#Fixed and Adjustable Rates

[coffeezforclosers]

Hybrid Mortgages 2024

Discover the Benefits of Hybrid Mortgages in 2024: Combining the stability of fixed rates with the flexibility of adjustable rates, hybrid mortgages are becoming a popular choice for homebuyers and refinancers. Learn how these versatile loans work and why they might be the perfect financing option for you.

[brianwilder]

Understanding Mortgage Rates: A Guide for Homebuyers

Mortgage rates play a crucial role in determining the overall cost of homeownership. Even a small difference in interest rates can impact your monthly payment and the total amount you’ll pay over the life of your loan. Whether you’re a first-time buyer or refinancing, understanding mortgage rates and how they fluctuate can help you secure the best deal.

1. What Are Mortgage Rates?

Mortgage rates refer to the interest charged by lenders on a home loan. They are expressed as a percentage and determine how much extra you’ll pay in addition to your loan’s principal.

Fixed vs. Adjustable Rates: Fixed rates remain the same throughout the loan term, while adjustable rates may change periodically.

APR vs. Interest Rate: The annual percentage rate (APR) includes interest plus additional fees, while the interest rate covers only the cost of borrowing.

2. Factors That Affect Mortgage Rates

Mortgage rates fluctuate based on various factors, both within and outside your control.

a. Economic Conditions

Inflation, Federal Reserve policies, and economic growth influence rates.

Strong economies often lead to higher rates, while downturns may lower them.

b. Credit Score

Higher credit scores generally qualify for lower rates.

Lenders view low scores as higher risk, leading to higher interest rates.

c. Loan Type & Term

Conventional, FHA, VA, and USDA loans have different rate structures.

Shorter-term loans (e.g., 15 years) often have lower rates than 30-year loans.

d. Down Payment Amount

Larger down payments reduce lender risk, often leading to lower rates.

Smaller down payments may require private mortgage insurance (PMI), increasing costs.

e. Debt-to-Income Ratio (DTI)

Lower DTI ratios make borrowers more attractive to lenders.

High levels of existing debt can lead to higher interest rates.

Click here to read more.

[thelandingmamba]

Adjustable-Rate vs. Fixed-Rate Mortgages: Which is Better for California Homeowners?

Buying a home in California often involves navigating the complex world of mortgage options. Among the most common choices are adjustable-rate mortgages (ARMs) and fixed-rate mortgages. Both options have their benefits and drawbacks, and the best choice depends on your financial situation, goals, and the current state of the housing market. In this blog, we'll explore the differences between ARMs and fixed-rate mortgages to help California homeowners make an informed decision.

What Is a Fixed-Rate Mortgage?

A fixed-rate mortgage offers stability with a consistent interest rate throughout the life of the loan. This means your monthly principal and interest payments remain unchanged, providing predictable housing costs. Fixed-rate loans are typically available in 15-year mortgage, 20-year, and 30-year terms, with the 30-year fixed mortgage being the most popular choice among homeowners.

Advantages of Fixed-Rate Mortgages:

Predictable monthly payments.

Protection against rising interest rates.

Ideal for long-term homeowners.

Disadvantages of Fixed-Rate Mortgages:

Higher initial interest rates compared to ARMs.

Less flexibility if you plan to move or refinance in a few years.

What Is an Adjustable-Rate Mortgage (ARM)?

An adjustable-rate mortgage starts with a lower fixed interest rate for an initial period, typically 3, 5, 7, or 10 years. After this period, the rate adjusts periodically based on market conditions, usually annually. ARMs are often expressed as "5/1 ARM," where the "5" represents the fixed-rate period, and "1" indicates annual adjustments thereafter.

Advantages of Adjustable-Rate Mortgages:

Lower initial interest rates compared to fixed-rate loans.

Potential for lower payments if interest rates decrease.

Ideal for short-term homeowners or those planning to refinance.

Disadvantages of Adjustable-Rate Mortgages:

Uncertainty with fluctuating interest rates after the fixed period.

Potential for significantly higher payments if rates increase.

May not be suitable for risk-averse borrowers.

Key Factors to Consider When Choosing Between ARMs and Fixed-Rate Mortgages

Your Financial Goals:

If you plan to stay in your home for the long term, a fixed-rate mortgage offers stability and peace of mind.

If you anticipate moving or refinancing within a few years, an ARM may save you money with its lower initial rates.

Market Conditions:

Fixed-rate mortgages are more attractive in a rising interest rate environment.

ARMs are beneficial when interest rates are stable or expected to decline.

Monthly Budget:

A fixed-rate mortgage ensures consistent payments, making it easier to budget.

ARMs may offer initial savings but can lead to higher payments if rates adjust upward.

Risk Tolerance:

Fixed-rate mortgages are ideal for risk-averse borrowers who prefer stability.

ARMs may suit those comfortable with potential payment fluctuations.

Real-World Example: California Homebuyers

Imagine you're purchasing a $700,000 home in California. Here’s how an ARM and a fixed-rate mortgage might compare:

Fixed-Rate Mortgage:

Interest Rate: 6.5%

Monthly Payment: $4,423 (principal and interest)

5/1 ARM:

Initial Rate: 5%

Monthly Payment (first 5 years): $3,758 (principal and interest)

While the ARM offers significant savings in the first five years, your payments could increase after the adjustment period, depending on market rates.

Which Option Is Better for California Homeowners?

The decision between an ARM and a fixed-rate mortgage ultimately depends on your unique circumstances. If you value stability and plan to stay in your home long-term, a fixed-rate mortgage is likely the better choice. On the other hand, if you’re confident in your ability to manage potential rate changes or have a shorter homeownership horizon, an ARM might be a smart financial move.

Conclusion

Choosing the right mortgage is a crucial step in the homebuying process. California’s housing market, known for its high home prices, makes it essential to weigh your options carefully. By understanding the differences between adjustable-rate and fixed-rate mortgages, you can make a decision that aligns with your financial goals and lifestyle.

Still unsure about which mortgage is right for you? 

📞Contact us at 657-777-0024

🌐 https://thelendingmamba.com/

Email: Info@thelendingmamba.com

[bankingbeer]

A Guide to Choose to Fixed Rate vs Adjustable Rate Mortgage

[investingdrone]

How To Qualify Professional Mortgage Loan Programs In 2024?

Professional mortgage loans are designed for young professionals like you, even if you have a lot of debt compared to your income (DTI) or need a larger loan for the house (LTV). These loans help doctors, lawyers, and other high-earning professionals achieve their dream of homeownership. These programs understand you might have high student loans but also have a bright future with a good salary.…

[mandoalorian]

ride to you [bucky barnes x f!reader]

synopsis: seperated by miles, bucky barnes is out on a mission when he gets a late-night text message from you, and suddenly, he just can't do distance anymore.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, fem receiving oral, fingering, breast play, sexting, mutual masturbation over video call, praise kink, bucky is all rough and desperate, and he struggles a bit with tech lol, …dog tags, motorcycle this smut has it all.

w/c: 3,885

masterlist | submit a request

The glow of your phone screen is the only light in your bedroom, casting soft shadows across the empty sheets. It’s 11:47 PM, and your desire for Bucky has you restless, your body aching with the need for him. He’s been gone three weeks, on some mission with Yelena and John keeping him a whole state away, and the distance is a cruel tease. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then type out a message, heart already picking up speed.

You: Can’t sleep, soldier. Bed feels too damn big without you.

His reply pings almost instantly, like he’s been staring at his phone, waiting.

Bucky: Doll, you’re killing me already. Missing you so bad, I can’t think straight.

You smile, warmth curling in your chest. Bucky’s always been a little slow with tech—his texts are short, sometimes autocorrect mangles them—but the effort he puts in makes it sweeter. You can picture him, brow furrowed, big fingers fumbling on the tiny keyboard in some nondescript motel room.

You: What’s keeping you up, huh? Thinking about me?

Bucky: Every damn second. You in that little tank top you wear to bed? Or… less?

Your breath catches, a flush creeping up your neck. He’s bold tonight, and you love it.

You: Just a tank top. Barely. Wish you were here to see it.

There’s a longer pause, and you can almost hear the low groan he’d make.

Bucky: Sweetheart, you’re gonna make me break this phone. Tell me what you’d do if I was there.

Heat pools low in your belly, and you shift on the bed, thighs pressing together. You type slowly, savouring the anticipation.

You: I’d climb into your lap, kiss that spot on your jaw that makes you growl. Slide my hands under your shirt, feel those muscles… you’d be begging me to keep going.

His reply takes a minute, and when it comes, it’s a little messy, like he’s typing too fast.

Bucky: Fuck, doll. I’d pin you to that bed before you could tease me. Kiss you till you’re dizzy, hands all over you. That tank top wouldn’t last five seconds.

You bite your lip, pulse racing. The image of Bucky—broad shoulders, dog tags dangling, blue eyes blazing—has you squirming.

You: Oh, you think you’d have control? I’d have you groaning my name first, Barnes. Bet I could make you lose it just by grinding against you.

Bucky: You’d feel how hard you’re makin’ me already. I’d rip those panties off, make you scream for me.

Your fingers tremble as you type, the words coming faster now, dirtier.

You: I’d let you, Buck. Want your hands on me, your mouth… want you to fuck me till I can’t walk.

His next text is a single word, raw and desperate.

Bucky: Fuck.

Then, a follow-up.

Bucky: Call me. Now. Need to see you.

You hesitate, heart pounding. A call means FaceTime, and the thought of seeing him, hearing him, sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

You: FaceTime? You sure you know how to work that, old man?

Bucky: Shut up, doll. I figured out the damn button. Answer when I call, or I’m ridin’ to you tonight.

The threat—or promise—makes you grin, your body buzzing with anticipation. You adjust your tank top, letting one strap slip off your shoulder, and wait for the call.

Your phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call, and your heart leaps into your throat. You swipe to answer, and there’s Bucky, filling the screen, looking like sin itself. He’s shirtless, sprawled on a motel bed, the dim light catching the glint of his dog tags and the sheen of sweat on his chest. His hair’s a mess, falling into his eyes, and those blue eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on you. 

But there’s a flicker of frustration on his face as he fumbles with the phone, tilting it at an awkward angle.

“Damn it,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “This thing keeps—hold on, doll, I think I got it.” He props the phone against something, probably a pillow, and the view steadies, giving you a full shot of his broad shoulders and the taut muscles of his stomach. He squints at the screen, like he’s not sure it’s working. “You seein’ me okay? Or did I break this already?”

You laugh, the sound breathy with nerves and desire. “I see you, Buck. Looking like a damn dream.” You shift on your bed, letting the silky camisole slip further down your shoulder, the thin fabric barely covering you. You angle the phone to give him a teasing view of your collarbone, the curve of your chest. “Like what you see?”

His groan is instant, low and guttural. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me.” He shifts, and you catch the way his hand moves off-screen, adjusting himself. “That top’s barely holdin’ on. Show me more.”

Heat floods your body, and you oblige, sliding the camisole down to reveal the tops of your breasts, your fingers lingering there. “Better?” you tease, voice husky.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his metal hand flexing on the bed. “You’re playin’ dirty, doll. Keep goin’. Wanna see all of you.” He’s trying to sound commanding, but there’s a plea in his tone, raw and desperate.

You bite your lip, emboldened by his reaction. “Only if you give me something too, soldier.” You nod toward his lap, where his hand is resting just out of frame. “Show me what those texts were doing to you.”

He huffs a laugh, half-embarrassed, half-turned on. “Demanding much? Alright.” He adjusts, sliding his hand into his sweatpants, and you catch a glimpse of the bulge there before he eases them down just enough. He’s hard, and the sight of him touching himself, slow and deliberate, sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Your turn, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Touch yourself for me.”

Your breath hitches, and you don’t hesitate. You slip a hand under the hem of your camisole, pushing it up to expose your stomach, then lower, dipping into your panties. The first brush of your fingers against yourself makes you gasp, and Bucky’s eyes darken, his own hand moving faster.

“Fuck, doll, look at you,” he groans, voice thick. “So damn pretty. Keep goin’. Imagine it’s me touchin’ you.”

You do, your fingers circling as you picture his hands—rough, warm, and relentless. “Bucky,” you whimper, your hips shifting on the bed. “Wish it was you. Want your fingers, your mouth…”

He curses under his breath, his strokes growing rougher. “God, I’d devour you right now. Lick every inch of you till you’re screamin’ my name. Tell me how it feels, baby.”

“It’s so good,” you moan, your free hand gripping the sheets. “But not enough. Need you here, Buck. Need you inside me.” The words spill out, unfiltered, and you see the effect they have—his head tips back, a low growl rumbling from his chest.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna lose it,” he warns, but his hand doesn’t stop, and neither does yours. You’re both chasing the same high, the phone screen a cruel barrier between you. “Tell me what you’d do if I was there. Right now.”

You’re panting now, the pleasure building fast. “I’d climb on top of you,” you say, voice shaky. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name. Kiss you till you can’t breathe.”

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, his eyes locked on you, intense and wild. “I’d flip you over, fuck you into the mattress. Make you come so many times you’d beg me to stop.”

The filthy promises push you closer to the edge, your fingers moving faster, chasing the release. 

“Bucky, I’m—” you gasp, unable to finish the sentence as the pleasure crests.

“Me too, doll,” he grits out, his voice breaking. “Come for me. Let me see you.”

It hits you like a wave, your body arching as you cry out his name, trembling under your own touch. Bucky follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills over his hand, his chest heaving. For a moment, you’re both silent, just breathing, the intimacy of the moment hanging heavy between you.

Then he laughs, rough and a little sheepish. “Well, damn. Never thought this phone thing could be that good.” He grabs a tissue, cleaning up, and you giggle, pulling your camisole back into place.

“Still hate technology?” you tease, your voice soft, sated.

He smirks, but his eyes are serious. “Not when it’s you on the other end. But this ain’t enough, sweetheart.” He leans closer to the screen, voice dropping. “I’m comin’ to you. Tonight.”

You blink, still hazy from the high. “Buck, you’re in—wherever you are. You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he says, and you see him grab his leather jacket, tossing it over his shoulder. “Got my bike. I’m ridin’ to you. Be there by dawn.”

Your jaw drops, but the determination in his eyes tells you he’s not kidding. “You’re insane,” you whisper, but your heart’s racing again, thrilled.

“Insane for you,” he shoots back, already moving. “Get some rest, doll. You’re gonna need it when I get there.”

The call ends, leaving you staring at the blank screen, your body buzzing with anticipation and disbelief.

Bucky’s breath is still uneven as he ends the FaceTime call, the image of you—hot, panting, whispering his name—burned into his mind. His body’s buzzing, sated but nowhere near satisfied. 

The phone’s screen goes dark, but it doesn’t matter; he can still see you, feel the ghost of your voice in his ear, your words pulling him apart. “Need you inside me.” Fuck. He’s done waiting.

He’s on his feet in seconds, the motel room’s stale air doing nothing to cool the heat coursing through him. His leather jacket is slung over his shoulder, but he shrugs it on, the familiar weight grounding him. His duffel’s already packed—a habit from decades of moving fast, never settling. He grabs it, slings it across his chest, and heads for the door. The keys to his Harley jingle in his pocket, a promise of freedom, of you.

