenty of things.” Playfully, Abby smirks. 

“Oh yeah. I’m sure.” 

The sarcasm practically drips out of you as her smirk grows wider. 

“Can I ask you something?” You hesitate for a moment as you find her beautiful blue eyes staring into your soul. It’s only then does everything troubling might dissipate while she holds you — secretly hoping it’s forever. 

“You can ask me anything.” 

You give yourself a moment to collect your thoughts as you move to the delicate beat. “Do you ever wish for a life where you could have had a normal life? I wonder if things could be different.” 

Immediately, Abby answers. 

“Not anymore, no, not for a second.” 

If it was even possible, Abby pulls you closer to her, not urging a word more. It’s how she is, cold and distant to some but they don’t feel the stutter in her breath when you’re near or the soft pad of her thumb rubbing soothingly on the back of your hand. Or the soft words of encouragement when you’re having a difficult day. 

They hear none of it. 

She dances with you for a couple more songs, before you find solace on the couch. You lay beneath the moonlight, your body cuddles into her side as you stare up at the sky. 

It’s lost on you how you’ve ended  with her, someone as kind and untainted as her, wanting to spend her free time with you, but you’re grateful for it. Whatever god you have to thank, you’ll get on your knees to praise their alter for bringing Abby into your life. She’s the best thing to ever happen to you and she doesn’t even know it. Albeit, she hardly knows the extent of how wonderful she is. 

“Why here?” 

“It’s a good night, nice weather. Why not?” 

A question with a question. It’s the most straightforward answer you’ll ever give her. Innuendos for the sweet girl to piece together, but with the soft circles being drawn her stomach with the pad of your finger leaves little to nothing to decode. 

“It’s nice, yeah.” 

Abby always has so little to say but her mind swarms with a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea and a million of why this is where the constellations in the jaded sky have led to you. Straight into the pits of innocence, a heart that’s been hurt more times than she can count but still as golden and whole as one could be. 

“What do you think of Italy?” 

“It’s nice.” 

“Nice? That’s all I get?” 

Abby smirks but her body stills when you play with the waistband of her trousers before gliding back to the security of her abdomen, carving the liner of her defined abs. The ones she tries so hard to cover up, but you saw on the very first day you met her. 

“Do you want more?” You ask, an eyebrow raising in suggestion. Abby knows it’s a double edged sword, one she doesn’t want to be injured with. 

“You’re playing a very dangerous game.” Cautiously, Abby warns. “I’m not sure that last drink was a great idea.” 

You rest your head on her sternum, sapphire eyes looking down at you as her hand finds home on your waist, the blunt of your nails scratching softly at her stomach. 

“They always seem like a great idea at the time, don’t they?” With a gentle hand, you caress her scarred cheek, the pad of your thumb gently tenderly kissing the freckled skin. Outlining the softness of her jaw with your left, while your right one refuses to leave her stomach. 

“I don’t see how anyone would ever want to leave you.” Abby hums, not giving you much to go off of, tight lipped as she’s always been. The Nora situation has always been on your mind. One day, Abby’s speaking of her like she’s the love of her life and the next? Abby stiffens so tight when you bring up her name you promise yourself to never speak of it again. Until now, almost two years later, you’re more curious than you have ever been. The fatal ending, not belonging to you, but still you paw for the answers with your greedy palms. 

“You can just ask me if you want to know. I can see the look in your eyes.” 

“What look? I don’t have a—” 

Abby tilts your chin with your palm, leaning into her touch as you often do. 

“Yes, you do.” 

“How do you know this look?” 

“Hm.” Her thumb pulls at your bottom lip, “You’re just trying to get me in trouble now.” 

Your tone shifts, your eyes become transcendent, more crystal clear than they’d been all night. 

“What happened between you and Nora?” You ask, treading lightly on the ground you’re skating upon, in fear the ground beneath you might just crack if you apply too much pressure. 

“Why is it so important to you?” 

“It’s not that it’s—” You face plant into her chest, giving yourself a moment to breathe. Fuck, even her chest smells good. 

“You don’t ask about anything unless it’s of value to anyone. You don’t waste time, you’re very adamant about it. Painfully so.” Blonde eyebrows relax as she closes her eyes for a moment, but her touch on you soothes you. It’s gentle; a somber comfort bleeding into blissful joy. 

“But I’ve spent a lot of time with you.” 

“Yes, you’ve spent a lot of your time with me.

Abby opens her eyes to see you, your head tilted to the right, as you look upon each carve of her angelic face, the one that could only be carved by the gods above, resembling an angel on earth. As pure as the snow with the biggest heart of gold you ever have had the pleasure of knowing. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t say a thing.” You smile slyly. 

“We didn’t break up because of you, if that’s what you’re asking.” Abby sighs, “You’re not some homewrecker. My home with Nora was already wrecked before we met.” 

“Are you just saying it to make me feel better?” 

“No, I’m not.” You play with the ends of her golden hair, it hurts to be this close to what you want but knowing it’s so clearly out of your reach, league even, all of it will end the same. “Nora wasn’t fond of her being my first relationship with a woman. It caused a ripple effect, me feeling like I wasn’t good enough and her feeling like she has to carry me in the relationship, emotionally anyway.” 

“Is that why you broke up?” 

“No.” 

“It was because of me.” You state, as a matter of fact, knowing there is no other truth to be known. With tears welling up in your eyes, an ache  in your heart, one that made you ache all over. The dread of the guilt weighing heavily on your heart, time and distance still isn’t enough for you to run from it. 

“It was a job that was a great opportunity. Alright? It wasn’t you, even if I hadn’t, we both wanted different things. I didn’t even realize it until after but I wasn’t happy. I promise, it has nothing to do with you.” 

What Abby didn’t know, you needed to hear her say those words. In the back of your head, a monstrous demon unleashes in your mind, telling you crashed her relationship. You were the problem and her inevitable doom, but she’s assuring you it wasn’t the case. 

“We hardly knew each other back then.” 

As pathetic as it sounds, Abby can’t imagine her life without you. 

“Yeah hardly.” 

There’s that look again, pouring into Abby’s soul as it eats her up whole, the gleam in your eyes begging for more. It’ll complicate things if Abby gets involved, she knows this, but it already seems like she is despite her best efforts not to be. 

“Did I do good? You always say you miss stargazing with your brother back home. I know it’s not as quiet as the cabin you have, but I thought it would be okay for now.” 

“The view isn’t bad, not one bit.” She admits as she lets you rub her abdomen, the goosebumps crawling upon her skin the more Abby lets you touch her as if she’s yours to hold. “Lev would like it. I’m convinced the kid likes you more than me now.” 

“As he should. I’m pretty damn amazing.” 

“He asks too many questions though.” 

“About what?” 

“I dunno…..things.” Abby retreats back into her shell, the layer of protection she uses to protect herself from getting hurt. Most of all, out of everyone the gods could torture her to be confused about, of course it has to be you. Everyone in your life is always begging for pieces of your time, pieces of your affection and bits of your time to suck you dry. Abby has always wondered how you juggle it all. It feels cruel to even think you would put her in the mix. 

Painfully, there’s nights like tonight, where she sees the desire swarming in your eyes — every part of her pleads to give in to the temptation. Give into something she’s never even let herself think about until the last few months. As thick as drywall, there was a barrier keeping her heart from you, one she kept to protect you and herself even. 

The absolute last thing she wanted was to wreck everything this has to offer. If she makes the wrong move, all of it can come crashing down on you…it’s the last thing she wants. Make you a martyr in her story, one she thinks and dreams of often but knows you’re too big for her to exist in your life. The circles you run in don’t even exist in the same planet, the same fucking universe if Abby’s being honest. 

“What things?” You pout, your hand traveling south, caressing her thigh with a familiarity Abby wishes you didn’t have. She wishes for a lot but they never come true, that’s all you can be, a dying wish Abby curses upon a fading star.  

“It’s just stupid shit, not worth mentioning.” 

“Abby…” 

“Yeah?” 

“I—” You take a deep breath, your voice already shaky and you haven’t even told her yet. “I don’t think you even know how much you mean to me.” Abby isn’t sure where you’re going with this, terrifying her instantly. 

Have you finally had your fill of her? Were you gonna fire her? Now? 

“Lev doesn’t just talk to you about us.” 

“Us?” Nervously, Abby stomach clenches, unprepared for where this conversation is heading. 

“Why are you so scared?” 

Abby visibly and loudly gulps, almost making you giggle slightly. 

“I-I’m not.” 

The stonewall she attempts to hide behind but you won’t let her, not tonight. Slumping in the shadows, waiting for you to find someone else to love as she watches your happiness from a far, that’s what she allows herself. Nothing more and nothing less. 

“Abs, look at me.” She meets your eyes, away from the constellations in the sky, afraid if she looks for a moment too long she’ll be stuck here forever. “Talk to me, m’right here, not going anywhere unless you want me to.” 

Instantly, Abby grips your hips, keeping you in your place. 

“No, that’s not—” 

“What?” 

“I’m not what you want. I’m surely not what anyone needs. Hell, I’ve only been with one woman which is deemed to be for not being enough, right? I’m the girl who came out too late, who doesn’t have enough experience but because I’m built like some fucking adonis I need to know whatever the fuck I’m doing but I don’t. I never know what I’m doing. The only thing I know how to do is protect you, that’s all I’m good for and I’m not gonna screw that up just because I—” 

“Because what?” Your pelvis is on top of hers, your face coming closer to Abby’s, watching as you are irrevocably close to her, closer than you’ve ever been, wet lips ghosting over her pouty pink lips. Abby doesn’t even know when you moved, how you got so close, too lost in her own head to register your movements. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Abby puffs out. 

“It matters to me.” You sink into her, further, if it's even possible. “No one matters more than you, alright?” 

“But there’s people.” Abby looks for an excuse to get up, she comes up enough so she’s sitting up against the armrest of the patio couch, holding your lower back as she does so, leaving you straddling her hips. 

“I don’t care. All that matters is you.” You push a piece of blonde hair away, seeing her beautiful cheeks more clearly, her shining blue eyes finding its unique path to your heart, the one especially made for her. “Here just let me talk, alright? You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.” 

Abby is nearly crying, practically purring as you run your fingers through her cascading blonde hair. It’s too much but not enough. Although she is sure of one thing, the one thing she wants more than anything. 

“I’ve always been one for pretty girls. I had a reputation around Hollywood, always chasing one after the next, never reaching my fill or as the tabloids like to say.” You chuckled half-heartedly; the wound cutting deeper than you would have liked. “My publicist having to pay paparazzi an obscene amount of money to get these photos from ever hitting online, month after month, it was pathetic really. Just trying to fill a hole, one I didn’t even know how to fill.” 

“I didn’t know that.” 

“It’s not something I’m proud of and I never wanted you to see me differently but I’m not ashamed anymore though. I’m not that person anymore. I haven’t been since I met you.” Abby falls silent, her cheeks turning crimson before she can try to hide it “You not knowing how I was, it's just the humbling I needed. Not to mention you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen— you still are— but you had a girlfriend so I kept my feelings silent. Something just felt different with you and then you were single and I was afraid of you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I didn’t want to ruin you so I made a promise to myself. I would never start anything with you, not unless I was in love with you.” 

“You love me?” 

“It’s impossible not to.” You sigh into her, forehead pressed against hers, her strong hold not letting go. “You don’t have to say anything or do anything. I don’t expect anything in return. I just can’t live in a world where you think because you’re not experienced as some, you think you’re less than people who are.” 

“It’s true, I’m not there with everyone else and it shows.” 

“Abby, you’re not getting it.” 

“Well, no shit. I’m not good enough for any of this, you especially.” 

“It’s not…” You bite your lip as you reach for her hands on your waist, intertwining them with your own. “Abs, it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.” Your lips ghost over her lips again, but this time Abby inches closer, her breath warm as it hits your mouth. 

“What?” 

“If I was a patient person and waited for you.” 

More than before, Abby’s breath is heavy as the rise and fall of her chest is rapid, trying to calm herself down but it’s impossible when you’re this close. It’s a lot for her, maybe she’s overly sensitive, but your touch is practically lighting her on fire. Abby wonders if it will ever be able to be put out or if your magnetic touch will leave her scorned. 

Puppy eyes inwardly pleading for an ounce of your touch, so sweet as she supports your weight with her strong thighs, anchoring you to her — never quite letting go. A single glance detrimental to the layer of protection she built around herself. 

“There’s no more waiting, m’right here.” Abby closes the gap indefinitely, lips connecting with yours as they move in perfect harmony, as if this is what she was made for. Involuntarily, she whimpers in your mouth as you gently tug at her bottom nibble at her bottom lip, your tongue sliding in as it dominates her own. It happens too quickly — the way her very being melts into you. 

Like honey to a bee, there’s nothing that’s ever been so sweet. 

This is all you need. 

“Abby?” 

“Yeah, angel?” 

“Let’s get out of here.”

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⭒࿐COLLIDE - epilogue

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

𝐏𝐓. 𝟏 : 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐀

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟸 →

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

⭒ synopsis: After losing everything—the spotlight, the stage, the one you love—you disappeared into the kind of silence that doesn’t echo back. But somewhere in the hush, something began to stir. Not healing. Something darker, softer. A quiet rebirth. Piece by shattered piece, you stitched yourself into something unrecognizable. Not who you were. Not quite who you hoped to be. Just… becoming. This chapter doesn’t just tell your story—it pulls you through it. Breath by breath. A descent, a reckoning, a resurrection. And when you rise again, it’s not to ask for space. It’s to claim it. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 16,7k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: angst, entirely from readers pov, the first part is rlly heavy but it gets better (kinda), detailed emotional unraveling and depression, references to drug use and alcohol, media scrutiny, depressive themes, raw vulnerability, intense dialogue, AFAB!Reader, modern AU setting, multi-part series. MEN AND MINORS DNI. Likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated — thank you for supporting! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains detailed depictions of panic attacks and disordered eating. These themes are presented with raw emotional intensity and graphic realism, as part of the character’s unraveling. I've approached these topics with as much care and thoughtfulness as possible — but your safety and well-being always come first.