Outside, the night’s crisp, the motel’s neon sign buzzing faintly. His bike’s parked under a flickering streetlight, all black chrome and raw power, just like him. He swings a leg over, the leather seat creaking under his weight, and kicks the engine to life. The roar tears through the silence, vibrating in his chest, matching the thrum of his pulse. He’s in Pennsylvania, but you’re in New York, a good five-hour ride if he pushes it. He’s pushing it.

The highway stretches out, a dark ribbon under a sky smeared with stars. Bucky leans into the wind, the speedometer climbing as the bike eats up the miles. His mind’s a tangle of you—your teasing texts, the way you looked on that call, your body arching as you came for him. He grips the handlebars tighter, the metal of his left hand glinting in the moonlight. He’s not built for distance, not when it comes to you. Every mile feels like a taunt, every second a reminder of how bad he needs to touch you, taste you, feel you under him.

He replays the call in his head, your voice a siren song. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name.” His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat, lost in the wind. He’s half-hard again just thinking about it, the memory of your fingers slipping into your panties, the soft moans you made. He shifts on the seat, trying to focus on the road, but it’s no use. You’re in his blood, and no amount of miles or cold air can shake you out.

A gas station looms ahead, the only light for miles. He pulls in, the bike’s rumble dropping to a low purr as he cuts the engine. His boots hit the gravel, and he stretches, rolling his shoulders. The attendant, a kid barely out of his teens, eyes the metal arm warily but says nothing as Bucky fills the tank. He checks his phone—2:37 AM. A text from you, sent just after the call.

You: You’re really coming? Be safe, soldier. I’ll be waiting…

He smirks, typing back with one hand, still clumsy with the touchscreen. Bucky: Damn right I’m comin’. Don’t sleep too deep, doll. Gonna need you awake.

He sends it, pockets the phone, and swings back onto the bike. The kid mutters something about “crazy night riders,” but Bucky’s already gone, the Harley roaring back to life. The road’s emptier now, just him and the hum of the engine, the world blurring past. He thinks about what’s waiting—your apartment, your bed, you in that flimsy camisole or maybe nothing at all. His foot presses harder on the throttle, the needle pushing past 90.

Dawn’s starting to bleed into the horizon when he hits the outskirts of New York, the city’s glow a faint promise. His body aches from the ride, but it’s nothing compared to the ache for you. He weaves through early traffic, the bike’s growl turning heads, but he doesn’t care. Your address is burned into his brain, every turn taking him closer. The thought of you, warm and waiting, maybe still flushed from earlier, has his heart pounding harder than the engine.

He pulls up to your building as the sky turns pink, the Harley’s rumble echoing off the brick. He cuts the engine, the silence sudden and heavy. His boots hit the pavement, and he takes a moment, catching his breath, running a hand through his wind-messed hair. The duffel slung over his shoulder, but all he can think about is you—steps away, behind that door, real and his.

He’s here. And he’s not leaving until you’re screaming his name.

The stairwell to your apartment is a blur as Bucky bounds up, boots thudding on the creaking wood, his pulse a war drum in his ears. The five-hour ride on his Harley—wind tearing at him, miles bleeding into the night—has only sharpened his need. Your door looms at the end of the hall, and he’s there in seconds, fist hovering for a soft knock. It’s 6:13 AM; he won’t wake your neighbours. The rap is quiet but urgent, his metal hand twitching, impatient.

The door flies open, and you’re a vision that stops his heart. That silky camisole clings to you, one strap slipped off your shoulder, barely containing the curves he’s been dreaming of. Your hair’s tousled, eyes wide with shock and want, lips parted like you’re about to speak. But Bucky doesn’t give you the chance. His duffel hits the floor, and he’s on you, hands cradling your face as he crashes his mouth to yours. The kiss is raw, all-consuming, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, weeks of pent-up longing spilling out. He tastes you—mint toothpaste and something sweeter, something you—and it’s better than any fantasy.

“Bucky,” you gasp when he pulls back for air, your fingers knotting in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him growl. He kicks the door shut, the slam echoing, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist, thighs tight against his hips, and he groans as your heat presses through his jeans. The leather jacket’s cool against your bare arms, but his body’s a furnace, searing where he holds you.

“Told you I’d come, doll,” he rasps, voice rough from the road and desire.

He carries you to the bedroom, lips trailing fire down your jaw, nipping the pulse point on your neck that makes you shudder. Your nails rake his shoulders, shoving at his jacket, and he shrugs it off mid-stride, dog tags jangling as it hits the floor. You’re clawing at his shirt now, and he yanks it over his head, tossing it aside, leaving him in just those damn tags and jeans slung low on his hips.

He sets you on the bed, stepping back to drink you in. The camisole’s riding up, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, your thighs parted just enough to make his mouth water. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown, and the way you’re looking at him—like he’s everything—has his chest tight.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, voice thick with praise, the words wrapping around you like a caress. He crawls over you, caging you with his body, his flesh hand snagging both your wrists and pinning them above your head. The restraint sends a spark through you, and he feels it, sees it in the way you arch. “Gonna make you scream for me, sweetheart. You’re mine.”

The possessiveness laces his tone, and you shiver, lips curving into a defiant smirk. “Prove it, soldier.”

That’s all he needs. His mouth claims yours again, deep and filthy, tongue stroking in a way that promises what’s coming. His metal hand slides under your camisole, cold against your fevered skin, and he doesn’t bother with finesse—just rips the fabric down the middle, the tear loud in the quiet room. You gasp, but his lips are there, soothing, kissing the sting away as the scraps fall. “I’ll buy you another one,” he murmurs, but you’re too far gone to care, your hands straining against his grip, wanting to touch him.

His mouth moves lower, hot and deliberate, sucking at the swell of your breast, teeth grazing your nipple until you whine. He laves it with his tongue, then moves to the other, leaving marks you’ll feel tomorrow. “So fuckin’ responsive,” he growls, voice vibrating against your skin. He trails kisses down your stomach, each one slower, teasing, until he’s settled between your thighs. His hands—flesh and metal—grip your hips, spreading you open, and he just stares, eyes black with hunger. “Look at you, doll. So wet for me. Been like this since our call, haven’t you?”

You nod, breathless, and he chuckles, dark and dirty. “Good girl.” The praise hits like a drug, and then his mouth’s on you, no warning, just a slow, devastating lick through your folds. You cry out, hips bucking, but his metal arm pins you down, unrelenting. He groans, the sound rumbling through you, and it’s like he’s starving, tongue circling your clit, sucking hard, then dipping lower to taste you deeper. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had,” he says, voice muffled, and you’re already trembling, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.

His flesh hand joins in, fingers teasing your entrance, circling until you’re begging, voice broken. 

“Bucky, please, need you—” He doesn’t make you wait, sliding two fingers inside, thick and curling just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

You moan, loud and shameless, as he pumps them slow, then faster, his tongue never stopping, sucking your clit like it’s his mission to ruin you. “That’s it, doll,” he says, lifting his head just enough to watch you writhe. “Love those sounds. Keep makin’ ‘em for me.”

You’re close, too close, the coil tightening with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue. He senses it, doubles down, sucking hard as his fingers twist, and you’re gone, screaming his name as you come, body arching off the bed. He doesn’t stop, working you through it, licking every shudder until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to pull him up.

He crawls over you, kissing you deep, and you taste yourself on his tongue, the intimacy making you dizzy. “So damn beautiful when you come,” he whispers, and the praise sinks into you, warm and perfect. His jeans are still on, tented painfully, and you reach for him, fingers clumsy with need as you pop the button, drag the zipper down. He helps, kicking them off with his boxers, and you pause, just looking—his cock’s thick, hard, leaking at the tip, and the sight makes your mouth water.

“Need you, Bucky,” you say, voice raw, reaching for him. “Now.”

He smirks, but his eyes are soft, reverent. “Gonna give you everything, sweetheart.” He settles between your thighs, teasing your entrance with his tip, dragging it through your slick until you’re whining. “You want me to fuck you, doll? Want me to make you mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe, legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer. “Please, Bucky.”

He doesn’t tease anymore. He pushes in, slow and relentless, stretching you inch by inch, and you both groan, the feeling overwhelming. He’s big, filling you completely, and he stills, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grits out, voice strained, his dog tags dangling, brushing your chest. “Feel so damn perfect, doll. Like you were made for me.”

You clench around him, and he curses, low and filthy. “Keep doin’ that, and I won’t last,” he warns, but you just smirk, rolling your hips to take him deeper. He growls, pinning your wrists again, the restraint making you burn. “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, sweetheart.”

He starts moving, and it’s everything—deep, powerful thrusts, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking under the force. You meet him thrust for thrust, arching up, the friction perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. “Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, and he leans down, sucking a bruise into your neck, marking you as his.

“Mine,” he growls, each word punctuated by a thrust, his metal hand gripping your hip, anchoring you. “Say it, doll. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, the word a prayer, and he rewards you, angling his hips to hit even deeper, the pleasure blinding. His pace quickens, relentless, and you’re both panting, sweat-slick and desperate. 

“Love how you feel,” he groans, voice rough. “So wet, so tight, takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

The dirty talk pushes you higher, and you claw at his back, nails digging in, making him hiss. 

“Harder,” you beg, and he delivers, fucking you into the mattress, the headboard rattling. His flesh hand releases your wrists, sliding between you to rub tight circles on your clit, and you cry out, the added sensation too much. “Bucky, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he commands, possessive and fierce. “Wanna feel you, doll. Let go.”

It hits like a freight train, your body convulsing, clenching around him as you scream his name, pleasure tearing through you. He groans, thrusts growing erratic, chasing his own release. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he pants, and then he’s coming, spilling inside you, hot and deep, his hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt.

You’re both trembling, locked together, and he doesn’t pull out, staying close, kissing you slow and deep, tongues lazy now, sated. His weight is grounding, his tags cool against your chest, and you feel every shudder of his breath. “No more distance,” he murmurs, voice a vow, his lips brushing yours. “I’m not leavin’ you again, sweetheart.”

You smile, fingers tracing his jaw, his stubble rough under your touch. “Better not, soldier. I’m keeping you forever.”

He chuckles, soft and warm, rolling to his side and pulling you with him, still inside you, like he can’t bear to break the connection. “Forever sounds good, doll.”

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! <3

[nanasrkives]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

── .✦ "IWAIZUMI HAJIME VS. WEDDING" — iwaizumi hajime

a/n : sorry for being inactive!! finally found motivation to write for haikyuu content : post timeskip. iwa crashing out. pre wedding. he’s so in love. seijoh 4. fluff. crack.

Iwaizumi Hajime doesn’t spiral.

He doesn’t pace. Doesn’t panic. Doesn’t start talking just to fill space. He’s the one people lean on. The level-headed one during a crisis.

Which is exactly why the Seijoh 4 are now watching him like he’s a science experiment gone wrong. The groom’s waiting room is too quiet. Tense. The kind of quiet that happens before someone snaps.

Oikawa, back from Argentina just for the wedding, sips sparkling water with the smugness of someone who saw this coming. Matsukawa is filming. Hanamaki looks both entertained and slightly afraid.

And our dear Iwaizumi paces. Mutters something to himself. Then—without warning—drops to the floor and starts doing push-ups in his suit.

Everyone stares.

"Everybody stay calm, he’s spiraling,” Matsukawa says.

“He doesn’t spiral,” Hanamaki replies, blinking. “I’ve never seen him spiral. This feels illegal.”

“I once saw Iwa-chan roll his ankle and tell me to breathe,” Oikawa says, horrified. “This is terrifying.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Iwaizumi mutters, chest nearly kissing the floor. “I’m keeping my heart rate in check.”

Push-up. Push-up. Push-up

“I’m grounding myself. This is tactical. I am not emotionally compromised.”

Push-up.

“She’s gonna look like a goddess and I’m gonna forget how to breathe.”

“What was that?” Oikawa asks.

“I said I’m fine, Shittykawa.” Oikawa blinks. “You haven’t called me that since we were 18. Oh god, he’s malfunctioning.”

Iwaizumi keeps going. “She’s gonna smile. At me. In front of everyone. And I’m gonna cry. I know I’m gonna cry. I can already feel it. It’s sitting right here—” he gestures to his throat, “like a threat.”

He stops and lays flat on the floor. The silence is deafening. “I’ve never seen him like this,” Hanamaki whispers.

“He cried when she said yes, didn’t he?” Matsukawa murmurs. “This is stage two.”

“I didn’t cry,” Iwaizumi says flatly. “I teared up. Briefly.”

“You FaceTimed me,” Oikawa adds. “There were tissues involved.”

“I was sick.”

”You were sniffling,” Oikawa corrects.

“It was February.”

Iwaizumi sits up slowly. “She’s gonna be in a dress. With her hair done. And makeup. She’s gonna walk toward me like she means it and I’m gonna stand there looking like I forgot how knees work. And then I’ll cry. And then she’ll cry. And I’ll ruin everything.”

Oikawa kneels and hands him a water bottle like it’s an offering to a storm god. “You’re in love. That’s not ruining anything.”

“I’m so in love,” Iwaizumi whispers, like a confession. “It’s making me physically ill.”

Hanamaki just nods. “That tracks. We’ve been waiting years for your emotional constipation to catch up.”

“Push-ups aren’t fixing it,” Matsukawa adds. “Try burpees.”

“I will throw up on your shoes.”

There was a knock on the door: “Five minutes.”

Iwaizumi stands. Adjusts his suit. Rolls his shoulders like he’s heading into combat. “I’m marrying my girl. My terrifying, gorgeous, brilliant girl.”

He turns to them, solemn.

“If I cry—don’t say anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hanamaki says.

“If I pass out—don’t catch me.”

“You’re gonna cry in, like, thirty seconds,” Matsukawa grins. “But you’re gonna look shredded in the photos.”

“I better.”

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @angelkiyo @honeycrispappletree @itsmeaudrieee

[amoressb]

───── KISS ME MORE 西村 力 N. RK

ꪆৎ ⋆˚࿔ trying to finish his makeup but he just can’t stop kissing you ｡｡ idol bf!riki x makeup artist!reader. fluff & wc. 1.4k ; lots of kissing, skinship, petnames｡｡

──── ARCHiVE

the backstage dressing room of the sold out arena was alive with activity. assistants rushed in and out, carrying outfits and adjusting mics, while the members of enhypen filled into the room, their energy a mix of nerves and excitement. riki, the main dancer, was the last to enter, his stage outfit already clinging perfectly to his frame. his hair was freshly styled and his usual confident grin was firmly in place.

you stood near the vanity, arranging your makeup tools neatly. you glanced up when the door opened and your heart did it’s usual flutter when your eyes landed on riki. despite working and being together for years now, he still had that effect on you.

“hey pretty,” riki greeted, making a beeline for you as the other members settled into their chairs. without a care for the busy room, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “riki!” you exclaimed, glancing around to make sure no one had seen, your cheeks flushing pink. “we’re at work!”

“and?” he teased, his voice soft and low so only you could hear. “it’s not like they don’t already know.” you tried to keep your expression neutral, but his adoring gaze was making it impossible. he looked at you like you were the only person in the world, his dark eyes warm and full of affection.

“go sit down,” you finally said, trying to suppress a smile as you motioned to his chair. “you’ve got a show to get ready for.”

“yes ma’am,” riki said with a mock salute before plopping into his chair. the other members exchanged knowing smirks but didn’t say anything, accustomed to their maknaes antics when it came to you.

you approached him with your makeup kit, your expression shifting to one of focus. you grabbed a primer and started dabbing it onto his skin. riki leaned back obediently, watching you the entire time. his eyes followed every move you made—how you tilted your head slightly while working on his foundation, the way your lips pressed together as you concentrated.

“stop staring,” you said without looking up, your voice tinged with amusement. “i can’t help it,” riki replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “you’re too pretty when you’re in your element.”

“flattery won’t get you out of wearing eyeliner,” you quipped, picking up the next product.

he chuckled, staying quiet for a moment as you traced sharp, precise lines around his eyes. but when you leaned in to work on his lips, he couldn’t sit still anymore.

“riki, baby,” you said, holding his chin to keep him steady, “if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to look like a mess out there and i’ll let the fans blame you.”

riki grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “would it really be so bad? they might think the smudges are part of my charm.”

“charm doesn’t cover uneven eyeliner or faded lip tint,” you muttered, dipping the brush back into the product. you leaned closer, focusing on his lips. “well,” he said, voice dropping a bit deeper than before, “if it’s my lips you’re worried about, maybe you should test them.”

“riki,” you warned, but your cheeks flushed at his teasing tone. in response, he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, leaving a faint mark of coral lip tint behind. “there, a little something just for you.”

you froze, your brush midair, and fixed him with an exasperated glare. “riki! you’ve ruined it again, that’s the third time!” he laughed, utterly unrepentant. “what can i say? your face is more fun to decorate than mine.”

“you’re impossible,” you muttered, grabbing a makeup wipe to start over. “at this rate, you’re going on stage with bare lips.”

“then the fans will get the real me,” he said with a playful shrug.

“no, the fans will get a makeup artist who quits her job halfway through the tour because of you,” you shot back, though your lips twitched in amusement.

as you leaned in again, riki stared at you with unabashed affection, making no effort to hide how enamored he was. the way your brows furrowed in concentration, the way you bit your lip when you worked—it all made his heart race.

“riki, stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without glancing up.

“like what?”

“like you’re about to—”

before you could finish, he closed the distance between you two and kissed you square on the lips. it was soft but lingering, enough to make you forget for a moment that you guys were backstage, mere minutes before showtime. when he pulled back, your carefully applied lip tint was smeared, and his own lips were a mess.

“—do that,” you finished, blinking at him.

he grinned, completely unbothered. “you make it hard to resist, baby.” you sighed dramatically, though your cheeks were pink. “i give up. you’re going on stage like this.”

“no, no, no,” he said quickly, laughing. “i’ll behave this time, i swear.” you arched an eyebrow. “you said that five kisses ago.”

“this time, i mean it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands in mock innocence. “scout’s honor.”

the other members started laughing. jake smirked at riki from his chair. “you’ve got it bad, riki.”

“jealous?” riki shot back, unbothered by the teasing.

you sighed, rolling your eyes but smiling as you reached for the lip tint again, applying it with quick, practiced strokes. riki stayed still this time, though you could feel his eyes on you the entire time. “there,” you said at last, stepping back to inspect your work. “you’re ready.”

“perfect,” he said, glancing at himself in the mirror. then he turned to you with a cheeky smile. “almost as perfect as you.”

“flattery won’t save you if you mess it up again,” you warned, though you couldn’t help but smile. a knock on the door interrupted them and the groups manager poked their head in. “you guys are on in five.”

“got it!” riki called, standing up. he looked down at you, his expression softening. “wish me luck?”

“break a leg,” you said with a small smile, your voice gentler now. “and please don’t kiss anyone on stage.” he chuckled. “you know my lips are only yours.”

with a wink, he was gone, leaving you to clean up your station. you could hear the deafening roar of the crowd as the show began and a small smile tugged at your lips. as exasperating as he could be, there was no denying how proud you were of him.

hours later, the concert was in full swing. you watched from backstage, your heart swelling with pride as riki belted out the final dance moves of their song. his moves effortless and smooth, his stage presence captivating as always. by now, he and the other members took their final bows and headed offstage.

riki burst into the dressing room, still glowing with the adrenaline of the performance. his hair was damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to him, and he looked every bit of the star he was.

“y/nnn,” he called, his voice still slightly hoarse. he scanned the room until his eyes found you and his face lit up. without hesitation, he strode over, pulling you into a tight hug.

“riki, you’re all sweaty!” you protested, laughing as you tried to push him away.

“and i missed you,” he said smiling, grabbing your chin, turning you to face him, and leaning in without hesitation to kiss you before you could respond. his lips still tinted faintly with the remnants of his stage makeup. when he pulled back, your own lips bore the faint coral hue.

“you just kissed off the last bit of your lip tint,” you said, your voice soft but teasing. “good,” riki said, his grin boyish and unrepentant. “it belongs on you anyway.”

their moment was interrupted by the other members filing into the room. jake let out a low whistle, grinning as he pointed at the couple. “you really can’t keep your lips off her, huh?”

“you’re gonna wear her out before the next show,” joked jungwon. riki rolled his eyes but kept his arm firmly around your waist. “jealousy isn’t a good look on you guys.”

“sure, sure,” jake said with a laugh. “just try not to kiss off her patience, too.” you shook your head smiling, “too late for that.”

riki leans down to kiss your lips again and looked into your eyes, ignoring the teasing entirely. “lucky for me, she loves me anyway.”

“unfortunately for me,” you muttered, though the warmth in your smile gave you away.

⋆｡°✩ @miukidoll @flufflights

[ttsukiimi]

❛ A CONCUBINE’S DUTY! ❜

୨୧⋆ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬  ⎯ What you didn't expect was for the king of curses to place you on his throne and drop to the ground. Sukuna grinned mischievously up at you. "You're the first I've kneeled before. You should revel in that."

୨୧⋆ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬  ⎯ trueform!sukuna x fem!reader, smut (mdni), fingering, implied size differece, overstimulation, slight choking, slight nipple play, sukuna uses a tongue on his hand, multiple orgasms, reader passes out for some minutes, oral (female receiving), sukuna referred to as lord, reader referred to as (woman)

Your legs seemed to tremble under you with each nervous step you took, threatening to give out under the weight of unease settling into you. And there was no denying it, after weeks of your initial arrival, Sukuna had finally summoned you--though your heart felt heavy and skittish in your chest.

Some have described him as immoral, wicked...malevolent even. How would he treat you? A lowly concubine, not to mention he had countless others.

In the midst of your thinking, you failed to notice you had arrived to his chamber. You opened the door and met with the sight of Sukuna, sat on his throne and deliciously manspread.

His eyes lit up as he saw you, interested, his mind already racing with thoughts of what he'd do to you.

Quickly, you bowed to the ground, your ears perking at the unusual sound of his deep yet rich laughter.

"How amusing. Up," he ordered, and you complied. You awkwardly stood at the foot of his throne, your neck craning up just to have a look at him, and though you felt so small, as if you were prey, you slowly began to admire him. It's the first time you've seen him this up close, and you’re not afraid to say that he’s devilishly handsome.

Sukuna patted his thigh, now your personal seat, and you sat. “You seem uptight.” He rasped in your ear, his upper hands fondling with your chest while his lower held you in place. “Let's fix that.”

And after came the sound of your top being ripped to shreds, a gasp leaving your parted lips as he began to play with your nipples. You failed to stifle the moans that poured out of your mouth, embarrassed as he hadn’t even really done anything yet.

He noticed this and grinned. “I think I’ll enjoy you,”

One of his hands snaked down to the innermost part of your thigh, his long fingers swiping up and down your sopping folds, collecting your slick. Sukuna inwardly groaned at the wet feeling and pushed a finger into your hole, gritting his teeth in resistance at how tightly you clamped around his digit.

"Fuck, don't think I'll fit." he sighed smugly, adding another and beginning to slowly move them and out. "But I think you can take it, can't you?"

You nodded. That was all you wanted in the moment--the hard cock you could feel rising under your ass--but you knew not to speak until spoken to. Your hands moved on their own to his lap and palmed his erection, an amused look blooming on his face.

Sukuna removed his finger from your cunt and shoved them into your mouth, reaching your throat and causing you to choke. "You don't have permission to touch me yet, woman" he hummed. "But I guarantee your pussy will determine if you get to or not."

Tears welled down your cheeks as you gasped for air, chest heaving, and your heart rate only skyrocketed as you felt the tip of his cock lined up to your entrance.

He thrust himself in, not giving you any time to adjust to his abnormally huge size. Sukuna sucked his teeth--just as he thought--you were too tight for him to move.

"Relax some," his voice boomed in your ear, and you tried your best to do so. But he was impatient, dying to feel you sucking around him, and began fucking up into you soon after.

Sukuna had this...thing of his. He was known for 'sometimes' being too rough on his concubines, leaving them unable to walk and passed out after he was done--but those were for his pure amusement. This time, he thinks, he won't be able to hold himself back from breaking you.

Your moans echoed throughout the spacious room, eyes closing shut in a mix of pain and pleasure. "Lord Sukuna!" you mewled, feeling wetness slide down your thighs, trembling as the intrusion of his cock left your back arched in pleasure.

"Tch. I don't remember giving you permission to talk either." he gritted his teeth, a hand cupping your cheeks and forcing you to look up him. Sukuna held eye contact with you, occasionally breaking the contact to stare at the way your tits bounced as he fucked you.

He felt so deep, reaching the spots you didn't know could even be touched, his tip brushing past your sweet spot every so often. And you felt so overstimulated, quivering in his hold, but Sukuna's hand slid down to your thighs once more, and there was suddenly a tongue lapping at your pussy.

You had forgotten he could do that.

"mmf--!" you were cut off by a hand squeezing your throat. Your orgasm came crashing down onto you, swooping you off your feet and it had you seeing stars as you came on his cock.

Though, until he was done, nothing was done. You came two more times until he finally pulled out, spurting his hot seed on your tits and face, admiring his work after.

What you didn't expect was for the king of curses to place you on his throne and drop to the ground. Sukuna grinned mischievously up at you.

"You're the first I've kneeled before. You should revel in that." he spoke before he began to eat you out, slurping at your wetness and sucking on your puffy, red clit. Something in him was enjoying this a bit too much.

He watched you break down in front of him, trembling, trying your best to keep your eyes and legs open for the man under you, but by your sixth you were spent, unable to control your limp limbs anymore.

Sukuna's face covered in slick was the last thing you saw before your vision dotted black, and you were out. When you finally came to, you weren't in your room, and by the way his cum still dripped from your body, you could tell it wasn't long after you passed out.

Your vision darted around; the lavish bed you woke up on, the intricate details everywhere--it couldn't be.

But a door opened and there was Sukuna, a towel hung loosely over his hips, his blush pink hair wet and dripping onto his skin. He walked towards you, drying his hair before he sat down on the opposite side of the bed. "You'll be sleeping here from now on."

[onlyforyoukook]

Let’s make a movie | JJK

paring: jungkook x fem¡reader

synopsis: you suggested the idea, to make a sex tape with jungkook.

genre: one shot„smut„non idol au

wc 4.4k

their playlist 🙃: dollhouse - the weeknd & lily rose depp, for me? - asal, nice & slow - usher, anytime, anyplace - janet jackson, pony - ginuwine, earned it - the weeknd, or nah - the weeknd, skin - rihanna, when we - tank

WARNINGS: MDNI. filming, oral (m & f receiving), cum swallowing, pet names, aftercare.

You're sitting in your living room, snuggled up on the couch with Jungkook, watching TV. The credits of a movie roll on the screen, and you turn to him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“Hey, Kookie,” you say, a playful tone in your voice. “I have an idea.”

Jungkook turns to look at you, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Oh yeah?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. “And what idea might that be?”

You lean in closer to him, a sly smile on your lips.

“Let's make a sex tape” you whisper in his ear, your voice low and seductive.

Jungkook's eyes widen slightly at your suggestion, clearly not expecting that.

“A sex tape?” he repeats, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Are you serious?”

You nod, your smile turning even more mischievous.

“Yeah, why not?” you say, your voice low. “It could be fun, and we could keep it just for us.”

Jungkook hesitates for a moment, considering your suggestion. He looks at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

“I don't know, babe,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Isn't that kind of risky? What if someone else sees it?”

You chuckle softly at Jungkook's concern, finding his protectiveness endearing.

“Babe, relax” you say, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “Nobody will see it unless one of us decides to show it to someone, and it'll be on a camera, so it's not like it's just going to be floating around out there.”

Jungkook looks at you for a moment, considering your words. He knows you have a point, and he can't deny the idea is kind of exciting.

“Okay, fair enough” he says, his expression softening. “But we have to be careful with it, alright? No one else can see it, and we need to keep it hidden somewhere safe.”

You get up from the couch and head to the bedroom, where you have a camera stashed away in a drawer. You grab it and return to the living room, where Jungkook is waiting for you.

“Ready?” you ask, holding up the camera with a playful grin.

"Definitely ready," he says, his voice low and husky.

Jungkook grins back at you, his eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation. He gets up from the couch and follows you to the bedroom, his steps a little more eager than usual.

Once you're both in the bedroom, you set the camera up on a tripod facing the bed. You adjust the angle and make sure it's capturing the entire bed and everything that will happen on it. Jungkook watches you intently, leaning against the wall and watching as you fiddle with the camera settings. He can feel his excitement building, his heart rate increasing with each passing second.

Once you're satisfied with the camera setup, you turn to Jungkook with a sultry smile. He pushes himself off the wall and walks over to you, his eyes fixed on yours. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him. He looks down at you, his expression full of desire and anticipation.

“So, where do we start?” he asks, his voice low and husky in your ear.

You run your hands up Jungkook's chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt. You look up at him, your eyes locked on his.

“Right here” you whisper, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “Let's get these clothes off.”

Jungkook grins at your suggestion, his hands already moving to remove his shirt. He pulls it off in one swift motion, revealing his toned abs and muscular arms. He stands there in front of you, shirtless and radiating confidence. He runs a hand through his messy hair, his eyes roaming over your body.

Jungkook steps closer to you, his body mere inches from yours. He reaches out and grabs your hips, pulling you against him. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He leans down, his lips hovering just above yours.

“You have no idea how much I want you right now” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. You shiver slightly at his words, your body responding to his touch and proximity. You look up at him, your eyes filled with desire and need.

“I think I have an idea” you reply, your voice a bit shaky. “Because I want you just as badly”

Without hesitation, Jungkook closes the remaining distance between you and captures your lips in a heated kiss. His lips are soft yet demanding, and he wastes no time deepening the kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth, exploring and claiming you as his own. He pulls you even closer, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he devours your mouth with his. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your jawline and neck, nipping and sucking on your sensitive skin.

Jungkook lifts you up with ease, his strong arms effortlessly supporting your weight. He carries you over to the bed, his lips never leaving your skin. He gently sets you down on the edge of the bed, his hands already moving to remove your shirt. He pulls it over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. He looks down at you, taking in the sight of your bare torso, his eyes dark with desire. He reaches for the waistband of your pants, slowly unbuttoning them and sliding them down your legs, leaving you in just your panties.