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

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Three years.

Three years have passed since that night.

Since the door slammed behind her and silence swallowed everything that was still breathing. Since her voice—wrecked, final—spilled those last words you’ve never been able to forget, no matter how many songs you wrote trying to erase them.

But now—

Let’s rewind.

Back to the night you made the call, that night you gave up the last piece of pride you were still clinging to and admitted—out loud, into the quiet hum of your empty kitchen—that you couldn’t save her.

You hadn’t spoken his name aloud before. Not even when she said it in her sleep, not even when you saw it inked on her guitar strap like a wound that never fully healed. 

“She needs help.” 

You said.

And he didn’t speak. The silence on the line stretched long, but not cold. Not angry. He was waiting. Letting you fall apart if you needed to.

So you did.

You told him everything.

Every show she stumbled through high. Every lie she fed you between whispered I love yous and trembling hands. How she started disappearing piece by piece—first emotionally, then physically. How her body got thinner, how her laugh got quieter, how her eyes stopped lighting up when she saw you.

You told him about the greenroom. The fight. The syringe. The way she flinched when you tried to touch her. How she kissed you like it was the last time, but never said it was.

How she left with your heart in her hands and didn’t look back.

You told him about the headlines. About the cancelled shows. About the silence.

You told him how it felt to hold someone in your arms and still not be able to reach them. You told him how much she needed help.

And that she wasn’t going to ask for it. Not from you.

Not from anyone.

By the time you were done, you were on the floor, the phone pressed to your ear with one hand and your other hand covering your mouth to keep the sobs from tearing your throat open.

Joel never interrupted.

He never asked you to calm down. He never once asked why now. He just said, low and steady,

“Send me the address.”

And you did. With shaking fingers and eyes that wouldn’t stop spilling over.

He didn’t ask if she’d let him in. He didn’t ask if she’d scream, or cry, or hate him for coming.

“I’ll be there in the morning. You did the right thing, callin’ me. Thank you so much for that. And… I hope you find happiness. You deserve it.”

And somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Joel Miller boarded a private jet with your heart buckled into the seat beside him—silent, heavy, burning—and flew straight into the wreckage she’d become.

The announcement came three days later.

No press tour. No farewell post with poetic closure or throwback reels. No soft-focus documentary promising they'd “see you again someday.” 

Just a black square. Posted across every official Fireflies platform at the same time. Instagram, Twitter, the website, streaming banners, merch store splash pages.

No comments allowed. No follow-up. No statement from the band.

No explanation.

Just one line, in stark white type, centered on the void:

THE FIREFLIES ARE ON HIATUS. INDEFINITELY.

And it was like the entire world paused in its orbit.

You could feel it across the planet. People didn’t just react—they collapsed. Group chats detonated. Teenagers dropped to the floor in bedrooms lit by laptop screens. Some left school early without explanation. Others drove hours to already-cancelled venues just to stand outside in silence.

The Fireflies weren’t just a band—they were the band. A once-in-a-generation phenomenon. The only group of their era to drag rock music back to the top kicking and screaming, draped in leather and glory.

They weren’t a revival. They were a resurrection.

They were the kind of band who didn’t promote albums—their three albums just arrived, like seasons, like weather, like destiny.

They didn’t follow trends—they set them. Their debut album went platinum in under a month. Their sophomore record broke streaming records before it even hit shelves. They racked up ten Grammys in five years. They headlined Glastonbury and Coachella by the time Ellie turned twenty-two.

Her voice was called the soundtrack of a decade before she turned twenty. Hoarse and raw in all the right ways, but still lyrical, still unmistakably hers. She growled and moaned and whispered and roared. She made every chorus feel like a confession and every verse feel like a wound.

But it wasn’t her voice that made her legendary.

It was the guitar.

She played guitar like it was an extension of her nervous system. She shredded and sobbed through solos that critics compared to Hendrix, Slash, Prince—but darker, sharper, more haunted. She was the one every magazine called the best female guitarist of her generation.

And Rolling Stone didn’t even qualify it—they just called her one of the greatest alive.

Jesse’s drumming was a signature in its own right—unpredictable, primal, full of tempo changes that made even seasoned producers pause mid-track and go holy shit. His beats were sampled by hip-hop legends, stitched into club anthems, spun at raves. The way he played live made people cry. Made people move.

Dina on bass was the heartbeat. Her timing was inhuman. Her tone made amps hum like they were falling in love. And off-stage? She’d wear shredded jeans and a tank top and Vogue would call it a revolution. Her basslines were as elegant as her glare was deadly.

Together, they weren’t a band. They were myth.

So when that black square appeared, when that single sentence ended everything indefinitely, the silence that followed wasn’t confusion.

It was mourning. 

They were never supposed to stop.

And definitely not like this.

No final tour. No goodbye album. No last acoustic performance on late night television with chairs too close and the stage too dim.

Just gone.

The post passed a million likes within minutes. Ten million within the hour. Fifty million by the time the sun rose. News outlets around the globe pulled planned coverage mid-broadcast. Editors in London, New York, Tokyo, São Paulo ripped up the front page and rewrote it from scratch.

“THE FIREFLIES GO DARK.” “GENERATIONAL ICONS DISAPPEAR INTO SILENCE.” “NO COMMENT FROM FRONTWOMAN ELLIE WILLIAMS—WHERE IS SHE?”

“DID ANYONE SEE IT COMING?”

They didn’t stop. Not for days. Not for weeks. Not for months. It became the dominant headline across countries, languages, time zones. Labels issued statements expressing shock. Concert venues issued refunds. Brands paused entire marketing campaigns. Radio stations across the globe held simultaneous tribute blocks.

Millions and millions begged them to explain what happened.

But they didn’t.

So the world did what it always does when starved for truth—

It picked someone to blame.

And it picked you.

Your name was trending before sunset.

“POP PRINCESS OR ROCKSTAR HOMEWRECKER?” “DID LOVE RUIN ROCK’S BIGGEST BAND?” “FROM LOVER TO LEGEND-KILLER: DID Y/N RUIN THE BAND?” “Y/N: THE YOKO OF THE FIREFLIES.”

They took photos—some old, some recent—and twisted them into knives. You kissing Ellie’s cheek on tour. You whispering something into her ear at an award show. You standing backstage at one of their concerts, hands pressed to your mouth, crying.

They looped the footage on cable and digital outlets like evidence.

They called you manipulative. Jealous. Controlling. A fame leech who couldn’t handle being second to a rockstar. A washed-up pop girl whose comeback relied on dragging someone down with her. They blamed your queerness, your softness, your sexuality, your songs. Said you were obsessed. Said you were a narcissist. Said you were weak.

You lost hundreds of thousands of followers overnight. Then millions. Radio pulled your songs. Magazines pulled your features. Brands dropped your campaigns without even calling.

You became a name to hate. A target for mourning dressed in outrage.

No one asked how you were. No one wondered if you had survived the wreckage. 

Because they’d already written you out of the story and rewritten you as the villain.

As if you hadn’t been the one who begged her to stay alive.

The worst part? you still had to perform the suspended shows. You knew it before anyone said it out loud—could feel it in the atmosphere like static before a storm. That thick, choking stillness that settles on your chest before the first crack of lightning. It wasn’t another tour stop. It was a burial. The final acts with its teeth bared and no interest in letting you leave the stage whole.

You hadn’t performed since the collapse.

Since Ellie disappeared into silence. Since the Fireflies went dark. Since the headlines multiplied like black vultures and your name stopped belonging to you. Since the world decided your heartbreak was public property, a story to stream, repost, and monetize. 

You weren’t a popstar anymore. You weren’t even a person. You were a scandal. A soundbite.

The girl who broke the Fireflies.

Your PR team bled behind the scenes, clinging to whatever was left of the narrative. Every morning, there was a new fire—new photos, new blind items, new hashtags clawing their way across the internet like vines made of glass. They tried to make you likable again. Paid features. Cease and desists. Media training.

But the damage was done. The walls were caving in.

And you saw it all.

But beneath all the headlines and hysteria, under the weight of rage and rumor and think pieces with your name misspelled, there was a quiet, cutting truth you clung to like a lighthouse in a storm:

There was no new Ellie content.

No blurry paparazzi photos at airports. No shaky footage outside clinics. No mugshots. No overdose. No funeral.

Nothing.

Just a silence so complete, it felt curated.

You didn’t know it at the time, but Joel was the one who made sure of it.

He didn’t just protect her. He erased her.

He bought silence the way other people buy coffee—quickly, absolutely, without blinking. Whatever he couldn’t cover with his monstrous wealth, he covered with something much more terrifying: influence. The kind of power that doesn’t come from only being a celebrity, but from being the last person in the room when the doors close.

He scrubbed metadata. Buried leaks before they surfaced. Paid off photographers, silenced editors, threatened entire media corporations with lawsuits they couldn’t afford and consequences they couldn’t calculate. Blogs lost access. Social media accounts were wiped clean. Mentions vanished mid-upload. Sources went dark.

Their last performance—her last performance—never made it past whispers.

Her addiction never made it to the main page.

Because Joel wasn’t trying to cover a scandal. He was trying to save his daughter. He wanted her to heal. Quietly. He wanted to build her a place without pressure, without headlines.

And in doing so, he forgot what the silence would cost you.

The one without enough influence, or power, or legacy to protect her. With no father in the shadows pulling strings to make the world go quiet. The only one left and the perfect target for their blame.

No one talked. Not the staff. Not Jesse. Not Dina. They disappeared too—folding into silence like it was an instruction. Like grief was classified and they were following protocol.

They left you alone with a story you weren’t allowed to correct. A love you weren’t allowed to grieve publicly. A collapse you couldn’t explain.

You couldn’t say a word. Not even a whisper of the truth.

Not even her name.

So, for another long week, you barely ate one full meal. Didn’t shower. Didn’t speak. The sun rose and fell without ceremony. You lay in the dark, wrapped in the clothes she left behind, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling like time-lapse footage of the destruction of everything you ever called yours.

The TV played on mute, your name flashing in ticker scrolls beneath strangers dissecting your ruin like it was commentary, not consequence.

You stopped brushing your teeth. Stopped checking your phone. Pain rotted in your throat like a secret. Not the kind that makes you cry. The kind that just… sits there. Dead weight in your chest. Too big to hold, too loud to name.

And then, on the eighth day, your assistant sent a single text.

They’re still expecting you to perform.

You didn’t respond, just stood. Not because you felt better, not because something clicked, but because numbness had settled so completely in your bones that you couldn’t even summon the energy to resist.

You took a scalding shower and scrubbed your skin until it stung. Sat while someone did your hair. Let a stranger paint your face in five different layers because she said a corpse looked more alive than you. Wore the outfit picked for you weeks ago, back when the tour was still a future, not an autopsy.

And when the black SUV pulled up outside your building, you stepped into it without a word.

It felt like climbing into a hearse.

The arena was sold out. Not a single empty seat. But it didn’t feel like a crowd.

It felt like surveillance. 

Like every eye in the room had already made up its mind about you. Like they weren’t here for music—they were here for evidence.

You hadn’t warmed up. Hadn’t done vocal prep. You hadn’t even opened your mouth in days. What was the point? You didn’t feel anything anymore. Not nervous. Not angry. Not sad. Just hollow. Carved out.

There was no buzz, no electricity in the air, no eager chatter or chants echoing in the rafters. Just a cold, unblinking silence. They didn’t scream when you stepped out under the lights—they lifted their phones like weapons, like proof. No one reached for you. No one cried. They just stared, eyes sharp, lenses sharper, like they were waiting for you to fall apart in real time.

Still, you sang. Not because you wanted to. Not because there was anything left inside you worth sharing. You sang because they told you that if you didn’t, the silence would be spun into guilt.

Because if you didn’t finish this show, if you so much as wavered, they’d never let you speak again.

So you opened your mouth and gave them what they came for.

Your throat was already burning by the second verse, every word scraping its way out like it didn’t want to be heard. The adrenaline faded too quickly, leaving your knees locked and your body stiff. The lights above you were blinding—too white, too hot, too cruel—and the crowd didn’t move.

Not a sway. Not a scream. Just thousands of eyes, blank and waiting. You gripped the mic stand like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth, and even then, you weren’t sure you’d stay grounded.

And the worst part?

Every single song had Ellie’s name etched between the lines.

Every melody, every lyric, every bridge soaked in her fingerprints. You’d written them in hotel rooms with your legs tangled together. On studio floors with her mouth still fresh on your skin. You’d written them drunk on being hers. Every chorus was a memory. Every verse a scar.

They were love songs.

And now, they were ghosts.

Her face crossed your mind for just a second, and when you opened your mouth again—your voice shattered.

It cracked so violently it sounded like glass hitting concrete. The note split in half, raw and jarring, and you winced. You turned your back fast, pretended to fix your in-ear, anything to keep the big screen from catching the look in your eyes.

Because you were about to start crying.

And you couldn’t let them see.

Your voice, your strongest weapon, was now was working against you. It kept betraying, trembling with every word, cracking more horribly each time you tried to swallow the grief. The grief of singing songs you once believed in. Songs that were alive when she still was yours.

You gave the worst performance of your life.