Once your pants are off, Jungkook kneels down in front of you. He runs his hands up your thighs, his touch gentle. He looks up at you, his eyes burning with desire as he leans in and begins to trail kisses down your body. He starts at your stomach, his lips moving slowly and deliberately over your skin. He presses kisses along your hips, nipping and sucking on the sensitive flesh as he works his way lower.

Jungkook reaches your panties, and he gently slides them to the side, exposing your most intimate parts. He looks up at you one more time, his eyes locked on yours as he positions himself between your legs. He leans in, his warm breath hitting your skin as he moves closer to your center. He gives your inner thighs a few gentle kisses before focusing his attention on your clit. He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, tasting you and savoring the moment.

Jungkook moans against you as he continues to lick and tease your clit, his tongue swirling and flicking against the sensitive bud. He looks up at you again, his eyes locked on yours as he speaks between kisses.

“You taste so good, baby” he says, his voice low and hoarse.

Jungkook moves his hands to grip your hips, holding you in place as he begins to lick and suck on your clit in earnest. He uses his tongue and lips to drive you wild, determined to make you feel as good as possible. He alternates between slow, firm strokes and rapid, flicking motions, always keeping a watchful eye on your reactions to gauge what you like the most.

You can't help but moan and arch your back at the feeling of Jungkook's tongue on you. The sight of him between your legs, looking up at you with such desire and determination, is almost too much to bear. You reach down and tangle your fingers in his hair, needing something to hold onto as he works his magic on you.

“Oh god, Jungkook” you gasp, your voice shaky and filled with pleasure. “That feels so good”

Jungkook picks up the pace, knowing that you're getting close. He focuses his attention solely on your clit, his tongue moving in tight, circular motions. He uses his lips and suction to add to the sensation, creating a delicious friction that has you writhing beneath him. He looks up at you again, his eyes dark with lust as he notices the signs of your impending orgasm. He keeps going, not letting up for a second, wanting to make sure you cum hard and long on his tongue.

You can feel your orgasm building, the heat and tension coiling tighter and tighter in your lower belly. Jungkook's relentless attention to your clit is driving you wild, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of release.

You tug on his hair harder, unable to form words as you moan and whimper under his ministrations. Your body is tense, every muscle straining as you approach your climax.

With one final flick of his tongue against your clit, you're sent hurtling over the edge. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, washing over you in waves of intense pleasure. You arch your back and cry out, your fingers clenching tightly in Jungkook's hair as your body spasms and shudders with release. He keeps his mouth on you, lapping up every drop of your juices as you cum hard on his tongue. You lay there, panting and gasping for breath as you come down from your high. Your body is still tingling from the intense orgasm, and you can feel the sweat cooling on your skin.

Jungkook lifts his head, looking up at you with a satisfied smirk. He licks his lips, savoring the taste of you. As you start to catch your breath, you suddenly remember the camera. You glance over at it, still perched on the tripod, and an idea forms in your mind.

You slowly sit up, still a bit shaky from your orgasm. You look down at Jungkook, who is still kneeling between your legs, and smile.

“Hey,” you say, your voice a bit hoarse. “Get up for a sec.”

Jungkook looks up at you, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. He raises an eyebrow, but does as you ask and gets up from the floor.

“What's up?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

You stand up as well, and you take a step towards the camera. You can feel Jungkook's eyes on you as you walk, his gaze following your every move. You pick up the camera from the tripod, adjusting the focus and making sure it's still recording.

You turn to face Jungkook, camera in hand. He's standing there, watching you with a mixture of anticipation and desire. You hold the camera out to him, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“Here” you say, gesturing for him to take the camera. “You get to be the director for this part.”

Jungkook grins and takes the camera from you, adjusting it in his hands as he prepares to record. He looks down at you, his eyes roaming over your naked body as you crawl towards him on the bed.

You make your way up the bed, stopping when you're kneeling between Jungkook's legs. You reach out and hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them down over his hips. Jungkook lets out a low groan as his cock springs free, finally released from the confines of his underwear. He adjusts the camera, making sure to get a good angle as you settle between his legs.

You settle yourself between Jungkook's legs, your eyes locked on his hard cock. It's long and thick, already hard and throbbing for you. You reach out and wrap your hand around the base, giving it a gentle squeeze. You look up at Jungkook through your lashes, a small smile on your face as you start to tease him. Jungkook's breath hitches as you begin to tease him, his eyes darkening with desire. He holds the camera steady, focusing it on your face and your hand wrapped around his cock.

He lets out a low, strained groan as you give him a few slow, deliberate strokes, your fingers trailing up and down his length. You look up at Jungkook again, your eyes sparkling with mischief. Without warning, you lean forward and wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

Jungkook lets out a low moan, his grip on the camera tightening as he watches you take him into your mouth. He adjusts the angle of the camera slightly, making sure to get a good view of your lips wrapped around his cock.

You slowly begin to bob your head up and down, taking more and more of his cock into your mouth with each movement. You keep your eyes locked on his face, watching as pleasure washes over his features. Jungkook lets out a string of curses, his breathing ragged and uneven as he struggles to keep the camera steady. He looks like he's struggling to hold on, his entire body tense with arousal. Jungkook watches you intently, his eyes never leaving your face as you suck him off. He lets out a shaky breath, his voice low and rough.

“Fuck, baby” he groans. “Your mouth feels so good.”

You continue to work his cock with your mouth, using your tongue to swirl around the tip and apply just the right amount of suction. You can feel him getting closer and closer to the edge, his breathing becoming more and more erratic. Jungkook's free hand tangles in your hair, his fingers gripping tightly as he tries to hold on. He looks like he's struggling to keep control, his body tense and his jaw clenched tight.

Jungkook lets out another string of curses, his words coming out in a jumbled mess as he gets more and more worked up. He's practically panting now, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath.

“I'm not gonna last much longer” he grits out, his voice strained. “You're driving me crazy baby.”

You can tell that Jungkook is close to cumming. His body is taut, his muscles tense as he struggles to hold on just a little longer. You increase your efforts, bobbing your head faster and taking him deeper into your throat. Jungkook's grip on your hair tightens even more, his fingers pulling slightly as he tries to control the urge to thrust up into your mouth. He's panting heavily now, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. Finally, with a strangled cry, he reaches his peak. He throws his head back, his eyes squeezed shut as he lets out a stream of hot cum into your mouth. You swallow his cum, taking everything he has to give. You continue to lick and suck at his sensitive cock, wanting to make sure you've milked every last drop out of him.

Once he's finished, you pull back and sit up. You look down at him, a satisfied smirk on your face as you admire the wrecked expression on his face. Jungkook is still catching his breath, his chest heaving as he tries to recover from his intense orgasm. He looks up at you with a dazed expression, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust and awe.

You straddle Jungkook's hips, settling yourself on top of him. You can feel his cock twitching against your inner thigh, still slick with your saliva and his cum. Jungkook lets out a low groan as he feels your weight on top of him. He reaches out and grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as he tries to ground himself.

“You're going to be the death of me” he murmurs, his voice still shaky from his earlier orgasm. You smirk at him, clearly enjoying the effect you have on him. You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a few slow strokes to bring it back to full hardness.

Jungkook lets out a strangled moan, his eyes fluttering closed as he arches up into your touch. He's still sensitive from his orgasm, but his cock responds eagerly to your ministrations, hardening once again under your skilled hand.

You position yourself above Jungkook's cock, the tip brushing against your entrance. You can feel how wet you are, your own arousal having been heightened by pleasuring him. Jungkook's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he watches you prepare to take him in. He looks up at you with a mixture of anticipation and desperation, his eyes dark and hungry.

You slowly sink down onto Jungkook's cock, taking him inch by inch until he's fully sheathed inside you. You let out a low moan as you adjust to his size, feeling the delicious stretch as your body stretches to accommodate him. Jungkook groans in response, his hands sliding up from your hips to your waist. He watches as you begin to ride him, his eyes glued to the place where your bodies are connected. He lifts one hand from your waist and grabs your breast, squeezing it firmly as he records you with his other hand.

Jungkook looks up at you, his eyes dark, as he watches you ride him. He squeezes your breast again, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

“You're taking me so good, baby” he groans, his voice low and rough. “You feel so tight and wet around me”

You lean forward slightly, giving Jungkook a better view of your body as you ride him. You let out a breathy moan as you grind your hips down against his, taking him even deeper inside you.

“Feels so good, daddy,” you reply, your voice low and sultry. “Your cock fills me up so perfectly, love having inside of me.”

As soon as the word “daddy” leaves your lips, Jungkook's grip on you tightens even more. His eyes flash with something primal, and he lets out a low growl in response. He suddenly sits up, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he inhales deeply.

“Say it again” he growls in your ear. “Call me daddy again baby.”

You let out a shaky breath as Jungkook's arms wrap around you, pulling you close. You can feel his chest pressed against yours, his heart beating rapidly against your skin. You tilt your head to the side, exposing your neck to him. You know what he wants to hear, and you're more than happy to oblige.

“Daddy” you repeat, your voice low and breathy. “My daddy.”

Jungkook lets out a growl as you call him “daddy” again. He moves his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. He sucks hard, his teeth grazing against your skin as he marks you with a dark hickey. He pulls back slightly to admire his handiwork, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“That's right” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

Jungkook lays back down, holding the camera steady, recording as you begin to bounce up and down on his cock. He watches you intently, his eyes never leaving your face as you move on top of him. He adjusts the angle of the camera slightly, making sure to capture every moment. He wants to remember this, wants to be able to watch it back and relive it over and over again.

As you ride Jungkook, you can feel your orgasm approaching. The pleasure is building inside you, each movement of your hips sending waves of ecstasy through your body. You start to move faster, chasing your high as you grind down on his cock. You can feel him getting close again too, his grip on you tightening as he tries to hold on.

Jungkook lets out a low moan as he feels his second orgasm approaching. He watches you, his eyes dark and intense, as you ride him with increasing urgency. Suddenly, he can't hold back any longer. He lets out a groan as he comes, his hips bucking up into you as he spills inside you. As soon as he finishes, he quickly turns you over onto your stomach. He pushes your hair out of the way and grabbing the camera, ready to record your next position.

Jungkook moves behind you, positioning himself between your legs. He grabs your hips and lifts them slightly, giving him a better angle to slide into you from behind.

He doesn't waste any time, immediately starting to thrust into you at a relentless pace. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, using the leverage to drive his cock even deeper inside you.

As Jungkook pounds into you from behind, he lets out a low growl and leans down to your ear.

“Who does this pussy belong to baby?” he demands, his voice rough and possessive. “Say it.”

You let out a gasp as Jungkook hits a particularly sensitive spot inside you. The pleasure is almost overwhelming, and it takes you a moment to form a coherent response.

“It's yours daddy” you manage to say, your voice shaky. “My pussy belongs to you. It's all yours. All for you.”

Jungkook grins at your response, clearly pleased by your words. He releases your wrists and slides one hand down to your lower back, rubbing soothing circles on your skin.

“That's right baby," he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You're my good girl. You know who you belong to, don't you?”

You nod, your head bobbing up and down as you try to focus on Jungkook's words. The feeling of him inside you, filling you up so completely, is making it hard to think straight.

“Yes daddy” you manage to gasp out. “I'm your good girl. I belong to you. Only you.”

Jungkook's grin widens at your repeated affirmation. He leans down again, his chest pressed against your back, and nuzzles his face into your hair.

“Good girl” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “You're so good for me.“

As Jungkook continues to pound into you from behind, he remembers the camera in his hand. He lifts it up and focuses the lens on where your bodies are connected, capturing the sight of his cock disappearing into your pussy. He groans as he watches, completely captivated by the way your body takes him in. He leans back slightly, giving himself a better view.

“Fuck baby,” he mutters, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Your pussy is so beautiful. It looks so good taking my cock like this.”

Jungkook can't take his eyes off the camera screen, completely mesmerized by the sight of himself fucking you. He lets out a shaky breath as he continues to watch, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic. He zooms in on your pussy, getting a close up shot of how your body stretches to accommodate his cock. He groans again, his voice thick with arousal.

“So tight...so wet...fuck...”

The sight of himself pounding into you on the camera screen is almost too much for Jungkook to handle. He can feel his third orgasm approaching rapidly, spurred on by the erotic sight of his cock disappearing into your tight, wet pussy. He groans again, his grip on the camera tightening as he struggles to keep himself together.

“Fuck, princess” he grits out. “I'm not gonna last much longer, you're driving me crazy.”

You hear Jungkook's words, and a smirk crosses your face as you realize how close he is to cumming. You clench your inner muscles around him, trying to push him over the edge.

“Cum for me, daddy” you gasp out, your voice laced with need. “I want to feel you cum inside me again.”

Jungkook lets out a strangled cry as he reaches his climax, his hips bucking wildly as he spills his hot cum deep inside you for the third time that night. At the same time, you feel your own orgasm wash over you, your body clenching and spasming around his cock as waves of pleasure course through you.

After a few moments of catching his breath, Jungkook slowly pulls out of you and sits up. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and adoration. He runs a hand through your hair, gently brushing it away from your face.

“Stay here baby” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I'll be right back.”

He gets up from the bed and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the sound of water running as he starts running a bath for you both.

As Jungkook prepares the bath, you slowly sit up in bed and look around for the camera. You spot it lying on the bed beside you, and a mischievous grin spreads across your face. You pick up the camera and turn it towards yourself, zooming in on your face. You look thoroughly fucked, your hair a mess and your cheeks flushed from exertion. You turn the camera to capture the bed, focusing on the wet spots where you and Jungkook had been.

You pause for a moment, thinking about how far you and Jungkook have come in just a few hours. You never expected things to turn out this way, but you can't deny that it's been incredible. Jungkook walks back into the room, carrying a towel and a robe. He stops in his tracks when he sees you holding the camera, a smirk on your face. He raises an eyebrow at you, clearly amused by your antics.

“Whatcha doing baby?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

You hold up the camera and give Jungkook a sly grin.

“I'm recording the aftermath” you say, your voice laced with amusement. “I figured it would make for some interesting memories later on.”

Jungkook chuckles and shakes his head, clearly amused by your unabashed behavior.

“You're something else, you know that?” he says, as he walks over to the bed and helps you up. “Come on, let's get you cleaned up.”

He leads you into the bathroom, where a warm, inviting bath is waiting for you both. He helps you into the tub, making sure you're comfortable before sliding in behind you.

As you and Jungkook settle into the warm water of the bath, you let out a contented sigh. You lean back against his chest, feeling completely relaxed and spent. Jungkook wraps his arms around you, holding you close as he gently runs a washcloth over your body. He takes his time, being extra careful as he cleans you up. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Jungkook speaks up.

“I think that's the most fun I've ever had in my life,” he says, his voice filled with satisfaction. You chuckle softly and nod in agreement, tilting your head back to look up at him.

“I think you're right,” you say, a small smile on your face. “It was definitely an experience I won't forget anytime soon.”

MASTERLIST

[prettygirl-gabi]

Pretty Annoying

Pairing: Azzi Fudd x Reader

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: you and Azzi go live to review a PR package….