And somehow, with a body that barely worked, limbs limp from hunger and anxiety and days without proper sleep or light or air, you still made it to the end. Eyes blurry, throat raw, heart barely hanging on — you gave them what they came for. You finished the show.

Not because you wanted to. Not because you could. But because it was all you had left to give.

And the only thought echoing in your skull was how impossible it felt that this had once made you happy. That once, the stage had been freedom. Purpose. Joy.

Because now, it felt like a sentence.

This world hadn’t just taken the love of your life impersonated. It had stolen the other love of your life too. The one that lived in your voice, in your art, in the part of you that still believed in beauty and sound and the holy act of giving something sacred to the world.

That part was gone now. Burned out. No body to bury. Just an empty space where something precious used to be. Loud in its absence, deafening in its silence.

When the show ended, they clapped, but it wasn’t joy—it was relief. Like they were just glad you made it to the end. Hollow. A slow, uncertain patter that echoed across the stadium like a dare not to cry.

You bowed because the contract said you had to. Didn't say thank you or goodbye.

You turned before the lights dimmed, your back to the humiliating, slow and disappointed applause before it even started. You walked offstage like a stranger in your own skin, like your body belonged to someone else—someone capable of surviving this.

You sprinted to the dressing room, and the second the door clicked shut, everything inside you gave away. The air vanished. Your vision turned to static. Your ears rang, sharp and high-pitched, like your whole universe was tearing at the seams.

And then you collapsed.

Your knees buckled. Then your whole body followed.

You don’t remember hitting the floor—just the sound it made when you did.

A brutal crack, something falling from too high and landing wrong.

Your hands clawed at your chest, your throat, your face, desperate to find a switch, a lever, anything to stop the panic screaming through your nervous system.

The sob ripped from you before you even knew it was coming. It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t poetic. It was pain. Unfiltered, ungodly pain. Ripped raw from somewhere deep—so deep you hadn’t even known it existed until now.

Grief. Rage. Sadness. Exhaustion. Humiliation. It all poured out of you in violent waves, none of it beautiful. None of it performative.

And no one in the crowd knew. No one watching through screens, through camera lenses, behind filters and hashtags, had any idea that what they had just witnessed wasn’t a concert. It your breaking point.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t breathe.

You gasped. Choked. Punched yourself in the ribs like you could force the air back in. Your nails scraped down your cheeks, dragging mascara and foundation with them and something salty and disgusting. Tears, sweat, shame.

Footsteps thundered behind the door. Voices shouting. Calling your name. Your team, your stylists, security. Too many sounds, too many movement.

But only one person opened the door and dropped beside you. Only one hand touched you.

Not with panic, but with purpose.

Rachel.

She pulled you into her arms like she’d done it a hundred times. Like your body fit there. Like she knew how to hold someone who was falling apart.

She cradled your head to her chest, curled her body around yours like a shelter, like a shield, like she could protect you even here—on the cold floor, under the too-bright lights, in the smell of hairspray and fear.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, one hand stroking your hair, the other pressing firm and steady against your spine. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re not alone.”

You sobbed and gasped into her collarbone. Full-body, shaking gasps. Ugly. Gut-wrenching. The kind that stole sound and gave back only tremors.

You couldn’t control your body at all— like some frantic, panicked force had hijacked the controls and left you trapped in the passenger seat.

And still, she held you.

“You’re safe,” she murmured. “You made it through. It’s over, baby. The show 's over.”

Someone shouted—but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. Didn’t let go.

Not when your breathing couldn't stabilize. Not when your fingers curled in her shirt like you were drowning and she was the only thing keeping you above water. Not even when you started to repeat the same phrase over and over, each one more broken than the last.

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t—”

You didn’t even know what, exactly, you couldn’t do.

You just knew you couldn’t. Not anymore.

She tried to ground you. Pressed her forehead to yours. Counted your breaths like she could keep time with your heart. But it was already spiraling.

The oxygen disappeared. Your limbs jolted. Your mouth opened wide but no air came in. Your chest seized.

You weren’t breathing.

“Hey. Hey. Hey, look at me,” Rachel’s voice cracked as she cupped your face. “You’re okay. You’re right here. With me. Breathe with me, in and out, come on, please, look at me—breathe—one, two, three—”

But you couldn’t.

You were sobbing so hard your ribs felt fractured, mascara bleeding down your chin in thick streaks of black and ruin. Every part of you had collapsed inward. Your strength, your posture, your ability to fake it. Gone.

The last scraps you’d saved for the stage, for the flashing lights and smiling lies—it had all gone up in flames the second you closed the door.

“I’m done, I'm done,” you choked out, not even able to hear your own voice over the pounding in your ears. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore—I’m not going back, I won’t—I can’t—I—I want it to be over—”

You could only hear the sounds that heightened your panic. The ones always present in your nightmares. Footsteps. Loud. Rushed. Suits and heels. Voices shouting your name like it was urgent, like it belonged to them. People you worked with. People who profited off your face.

People who were still trying to get one more show out of you before your corpse cooled.

“Wait—wait, what the hell is going on—”

“She can’t leave like this—”

“We still have six shows—”

“Don’t make a scene. Don’t do this now.”

The words came fast, cold—like bullets. Like they’d prepared for this. Like they were ready to argue you back into submission.

You curled in tighter against her body, teeth clenched so hard your jaw spasmed. The pressure in your chest spiked again, all at once, unbearable. Your mouth opened, but the air caught in your throat, stuck like a scream too afraid to come out.

Your vision blurred.

The edges went white.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I can’t—I can’t—”

You sobbed and choked, soundless, broken, gagging on the weight of your own breathlessness.

Rachel held your face in her hands, wiped the sweat from your temples, kept her voice calm even as she was about to break too.

“I—I—” you wheezed.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “Sweetheart, look at me. You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere you don’t want to go.”

Your lungs stuttered, seized, then finally gave in to a shaky inhale. Not enough—but more than before.

Your hands still trembled, still clawed weakly at the fabric over your chest, but Rachel caught them. Held them steady. Her thumbs traced soft, grounding circles into your palms.

“There you go,” she murmured. “That’s it. Breathe with me. In… and out. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

You blinked hard, your vision swimming back into focus one hazy layer at a time. The spotlight in your mind dimmed, the sharp edges softened. The wave hadn’t passed, but it was pulling back just enough to let your ribs move again.

Your breathing evened—still shallow, still trembling, but less violent. Your fingers stopped clawing. Your shoulders stopped jerking with every breath.

You looked up at Rachel.

She was looking at you. And she didn’t look away.

But behind her, the shouting didn’t stop. It pierced through the thin veil of your calm like thorns through gauze.

“She just needs to rest. We’ll move the next show. Reschedule—”

Rachel turned her head. Just barely. Just enough.

“You want her onstage again?” Rachel snapped, not raising her voice, not needing to. “She can’t stand up. She hasn’t eaten in weeks. You watched her collapse in my arms—and your first thought was damage control?”

“We’re trying to protect her—”

“No, you’re trying to protect the tour. You’re trying to protect the brand. The fucking bottom line. Not her.”

“If she leaves like this, the headlines are going to spiral—”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion—”

“She can’t take a break, not now,” someone snapped. “If she disappears again, she won’t recover—her reputation won’t recover—”

Rachel turned around, fully now. Voice hard. Knife-sharp.

“She won’t recover if you kill her first.”

Silence. Sudden. Heavy.

“She said it's over, and that's enough. She’s not finishing this tour. I don’t care what’s been signed. I don’t care who’s watching. I don’t care how much you paid. I will take care of everything.”

Then her voice dropped. Cold. Low. Lethal.

“And if any of you ever speak to her like that again, if any of you so much as text her without going through me, I swear to God I will burn this entire fucking industry to the ground with one phone call.”

No one dared speak again.

Rachel turned back to you. Her hand on your back. Her other cradling the base of your skull. You were still crying. The kind of sobbing that didn’t have sound left to give.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re going home, darling. I promise. It’s over.”

The penthouse was dark when you returned. Not dim. Not still. Dark. The kind of silence that hums, almost vibrates, because it's been left alone for too long. 

Rachel didn’t ask if you were okay.

She knew better than to insult you like that. 

She didn’t try to cheer you up or fill the space with empty comfort. She moved around you gently, hands steady, voice quiet. She helped you out of your coat, took your bag from your shoulder, unzipped your boots because your fingers weren’t steady enough to do it yourself. 

“I have to leave and take care of everything now, but I’ll come with groceries tomorrow,” she said quietly, voice kind, an old song. “Everything else can wait.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded, eyes hollow. She stepped forward, kissed your temple, and smoothed your hair back once, slow and careful.

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” she whispered. “I love you. Take all the time you need.”

She didn’t say how long. Didn’t set a deadline. 

And then, quietly, she left.

You didn’t move for a long time.

You stood in the middle of the living room like you didn’t know where the walls ended. As if you weren’t sure this was your home anymore, or if you’d ever belonged in it at all. The furniture felt too sharp. The air too thick. The floor to ceiling windows looked like they belonged to a stranger.

You walked to the kitchen, the silence of your footsteps against the tile the only sound in the whole place, and you turned your phone off without even checking the screen. Not one glance at the texts or missed calls. Not one swipe to see the headlines you already knew were waiting for you.

The idea of looking felt dangerous—as if you saw your own name one more time, it would gut you.

You went back to lock the door. The deadbolt. The chain. Set the security code. Then walked to your room on autopilot, your body moving like it was detached from your mind. As if your brain had shut down the part that was supposed to care about survival. You didn’t turn on the light. You didn’t change out of your stage clothes. You didn’t even pull back the comforter.

You just dropped onto the bed like gravity had given out beneath you, the weight in your chest too much to carry even a second longer.

For a moment, you laid still.

And then it all came undone.

The sob hit without warning. Violent. Uncontrollable. It had been sitting there for weeks, months, years—waiting for this exact moment to break free. You curled into yourself, fists twisting in the fabric of the sheets, and let it take you.

No restraint. No composure. No performance. 

Just pure, unfiltered anguish.

You cried like your body had been holding it back your entire life. The kind of crying that tears through you, that claws its way up from your gut and explodes in your throat like shrapnel. You sobbed for hours into the mattress until your face was slick and your mouth tasted like salt and cotton.

You screamed—loud, broken, horrible, throat-aching screams—because words couldn’t hold what you were feeling. 

You cried for the headlines, for the think pieces, for the names you’d been called, for the way the media dissected your grief like it was a puzzle they were entitled to solve.

You cried for the fans who turned on you. For the ones who didn’t. For the ones who begged you to be okay like their lives depended on it.

You cried for the tour—for the nights you bled for an audience that only ever wanted a product. For the stage that used to be sacred and had become a crucifixion. For the days you starved yourself to look good in front of a camera.

You cried for your family, for your friends—the ones who didn’t call, who watched the rumors pile up and chose distance over understanding. You cried because you knew what they thought of you now. A failure. A disgrace. They turned their backs when you needed them most, and you were sure, deep down, that they wouldn’t come back. 

You cried for Ellie—because she was gone. Because the silence between you wasn’t just space anymore, it was shapeless, aching distance. Something neither of you had the tools to fight anymore.

You cried because you didn’t know where she went or if she meant it what she said before she disappeared.

And the worst part was, you did. You knew she meant it. You knew it in the marrow of your bones, in the echo of her voice cracking under the weight of all she couldn’t say. Because she didn’t leave you instead of loving you—she left you because she loved you, but couldn't do it properly. Not through the haze. Not while she was losing herself. Not while her hands shook and her eyes hardly met yours.

She couldn’t love you the way you needed —the way you deserved— no matter how much she wanted to.

You cried because maybe she was healing now. Maybe she’d finally stepped away from the edge, from the stage, from the pressure, from you. 

And if letting go of you was the price she had to pay to survive her own name, her own shadow—then maybe she paid it willingly.

Maybe she had to let you go to stay alive. 

Not whole, not well, not ready.

But alive, somewhere. 

And maybe that was all you’d ever get.

Maybe she would never speak to you again. Maybe she would carve a new life for herself far from the spotlight, somewhere no one could reach her. Maybe she would never sing or play guitar again. Maybe, when she looked back on all of this, she’d pretend it never happened.

But she would live.

And that was enough.

Because you didn’t need her beside you on red carpets anymore, or her voice low and close against your ear. You didn’t need her lyrics woven into yours, or her hand in yours while the world looked on. You didn’t even need to be remembered.

You just needed her to still be.

Still breathing. Still being out there. Still being Ellie.

And if the cost of her survival was your erasure, if she had to forget you entirely just to find her way back to herself,

Then you’d let her. 

Because you would rather her alive and gone,

Than dead and yours.

But most of all, you cried for yourself.

For the girl underneath it all—the one who never got to grow up because fame had stolen her first love, her first heartbreak, her first real moment. The one who had learned to smile through exhaustion and dress up her pain in designer. The one who had never been allowed to fall apart without someone telling her to pull herself together in five minutes.

You cried for the version of you that had once stood on a stage and believed it was the only truth of her existence. 

Because that girl was gone.

And you didn’t know who was left in her place.

Your body trembled. Sweat drenched your hairline. You gagged on your own breath, curled tighter into the blankets, fists pressed to your chest like you could hold your own heart together by force.

And the cruelty of it—all of it—came crashing down like a final blow. 

Ellie’s disappearance hadn’t just broken your heart.

It had detonated your life.

Everything you’d built, everything you’d bled for, shattered in the fallout. 

And still—it wasn't her fault. Still, you didn’t hate her.

Even when there was nothing left, you couldn’t.

And somewhere out there, the world turned without you.

Headlines multiplied. Clips from the performance circulated like wildfire—your voice cracking, your eyes vacant, your body barely moving. Commentators called it the downfall of an empire. Analysts speculated whether it was a stunt, a cry for attention, the end of your career.

“Unprofessional.” “Diva meltdown.” “Couldn’t keep it together.”

Some called you fragile. Some called you unstable. Others called you a fraud.

You didn’t defend yourself. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t post or clarify or explain. That would’ve required believing you were worth defending.

So you stayed right there, in that bed, with your voice gone, your body shaking, your ribs sore from sobbing—letting yourself crash all the way down for the very first time. 

And by the fifth day, the sheets didn’t feel like sheets anymore.

They felt like skin—sweaty, twisted, suffocating. You hadn’t opened the curtains since you got back. You hadn’t spoken. Just nods. Grunts. The occasional “no” when Rachel asked if you wanted to eat, shower, breathe.

She came and went without complaint. Brought groceries, clean clothes, herbal tea you didn’t drink. She folded your laundry even though it hadn’t been worn. Once, she left a vase of tulips on the windowsill. You didn’t look at them. They died in silence two days later.

It was late when she came in this time.

She didn’t knock. She never knocked, not anymore. She sat at the edge of your bed, like she had a hundred times before, and this time, she exhaled.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Fuck the day I told you to fake date her.”

Your eyes cracked open, barely “Yeah. Thanks a lot, Rachel. Fuck that goddamn day.” 

She let out a tired breath. “Baby… you’ve been in bed for three days.”

“Five,” you corrected flatly. “It’s been five.”

Her brows knit together. “That’s worse.”

“I know.”

“...You have to stand up eventually,” she said, not unkindly. 

Like it hurt her to say it, but it would’ve hurt her more not to.

“Why?” Your voice was a whisper, hoarse from disuse.

“Nobody likes me anymore. I don’t have a tour. I don’t have a career. I don’t have Ellie. I have nothing.”

She stilled. For a moment, she just let the words hang in the air, thick as fog, ugly as truth.

“That’s not true,” she said eventually, “That’s not—”

“It is,” you snapped, tears stinging your eyes without even the energy to fall. “I lost everything. She disappeared, and now I’m Yoko fucking Ono. They think I ruined her. I’m alone.”

“Do you want me to call your friends?” she asked carefully. “Get them over here? I’m sure they’d—”

“I don’t want to see those fake ass fucking snakes.” you spat. “They haven’t texted me since the hiatus thing. Not one of them. Not even Olivia. I bet they’re all out somewhere drinking and laughing about how they dodged a bullet by not standing next to me when the ship sank.”

“...Okay. Not them.” she said. “What about your therapist? Linda?”

You let out a broken laugh, more like a bark. 

“What the fuck is Linda gonna say? ‘And how did being blamed for the Fireflies’ downfall by the entire planet and the love of your life breaking up with you made you feel?’"

You mimed a deep, reflective breath. 

“It made me feel like I want to kill myself, Linda.”

Rachel flinched. But she didn’t leave.

She cleared her throat. “...Your mom?”

Your face crumpled, and you turned away. “No.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t—”

“She already thinks I’m a failure,” you whispered. “She asked me if it was true. If I destroyed the band on purpose. She told me to get a real job and go back home with them. I don’t want to hear her voice.”

Rachel nodded. Not pushing. Just absorbing. Holding space.

You flopped backward on the pillows, arm thrown over your eyes. “So maybe I’ll just go back to my fucking hometown in the South. Marry a man. Have a lavender marriage. Get a dog named Earl. Die slowly.”

“Aren’t you being a little…” she hesitated, “dramatic?”

You moved your arm just enough to glare at her.

“Yeah. I can’t even think about lavender marriage without wanting to gag.”

“Okay, then. So no hometown husband.”

You sighed, turning to face the wall. “Maybe I’ll move to a little town in Argentina. Change my name. Get three cats. Upload music to SoundCloud under an alias.”

There was a long silence.

Then Rachel said, quietly,

“So… you still want to make music.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

“I know what you need,”

She stood, slowly. Crossed the room. Opened your closet and rifled through the drawers. You heard things shifting, rustling, being pulled out.

When she returned, she set something on the bed beside you. A pen. A notebook. The guitar you hadn’t touched in months, polished smooth.

You stared at it.

Stared at her.

You blinked. “Guitar, paper, and a pen?”

Rachel smiled softly. “Yes.”

Your throat clenched.

“I can’t write,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to write about this. I don't even know if I remember how to write a song anymore.”

“You don’t have to write about it,” she said. “Just write through it.”

You looked down at your hands, at the calluses that had faded. At the instrument that had once been the only thing that made sense.

And for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirred. Not hope, not yet. 

But maybe the possibility of it.

Rachel leaned down, pressed a kiss to your forehead. Her voice broke just slightly.

“I can’t fix how you feel. But I can sit here with you while you figure it out.”

Rachel left without a word, but not without love. She lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching you as if she could will you to live just a little longer with her eyes.

You didn’t look up. You just stayed on the bed, the guitar by your side as if it was something ancient and sacred you didn’t dare touch. 

When the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was total. Complete. Not cruel, not yet. Just vast.

You didn’t know what made you reach for it. The guitar. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the weight of everything pressing against your ribs, needing to go somewhere. 

Maybe it was just the fact that you were still alive—and the thought of being alive without music hurt worse than anything else.

You sat, instrument on your lap, fingers hovering above the strings. They were still new. Tuned in. It gleamed in the low light like something waiting to be reborn. You placed your fingertips on the frets. Pressed down gently. Strummed once.

You didn’t know where to begin. Not lyrically. Not musically. Not emotionally. You had all this stuff—pain and confusion and anger and guilt—but it was shapeless. Smoke in your chest. You stared down at the blank page and felt something unfamiliar.

At first it was slow. Scratchy. Lines crossed out and rewritten. Fragments of phrases that made you wince when you saw them on the page—too much, too raw, too pathetic. But then something shifted. Maybe the guitar helped. Maybe it was the rhythm. Maybe it was the sound of your own voice, still hoarse from crying and not using it, whispering lines out loud.

“...i’m trying my best to keep you satisfied.”

After that, the words came faster. Not rushed, but inevitable—like they’d been waiting for you to stop holding your breath. 

"and you don't wanna know,

how alone i’ve been.

let you come and go,

whatever state i'm in."

You wrote about the weight of giving everything and getting less than nothing in return. About exhaustion. About being asked to stay by someone who couldn’t even stay for you. You wrote about silence. About the aching kind of absence that feels more like betrayal than distance.

You wrote, "man, am I the greatest" —and you didn’t mean it as a boast.

You meant it like a question. Like a whisper. A plea. Didn’t I give you everything?

Time stopped meaning anything. You just wrote—line after line, verse after verse—until the page was full, then the next, then a third. Each lyric sharper than the last, threaded with a bitterness you hadn’t dared name until now. Threaded with truth.

You played the chords again. Softer this time. Almost reverent. You found the melody without trying. Adjusted the tempo. Layered the harmonies like careful stitches across a wound. The chorus landed like an open wound. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t hopeful.

But it was real.

Your fingers ached. Your face was damp, though you didn’t remember crying.

And for the first time since she left, you looked out the window.

The city was still there.

So were you.

And in the quiet, in the wreckage, in the wake of everything you’d lost—you had something again.

You had this.

Later, when Rachel convinced you to get out of bed, you were curled up on the far end of the couch, knees drawn to your chest, blanket pulled tight over your shoulders even though the penthouse was warm. The curtains remained drawn, keeping the sunlight at bay. The only light came from the soft flicker of the muted TV screen and the gentle spill from the kitchen, where she stood barefoot in one of your hoodies, holding a plate.

“I made your favorite,” she said softly, walking over and placing it down on the coffee table. “Real food. Not a protein bar. Not pressed juice. I cooked it myself.”

You didn’t move. Just stared at your knees.

Your stomach was a void now. Not hunger. Not even pain. Just absence.

“I’m not hungry,” you whispered.

Rachel didn’t sit right away. She crouched beside you, eyes searching yours.

“You think I didn’t notice?” Her voice was so quiet. “All those years. The award shows. The shoots. The dinners where you barely touched your plate? You’ve been throwing meals away since your first red carpet. Baby, we’ve talked about this. A million times.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes burning. “I just… I can’t. It feels like there’s a pit in my stomach. Like I’m already full of something I can’t name.”

She brushed a strand of hair from your face. “I know. But your body’s still here. It’s still holding you up. Give it something back.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

“There are no cameras now,” she said. “No stylists. No fans zooming in on your body. No headlines to impress. Just me. Just you.”

You blinked.

A tear fell and soaked into the blanket without a sound.

“You are still made of flesh and bone,” Rachel whispered. “You are not made of numbers. You are not made of the things they said.”

She let the silence stretch between you, heavy and patient.

Then, slowly, she stood. Lifted the plate with careful hands—hands that trembled, just barely.

“I’m not asking you to finish it,” she said softly. “But I’m not leaving until you try. One bite. For me. Please.”

You looked up at her. Then at the food. Then back at her.

And you hated that she had to ask. That she had to see you like this. Hollowed out, fading, not quite here.

But you didn’t know how to fix it. You didn’t even know how to want to.

Still… your fingers moved.

You reached for the fork.

Rachel exhaled like she’d been holding that breath for days, maybe even longer.

And in the quiet aftermath, in that room that still smelled like grief and dust and darkness, something small shifted. Something fragile.

Like maybe, somehow, this was a beginning too.

Five months.

Five months passed since the door to the penthouse shut behind you and never really opened again.

You had vanished.

Just like she had.

Rachel moved in with you. Sometimes she brought vinyls — Joni, Fiona, Phoebe — spinning soft sadness through the apartment like a lullaby for the broken. Sometimes she showed up with Crumbl cookies, just to see the faintest flicker of light return to your face. One night, she tried to sneak kale into your pasta and you burst into tears so suddenly, so violently, that she started crying too.

And the first thread you pulled when everything else had already unraveled, was “The Greatest.”

You re-recorded it in the built-in studio you’d once carved into the bones of your penthouse—just a passion project at the time, a creative sanctuary meant for demos and ideas that couldn’t wait until morning. You never imagined it would become the place you'd rebuild your entire life. But thank god you had it. Tucked behind soundproof glass and velvet curtains, that little studio became the cathedral to record your prayers.

You sat at the console, alone, and started over. Stripped the track down to its bones and rewrote every inhale. Reproduced it from scratch. Layered harmonies like echoes in an empty room—soft, staggering, fragile. Like ghosts. You spent an entire week tweaking the reverb on a single breath, making sure it sounded exactly like what it was: loss wrapped in melody.

You then found yourself at the piano. You don’t remember walking there. You don’t remember sitting. But your hands touched the keys and didn’t flinch. A few scattered notes. A single chord. Your fingers found their shape like they'd never left.

The next morning, you opened your laptop and started building another demo.

And it didn’t stop.

Rachel brought you coffee and leaned against the doorframe, eyes warm, saying nothing. You’d work all night, sleep for four hours, wake up with a melody stuck to the roof of your mouth. It was obsessive.

But you finally had a reason to live for.

You wrote everything yourself. Played every instrument. Guitar. Piano. A drum pad you hadn’t touched in years. Bass you borrowed from a neighbor and sanitized twice. You didn’t ask for help.

Because for the first time in your life, something was completely and solely yours.

The songs were sad. Devastating, actually. Every single one about her. You never used her name, but she lived in the lyrics. She was in the opening synths. In the bent guitar notes. In the pause before the final chorus. You wrote about waiting. About watching someone unravel. About the way her voice had sounded the last time you heard it. You wrote about the silence afterward. The not-knowing. The breath you never got to hear on the other end of the line. 

The way you still loved her.

And Rachel—God bless her—never asked you to stop.

She stayed, always. Bought four pairs of the same sweatpants in different colors and laid them out like wardrobe options.

You only left the penthouse ten times in those months. Some doctor’s appointments. Once because the fridge broke. Once because Rachel begged you to walk to the corner to see the cherry blossoms.

Each time, you wore oversized men’s clothes, hair tucked under a baseball cap, face tilted towards the sidewalk. She called you “Dave”. 

No one recognized you. The world had moved on.

And yet—it hadn’t.

Sometimes Rachel showed you stuff. Just to let you know. 5 Months of Silence. Fireflies Hiatus Continues. Y/N Still Missing. Fans Worry. 

There were photos of the last time you were seen in public, in that last performance you couldn’t even bare to remember. Pixelated, unkind. 

People still cared. Or at least, they cared enough to keep talking.

About the Fireflies. About Ellie. About you. Threads unraveled. Podcasts theorized. Fans cried and fought and defended and betrayed.

A dozen narratives tried to rise to the top, but the truth remained locked behind the soundproof walls of the 57th floor, hidden behind tinted glass and a private elevator.

Because you learned how to live without being watched.

You learned to live in a room full of sound and no applause.

And somewhere, in the middle of it all, you realized you were making an album.

The sadness was still there, but so was something else—something like purpose. A lighthouse in reverse, guiding you inward.

Healing.

Late at night, you’d sit on the floor with her, eating cereal out of the box, letting the speakers play the rough cuts. She’d point at a bridge and say, “That one’s gonna ruin lives.” You’d roll your eyes and mumble something about the compression being wrong and your voice too nasal and hoarse. 

She’d swat your arm and say, “You’re doing it, bitch. You’re really fucking doing it.”

You still didn’t know what would happen when the door finally opened.

But for the first time in a long time, you weren’t making music for them.

You were making it for you.

And that's how the 1st part of the album —Dead— was born.

Fifteen songs. Fifteen grief-soaked, gut-wrenching crafted pieces of you. Every one of them carried the weight of a different version of her. Her ghosted haunted every harmony, every downbeat, every breath and break of your voice you captured on the mic and didn’t bother editing out.