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @let-zizi-yap , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav , @liloandstitchstan , @kaliblazin

I should’ve known going live with Azzi while trying on a PR package full of outfits was a dangerous idea. Not because she was chaotic—she was honestly the calm one between us. But because she had a one-track mind when it came to me, and it was always stuck in the gutter.

Still, I had promised the brand I’d do a little live try-on and review, and I figured it’d be cute to have Azzi on with me. Give her some fashion commentary duties. She agreed too quickly.

Our shared apartment had great lighting in the living room, so I propped up my phone on the tripod, arranged the box of clothes beside me, and set a few pieces aside I already knew I wanted to model. Azzi sat cross-legged on the couch in a cropped UConn hoodie and shorts, hair in braids, looking effortlessly fine. She had her iPad ready for chat-monitoring, but I could already tell from her smirk that her attention span would be short-lived.

“Alright,” I said into the camera as people poured into the live, “we’re doing a little PR unboxing slash try-on haul. I roped Azzi into being my personal commentator.”

Azzi raised two fingers in a lazy peace sign. “Hi guys. I’ll be rating her outfits. Totally professionally.”

“She’s lying,” I muttered, pulling out the first piece. It was a silky, champagne-colored mini dress with spaghetti straps. I held it up for the camera. “This looks fire already.”

I ducked into the hallway to change and came back out, adjusting the hem slightly. “Okay, what are we thinking?”

Azzi looked up and went quiet for a beat too long.

I turned to the side, then looked back at her. “Hello? Judge Judy?”

Her eyes flicked up to my face, but she was clearly trying not to laugh. “Sorry, what was the question?”

“The dress, Azzi.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s…fine.” Her voice cracked mid-word.

“You suck at this,” I snorted, spinning once for the camera, showing how the back dipped low. “She’s drooling, y’all.”

“She is,” someone typed in the chat, and I could see the username: azzisgfclub.

Azzi rolled her eyes and tried to look serious, tapping on the iPad. “Y’all need to behave.”

I went back to change and heard Azzi say into the mic, “She knows what she’s doing,” like I wasn’t in the next room grinning.

The next fit was a two-piece set—a fitted ribbed crop top and matching midi skirt in dusty blue. I walked back out, adjusting the top a little, then posed with one hand on my hip. “Better?”

Azzi looked me up and down and licked her lips before she caught herself. “Mhm.”

“That’s all I get? Mhm?” I asked, smirking at the camera.

“She’s not even looking at the clothes,” someone else commented. “Azzi is analyzing the body.”

Azzi scoffed but said nothing. I watched her trying to keep a straight face and failing.

I walked past her toward the phone to read more comments—and that’s when it happened.

Unintentionally, as I turned to adjust the camera angle, I bent slightly to fix the tripod leg and ended up sticking my butt right in Azzi’s face.

I didn’t even realize what I’d done until I heard the loud smack that echoed on the mic.

“AZZI. JAZLYN. FUDD!” I turned, eyes wide, half laughing, half scandalized.

She just shrugged, eyes twinkling. “It was right there.”

The comments exploded.

“SHE JUST SMACKED HER ASS???!!!”

“Azzi said idc if we’re live 😭😭”

“Y/n: models Azzi: loses religion”

“Nah she’s focused on everything BUT the outfits”

“Azzi is TOUCH STARVEDEEE”

“Y/n gon’ need a new PR package AND new cheeks 💀💀💀”

I covered my face, laughing so hard my stomach hurt. “Y’all are doing TOO much.”

Azzi, smug as ever, leaned into the mic. “They’re not wrong.”

I pointed a warning finger at her. “You’re supposed to be professional.”

“I was trying,” she said, tossing a pillow onto her lap like she needed a distraction. “But then your whole ass came flying into my face, and I made a reflex decision.”

I gave the camera a fake-annoyed look and said, “This is what I deal with. Every day.”

More laughs in the comments. I retreated to change into the last outfit, a sleek black jumpsuit with a deep V and fitted waist. When I stepped back out, I saw Azzi’s eyes immediately drop to my waist.

I was mid-spin when I caught her hand reaching out to tug on the tie at the back of the jumpsuit. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing it. Totally innocent.”

The chat wasn’t buying it either.

“Azzi’s like lemme just—adjust 😏”

“She is FOCUSED. Not on the jumpsuit tho.”

“Azzi you’re embarrassing yourself. (Keep going.)”

I laughed and turned toward her. “You know, you could at least try to look at the fabric, not my ass.”

Azzi tilted her head and said, deadpan, “It’s a really nice ass, though.”

I gasped in mock offense. “That’s not the point of the haul!”

“You’re distracting me on purpose.”

“You agreed to be my judge!”

“I thought I was judging you, not the clothes.”

I stared at her, grinning, as I read more of the comments aloud. “Azzi is drooling. Azzi’s girl looks too good. Azzi is focused on everything but the fashion. Damn, I feel so supported.”

Azzi side-eyed me. “You’re pretty annoying.”

I blinked, playing it up. “Oh my God… you think I’m pretty?”

She groaned, scrubbing her hands over her face. “And that’s the annoying part.”

The chat exploded again.

“AZZI STOPPP THAT WAS SO CUTE”

“PRETTY ANNOYING 😭😭😭”

“Just propose already omg”

“That was the most sapphic hate-to-love moment ever”

I dramatically clutched my chest. “You know what? I’m gonna start doing these hauls solo. Next time, I’ll call Paige.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “She wouldn’t survive.”

I laughed and walked back into frame, grabbing the next piece. “Okay, we’ve got a few accessories left. Can you focus now?”

Azzi looked me up and down again, then shrugged. “I’ll try. No promises.”

Halfway through showing off a bag, she reached up and brushed her hand down my arm like it was nothing.

I looked down. “Ma’am?”

“Just admiring the…uh…texture. Of your skin.”

“The texture?” I deadpanned.

Azzi just grinned, knowing she was caught.

I wrapped up the haul with a final wave to the camera. “Thank y’all for tuning in. This PR haul has turned into thirst hour for Azzi, but we love that for her.”

“Love is a strong word,” Azzi muttered.

I reached down and kissed her forehead. “She loves it here.”

The comments cheered and flooded the screen with hearts and “SHIPPP” and “AZZI IS WHIPPEDDDD.”

Before I ended the live, Azzi leaned into the camera, gave it a mischievous look, and said, “Thanks for watching. She’s mine, by the way.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Possessive much?”

“Pretty annoying, remember?”

And she winked.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[stevie-petey]

track five: gasoline, pretty please

“Don’t fucking touch her.”  Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage? The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin.  “Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

Summary: screaming crowds and flashing lights with steves name on everyones lips. everyones lips but yours; the lips he cant forget. when you get offered a job that would force you to leave the februarys behind, steve only has one last chance to beg you for more.

Rating: general, some swearing, blood

Warnings: swearing, reader gets physically assaulted, mentions of blood, heavy heavy alcohol use, please be careful reading, fem!reader, use of y/n

Words: 22.3k (a new writing record. ouch)

Before you swing in: WE'RE HERE !!! THE FINAL CHAPTER !!!! whew. lots to discuss about this chapter for a multitude of reasons. first, it was hard to write. second, i am very tired. third, i would kill for mike in this story. finally, i will be continuing this universe with an extra epilogue chapter and then blurbs upon requests. stay tuned for details :) for now, enjoy this messy and slightly chaotic final chapter for my favorite messy and slightly chaotic love story <3

-

“I think I was a fucking terrorist or some shit in another life.”

Robin doesn’t look up from her keyboard. She plays a note, frowns, and then adjusts its tune before trying again. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Steve shoves his rings onto his anxious fingers. The lights on the vanity he sits at almost blind him. Each of his five senses heighten unbearably. “I mean, it’s the only thing I can think of to explain my colossally shit luck.”

“Could just be your stunning personality.” Max buttons her shirt, standing behind him in the mirror. She smooths the fabric down and studies her appearance. “Also, you’re the one who insisted we include the song in the album.”

“I just don’t understand why Rosie became the song everyone wants to fucking fixate on.” Steve runs a hand through hair, fixing its odd sticking strands. Any minute now someone will tell him that the show will start soon. He can’t stand the sickly sensation of his flushed skin, overly warm from the idea of singing love sick lyrics in a sold out venue. 

Mike cuffs his shirt and shrugs. “A good song is a good song.” 

Jonathan helps him with the cuff links. “I don’t know,” he shrugs towards Steve. “It is unfortunately ironic.”

Ironic. What a brilliant fucking way to view the fact that somehow the most vulnerable song Steve has ever written in his entire career has become the number one single from an album currently topping every chart in the country. 

If Steve thought recording an album dedicated to every intricate dip of your neck was difficult, performing the song to you each and every night named after an endearment you no longer call him creates a hell that biblical choirs mourn over. 

“Thanks, Byers,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Really appreciate the camaraderie.”

“That’s the most you’re getting out of me.” Jonathan checks his own reflection in the mirror. “Like Max said: you wanted Rosie to be on the album. Now it is.”

“Stevie begged for it before he realized what the begging entailed.” Robin snickers, playing another note on her keyboard. She got dressed long before the others. “Now he’s eating his own theatrical words like a pathetic little mouse.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue and say that yes, he had begged for Rosie to be on the album because he thought that one day he’d be able to play the song for you over a record player and lay in bed with you while the lyrics blanketed over your tired bodies. He didn’t think that one day you’d be unable to even look at him, but the stage door opens and Gregory walks in with you following close behind.

On top of the many things Steve has had to force himself to ignore during the first two weeks of tour, you and Gregory becoming practically inseparable sharing a fucking tour bus together is one thing he has to bite through the calcium of his teeth to not wince at whenever he sees you together. 

“Good news!” Gregory says with a grand flourish. “Y/N saved Rosie.”

A stray chord scratches on Max’s bass. The ring Steve had been holding pings on the ground when it falls from his surprised hand. Jonathan and Robin glance at each other. Mike coughs awkwardly.

“The stage crew wanted to make the lights red during the song,” you’re quick to fill in the gaps that Gregory created. “I talked to them. It’ll be pink. Rosie. Like usual.”

“Isn’t she great?” Gregory looks right at Steve when he says this.

His eye twitches. “The greatest.”

Professional, Steve has to remind himself. That’s all she asked from you. Professional.

Clearing his throat, Steve tries to abide by your needs. “Thanks, Y/N. Seriously.”

“Of course,” you don’t flinch at the forced niceties. Instead, you smile politely at him and in the dim backstage lighting it almost looks easy for you to do. He tries not to think that, either. “You pay me to get the best pictures, right?”

Steve swallows. “Right.”

“Then that’s what I’m here to do.” 

The ease in which you hold onto your end of the agreement tastes bitter in Steve’s begging mouth. He doesn’t understand how you’re able to talk to him as if he wasn’t drunk on the way you tasted the night the crossed lines stitched the two of you together.

He still hasn’t forgotten the taste.

But maybe you have. Maybe it was simply easier for you to forget than to acknowledge anything else. Like choking down chalky medicine meant to soothe a sore throat.

“Good luck out there tonight, guys.” Gregory beams at the band. “I’ll never not be excited to see you guys in action.”

Robin smirks, endeared. “Should we consider you our biggest fan?”

“Oh, definitely.”

The rest of the band laughs, though Steve’s laughter doesn’t join. He remains quiet, only offering a small smile. The more he bites his tongue, the deeper the wound becomes. But it’s for the best. 

“Seems I have some competition, then.” 

Steve can’t help the way his head turns to the sound of your voice. He looks at you, surprised by what you’ve said, and your eyes shine just a little, just enough to tell him that you’re still watching, still paying attention to him. 

Jonathan drapes an arm over your shoulders. He knocks your head together and ruffles your hair. “Not going to let Gregory win this one?”

Childish laughter bubbles in your chest. “Never.”

Gregory feigns betrayal, clutching his chest and gasping for air, and this time the laughter that echoes in the dressing room reverberates back Steve’s own laugh. If he closes his eyes, he can almost trick himself into believing that what’s best for you is also what’s best for him.

–

Sweat drips down Steve’s neck. He will never get used to the heat of the purple and pink stage lights. 

A dull ache stitches in his muscles from how tightly he clings onto the microphone stand. A desperate attempt to remain upright. His mouth opens and crass humor and pathetic pleas pour out for the audience to keep demanding more from him. 

As long as someone demands more from Steve, he’ll give everything he has to perform how they want him to. 

He’ll strain his voice to be heard over the unkempt screams. He’ll toss his guitar to Mike in between songs if it means the audience will cheer just a little louder, just a little harder. His jacket will drape over Robin’s delicate shoulders if it means it’ll placate her nervous smile during songs that cut too deep into Steve’s jugular. His expectant hands will catch Jonathan’s drumsticks and he’ll share his mic with Max for a glimpse of their smiles.

And it works. Somehow, by some goddamn miracle, it works.

The audience screams Steve’s name. They scream their name. The Februarys. Mike’s and Robin’s. Jonathan’s and Max’s. 

Begging-soaked hands hold together the band that Steve has spent his entire life dreaming of. He dances with his childhood friends and he laughs with them and he sings the songs they’ve written together—even if the lyrics twist his intestines to perform.

Every night Steve forces himself to smile and coaxes strangers to cheer for the band he desperately wants to preserve.

Yet you’re the only one he performs for.

Always lilac in the lighting. Always centered, always inches from the stage, encased in a barricade that protects you from the mass of people you somehow never seem to notice through the viewfinder that somehow never shies away from Steve’s misery. 

He hides behind his voice and his lyrics while you hide behind your filters and film. 

“We only have one more song tonight,” Steve says into the mic. A stray piece of sweat-slicked hair falls into his face. He messily shoves it back while a cacophony of displeased boos fills the venue. His chest rises in amusement. “Aw, don’t be like that to me. Aren’t I always nice?”

He doesn’t mean to look at you when he says it.

Steve thinks that his question receives screamed responses and whistling, but he can’t focus on anything other than your exasperated smile and the slight shake of your head. Always performing for you. 

“I think you’re plenty nice,” Robin plays a few chords, smiling wide when she’s met with excited cheers. “But I personally think you could be a little nicer.”

He rolls his eyes in a fond, secretive manner. For just a moment his attention slips from you. “Is that so?”

Robin’s lips press into a smirk. “A couple more songs wouldn’t hurt.”

He hums. “And which songs would those be?”

“I don’t know,” she plays coy, leaning into the mic. “I heard that Going is pretty good live.”

More eruptive cheers. While Rosie has topped every chart, Going gets demanded for every encore. One of the few songs from the album that doesn’t focus on love, its energetic beat and lyrics about life on the road amongst friends and uncertainties resonates with more than just a lonely crowd. The raw vulnerability of being young.

One day it’ll be known as a song that defines an entire generation. 

Not needing to be told anything else, Steve laughs at the crowd’s enthusiasm, motions for Jonathan to start the count. The cheering grows into a deafening roar and quiets everything else in Steve’s head.

You capture the fleeting moment of genuine exhilaration that rarely shines on Steve’s beauty anymore. 

And he allows you.