You waited until sunset.

Rachel came back with Thai food and a six-pack of something you used to drink when things were good. She kicked her shoes off and flopped onto the velvet studio couch like she always did—like it was her throne, like she was waiting for a show.

But this time, she was quiet. She knew what tonight was.

You turned the lights down, opened the master folder on your desktop, and hit play.

Track 01: The Greatest.

By the time the first chorus hit, Rachel had one hand over her mouth.

By the second track, she was curled into the armrest, tears sliding silently down her face.

By the third, she was yelling “BITCH—” at the ceiling and clutching your throw pillow like a defibrillator. “WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN SHE GOT, SHE GOT AWAAAAY? YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?”

You sat on the floor cross-legged, chewing little bites of cold pad thai and whispering anecdotes she already knew.

“This one was supposed to be a voice note. I recorded it at 3 a.m., locked in the bathroom because I couldn’t breathe.”

“This one? I almost deleted it. I wrote it as a joke — then broke down crying halfway through the demo.”

“This one happened in ten minutes, standing in the kitchen. Got PTSD from the way she looked at me the last time."

“And this one… I wrote a long time ago. After I found her in the bathroom. I don’t think I ever really came back from that.”

And Rachel? She wept. She sobbed. Loud, theatrical, ugly crying. Like she had held all of it in for you. For five months. Maybe longer.

“You made me go through it,” she wheezed into a napkin around track nine. “I’ve been normal this whole time! I’ve been fine! I’ve been the one getting your stupid oat milk and refilling your lavender oil diffusers and telling the world you’re not dead and now you do this to me?? I’m grieving like she left me!”

You giggled, even through your own tears. “Okay, first of all, you love it.”

“I do,” Rachel groaned. “And I fucking hate her for this. How dare she inspire the best album of all time and not be here to hear it.”

You both laughed, then cried again.

Song after song played. Some soft. Some devastating. One was practically instrumental except for your voice whispering lines of a letter you never sent. One had a heartbeat sample from the panic attack backstage—you’d clipped the audio from your own security camera, distorted it, looped it until it sounded like something alive. Rachel stared at you for a long time after that one.

When the last track started, number 15—“Bigger Than the Whole Sky”—neither of you spoke.

You just sat there, two girls in socks and sweatshirts, the lights low, your eyes rimmed red, listening to a song that felt too big for the room.

You had debated leaving it off the album. It was almost too honest. Too final. But now that it played, you knew there was no choice. It was your goodbye. It was the song you’d write for her if you never got to write another. Rachel didn’t cry during that one. She just held your hand.

The last note faded. Silence bloomed.

A full minute passed. Then another.

Finally, she turned to you, voice thick but sure.

“You know you’re still the Princess of Pop, right?”

“...What?”

“I’m serious,” she said, wiping her face and sitting up straight. “No one has come close. Not even remotely. Your songs still chart. Your fans still play them. You vanished, got crucified by the media, dropped off the face of the earth—and you still own them.”

You strayed silent. It didn’t compute.

“I didn’t tell you,” she continued, a little breathless, as if the realization had only just hit her too. “But your streams? They went up after the last show. After people said you were done. Your Spotify page never dipped. You still hold the title.”

You stared at the floor, jaw slack.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. You thought your name had been buried. That all they saw when they looked at you was failure.

Rachel grinned now, wicked and electric.

“And if... if you did some more pop... catchy songs?”

She leaned in like she was telling you a national secret. 

“You could become the Queen of Pop.”

You laughed. Shook your head. “I don’t even know how to write songs that aren’t sad anymore. I’ve forgotten how to write about anything else. I can’t even remember what catchy-pop sounds like.”

“So don’t write it for love,” Rachel said. “Write it for revenge.”

You looked at her.

“Write it about you,” she said. “About the media. The fans who turned. The people who used you. The people who made you feel like you deserved what happened. Write the way it felt to be watched while falling apart.”

She paused. Then, quietly:

“Take your crown back. Respond.”

And something in you clicked.

You could feel it in your blood. Not like hope. Not like healing. Like fire. A heartbeat of defiance. The version of yourself you buried started to rise.

You turned towards your desk.

And you began to write again—not for her,

But for them.

For you.

And the second half of the album —Star— began with a synth.

You didn’t mean for it to happen that way—it was just a sound you stumbled across late one night, messing with an old analog patch in your bedroom studio, fingers twitchy with nerves and a Red Bull. It was metallic, sharp. You played it over and over again. Then layered a kick under it. Then a baseline. 

Then you whispered into the mic: “Kill the lights.”

And seven months passed.

Seven months of sweat-slicked nights dancing in your kitchen with Rachel, testing beats at 2 a.m., exporting stems from your bed and watching her improvise choreography in mismatched socks and a sports bra. Seven months of sneaking razor-edged lyrics into candy-coated choruses. Seven months of learning to write songs that made people move—while still ripping their hearts out if they dared to really listen.

You were writing pop again, but it wasn’t empty. I

You wrote vengeance. Every synth line was survival. Every kick was a rebuttal.

Rachel gave notes in between mouthfuls of cereal and dancing on your couch. “Track two needs more drama,” she’d say. “Give me bridge-that-makes-me-blackout energy.” Or: “No, no, this one’s only slutty. Make it sad and slutty. Let them cry in the club.” 

You took every note seriously. She had good ears.

You started going outside more.

Still undercover—always undercover. Hoodie pulled low, hat snug, sunglasses swallowing half your face. Jeans sagged just enough to soften the sway of your hips, the parts of you that always gave you away. You wandered through farmer’s markets like a ghost, bought overpriced candles that smelled like memory and sea salt. You sat in corner coffee shops, watching strangers mouth your lyrics, old songs still spinning on the radio like they belonged to someone else. No one recognized you.

You were just a shadow. A whisper.

But inside, quietly, something was beginning to shift.

You felt alive.

You were eating again. Tentative bites at first. Then real ones.

Meals. Moments. You chewed slowly, like you were relearning how to stay.

Rachel didn’t say anything every time you finished your plate. She just smiled —soft, steady— like she’d been waiting for that moment longer than you realized. Like it mattered more than applause ever did.

You threw out the weight scale one morning without ceremony. Just picked it up and let it go. No breakdown. No second thoughts. You didn’t need numbers to tell you anything anymore.

Bit by bit, you stitched yourself back together.

Not perfectly—never perfectly. But beautifully.

And one night, while polishing track eleven —purple lace bra— Rachel walked into the studio holding her phone like it had a pulse.

“They want to renew your contract,” 

“Who?”

“The label. Sony.”

You stared at her like she’d just said NASA wanted to put you on the moon.

“They want to what?”

“They want to renew, babe.”

“After everything?”

She tossed the phone onto the couch and leaned against the table, arms crossed, grinning. “After everything. After the press, after your full collapse and disappearance. Yes.”

“Why?” you asked, half-laughing, half-wheezing. “Why the fuck would they want me back?”

“Because you have thirty songs in your hands. And I showed them three.”

You froze. “You what?”

“Three,” she repeated casually. “Kill the Lights. The Greatest. And that one that made me cry into my bowl of Lucky Charms. The Subway.”

“You sent those to the label?!”

“I’m still your manager, babe,” she said, completely unfazed. “But also, surprise—I studied law.”

You stared at her. “You did?”

“Bitch, I have a law degree. NYU, full ride, thank you very much. Passed the bar in two states.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?”

“Because you were too busy being a popstar in love.”

You stared at her like she was a stranger.

A really well-dressed, brilliantly chaotic stranger that just changed your life again.

She walked over to the dining table and pulled out a folder. A real one. Like, paper.

“I drafted something.”

You laughed, breathless. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

You opened it. Scanned. And your heart did something violent.

Because she wasn’t joking.

She had rewritten your contract from the ground up.

No limit budget. Final say on all visual and marketing assets. No interference with musical direction. Full creative control and ownership of masters. You choose collaborators. You approve performances. You decide your image.

It was a declaration. A manifesto.

“This is the deal,” Rachel said, calm and steady. “They want you because you are the full package. You write like god. You sing, and DAMN, you can sing. You dance, and even produce. You have thirty songs ready to go and you did it all by yourself. You’re not just a popstar. You’re the star.”

You didn’t say anything.

You sat there, staring at the paper, feeling the weight of it settle on your chest. Not in a crushing way. In a real way.

For the first time in your career, you weren’t asking. You were telling.

“I’m not going back to being their puppet,”

“You’re not,”

“I want to direct my own music videos.”

“You will.”

“I want to choose who interviews me. And I don’t want them to mention Ellie or anything related to what happened in any interview. Or I'm standing up and leaving.”

“Done.”

“I want to wear what I want. Decide how much skin I show. Be who I want. When do I speak. Say what I fucking feel.”

“Good. Because that’s the only version of you they’re getting now.”

You looked up. And for the first time in years, you saw it clearly.

You had a fucking bomb in your hands.

And this time—you were going to drop it.

Another full year went by in the studio this time, but now it was official—no more demo booths or mic stands balanced on pillows. This was the real thing: glowing floors, velvet-lined walls, mixers worth more than your car, and lights that blinked like the heartbeat of a body being brought back to life.

You rerecorded every song yourself. Mixed them until your ears bled. You learned choreography that left bruises on your knees and your ribs. And with your now unlimited budget, you shot music videos until four in the morning—on rooftops, in deserts, underwater tanks, in glass boxes. You designed the visuals frame by frame, picked the colors, styled the looks, storyboarded the lighting.

Every single person who stepped into the room signed an NDA.

No one knew what the world was about to get. No one dared say “no.”

And that was the point.

You were given no budget because there was no ceiling anymore—not for you. 

You went out more. Still undercover, still “Dave” in your oversized hoodie, Rachel trailing behind in sunglasses and AirPods—but you started tasting life again. You drank matcha lattes and wore rings on every finger. You watched sunsets from the fire escape. You swiped on strangers and didn’t answer.

It ended up feeling like freedom.

Not the loud kind—not the kind with flashing lights and open bars and roaring crowds. It was the quiet kind. The slow kind. The kind that blooms behind your ribs one morning when you realize the fear is gone. When you open your window and let the light in without flinching. When you walk down the street in oversized jeans and sunglasses and no one looks twice, and you smile—not because they didn’t recognize you, but because you recognized yourself.

Every day you made something. A beat, a demo, a visual, a verse. Every day you moved your body not to impress anyone, but just to feel alive. You went from singing into the mic with trembling hands to dancing alone at midnight. You weren’t healing for the cameras this time. You were healing for you.

And then—your first appearance.

An interview. No teaser. No preview. No cryptic post.

Just you. Sitting in a chair under soft lights, head tilted slightly, hair longer now—darker, like it had remembered its roots. You wore black velvet. No glitter. No gloss. Just confidence. Cold and refined. You didn’t blink too much. You didn’t fold your hands and blush like you used to.

You looked the world in the eye and didn’t apologize.

You answered every question without flinching. Controlled. Graceful. No label-approved anecdotes. No media-trained smiles. Just facts. Truth. You told them about the album. About staying inside and disappearing for two years. About the blood, sweat and tears that went into every note. About how you wrote the best music of your life alone, with a keyboard in your lap and the world forgetting your name.

Millions wept at the sight of your face again—flooded timelines, lit-up screens, strangers sobbing in living rooms like you were someone they’d lost and just found again.

Kill the Lights and The Greatest dropped like twin detonations—two forces hurtling from the same galaxy-wide rupture. You were grief and vengeance. You were heartbreak and hunger. You were soft acoustic and razor-sharp synths. 

The two songs battled for the top spot on the Billboard 100 like tectonic plates fighting for space—like you were at war with yourself, and winning both sides.

The world froze.

People paused meetings. Turned up their radios. Sat in silence in their cars, crying through traffic lights, replaying your songs again and again like it might save them.

And when the album dropped—

The world didn’t just listen. It obsessed.

Thirty tracks. Each one a chapter. Each one a constellation in a story they tried desperately to piece together. They printed out the lyrics. Annotated them like sacred texts. Drew timelines. Mapped connections. Fans and journalists and college professors debated the order, the meaning, the metaphors.

They tried to tell the story of you and Ellie.

Of two girls who had everything and lost it. Two artists who vanished like smoke and left nothing behind but silence and rumors.

But they never got it right.

They didn’t understand why the heartbreak in your songs never curdled into hatred or spite. Why every lyric sounded like a hand reaching out, not a door slamming shut. Why the choruses built like pleas, not accusations. 

They didn’t understand why, after all that, after everything—you still sang about her like she was holy.

No one could explain her disappearance. No one could explain the pain without resentment. No one could explain why you never named her. Never blamed her.

But in the end, they understood one thing:

You loved her.

And it was never your fault.

Some people still clung to the lie. Still whispered the old narratives. Still clutched at the tabloid versions of you, the girl who ruined the Fireflies. But the world? The world saw you now. Fully. Finally.

And this time, you weren’t just a popstar. You were a woman reborn. A myth rewritten in your own handwriting.

Thirty Billboard Hot 100 entries. A once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. History rewritten in your voice.

And this time, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t shatter.

This time, you stepped into the light and claimed it. Not as an apology.

As a reign.

And your crown?

Eight Grammys.

Weapons and relics. Golden, glinting under the lights, heavy in the most sacred way. They stacked in your arms and sat on the floor like proof. Of your voice. Of your pain. Of your survival.

You’d swept every category they once swore you’d never be nominated in again—each win a quiet, stunning defiance.

And then came the final envelope. The inevitable.

Album of the Year.

The same award the band you “destroyed” won, three years ago.

Poetic justice, millions said.

You stepped onto the stage slowly, breath shallow, heels silent against the polished floor. The applause thundered in your ears. Spotlights bloomed across the walls like flowers. You passed legends in gowns and tuxedos who stood to greet you. People you used to idolize. People who doubted you.

All of them on their feet now, clapping until their hands went red.

Rachel had been crying since the first win. She stood with both hands over her mouth now, mascara running.

You reached the mic. And for a moment—just one breathless, shivering second—it felt like that night again. The collapse. The silence. The concrete floor. The dressing room lights. 

And for another second, it felt like that night when you stood on this same stage, trembling in heels too big and a glittering dress and dreams too loud, clutching your Grammy for Best New Artist.

When Ellie was there.

In the crowd. Eyes on you like you were the only religion she ever believed in. Enamored. Steady. Still by your side.

But now there was only you.

Still, you exhaled. No speech. You just leaned in and spoke.

"Two years ago, I disappeared."

Your voice rang clear, but quiet. Intimate, like a confession.

"Not by accident. Not as a PR move. Not for mystery or drama or effect. I disappeared because I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t breathe. Because, simply, I couldn’t do it anymore."

The room fell into stillness. Cameras. Artists. Critics.

You held all of them in your hands.

"I remember being on a stage like this and feeling like the air was being ripped out of my lungs. I remember not recognizing my own voice. Not recognizing myself in the mirror. I remember feeling like I had nothing left to give except the pieces of myself people wanted to pick apart."

You glanced down at the Grammy in your hand, then back up. The silence ached.

"Supernova isn’t a comeback album. It's not a rebrand. It’s not an apology or a reinvention. It's a war report. My version of the story."

Rachel pressed a hand to her chest. You kept going.

"I made it at home, when I was so alone I thought even music had left me. I wrote it with nothing but my grief. I produced it through panic attacks and insomnia and a silence that lasted years. I made it with no team. No timeline. No help."

"And I never thought anyone would want to hear it."

Your hands shook.

"So, I made it for myself. Because I had to. Because I didn’t know how to survive without making something out of the wreckage."

"This album is about death—not literal death, but the death of who I was. The death of what people thought I was supposed to be. It’s about watching everything fall apart, including myself, and choosing not to stay shattered."

A hush rippled across the audience like wind in a cathedral.

Your voice trembled on the next words.

"I didn’t know I could survive the kind of silence I went through. I didn’t know I could come back from that kind of grief. I didn’t know… that healing could be loud. That you could dance through pain. That you could sing your way out of a breakdown."

You looked up.

"Because that’s what a supernova is—a dead star. A star that explodes at the end of its life, and still manages to shine brighter than ever before. A last, defiant burst of light. Brighter than anything else in the sky. Brighter even in its ending."

And the room leaned in.

"So I want to thank everyone who made space for me—to the fans who stayed when it would’ve been easier to leave, to the people who kept playing the songs even when the world stopped saying my name, to the team who let me take my power back, to the academy for believing in me again, for gifting me eight awards tonight… and to Rachel."

You paused, voice catching just slightly, as your eyes found her in the front row.

"To Rachel—who has been by my side every single day. Who I love deeply. Who fed me when I couldn’t feed myself. Who sat on the floor at 3 a.m. while I rewrote the same chorus fourteen times. Who held me through the silence. Who told me to keep going when I didn’t believe I could. Who reminded me who the I am, even when I forgot."

"Because not only music saved my life. She did too. She didn’t just manage me—she fought for me. She negotiated for me. She became my armor when I had nothing left to wear but pain. She believed in this album before it existed, before I existed again. And I wouldn’t be standing here without her. Not as an artist. Not as a woman. Not as me."

Your voice cracked.

"This is our win, Rachel. You are my home. You’re the family I chose."

The camera caught Rachel whispering “I love you” as tears spilled down her cheeks, her eyes bright and shining, not with sadness, but with pride.

And the tears blurred the edges of the moment—every single person in that room was crying. Some quietly. Some not at all. But all of them, undone.

You blinked, a tear slipping down your cheek too.

"And finally..."

Your voice dropped into a hush that vibrated all the way to the back of the theater. Your fingers curled around the award like a lifeline.

And just for a moment—just a breath—you weren’t the most talked-about artist in the world. You weren’t the girl who just won eight Grammys and who millions and millions were watching live.

You were just a girl —still— in love.

"And if the main person who inspired this album is watching…”

A silence fell over the room like snowfall. Slow. Holy. Electric.

You took your time.

“I hope you know I made it through.”

Your voice cracked a little. Tears started flowing with more force.

“I hope you found your way back to yourself, wherever you are. I hope you’re safe. I hope you're not afraid of your own name anymore.”

You smiled then. Not for the cameras. Not for the crowd. 

For her.

 The kind of smile that knows everything it’s lost and still chooses to love.

“And I hope you know…” 

You inhaled, steadying yourself. 

“I will love you until the day I die. Always.”

A quiet gasp rippled through the crowd.

A collective intake of breath.

Behind you, the screen lit up—Supernova in white-hot letters. Galaxies and wreckage and rebirth. The cover pulsed like a living thing.

You turned to look at it. Then back to the crowd. And your voice rang out clear, with a kind of peace the world had never heard from you before.

“Because that’s what a supernova is.”

A pause.

“Two stars that collide.”

Applause thundered through the room like a tidal wave. The loudest applause you have ever heard. Rachel stood sobbing, clutching her heart like it might fly out of her chest. The cameras shook from the impact of the ovation.

But you?

You stood in the golden light, head held high, dark blue gown trailing behind you like smoke. Your hands steady. Your eyes wet.

Your name immortal.

Bathed in gold. Crowned in fire. Unfathomably alive.

And as the room rose to its feet, as the cameras clicked, as the world screamed your name—

you smiled again. And the world bowed.

And touring again wasn’t just a return. It was a reignition.

You didn’t come back to the stage out of obligation. You came back hungry, starved—for the lights, for the roar, for the electricity that only exists when you’re standing at the center of a world and it chants your name like gospel.

You rewrote the entire rulebook. Tore up the expectations. Took back the lights, the cameras, the narrative. You walked into rehearsals not as a product—but as a visionary. The choreographers didn’t lead, you did. The stylists followed your sketches. The tech team adjusted to your cues.

You weren’t the face of the machine anymore. You were the engine.

THE SUPERNOVA TOUR wasn’t just a tour—it was a world event. Every stadium was transformed. Not just staged, not just lit—rebuilt. Custom arenas. Traveling architecture. Immersive catwalks that extended into the crowd like light-years. Stages that moved, shifted shape, breathed. Ceilings filled with artificial stars. Laser rain that fell in sync with the beat.

People screamed. Fell to their knees. Passed out. Cried. It was more than spectacle. It was a mass. A shared fever dream.

You didn’t just dance—you commanded. 

And your voice?

Every note was a revelation. Every live performance better than the album version. You didn’t need tuning. You didn’t need tricks. You only needed air—and even that bent to you. The control, the power, the emotion—you could level a room with a whisper. Critics dropped their usual qualifiers. No “for pop.” No “for her age.” 

Just: the best voice in the industry. Full stop.

A once-in-a-generation voice in its prime.

But let's rewind to the first night.

Your 25th birthday.

Because yes, all of this happened in your early twenties.

Crazy, right?

So, the beginning of it all. Back on the stage after two years in a room. Michigan Stadium. One hundred thousand people. Sold out in less than ten minutes.

It was the most anticipated show in a decade. The largest stadium in the country pulsed like a living, breathing thing.

Backstage, the atmosphere buzzed like static. You could feel the weight of it in your chest. The stage manager called out cues. Dancers warmed up. Rachel checked her clipboard for the fifth time. Crew members whispered. Cameras readied.

But you stood just offstage, frozen.

Your chest tightened. Your breath thinned. Your palms sweat through silk gloves. The echo of two years ago crawled up your spine—the night you collapsed, the crowd watching while you crumbled. 

The headlines. The expectation. The fall. The shame. The humiliation.

You stepped backwards, towards the shadows.

And then—Rachel.

God bless that woman. At this point, you’re completely convinced she might be your personal angel—sent not with wings, but with patience and the uncanny ability of being the only one able to hold you together when you’re unraveling.

She found you, as she always did. Not with panic or urgency. But with knowing. She stepped in front of you and placed both hands on your shoulders, firm but gentle. Her forehead touched yours.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “You’re not her anymore.”

You blinked. Tears threatening.

“You’re not coming back to beg,” she said. “You’re walking out there to reign.”

You nodded. A tear slid down your cheek. She caught it before it could fall.

And then—

The lights dimmed.

The stadium screamed.

The first note of "Kill The Lights" began to hum—your heartbeat, engineered, trembling through the floor. The crowd felt it before they heard it. It crawled into their skin, a vibration in the bones, anticipation curling around every breath. Lights blinked in time with the rhythm, and the arena seemed to inhale all at once.

Then you rose. Literally.

The stage lifted, slow and reverent, and your silhouette appeared against a backdrop of stars so real it felt like the night sky had cracked open just for you. You stood there, light pouring over your figure like a coronation.

The crowd went feral. One hundred thousand voices screamed your name like it was holy. People cried. Cameras shook. Security lines blurred. Entire sections of the stadium pulsed with devotion.

And this time, there was no fear, no ghosts clinging to your shadow.

You sang like the planet had been waiting to hear your voice again, like something ancient had broken open and was pouring out of you, pure and unforgiving. You danced like gravity belonged to you, like every beat was orbiting your hips. You didn’t miss a breath. Didn’t break. Your voice carved through the air like velvet laced with glass—lush, sharp, unforgettable.

And when you finally slowed down, when the lights dimmed and the band hushed, the stage softened into something smaller, more intimate. You sat at the edge of the platform, guitar resting in your lap, crowd holding their collective breath.

And you sang the songs you wrote for her. The ones soaked in grief and memory. The ones no one else could ever fully understand but you.

"Bigger Than the Whole Sky" echoed into the night, and somewhere in the bridge your voice cracked. Just a little.

You looked up at the sky, blinking against the heat in your eyes, like maybe—just maybe—wherever she was, she could see you. That maybe Ellie was watching. That maybe the girl you still loved, the girl you still couldn’t stop writing about, was somewhere in the dark with her hand over her heart.

You whispered into the mic, "I'm okay."

The crowd screamed back,

“We love you!”

You smiled, small and real. “I love you too.”

You played "My Everything" on a baby grand with white lacquer that shimmered under the lights. And when you reached the verse that gutted you the most, you couldn't help it. The tear came. Quiet and clean, just one.

But it slid down your cheek as you sang, and the note trembled as the world held its breath.

Between songs, you knelt at the barricades. You reached for their hands. You took fan letters and tucked them into your boots. You harmonized with people sobbing in the front row.

You gave pieces of yourself away like confetti, and somehow, it made you more whole.

This wasn’t just a comeback tour. It was the performance of the decade. A cultural reset. A historical imprint. The kind of show people would talk about for the rest of their lives. Critics had no adjectives left. Fans tattooed your lyrics down their spines.

And by the time the last chorus of “No tears left to cry” exploded around you, by the time the final spotlight dimmed and you stood there, breathless and burning—you weren’t a popstar.

You were the Queen.

Undisputed. Untouchable.

And finally, unmistakably, home.

The tour had a rare break—eight whole days without a flight, a choreography run, or a stadium full of people screaming. Eight days of silence, of stillness, of the strange ache that comes after the fire.

And how did you choose to spend your sacred, golden downtime?

By agreeing—against your better judgment—to go to a football game with Rachel.

Not just any football game. The national championship. In a luxury suite at the Rose Bowl, no less. Your name on the guest list. 

Your face caught on the stadium cam five seconds after sitting down. Your tour jacket—SUPERNOVA stitched across the back in thread that shimmered—glinting under the floodlights. You smirked sharply and winked. The crowd erupted like they just saw Jesus.

You sat curled into a seat with a mojito in hand and sour candy tucked between your thighs. Rachel was next to you, heels kicked off somewhere under the seats, one hand wrapped around a tequila soda, the other holding a tub of popcorn like it was a baby.

The stadium pulsed with sound. It was chaos. Beautiful, American, screaming chaos.

“Okay,” Rachel said, “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

You raised your brows. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes and thirty girls have already tried to take a selfie with me.”

She shrugged. “Icon problems.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward just as the players emerged from the tunnel. The crowd exploded. Fireworks burst into the air. Marching band horns stabbed the night like glittering knives. And at the center of it all—

“Aaand there she is,”

Rachel said, elbowing you sharply.

“Miss Abby fucking Anderson.”

“Who?" You squinted. "Which one?”

“Girl. You live under a rock.”

“Try thirty-eight cities in four months.”

“Okay, fair. But that,” she said, pointing like she was unveiling a piece of art, “is Abby Anderson. Number 7. The quarterback of the moment. Six feet of pure lesbian chaos. Built like a Greek statue and allegedly makes girls see God.”

You looked.

And yeah. She was… fine.

More than fine.

Blonde under the helmet, jaw sharp, broad shoulders filling out the jersey like it was designed for a movie montage. And she had that look—composed, locked-in, calm in a way that made your pulse stutter.

“I mean, okay,” you muttered.

Rachel nearly dropped the popcorn. “Okay?! You’re looking at a panty-dropper in cleats and giving me ‘okay’? You need help.”

“I’m not trying to get tackled in the press again, thank you.”

“You haven’t even touched a woman since Ellie.”

Your lips parted. “Don’t—”

“Girl, two years. And a half.”

“I know.”

You looked away, cheeks heating—but it was already too late. The thought was a match, and your memory was all gasoline.

Because it was true.

You hadn’t touched anyone. No one touched you. Not since her.