He looks into the camera. Feels the turn of his lips. Angles his guitar so that the stage lights reflect off its blue in a small, subtle way that you once told him you loved photographing. He still remembers where to place his hands and how to pose his body for you. He still remembers everything, even if you’ve forgotten. 

The show ends and Steve thanks the crowd for everything. He exudes gratitude. Despite how often he has to fake the emotions on his face, he doesn’t have to fake the deep warmth in his chest as he thanks everyone. 

“Get home safe, everyone!” He waves at the crowd and Robin’s hand falls on his shoulders and she nudges him, reminding him to bow, and together they duck their bodies and laugh at their unsteady balance while Max and Jonathan and Mike do the same.

Backstage Gregory greets the band with unadulterated praise. “Incredible!”

Mike fist bumps him. “Always know what to say, Gregory.”

“Part of my job.”

Max takes his glasses and puts them on her own face. “Sometimes I wonder if Leonard blinded you and that’s why you’ve stayed with him for so long.”

Gregory’s head falls to the side. “Like… Stockholm syndrome?"

“Sure,” she says, indifferent. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I’d call it ‘money is money’.” Mike grabs the glasses for himself. He squints through them and makes a pained sound. “Jesus, maybe you really were blinded by the guy.”

“I don’t know how we ended up here,” Gregory looks between the two kids, amusement slowly turning to concern. “But can I have my glasses back?”

Max looks at Mike. He looks right back at her. At the same time they smile. Then, without saying a word to each other, they run.

“Oh dear.” Gregory watches their figures disappear down the hall. “That’s not good.”

Jonathan pats his shoulder. “I’d start running if I were you, buddy.”

“I feared I’d have to.” The other man sighs and looks at you, extending a hand. “Care to join?”

You gently knock his hand away. “Start running without me. I wanted to show Jonathan some pictures.”

Gregory groans while Jonathan playfully shoves him. “Hope you’re a fast runner.”

“I’m really not.”

Robin pinches his cheek. “Good luck, then!”

The lighthearted wink that Gregory sends your way before he leaves further makes Steve believe that he must’ve been the worst fucking person imaginable in a previous life. Curling his fingers into his palms, he bites his tongue. There are now worn indents in the muscle from how often he bites it.

Sensing Steve’s quickly deteriorating mood, Robin yanks his arm. “C’mon,” she says, blowing you a kiss. “Let’s leave Y/N and Byers alone with their film.”

“Please don’t phrase it that way.” Jonathan gags.

You frown. “You don’t have to sound so repulsed by the idea of making a sex tape with me.” 

“Nancy would kill me–”

“We both know she’d agree with me.”

“Okay, no–”

Steve doesn’t hear the rest of the argument, getting pulled into the dressing room by Robin’s insistent tugs. A force as always, she flings him across the room with a childish giggle. He allows his body to bend at her will. He’s just grateful to be the source of Robin’s laughter.

“We fucking killed tonight!” She jumps up on the couch and sways her body to an imaginary song. Pink highlights peek through her blonde hair. A bit outgrown now, but Steve was going to re-dye the hair for her anyways tomorrow. “I think my eardrums exploded during that last encore.”

Alone with only Robin in the dressing room, Steve wanders towards a cooler full of drinks. A courtesy from the venue. He grabs the first beer he finds. Not bothering to look at the brand, he twists its top open and drinks the bitter liquid. It stings the taste of you away.

“Jonathan really nailed the bridge for More.” He agrees, licking his lips before taking another drink. “Max, too. That song is fucking hard but they’re incredible every time.”

“They are.” Robin’s dancing slows. She watches him take his third large mouthful of beer in less than a minute. “Think you should slow down, there.”

Steve drinks again. “It’s only beer.”

“I don’t care,” Robin jumps down from the couch and takes the drink from his hand. “You’ve gone through two packs this week already. It’s Friday. I don’t like it.”

Down the hall your laughter rings through the thin walls. The taste of it lingers on Steve’s lips. How can he explain that to Robin? That he can taste your laughter and feel your heartbeat and yet is expected to pretend that his molecular makeup wasn’t altered by it? 

Steve has to somehow forget the very chemical makeup of your skin while somehow hold onto what little of his life he has left. To remain professional while mourning what he could’ve had.

“I won’t drink too much tonight,” he eventually says, not looking away from Robin’s concern. When her frown only deepens, Steve cups her cheek. He hasn’t held her face since they were kids. But something within him tells him to, that she needs the comfort more than he does. “I promise, Robin.”

“That’s what you said last night.”

And the night before that. And the one before that. 

Drinking dulls the memories. Its acidity burns the edges off of them. He only drinks enough to soothe the jagged edges, but never enough to jeopardize the Februarys. Not again. He holds onto that promise with bruised knuckles. 

But he can’t tell Robin any of this. 

“Robin, please.” He grabs for the drink, but she turns away. Gritting his teeth, Steve exhales roughly. “Robin, I’m trying, alright? I am. But if you expect me to survive this entire fucking tour sober then you’re out of your mind.”

“I just don’t understand–” Something catches her eye. She turns away from Steve, closes her mouth when she sees you standing in the doorway as Jonathan walks in. You don’t follow. You haven’t been in their dressing room without Gregory or the rest of the staff members since the tour began. 

All the space, the distance. Your well-mannered responses to Steve’s forced quips. How plastic your interactions have become. Held at arm’s length from one another and how stubborn and lonely she knows the two of you are.

Robin breathes out. “Oh.” 

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asks, noticing the tension.

“Nothing,” she removes herself from Steve. Unable to look as she does so, she returns the drink. “Just don’t make me regret this, alright?”

Steve grabs her hand before she can pull away entirely. “I meant it. I really am trying.”

Blue eyes flicker over his face. They search for any ounce of falsity. They’re sad as they flicker over his lovelorn features. Reluctant, almost. Until finally she sighs. “I know you are.”

“Doesn’t really feel like there’s nothing wrong here.” Jonathan pokes his head between them. He tries not to look at the bottle in Steve’s hand. “We sure everything’s fine?”

Robin smacks him away. “Help me pack up our equipment.”

“You told Nancy you’d stop hitting me!”

“I also told her that I wouldn’t pour arsenic in your drink and have her marry me instead. Be grateful I haven’t broken my word on that one yet.”

Jonathan blinks. “Yet?”

She blows a kiss. “Watch what you drink.”

“Y/N made us give Gregory his glasses back.” Mike cuts in, stomping into the dressing room with you, Max, and Gregory behind him. He falls against the couch with a huff, knocking against Steve as he turns to him. “Tell her it’s complete bullshit, please.”

“Tell her yourself,” Steve shoves him away, uncomfortable with the assumption that you’d listen to what he has to say anyways. 

Your fingers pinch Mike’s skin, causing the boy to jump and try to hide behind Steve. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“You can’t just steal a blind person’s glasses. It borders on serious ethical concerns.”

Gregory fixes his glasses. “I wouldn’t say I’m blind, per say, but I do appreciate the concern.”

“You’re blind, dude.” Max pushes his glasses up unreasonably high, giggling under her breath when he wrinkles his face in displeasure. 

He says something else, but Steve focuses on the drink in his hand. Uninterested in whatever else Gregory has to say, he studies the rim of the bottle, its dark brown that glows orange. The fizz of the liquid inside. How if he looks hard enough he can see traces of your lips in the way the liquid spills over. 

“Hey,” a shoulder knocks against Steve’s and he manages to look up long enough to see that it’s you. “Nice show tonight. Stubbornly amazing as always.”

His grip tightens around the bottle. “Thank you.”

Niceties and pleasantries. 

“Of course,” you don’t come any closer. You leave just enough breathing room for you both. “I’ll always tell you how amazing you are. Can’t let you forget it.”

Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget.” His heavy voice drips the undertones of what once was. It burns going down just as the alcohol does. “You know that.”

I could never forget you.

Tender words have a tendency to turn bitter after time has taken its toll. 

You know Steve too well. It only seems to burn him.

But he knows you, too. 

You don’t say anything for a moment, sitting with his words as everyone else resides in their own world. They talk amongst themselves and laugh and Steve only looks at you and you only look at him. Landlocked in the world you’ve built together.

He knows you. A contradiction of emotions slither over your delicate face. Amusement, longing, contentment. Until they fall back into place, settling on a kind, mindless smile. You can pretend that it had been nothing, but Steve knows what you’re wanting looks like. 

“Good,” you exhale, coming back to yourself. “I’m glad, then.”

“Harrington.” A sharp knock on the door. He turns at the unexpected sound and finds a stagecrew member in the doorway. “Brought them over. As requested.”

A group of girls peek from behind the employee. Blondes and brunettes and redheads all stare back at Steve with hungry eyes. Glittered eyelids and red painted lips that mouth their profane comments. 

The Februarys have all formed their habits and traditions following a show. 

Robin tucks herself into a corner of the bus and reads after every performance. She finds that it staves off migraines and calms her enough to sleep most nights. 

Jonathan and Mike decide to try every pizza in every city. They sneak through the stage door exits to not catch the attention of the hordes of fans who wait outside. 

Max purchases earplugs and a sleep mask their second show and has taken to falling asleep the minute they get on the bus. She claims it’s for everyone’s safety.

And Steve?

His post-show ritual has just arrived. 

“Let them in.” He tells the crew member, no longer looking at you. 

The girls swarm Steve before anyone can even recognize their arrival. They fall to his lap and sit across his body and fawn at his hair and unbutton his shirt and smell of overly sweet vanilla and smudged eyeliner. 

Always finding him in the haze of lights and smoke, your camera captures everything Steve wishes he could erase. You stand in the center of a universe that he can’t escape. Locked away with no key and no way to beg for release. 

The girls’ fingers dig the sensation of your gentle gaze out of Steve’s skin.

It’s the only release he can afford. 

Yet you don’t even flinch when one of the girls starts to kiss Steve’s neck.

“And the merry band of thieves have arrived.” Robin sneers under her breath, glaring at any groupie that looks at her. 

Max snorts. “Took them long enough.”

“A new record.” Mike grabs Jonathan’s wallet. “Can we go get pizza, now?”

“Why’d you grab my wallet? We get paid the same amount.” 

“Spent my last paycheck on flowers for El. Turns out it’s super expensive getting flowers delivered to a different state. Who knew?”

Gregory pulls out his own wallet. “Here, I can pay. I’m craving some pizza as well.”

Mike snatches the money with a wicked smile. “Dude, you’re freakishly nice. It’d creep me out if I wasn’t getting anything out of it.”

Pinching his ear, you start dragging the kid out of the dressing room. “Less talking, more walking to get food.”

“You’re joining us?” Robin looks surprised.

“I’m hungry.” You shrug back, feigning indifference. The dressing room grows hotter every second. The scent of vanilla chokes you. You need air. “And I promised Jonathan I’d help him with Mike more this tour.”

Mike makes an offended noise. “You make me sound like some bratty toddler.”

Jonathan, Robin, and Max roll their eyes in harmony and the small moment makes you laugh. Grabbing your camera, you manage to snag the last second of their exasperation of their dear friend. 

“Got the shot?” Gregory asks you, slipping an arm around your waist as the two of you walk out together. 

“Mhm,” your body leans into his. He offers support that goes unasked for. “Always do.”

One by one the Februarys exit the dressing room. Jonathan guides, talking to Robin about a melody he’s thought of. His rough timbre floats over Max’s argument with Mike over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. You follow them, leaning against Gregory as you do so.

Steve doesn’t join. He stays behind with the girls. Alone in their adoration.

– 

By week eight, the six month long tour becomes a haze of screaming crowds and flashing lights in Steve’s blurry mind. No matter how many years pass or how hard he tries later to remember what his first breakout tour was like, the alcohol consumption during that time leaves a black line of absent memory that he can’t reproduce. 

There are snippets Steve remembers, though.

Like being forced to ski in Colorado.

It starts when you barge into the tour bus and throw winter jackets at everyone.

“There’s a ski resort not even ten minutes down the street.” You say, roughly shoving Robin awake and narrowly avoiding her angry fists. “C’mon, I heard it’s best to ski early while the snow is still fresh.”

“What the fuck do you mean there’s a ski resort?” Again you dodge Robin’s fists.

“You guys have a day off and it snowed last night so we’re going skiing.”

Jonathan quickly sits up in bed. “We?”

“You sound French.” You throw a hat at him. “But yes. Or I guess oui.”

Steve remains in bed, simultaneously anticipating the weight of your body upon his and dreading its absence. He pulls his curtain shut. Rolls over and pretends to still be asleep. 

“Wake up!” You clap your hands, stomping around to rouse your friends. “Guys, I’m serious. I think this could be really fun.”

“Y/N, I know you’ve become the unofficial tour nanny by taking us on field trips to restaurants and parks, but if you seriously think we’d go skiing together then you’re deranged.” Max says, followed by a thud that Steve assumes to be her thrown pillow.

The bus door opens and suddenly Gregory starts talking. “Personally, I enjoy skiing. I can show you guys how!”

Of course you fucking roped him into your idea.

Another thud. This time followed by Mike’s pained screech. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“I told you to get up!”

“The fucking sun isn’t even up,” Robin jumps out of her bunk and pulls the curtains open. “I mean, I love you, but this is insane.”

“This can either be a team bonding experience or a hostage situation.” Steve pokes his head out from his bunk and has to bite back amusement seeing your crossed arms and determined expression. Your threatening demeanor is adorable. “Up to you guys.”

Jonathan yawns, slowly getting out of bed. “I’ve never liked being held hostage.”

“Yet you’re the one who tied me to a chair multiple times.” Robin jabs him with her foot.

You frown. “Jonathan tied you to a chair?”

“It was Steve’s fault.”

He rolls his eyes to himself. While she isn’t necessarily wrong, he still has to swallow the urge to correct her. If he stays quiet long enough, maybe you’ll forget he’s even there.

His curtain flies open. “Wake up, Harrington.”

“I’m sleeping,” he says, monotone. 

“Not anymore. Get up. I’m not giving the ski spiel again.”

Gregory comes up behind you and smiles down at Steve. Fuck him and his height. “You were an athlete, right? This is right up your alley!”

“Does your constant optimism have an off switch?” Steve glares at him. 

“No. It’s how I still work for Lenny.”

By now the rest of the band has managed to slide on their jackets and snowpants. No one quite knows where you got them from or how you knew they’d need them, but you’re just relieved they’re listening. The cooperation provides some semblance of peace in the midst of uncertainty. You aren’t the only one desperate to preserve the remains.

This is how you hold onto the Februarys: through forcing them together, through shared experiences and memories.

Steve sees everyone getting ready and groans into his pillow. His head rings. He drank too much last night. Again. “I’m not fucking skiing.”

An hour later Steve stares up at a snowy hill, stiff from his thick snowpants and holding two thin poles that he’s terrified of snapping on accident. 

“I’m going to die.” He squeaks out in terror.

Gregory slides up next to him. Being from Vermont, he grew up skiing before even learning how to walk. Another reason Steve hates him. “You know,” he pats Steve’s back. “Legally speaking, Lenny was supposed to have you guys sign a waiver saying you can’t get hurt while on tour to avoid unnecessary show cancellations.”

“We never signed a fucking waiver.”