And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity. Men and women alike lined up for a chance to sleep with you. 

It was because your body still belonged to someone who wasn’t coming back. You still remembered the way her fingertips dragged over your hipbones, the weight of her hand resting between your thighs like it had always been meant to fit there. You remembered her voice in the dark, breathy and low, the way she said your name like a secret no one else was allowed to know. The rasp of it against your jaw. The low groan when you bit her shoulder. The way she kissed you—possessive, unhurried, knowing.

You remembered her mouth.

The way she looked up at you from between your legs like you were the only thing in the world worth ruining her eyeliner for. The way she’d laugh when you begged. How she’d press her lips behind your knee. That little smirk she wore like a weapon.

Her scent still lingered. Sometimes. In your sheets. In your sweat. In the shirts you still hadn’t thrown out.

Her ghost lived under your skin.

And your body? It hadn’t forgotten. Not even for a second. 

So, no.

You hadn’t touched anyone since her.

“Your pussy is in hibernation. The spiders are webbing.”

“RACHEL.”

“I’m sorry, but the poor thing needs some action.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Why are you like this.”

“We talked about this like a million times. I’m tired of watching you cry about the same girl every night. I want you to have fun again.”

“I don’t know how to.” You shook your head. “I can’t even think about touching someone else.”

Rachel quieted. Her voice softened.

“Because you’re still in love with her.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

The screen above the field lit up suddenly, and before you could brace yourself, there you were. Big-screened. The crowd screamed again.

And down on the field, Abby Anderson looked up.

Saw you.

And tripped.

Rachel screamed. “OH MY GOD.”

“No she didn’t.”

“She DID! Replay that in your mind, bitch! The most famous quarterback in the world just ate turf because she saw you. The Queen of Pop has entered the building!”

You groaned and slumped in your seat. “You’re unbearable.”

She was already texting the group chat. “Girl. Be real. You haven’t had sex in two years and a half. That’s a federal crime.”

“I bought three vibrators last month!”

“Great. Maybe that dark purple one can bend you over and dirty talk you—since we both know that’s your favorite.”

And yeah, you both knew the exact reason why that one’s your favorite.

You nearly spit out your drink. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying,” she continued, now in a whisper only for you, “A little one-night stand wouldn’t kill you.”

You shook your head. “I don’t know how to do that anymore.”

Rachel looked at you. Really looked. 

Past the jokes. Past the fame.

Past the perfect eyeliner and the platinum record sales.

“I know,” she said. “But maybe it’s time to try. You have every right to move on, because this isn’t good for you. you have to get over her someday.”

You just stayed silent and focused on the game.

And you didn't even realize how into the game you’d gotten until the fourth quarter hit, when Rachel had to physically pry the candy bag out of your clenched hand.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You’re holding onto those sour patch kids like they’re rosary beads.”

But you couldn’t answer. You were too busy watching Abby.

Abby Anderson had just played the best game of the season. Of the year, probably. Maybe of her entire career. Three touchdown passes. One brutal breakaway run that made half the stadium leap to its feet. A fourth-quarter interception that changed the momentum of the game entirely—and ended with her launching the ball with precision so vicious, the announcers couldn’t even get the words out fast enough.

The girl was on fire.

The stadium was buzzing with it. Cameras lingered on her. Commentators said her name like they were in awe. The student section went feral every time she moved.

And still—every few minutes, every time the adrenaline ebbed just enough for her to breathe—she looked up at your suite.

Not a glance. Not a passing look.

She searched for you.

And when she found you, her face cracked into a smile like thunder breaking sky.

“She’s trying to impress you sooo bad,” Rachel murmured, practically vibrating beside you.

“She’s not,” you muttered, though your stomach flipped violently.

“She’s out there playing like she wants to fuck a Grammy winner. Which, if we’re being honest, is a pretty impressive life goal.”

You shoved her. “Stop.”

She raised her drink. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

You tried to focus on the game again, but it was hopeless. All you could see was Abby—Abby snapping her helmet off between plays, face flushed, eyes burning. Abby wiping sweat off her jaw. Abby looking up at you like she was already winning something else.

The final buzzer sounded. The crowd exploded.

And her team won. Of course.

They swarmed the field, screaming, jumping, throwing helmets. Champagne bottles sprayed. Confetti cannons fired. Cameras flooded the turf. Reporters sprinted in heels. The screen overhead lit up with her face—smiling wide, eyes glinting, cheeks pink.

Rachel leaned in, whispering, “Okay, if you don’t ask for her number, I’m gonna.”

You didn't respond. You were in a trance.

Your name was still trending worldwide. The stadium still screamed your lyrics between plays. Your face had just been projected to seventy-five thousand people.

And everything started the night of the championship afterparty.

Abby found you in a rooftop lounge lit by champagne and expensive fog machines. The city glittered below. Music pulsed, and your name was passed between lips like a prophecy. You were in a black mini-dress, leaning against the balcony with a glass of wine you didn’t finish. 

She walked up behind you and said, “You looked bored.” You turned, eyebrow raised. She grinned, calm and sharp. “Thought I’d offer a distraction.”

And then she kissed you.

Hard. Clean. Like it was the only thing she’d wanted to do since spotting you on the game.

Her hands were huge. Steady. She kissed like someone who trained for it, like someone who played to win. You gasped into her mouth and she caught it with her tongue. 

Her hand gripped your hip like she’d done it a thousand times in her head. 

And you let her.

Because for one second, you wanted to forget. You wanted to give in.

You ended up at her hotel.

You don’t remember the elevator ride. You barely remember the door clicking shut. But you remember her mouth was on your throat. Her body pressing you into the mattress with that easy, practiced strength. You remember thinking—God, she’s strong. Strong and careful and good. So good. Her fingers moved with precision, her mouth everywhere you needed it. Her strap was deep, steady, relentless. She made you come twice, coaxed it out of you with murmured praise and quiet intensity, her palm warm against your stomach like she was anchoring you to the moment. And after, she kissed your shoulder, tucked the blanket up to your chin, and didn’t fall asleep until you did.

It should’ve been perfect.

Abby did everything right. She was steady hands and quiet warmth. She looked at you like you were something to be cherished. She made space for you. She kissed you like she meant it.

But the whole time, it felt like you were mouthing someone else’s lines. Like reciting a love poem in a language you’d only ever learned phonetically—beautiful, but not yours.

You couldn’t stop comparing.

Not out of cruelty, but instinct. Your body remembered a different kind of heat.

Because she was good. Better than good. She was present. She was gentle. She made you feel seen.

But she didn’t make you feel undone.

There was no spark. No chaos. No desperate, breathless hunger that left you trembling in the aftermath. No thunder in your chest. No fire behind your ribs.

Nothing lit on fire.

Still, you kept showing up. Let her hold your hand. Let her sleep beside you. Let her call it something close to love.

Because it was easy.

Because it didn’t hurt.

Because convincing yourself felt safer than being alone with the truth.

And maybe, if you said it enough times, if you pretended hard enough—one day it wouldn’t feel like pretending.

The headlines ate it up like wildfire. QUEEN OF POP DATING STAR QUARTERBACK. Pictures of you in sunglasses and oversized denim jackets sitting next to her courtside. Her hand on your thigh at brunch. Her arm around your waist walking into a gala.

You went to some of her games. Front row. Her jersey number burning your back. You cheered, clapped, smiled for the cameras.

The internet called you power lesbians. The world loved it.

Abby took you to restaurants with three Michelin stars. Private jets. Islands. She picked you up in a Ferrari after rehearsals. She brought you flowers so big they looked fake.

She was perfect. Too perfect.

This restaurant had no sign. Just a man in a tuxedo who opened the door like he’d been waiting for you all his life. Inside, it was all soft gold light and white-gloved service. Every dish looked like a painting. Every glass cost more than someone's rent. The tablecloth was actual silk. The menu didn’t have prices.

Abby looked unfairly good across from you—shirt unbuttoned just enough, blazer perfectly cut, smile easy, confident. She leaned back in her seat like she owned the place. And honestly, she probably did.

When the third course arrived—a tower of food so small it looked like a joke—Abby reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a tiny velvet box.

“I saw this and thought of you,” she said, sliding it across the table.

Inside: a diamond necklace. Massive. Blinding.

You blinked.

“Abby, this is…wow. It’s gorgeous. Thank you.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. “I just wanted to spoil you.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but she was already shifting topics.

“You saw the game last night?” she asked, cutting into her dish. “That cornerback from Dallas tore her ACL. Brutal.”

“No, I didn’t catch it.”

“Man, you should’ve seen it. She went down hard. I mean, she’ll recover, but it’s career-altering.”

You nodded, stirring the sauce on your plate.

Abby kept talking. Stats, transfers, coaching decisions. Every few sentences, she’d drop a you’re so pretty when you’re quiet or that dress is killing me, and you’d laugh on cue.

You glanced at the necklace. At the wine. At her hand resting on the table, waiting for yours.

And then you noticed—

She hadn’t asked about your day. Not about what you were writing. Not how you were feeling.

Just sports. And how hot you looked. And diamond gifts you didn’t ask for.

The necklace around your neck was heavy—gold, oversized, nothing like you. Loud. Expensive. Thoughtless in its sparkle.

You remembered another necklace.

Platinum. Your birth stone. Understated. Designed just for you— two tiny initials woven together like they were bounded to eternity. Hers and yours. Ellie's.

It had arrived in a black velvet box with a note you still keep, her messy handwriting spelling:

"I know you don’t need anything to know I love you, but if you ever forget how much of me is yours, you can wear this. So you never have to wonder.

I will love you in every version of forever.

— E"

You wore it everyday until she left.

And suddenly, all you could feel was the space between her hand and yours — the silence screaming louder than anything she’d said all night.

And sometimes—when the room was quiet and her breathing even beside you—you thought, maybe I could fall in love with her.

But you never did.

That’s what destroyed you.

Because you liked her. You really liked her.

And still—your heart never settled. Never slowed. Never opened. 

Until one night, she held you afterwards, arm draped across your waist, and you realized you were crying.

Silently. Into the pillow.

Because all you could think about was Ellie.

Ellie, with her messy auburn hair and her tattooed arms and her sharp, beautiful green eyes. Ellie and her goddamn laugh—low and rough, like gravel and thunderstorms and freckles you traced a thousand times with your fingers, with your mouth, like you were trying to memorize the constellations written on her skin. Ellie, who made love to you like it was a language only the two of you spoke—like your body was a song she was born knowing. Ellie, loud and chaotic and funny and unapologetic and always leaving guitar picks in your shoes and lighters in your makeup bag. Ellie, who pulled you onstage during soundcheck just to kiss you in front of the crew, like it was a declaration, like it was defiance. Ellie, who wrote you more than twenty songs, some released, some unreleased, and swore every single one of them was your fault. Ellie, who said I love you with a Grammy in one hand and your heart in the other. Ellie, who you wrote two entire albums for, like bleeding out was the only way to survive loving her. Ellie, your greatest muse, your brightest spark, your most devastating collapse.

Ellie, who made you feel more alive than anyone ever had—or ever would.

Ellie, who left. 

The most intense love you’d ever known. And then—left.

And never reached out. Not once. Vanished like ash. No public sightings. No leaks. She left the band. She left you. She left everything.

And still, you loved her.

You hated that you loved her.

You hated that you remembered her voice in the shower. That you remembered the way her hand tangled with yours when you were nervous.

That you remembered every word she spoke that final night—the way her voice cracked on the edges, how the silence between sentences felt heavier than the ones she said. The sound of her boots retreating across the floor still echoed in your skull, sharp and final. The weightlessness of her body, slipping away. The hollowness of her eyes.

The coldness of her lips in that final kiss had etched itself into the very cells of your mouth—an imprint beneath the skin, a memory your body would never stop carrying.

How the ache in your chest turned unbearable when she said, “I will love you until the day that I die,” like it wasn’t a promise— but a farewell.

You hated that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t write a single song about Abby, but you could sit down and pour out ten songs about Ellie in a single breath, like she lived in your bloodstream, like the words had been waiting for you to stop pretending.

You hated that you had someone next to you in bed, and still—you slept with the ghost of someone else.

There was none of the wild, consuming heat that made you feel like loving Abby might kill you—but God, what a way to go. No hunger that clawed through your chest. No sense of ruin and worship tangled into one.

No love that made you forget who you were before it.

Ellie had been that.

She had been storms and screaming and things only the two of you would ever understand. She had set you on fire and you couldn't stop smelling smoke since. She had been Ellie fucking Williams.

It wasn’t Abby’s fault.

But the fact that she didn’t inspire you—not even a verse, not a melody, not a single chord that didn’t sound borrowed—was what made the realization hit harder than anything else ever had.

Because with Ellie, you and her hadn’t just been connected by feeling, or by fate, or by that magnetic force that made gravity feel heavier when she was near.

It was also music.

From the very beginning. Before the first “I love you.” Before the fall.

It was the language your hearts spoke when words weren’t enough. It was the quiet confession in a harmony you built without meaning to.

The song you wrote together before you even admitted what you felt for each other was a confession all on its own—every lyric of yours dripping with the ache of love you hadn’t said out loud yet, her guitar holding more truth than she was ready to face.

She had been your muse. And you had been hers. You were fire feeding fire, melody wrapped in melody. It was inexplicable. It was holy. It was the kind of connection that people search for their whole lives and never find, the kind of alchemy that doesn’t come twice.

Music didn’t just tie you together. It fused you. Deep and sacred and permanent.

And even in her absence, even in the silence, she was still shaping your life. Still sparking something in you. Still changing the way you moved through the world. Ellie didn’t need to be in the room to leave fingerprints on your voice.

Because if it hadn’t been for her, none of this would’ve happened.