“Spot on!” Gregory pats him again. “So for the sake of transparency, I highly suggest you don’t break your face.”

“I really don’t like you, Gregory.” “Never assumed you did!” He laughs, pushing off on his skis to go help Max put hers on. 

“Asshole,” Steve mumbles, brushing his hands together to warm them up. He’s fucking freezing. 

Robin adjusts her hat, puffing snow out of her face. “Be nice to Gregory. He offered to hold your hand down the bunny slope.”

“I’d rather fucking die.”

She ruffles his hair like a dog. “You’re adorable when you pout. C’mon, try to have some fun today, alright? You grew up rich, aren’t you guys supposed to be professional skiers?”

“We chose lake house rich. Not the middle of the fucking mountains in the dead of winter rich.”

Robin hits his arm, laughing under her breath. As much as she wants to hate Steve’s upbringing, she spent countless summers abusing the lake house privileges. Hawkins was boring, sure, but a house on the water helped lessen the burden of being alive.

“I can’t believe Y/N chose skiing.” Steve says after a few moments, squinting his eyes against the harsh white of the snow. You’re a couple feet away with Jonathan, who holds your hands to keep you steady, and Mike, who plops a pile of snow on your crimson hat.

“Hey!” You sputter out in shock, blinking the snow out of your eyes. You lunge towards him and Jonathan has to catch you before you accidentally impale yourself on one of the poles. “Jackass!”

Robin hums, watching the scene unfold alongside Steve. “Not her most well thought out field trip, I’ll admit. I prefer when she takes to parks. Like we’re dogs.”

Steve huffs a laugh, though a slight twist of pain settles in his stomach. He misses the warmth of the summer against his skin and the cool press of his guitar against your body. Fields of flowers and your fingers dancing through his. The sound of running water accompanying whispered chords. 

Now only ice remains and the bitter cold of winter. Even his guitar misses your touch.

Eventually Max helps you tackle Mike to the ground. He writhes in pain and taps out in defeat, which Robin high-fives you for. Steve can only manage a curt nod in your celebration. Jonathan stays out of it, a fearful neutral party as he always seems to be.

Gregory inevitably has to break the fight up to prevent any legal misunderstandings on Leonard’s end. 

“The waiver wasn’t a joke, guys.” He looks at the group like a concerned father. “If any of you break a bone and can’t perform tomorrow night, Leonard will sue someone. And that someone will probably be me. Which I really can’t afford.”

Max picks at her nails. “You’re not convincing me that your relationship with him isn’t simply Stockholm syndrome.” 

“Alright, so let’s get to skiing!”

To Steve’s complete and utter humiliation, Gregory is a fucking fantastic ski instructor. Patient and thorough in how he explains the proper techniques and balance, he actually manages to make the whole ordeal fun. Within the hour he’s able to get Max, Jonathan, Robin, and even Mike up and skiing without any problem.

They fly down the beginner slopes and cheer each other on and enjoy their day in the freshly fallen snow.

Steve, who played basketball all throughout high school, was a life guard and even co-captain of the swim team, rivals a newborn baby deer with how pathetically horrible he is at skiing. 

“You should widen your stance,” Gregory grabs his hips before he can shove him away. “Like this. See? Don’t you feel more balanced now?”

“If I told you what I was feeling right now,” Steve hisses through clenched teeth, “you’d let go of me and run.”

“So what I’m hearing is that you feel pretty balanced.”

Sometimes Steve wonders if maybe his aggression towards Gregory is misplaced, considering it was Steve’s bed that you fell into, but then the jackass goes and opens his mouth and sets every nerve in his body screaming. 

He doesn’t know what the fuck you see in this guy. And that’s saying something, considering Steve isn’t exactly a saint himself. 

Between Gregory’s insistent optimistic guidance and the bragging laughter of Robin and everyone else as they go down all the hills and enjoy their day off in the snow with scenic mountains all around them, Steve thinks he’s about to make the evening Colorado news.

Hungover musician hangs himself using only ski poles and a snowbelt.

Only the headlines never get created. Despite the Februarys all excelling at skiing, you accompany Steve in the failure to remain upright for longer than a second.

“This is fucking stupid,” you clutch desperately onto Gregory’s arms. Somehow you’re worse than Steve is, which he didn’t even think was possible. Your legs won’t stop shaking. If the wind shifts directions even a fraction, you’ll be on the ground. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

The three of you remain near the ski cabin, having not covered much ground since the others left to go explore the slopes.

Gregory fixes your jacket sympathetically. Steve has to look away. “C’mon, it’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who grew up in goddamn Vermont. This,” you risk gesturing wildly behind you at the mountains, slipping at the last second and squeaking out a scream before Gregory catches you. “Jesus. This is basically a gloryhole for you.”

“That’s… certainly one way to put it.”

Steve really hates how endearing he finds your vulgarity and wit. He misses their intersection and all the jokes you used to entertain Mike with during particularly long drives between cities. All that remains on the tour bus this time around are Mike’s snarky comments with no one to bounce them off of. 

“Hey, Gregory!” Mike’s shout grabs everyone’s attention. He stands at the top of a severely steep slope, one that definitely exceeds his beginner skill level. He waves wildly, a pleased smile on his face. “Watch this!”

“Oh dear god.” Gregory’s face pales. Mike grabs his ski poles and adjusts them in his hands, preparing to descend, and Gregory quickly drops your unbalanced body. Ignoring your pained cry when you land on the ground once more, he sprints towards Mike, screaming in terror, “for the love of god, do not go down!”

“I say jump!” Robin antagonizes, clapping her hands. She’s the only one next to Mike at the top of the slope. Jonathan made the mistake of walking Max to go grab some water. 

It’s the only reason Mike even attempts the dangerous slope now. Less people to stop him. 

“If you get hurt, Leonard will genuinely kill me,” Gregory shouts, voicing growing distant the further he runs away from you and Steve, left behind yet again. “I actually like my job!”

Lost in watching his friends nearly give Gregory a heart attack, Steve almost doesn’t hear your quiet plea beneath him. 

“A little help, here?”

He looks down, startled to remember that you’re still here. Alone with him. Covered in snow and cheeks flushed a lovely rosie that his chest hurts to admire. An angel in the snow. 

Your arm raises, palm open and not so subtly prompting Steve’s attention. “Please? My ass is cold but I’m scared that if I try to get up on my own, I’ll somehow give myself a black eye.”

“Right,” Steve clears his throat. He hesitates, unsure what exactly to do. Your hand hangs in the air, waiting for Steve to grab it, but his heart races. He hasn’t held your hand or played with your fingers or kissed the inside of your wrist since the night that the urge of more drowned you both.

Your hand falls just slightly, wavering in its own hesitation. 

Neither of you know how to do this. How to be so distant with each other, civil instead of enamored. 

“Steve,” you breathe out. He can’t tell if it’s a plea or an acceptance. “Help me up, please.”

Unable to put the inevitable off any longer, he carefully sets down his poles. Making sure he won’t fall right on top of you, Steve adjusts his footing and slowly, cautiously, grabs your hand. The contact, even through thick layers of gloves, etches a sting of regret into your skin and his.

He’s sure that come tomorrow, there will be a scar from your touch. 

With one swift motion he stands you up. Chest to chest, the close proximity threatens to choke Steve. However, your eyes remain downcast in concentration as you try to regain your footing. The close proximity doesn’t seem to affect you as it does him. 

“Got it?” He asks you softly, needing something to say, something to do. 

You nod, still looking down. Your skis close in on themselves and Steve has to grab your waist to steady you. “Shit, just-just give a minute.”

He bites his tongue, but the words come out anyways. “Widen your stance.”

“What?”

“Widen your stance,” he says again, tightening his grip on your waist. “That’s what Gregory keeps telling us, at least. Something about balance.”

Not looking convinced, you grab Steve’s arms in a death grip and use his steady weight to support your own. Moving a centimeter at a time, you adjust your stance at an agonizingly slow pace.

But Steve doesn’t care. He’ll stand in the snow for as long as he possibly can if it means you’ll hold onto him. 

Once you’ve widened your legs, you look back up at Steve. “I’m going to let go. If I start to fall, please spare my dignity and catch me.”

“I’ll always catch you,” he reassures, hiding behind the double meaning of his words. Shaking his head as if to clear his mind, Steve squeezes your waist, unable to stop the familiar habit. “C’mon, angelface. You can do it.”

Your breath catches at the old nickname. A slip of the tongue. Another habit Steve has to learn how to wean himself off of. 

Without saying anything else, you inhale quickly, close your eyes, and then let go of him. Your body remains still, unmoving, no sign of struggle against the gravity that has betrayed you all morning. 

Opening your eyes, you exhale in disbelief. “I-I did it! I’m standing!” Suddenly you’re in Steve’s arms, mumbling against his chest, “Thank you.”

Weak, he wraps himself around you. “Of course.”

Snow falls all over. Your second winter together. 

Too soon you pull away, awkwardly adjusting your hat and jacket in an attempt to hide your discomfort. A line was crossed, though neither of you can agree on which. Forcing the polite smile that you both hate back on your face, you squeeze Steve’s arm like a friendly coworker would.

“Thanks again,” you say. He only responds with a tight lipped smile. Trying to ease the discomfort of knowing each other and unlearning that you do, you wink at him. “At this rate, I’ll be following right behind Mike in no time.”

It works. He lets out a surprised laugh. “Down that death trap?” He points behind him, where Mike has just been detained by Gregory. The slope looks even more threatening in the snowfall. “Yeah, you’re on your own for that one.”

You stick your tongue out, but as you do so, a snowflake lands on it. Your eyes light up in excitement and Steve is helpless to your joy, unable to stop the small laugh that expands in his chest and grows only for you.

– 

The soft crackle of the fireplace warms the room in its orange-red glow. Its woody scent reminds Steve of Christmas mornings in Hawkins where Robin would bike over to his house while his parents went to charity events. 

She sits next to him on the plush couch, feet tucked beneath her to defrost her toes and bring warmth back to her body. The jacket she stole from Steve looks particularly large over her small frame. He thinks she looks better in it than he does. She always looks better in his stolen clothes. 

Mike and Max sit on the floor, closest to the fireplace. The ski resort provided complimentary hot cocoa and their lips are stained from the mocha. Steam rises from the mugs and their whispers intertwine with the murmur of the fireplace. Mike picks pieces of snow from Max’s long hair and she helps him ice his bruised knee. 

Across from them Jonathan sleeps on the recliner. Swaddled in blankets with his own cocoa mustache, the sweet drink put him to sleep almost as quickly as the exhaustion from skiing did.

“We can’t tell Y/N how much fun we had today,” Robin whispers, head heavy on Steve’s shoulder. His arm holds her closer, rubbing her side to help keep her warm. “We’d never hear the end of it.”

Steve stares into the fire. “She does a lot for us.”

“The most overqualified concert photographer in history.”

He snorts, though no humor accompanies it. The Februarys don’t tell you enough how much they appreciate everything you do for them. The forced outings, the jokes to keep the tension at bay, photographs of their cherished memories. 

“We should tell her that.” Steve says, more to himself than to Robin. 

She hums in agreement, understanding what goes unsaid. She shifts, gets even closer to Steve, and closes her eyes. The warmth of the fireplace puts her to sleep, too. He smiles to himself. 

You smile as well, watching the small moment from where you stand at the reception desk. 

Gregory asked you to help him return the skis to the resort and you’d been happy to help. He started making polite conversation with the woman who works at the desk, but soon she lit up with every word he said and you think you saw him blush under her lovely smile. Within minutes his body leans closer to hers and you take a step back, giving them some privacy. 

Your camera hangs by your side. Its familiar weight brings you comfort as you reach for it. The pinks in Robin’s hair shimmers in the fire’s light and the soft lines of content that carve Steve’s face beg you to capture the moment. In the bottom left of the frame Jonathan’s arm sticks out, near the right Max and Mike can be seen huddled together. 

November, 1989, the Februarys recover from skiing.

Another picture that will go in your portfolio. Something that will only be for you. Screaming crowds and exploitative tabloids can have the Februarys who create personas to please them, but the raw, delicate, real version of them will be yours only. 

“You really wore them out today.” Gregory reappears by your side, nudging you with his shoulder as he nods at the band members. 

You lower your camera. “They needed a break from rehearsals and passive aggressive comments.”

“So you force them to go down dangerous slopes instead.”

“Only Mike.” You bite back a smile. “I’m surprised you were able to stop him in time.”

“God, I don’t think I’ve ever been that terrified in my life.”

“He’s really good at doing that.”

Gregory scoffs, “yeah, no kidding.” He pushes his glasses up, rolls his neck as if to stretch out the remnants from his mad dash to save his career earlier. With a tired sigh, he glances at you. “Anyways, before I forget, there was something I needed to talk to you about.”

Your lips turn down. “Should I be concerned?”

“No, not at all. It’s good, I promise.” His smile returns. “Do you remember the Jinxs?”

The mention of the band you shot a few months ago throws you. After the terror of losing your camera and the forbidden thrill of Steve helping you find it, the band had been fun to watch perform. Ultimately you got some really good photos of them during the show. “Yeah, why?”

“They really loved your work. A lot.”

“Where’s this going?”

Gregory’s smile falters. There’s something he’s afraid to tell you. “Well,” he clears his throat, smile becoming a grimace. “They requested you to be their photographer. And they want you now.”

“Oh.” 

“They’re based in New York–”

“Gregory.”

“Willing to pay you even more than the Februarys–”

“Gregory.”

He releases a quick breath, body deflating. When he looks back up at you, his green eyes plead. “It’s a really good offer, Y/N.”

“And you should know, better than anyone, that I can’t accept it,” you blink in disbelief. Without meaning to, your eyes draw to the Februarys. It’s only for a second, but the action itself speaks louder than anything else. “I can’t just leave them behind.”

“They’ll come back to you in New York.” Gregory reminds you gently. 

Your throat feels cold. “No. No, that’s not the same.”

You barely survived a month without them. All you could think about was how much of their history you were missing. How many moments that went uncaptured. Whether they missed you just as much as you missed them. 

And Steve. All you could think about was Steve. 

His hands and his eyes and his lips and hair and rings and piercings and his warm laughter on a sunny day or his quiet humming and tender melodies and how vibrant he can be when he trusts someone and how much of himself he gives to others because he can, because he wants to. 

“I-I can’t.” You almost don’t recognize the sound of your own voice. 

Gregory clenches his jaw. He knew this would be your answer. Risking your relationship, he says, “But can you survive four more months with him?”

Him. 

Gregory can’t even say his name.

Yet as much as you want to be angry with him, you can’t. Gregory has been civil and wonderful and supportive despite having every reason not to be. He holds your hand on the tour bus during the nights Robin tells you that she hasn’t seen Steve in hours. He blocks your view of the girls who swarm Steve. Always finds an excuse for you to leave the dressing rooms early. Finds a distraction for you, finds a reason for you to say no. 

You’ve leaned on Gregory more than you’re willing to admit these last two months of tour. He’s never once made you feel small for doing so.

Tonight isn’t any different. He’s worried about you. He’s seen how stilted your life has become with Steve. 

“I love the Februarys.” You tell Gregory, biting the inside of your cheek to prevent the words from stinging. “All of them. I’m not leaving.”