You wouldn’t have written Supernova or Better Lies. You wouldn’t have clawed your way back from the wreckage. You wouldn’t have found your sound. Your truth. Your power. You’d probably still be performing dumb songs, smiling on cue, praying your sophomore album didn’t flop. You would’ve been a popstar with a beautiful voice but no direction—just another one-hit wonder, fading into dust.

But she made you want more. Be more.

Ellie had given you the kind of love that tears everything apart—and then dares you to build something greater from the rubble.

And in doing so, she gave you everything.

Even when she was gone.

Especially when she was gone.

So you kept mourning her.

In Abby’s shower. In the back of black SUVs. On the balcony of your hotel suite while Abby slept inside. On stages in front of thousands of people. In your lyrics. In your silence.

And every time you looked at Abby—doing everything right, being everything right—you hated yourself a little more for the way your heart still lived in the hands of a girl who never mouthed the word goodbye.

And all of this, takes us here.

Three years passed.

The room buzzed with soft laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the kind of lazy joy that came with triumph. You were curled up on the velvet sectional, Rachel lounged beside you with a mimosa in one hand and a cheese cube skewered on a tiny sword in the other, looking obnoxiously pleased with herself. The rest of your team was scattered around the room—your stylist, your publicist, someone from the label, two assistants.

Everything was normal. Everything was okay.

You were scrolling through photos from your Vogue shoot when someone from the label looked up from her phone and laughed.

“Yo,” she said, grinning. “Someone finally took you out of the top spot.”

You didn’t look up. “Took them long enough.”

Rachel raised a brow. “Wait, what?”

“Kill the Lights,” the girl said, waving her phone. “You’re not number one anymore. Billboard updated.”

A chorus of groans and mock gasps rippled through the room. Rachel clutched her chest in fake horror.

“Our queen dethroned,” she said dramatically.

You laughed. “Alright, alright. Who is it? Who do I have to duel for my crown?”

Rachel was already grabbing her phone.

The room kept talking, jokes bouncing off walls, glasses refilling. You leaned back, sipping your drink, basking in the comfort of it all. And then—

Rachel went quiet.

You glanced over. Her smile was gone. Her whole body had stilled, like something ancient had just brushed past her skin.

You sat up. “Who is it?”

She didn’t move.

“Rach.”

She finally looked at you. And in twenty years, you’d still remember the look in her eyes—stunned, weightless, like the ground had opened beneath her feet.

She didn’t speak.

She just stood, slow and deliberate, as if any sudden movement might break something fragile in the air. She walked over, silent. Her face pale. Her phone shaking just slightly in her hand as she held it out to you.

You took it.

The Billboard Hot 100.

Freshly updated.

#2: KILL THE LIGHTS — You.

#1:

Your stomach turned.

Your breath caught halfway up your throat.

And when your eyes locked on the name, the rest of the universe vanished.

#1: Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Ellie Williams

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟸 →

taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag  @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaiii2 @nramv @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo @l0velylace @look-me @adoringanakin @daughterofthemoons-stuff @st4r-b3rries @liasxeatt @desiretolive @rios-st4rs @miajooz @hotpinkskitties

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Damn… Collide Nation, are yall breathing...? I know this chapter might have felt intense — maybe even shocking or painfully raw. I just want to say I approached it with as much care and respect as I possibly could. I actually spent a lot of time researching the subject to make sure it felt grounded, realistic, and not exploitative in any way. This topic means a lot, and I wanted to do it justice.

And if you’re someone who’s sensitive to these themes: I really hope it didn’t reach you in a hurtful way. My DMs and inbox are always open if you need to talk. ♡

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

masterlist.

a/n: this was going to be longer, but i just couldn’t get myself to do such a long piece. honestly, there’s not a lot of harry mentioning, but it’s still a fun piece, i’m just giving you crumbs. this isn’t the peak of my writing, especially since this is my first time doing second person POV, tumblr is making me try things id never thought i’d do!!

word count: 3,4k

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Y/N Y/LN Keeps A Straight Face While Eating Spicy Wings | Hot Ones 

The interview begins with you sat across Sean Evans, the line up of sauces making your heart beat a little faster, not sure how much spice you were actually able to bear.

“Hey everybody! Today we are joined by Y/N Y/L/N, who you may recognise from too many movies and shows to name! She is an Oscar nominated actress, Emmy Award Winner, and an overall talented person. Her most recent project, Don’t Worry Darling which comes out this September 23rd, is coming in no time, so don’t forget to buy your tickets.” Sean introduces you, a stifled laugh leaving your lips. “Y/N welcome to the show!”

Keep reading

beautiful blue hydrangeas 💙

---

could you kimi antonelli x famous movie star reader! who is at the met gala and kimi is just thirsting over how good she looks. it can be like set when they do those vogue grwms of he is at the paddock watching the livestream?

PRETTY IN PINK - KA12

listen up : No warnings!! thanks for the request it’s not exactly the vogue grwm but i hope u still like it!! supportive kimi 4L!

words : 555

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Everyone in the paddock knows Kimi Antonelli. Youngest F1 driver on the grid, superstar in the making, italian mercedes driver, but most importantly: He is Y/n L/n’s boyfriend.

It’s not something people push onto him, it’s something he brings up at any chance he gets. The first time she came to the paddock, photos went viral of Kimi and Y/n, news spreading fast of the up and coming movie star and formula one prodigy.

Now, Kimi is sitting in his garage, a camera on him that he doesn’t even notice. He’s busy staring at his phone.

“Kimi.” The camera man laughs, “What’cha watching?” The curly haired boy looks up in surprise, smiling when he registers his words.

“My girlfriend!” He turns his phone to show him, the scene switching to a close up of Y/n’s outfit. He moves his phone back in front of him, smiling genuinely as if his girlfriend was in front of him.

She’s beautiful, a vision in pink and something Kimi is jealous that everyone else gets to see in person while he’s stuck around cars. Sure, the things he races are incredible… but to Kimi, his girlfriend can make his heart race just as fast as his car.

“It’s the Met Gala today, her first one.” He beams, his eyes locked on his screen while he talks.

“That’s awfully impressive-” The man is quickly cut off by Kimi.

“Sh sh! She’s talking!” He waves his hands as the man shuts up. Everyone around them is focused on the boy now, the screens all showing his face now.

Y/n smiles politely at the interviewer, “Y/n!” The woman says, “You look stunning, tell us about your look!” She goes, going into every detail that Kimi already knows because she’s been excited about this for months.

“You’re very supportive.” The camera man says to Kimi.

“Of course I am, I love her. She’s at every race she can be but- I definitely understand missing one for the biggest fashion night of the year… at least, that’s what she says. I don’t know anything about fashion.” He watches her push her hair behind her ear, the girl laughing elegantly.

The question shifts and Kimi focuses back on her words, “I’d like to say hi to my lovely boyfriend who I know is watching instead of preparing for his race.” She holds the microphone high, looking directly into the camera. “Kimi, get into that car and fucking kick ass.”

Kimi laughs, she’s definitely not supposed to swear but she’s never been one for following rules. “Oh!” She turns back just before she’s about to go, grabbing the microphone again, “Don’t break a tooth kissing the screen, K.” and then she winks, being ushered back up the stairs without another look.

He laughs again, and so does the rest of the paddock. Kimi sets his phone down, “I guess I'll wait to kiss her when she’s actually in front of me.” The camera zooms out, showing him sigh in his chair.

He slips his phone into his pocket, his fingers tingling in anticipation because all he wants to do is talk to her. He smiles while walking farther into the garage, the image of his girlfriend in pink fresh in his memory and motivating for the day ahead.

Learning Dutch

Summary— Max finds a dirtier way for her to learn Dutch.

Warnings— smut ; riding ; creampie ; cock warming

A/N— so many more coming 🤭

Max One Shots

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

Request— So… I thought of something good! How about a cock warming with Max teaching the reader Dutch? But the reader does so well that he decides to move on. In the end, Max breaks down and ends up taking the reader to the couch. Something playful and hard. Thanks! -🫦

Max was pretty open with his girlfriend about not knowing Dutch for the longest time, but when she came to him asking to learn it he couldn’t say no. He thought it would be easy. She was usually a good listener, but when he would try to teach her she would doze off or state into space.

“What did you learn today?” He would ask. Sometimes she would say one or two words with a mispronunciation, but other than that she would stay silent. “Well if you aren’t going to pay attention I won’t teach you.” He shrugged.

She begged and begged for him to keep teaching her and that she would listen. He told her no, until he thought of an idea to keep her focused: sitting on his dick. He proposed the idea and she blushed profusely.

“I feel like that’s the only way you’ll pay attention, stuffed full.” He teased. “Maybe if you do good, I’ll reward you.” She agreed to try it with him. When they knew they had time and didn’t have to be up early, they got comfortable.

Max sitting back on the couch with her legs straddled along side his thighs. She sunk down slowly and bounced a little to tease, before he thrust all the way in and kept her there.

“I’m going to teach you nicknames today.” He started. She squirmed a little and he groaned at her, now bruising her hip with his grip. “Schatje. What does that mean?” He had told her before, that’s her usual nickname.

“Sweetheart.” She responded. He nodded and went down the list, liefde: love, angel: engel. She was getting all of them right. He upped it and said a sentence, she paused and blinked at him. “Um.. I know there’s good in the middle..”

“Het gaat zo goed met je.” He repeated. He gave her a pat on the ass to think harder. It clicked in her head and she remembered.

“You’re doing so good?” She asked with a smile. He smiled back and nodded that she was right. He did a few more shorter sentences and she got them after thinking on them.

He got tired of teaching her and she was doing so well anyways, so he started thrusting without warning. She jerked and moaned when he did. He chuckled and continued. “This is your reward schatje.” He whispered.

She matched his slow movements and they were moaning messes. He finally sped up his hips and grounded his feet for leverage. He watched her face contort into bliss and her mouth hang open.

“Yeah? Hoe voelt dat?” He asked. Her brain short circuited for a minute before she answered.

“It feels good, fuck Max.” She moaned. She moaned and whimpered into his shoulder, chasing her climax as she weakly met his hips. He shifted ever so slightly and she screamed out. “Right there! Max please!”

He chuckled as he hit the spot repeatedly. She started hitting his chest as she was on edge. Her climax tore a scream it of her and he slowed his movements, allowing her to grind down and ride out her high, literally. “So tight, god.” Max groaned, throwing his head back.

She grinded through the aftershocks and he came inside her, his hips twitching and jerking as his cum fills her insides. They stayed locked together for a few minutes while their breathing calmed.

“What did you learn?” He teased. She deadpanned to him and moved off of his lap. He smiled and she rolled her eyes, walking to the bathroom to clean herself up.

“That fucking keeps my attention span open longer.” She said seriously. He chuckled, joining her in cleaning up the mess. She turned the shower on and he pulled her in by her waist.

“Ik houd van je.” He whispered in her ear.

“I love you more Max.” She said back with a kiss.

It’s a bit short, but I wanted something else put out 🩷

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @pandabiiissh @kallanfiona @itznotsophia

Hi could you please write something about Charles Leclerc x famous reader attending the f1 75 live event and jack whitehall decided to address the fact that she's always been more famous of Charles in a funny way

i love doing charles and famous reader so much

The crystal glasses clink softly around you as Jack Whitehall's voice echoes through the venue. You're nestled comfortably in your seat at the Ferrari table, Charles' arm draped casually across the back of your chair, his thumb absently stroking your shoulder.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we need to address the elephant in the room," Jack announced, pacing dramatically. "We have actual royalty here tonight - and no, I'm not talking about Prince Charles of Monaco over there." He gestured to Charles, who was already starting to blush.

From your seat, you squeezed Charles's hand under the table as he tried to maintain his composed smile.

"We have YN, global superstar, winner of literally every music award invented, and somehow - somehow - she's dating a man whose biggest achievement this year was finishing a race without Ferrari messing up his strategy."

Charles dropped his head, shoulders shaking with silent laughter while you covered your mouth, trying to stifle your own giggles.

"It's fascinating really," Jack continued, "YN's last stadium tour had more attendance than the entire F1 season combined. She's got more platinum records than Charles has pole positions. When they go out, people ask him 'Oh, are you YN's boyfriend?' and he just has to nod and say 'Yes, I'm the Ferrari driver who can't catch Verstappen.'"

You leaned into Charles's shoulder as he wrapped an arm around your waist, both of you red-faced from holding in laughter.

"But look at them - they're adorable. She shows up to every race wearing Ferrari red, probably the only person still believing in Ferrari's strategy besides Charles himself. It's true love, people. Though I have to wonder if she wrote 'Crash Into Me' before or after watching Charles' qualifying sessions..."

Charles buried his face in his hands while you rubbed his back soothingly, both of you unable to contain your laughter anymore.

As the laughter around you settled, Charles grinned, his arm still comfortably around your waist. He leaned in closer, his voice playful but sincere. "You know, despite all the teasing, I really enjoy being your less famous boyfriend."

You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone. "Oh, do you now?"

"Absolutely," he said, his smile widening. "It's actually kind of nice to be the one who gets to sit in the crowd while you’re on stage, getting all the attention. Makes me feel… special, in a way."

You chuckled, nudging him gently. "I think you're just here for the perks. Free front-row seats to concerts, and I guess being in the Ferrari pit lane doesn’t hurt either."

He pretended to think it over, then smirked. "Okay, maybe a little bit. But mostly, I just love being the guy who gets to hold your hand when you're not on stage, and be the one you turn to when you need a break from all the chaos."

You smiled softly, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "Well, lucky for you, you’re stuck with me, you softie."

Charles grinned, pulling you a little closer. "I wouldn’t have it any other way."