Gregory exhales reluctant acceptance. “Alright,” his hand falls on your shoulder. “I believe you, but just so you’re aware, the Jinxs aren’t expecting an answer right now. Leonard told them you’d need to sleep on it, and for once I agree with him.”

“I won’t change my mind.” You don’t acknowledge Leonard’s surprising knowledge of you.

“I don’t doubt that,” he squeezes your shoulder. “But at least pretend to consider it, will you? Leonard told me to call him next week, so you have until then.”

Shrugging Gregory’s hand off, you start to walk back to your friends. He follows, silent. Needing to scratch the conversation off your skin, you flick his ear. “So, did you get the receptionist’s number?”

Gregory trips. “I-sorry?”

“Don’t act all shy now. You were practically drooling over her while I was standing right next to you. What did her nametag say? Jackie? Jacey?”

“Jamie.” Gregory corrects automatically, eyes widening when he realizes what he’s done.

You smile wickedly. “Gotcha.”

His face burns a deep red and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this flustered. Laughing at his misery, you tug at Gregory’s sweater and soften the sting of your tease with the offer of hot cocoa before joining the others. 

–

Leonard books the Februarys three shows in California. 

“You guys avoided the state like it was a fucking venereal disease during your first tour.” He explained. “Which is a shame, considering it’s my favorite place to get a venereal disease.”

Jonathan’s face had twisted in poorly hidden disgust. “You really love to overshare, don’t you Mr. Branham?��

In the end Leonard schedules two shows in Los Angeles and one in San Bernardino. 

You haven’t been back to California since you left five years ago for New York. California will always be where you grew up and where all your tender memories remain, but after your mother’s death and your father’s grief, the east coast offered solace. 

The homecoming feels uneventful if only because your father now lives in Portugal and the barren desert that surrounds Los Angeles doesn’t at all compare to Berkeley’s lush green that defined your childhood. 

“It’s insane that it’s technically winter and yet I’m wearing a t-shirt right now,” Max comments as she looks around the hotel that they’re staying in for the week. Palm trees wave back at her. “Doesn’t feel legal.”

You grab your bag from the bus. “Welcome to Cali.”

Robin squints against the harsh sunlight. “Is it always this bright?”

“I honestly have no idea.” When the band looks at you with varying degrees of confusion and astonishment, you sigh. “California is a huge state, guys. We’re six hours from where I grew up. I’m not a reliable source of weather information.”

Mike’s jaw drops. “So it’s not just desert everywhere?”

“I worry that you were taken out of college too soon.”

He shoves you, offended, while Jonathan shakes his head. “Please don’t say that. Mr. Wheeler still won’t look me in the eye.”

Mike shrugs. “Ted’s an ass.”

From the band’s bus you hear a loud thud and raised voices. Confused, you look around and realize that Gregory isn’t beside you. Neither is Steve. 

Robin pieces it together before you can. She stares down at her nails, bored. “Guess Steve still doesn’t want to get up.”

“He’s still sleeping off his hangover?” You ask, fearful of what the answer will be. When both tour buses left this morning, almost eight hours ago, Steve had been too sick to even change out of his clothes from last night. Again. For the fifth time this week.

Max glares at their shared bus. “He spent the entire drive puking his guts out. He only fell asleep when we crossed state lines.”

“Wasn’t a fun drive.” Jonathan mumbles.

Robin doesn’t look up from her nails. Gregory’s muffled voice says something to Steve and the man responds with another scream. Something gets thrown against the window. You flinch at the sound. So do the others. 

Unable to stand it any longer, you grab your things. “Let’s go get checked in.”

“Welcome to Cali.” Robin echoes your words from earlier, disdain and disappointment lacing their reflection. 

– 

Nothing prepares the Februarys for how popular they are in California. 

The venue they play the first night in Los Angeles overfloods with bodies despite it being the biggest venue they’ve ever performed in. The rowdy audience pushes and shoves one another to catch a glimpse of the band, to get as close as possible, to demand more.

Screams pierce the band members' ears. Cheers shake their bones. Thousands of faces plead with the Februarys for a show. They won’t accept anything less than that. 

And they oblige.

Jonathan beats onto the drums so hard that he breaks five pairs of drumsticks. His palms cut on the jagged pieces. He doesn’t realize that he’s bleeding until after the show finishes. 

Max’s bass amplifies through the crowd’s demands and she has to brace herself against Steve during one of her solos, the rush of the performance almost too much.

Mike snaps two guitar strings the first five minutes into the show. The strings hit his wrist as they break and he laughs through the manic pain, replacing the strings without so much as a wince. 

Robin slams onto the piano keys and strains her voice to keep up with the frantic cries. Her nails break and her voice cracks and the crowd feeds the desperation. 

And Steve clutches onto the mic stand, covered in sweat, charming and beautiful and captivating. His fingers pick through the guitar strings and his biceps strain in the stage lights through every song, through every lyric, the dip of collarbones peeking through his cut off shirt.

He’d be beautiful if his gaunt face and yellowed eyes weren’t physical manifestations of the alcohol he survives off of. 

Especially in California where the alcohol is stronger and the girls are even more willing. 

It quickly becomes Steve’s favorite state they’ve ever performed in. 

“I fucking love LA!” He exclaims, running off the stage after the show finishes. “Holy shit!”

Robin’s own exhilaration leaves her breathless. She leans against the wall, drenched in sweat yet smiling wider than you’ve ever seen. “I feel like I’m floating.”

Steve grabs her shoulders and jumps around, rosie face beaming. “I am floating, Buckley!”

Jonathan cackles and fist bumps the air, his injuries ignored in favor of celebrating. “Did you see how many fist fights broke out in the crowd tonight?”

“I think I saw three.” Max leans against the wall with Robin, who holds her hand to remind the other that tonight was real and not some far-fetched dream.

“I counted four!” Mike pretends to punch someone. “I mean, how fucking sick is that?”

Steve rough houses with the kid, ducking and weaving faux punches. “We’re fucking rockstars, Wheeler!”

Mike screams a cheer and Jonathan echoes it and the three boys all begin to grapple at each other and wrestle. Max and Robin watch with rolled eyes, though their fond smiles are hard to hide.

You take a picture of the childish scene before you. The Februarys wrestling one another, celebrating their biggest sold out show. Your cheeks ache from how hard you smile. The scene reminds you of nights in your apartment in New York, pizza boxes everywhere and empty beer cans with soft rock playing over an old record player. 

“Alright, I got everyone’s room key–” Gregory joins everyone backstage, distracted with arranging the multitude of key cards in his hands, and almost walks right into the wrestling match. “Oh. They’re fighting.”

“Don’t worry, they’re just messing around.” You reassure him. 

“This time.” Max adds. 

Gregory makes an uncomfortable sound and you just shake your head. “Leave him alone, Max.”

“Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Robin grabs a key card from Gregory. “God, I’m glad Leonard is a rich bastard. I’ve missed having a queen sized bed and AC.”

“I like the bunks on the bus.” Max says, though she grabs a key card as well. “I just hate that you’re all on the bus as well.”

Robin flips her off while you point at yourself. “Don’t group me with the band. I’m on the other bus. Far away. Just how I know you like it.” 

“That’s a good point, actually.” Suddenly Robin grabs your arm, pulling you towards the boys who are still wrestling. She steps between them and blocks their punches, effectively ending their impromptu wrestling match. 

“What the hell, Robin?” Steve asks incredulously. He was just about to put Mike in a headlock. 

“Y/N is going to sleep with us.”

“What?” He chokes on his spit.

Jonathan and Mike are no better. Both whip their heads towards you with genuine fear in their eyes. You’d be offended if you also weren’t completely mortified yourself. 

You raise your hand. “Hi, do I get a say in who I sleep with?”

“Not this time, pretty girl.” Robin pats your arm. “Don’t worry, we can all hole up in my room. You’re long overdue for a sleepover with the Februarys.”

“Platonically, I hope.” Gregory butts in. “For reasons I can’t legally specify, Leonard has banned intergroup relations.”

Mike looks at Steve and Jonathan jams his elbow into the kid’s ribs. Everyone else pretends not to have noticed. 

“As much as it pains me to say, it’ll be strictly platonic.” Robin sighs. “It’ll just be us making Y/N miserable while she tries to develop film.”

“Again, do I get a say in this?”

“No.”

Jonathan rests his elbow on your shoulder. “I’m in.”

Mike shrugs. “Oddly I miss the chemical smell.”

You frown. “That’s not a reassuring answer.”

“If Mike is huffing chemicals, count me in.” Max says. “I’d pay to see that, actually.”

Robin claps her hands. “Then it’s settled. Mandatory band slumber party tonight. Gregory and Y/N will get shitty pizza with Mike and Jonathan while me and Steve get the drinks–”

“I’m not joining.” 

The light in her eyes dims. “What part of ‘mandatory band slumber party’ do you not understand?”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. A defensive act. He shifts his weight and looks away. “I have other plans tonight.”

“Harrington.” A stagecrew member knocks on the door. A hallway full of girls wait behind him. 

Right on fucking time.

Robin’s jaw tightens. “Is this still you trying?”

I meant it. I really am trying.

Steve finally meets her eye. “Yes,” he answers, calm, unmoving. He doesn’t have it in him anymore to explain what he can’t quite understand himself. All he knows is that he can’t be in the same room as you, not sober, not drunk. He’ll only ruin everyone’s night and he can’t risk losing the band entirely, so he’ll sacrifice fragments of them if it means they’ll still remain whole. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Will we?” Max’s question severs.

He swallows the hurt he knows he isn’t allowed to feel. “You will.”

It’s the most he can promise. 

In the silence of the dressing room Steve plasters a smile on his face, fixes his hair, snatches four bottles of liquor from the bar cart, and shoves past the crew member. The hallway explodes into expected feminine cheers. 

“Leonard was right.” Robin says through her teeth. “California is where you’ll get a venereal disease."

Something about her words pinches nausea into your stomach and twists your intestines into knots. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, the bitter cold air numbs the sickness within you.

– 

Robin somehow ends up with a record player in her hotel room. She sighs in relief when she sees it and promptly demands that Jonathan to dig through his suitcase and play the first record he finds. 

David Byrne’s voice floats through the room. Max lays on the bed with a comic, humming softly along to the song while Mike sits at her feet, messing with his guitar and scribbling chord arrangements he likes. 

Jonathan and Gregory sit on the couch. The two of them discuss aspects of the music industry that the Februarys don’t necessarily deal with themselves. Jonathan expresses an interest in the business side, asking Gregory a million questions a minute. 

You’re hunched over the vanity, carefully placing rolls of film into clear liquid and watching as the images come to life. Robin sits on the table itself, watching with her usual curiosity. 

Then, because she’s Robin, she allows her thoughts to be voiced. 

“What the fuck is going on between you and Steve?”

You spill an entire bottle of developer onto the table. Quickly standing up, you clear away the film at risk of being soaked. “Shit.”

Robin helps you, though she doesn’t take her eyes off your anxious frame. “Quite a knee-jerk reaction, there. If you try and tell me it’s nothing, I’m afraid I’ll have to tie you to a chair.”

“What’s with this band and tying people to chairs?”

Jonathan gets up from the couch and cleans up the mess with some leftover napkins the pizza joint provided. “Robin’s question came off a little strong, I’ll admit, but we’re really worried about Steve.”

“And while he’s been spiraling into a manic alcohol-induced sexual delusion,” Max scrutinizes you. “You’ve been weirdly normal about it.”

“So,” Mike concludes. “Something fucked up happened that you aren’t telling us.”

“Besides the obvious sleeping with each other in Chicago.” Robin hands you the film she salvaged. “Here you go, by the way.”

Your head spins. “Is this an intervention or some shit?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless we need to make it one.”

“I’m sorry, but when Steve and I crossed the line and jeopardized the band you guys were rightfully pissed off.” Turning around, you face everyone. “But when we agree to remain professional for the sake of our jobs, you’re worried about us?”

Robin narrows her eyes. “What do you mean you agreed to remain professional?” 

“We…” Suddenly aware of how naive it all sounds, you hesitate to explain. “We made a deal.”

“Well go on.” Mike opens his arms. “I’m sure this will only further add to our problems.” 

You throw a bobby pin at Jonathan. “Can you shut him up?”

“No, I’m on his side for this one.”

“Y/N,” Robin forces your attention back. “Tell us what deal you made.”

All eyes on you, there’s nowhere left to run. 

The back of your knees hit the bed. Weak to the fall, you land against it, exhausted. “We made the deal the first gig back in New York.”

“The closet!” Mike exclaims, pointing at you wildly. “That’s when I saw you guys leaving the closet together!”

“You slept together that night?” Max gags.

You quickly correct them. “No. Jesus, have some faith in us, alright? We were in the closet because Steve was a fucking mess performing that night and it was clear there were still some unresolved… feelings, I guess. So I forced him into the closet and we made a deal: remain professional and stop letting our issues affect the band.”

“You forced Steve to be your coworker?” Robin almost can’t believe it, it’s almost too absurd to believe, but really she suspected something akin to it already. You’ve been more distant from the band. Most nights Steve can’t even look at you. Carefully curated sentences silence the laughter that she hasn’t heard since leaving New York. 

“If that’s how you want to look at it, then sure. I forced him to be my coworker.”

Jonathan softens his voice. “And you’re okay with it?”

“Of course I’m not okay with it!” Exhausted laughter rattles your empty ribcage. “Of course it fucking hurts when Steve sleeps with yet another girl and of course I’m fucking miserable pretending that it doesn’t hurt. You don’t think I’m fucking terrified he’ll drink himself to death?”

No one says anything, which only makes you laugh even more hysterically. “Jesus fuck, this is my job, this is your job. What else am I supposed to do? Wait for him to get his shit together? Jeporadize everything again just for a small figment of fucking hope?” 

“You shouldn’t have to make yourself miserable for us.” A soft hand cups your cheek. When your eyes open, Robin’s mournful regret stares back at you. “That isn’t fair to you.”

Gregory coughs. The action itself doesn’t give away anything. He remains silent and merely observes the conversation, but the cough was meant for only you to understand. Your conversation from Colorado hangs between you. The Jinxs and their offer. His uncertainty that you’d survive four more months of cold civility with Steve. 

“Didn’t I tell you that I was the Februarys’ biggest fan?” You try to deflect the rawness of Robin’s grief for you. 

Max studies you for a moment. “You don’t take as many photos as you used to.”

“I took almost a hundred photos of you guys tonight.” Entire rolls of film dedicated to the Februarys. 

“She’s not talking about the pictures we pay you for.” Mike says with uncharacteristic kindness. 

Nothing they’re saying makes sense. “I always enjoy photographing your shows. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“And when you’re not taking pictures of our performances?” Robin pushes you just a little more, just enough to get you to see what everyone else already knows. “What are you taking pictures of, then?”

Once, you would’ve told her that you take pictures of Mike chasing Jonathan with a frog through a national park. Pictures of Max with her comics on the bay side of the bus, a moment of peace between shows. You would’ve told Robin that you take pictures of her as she gets ready in the mornings, a lazy image of her in the bathroom mirror with tired eyes but a warm smile. 

Once, you would’ve taken a photo of the way the snow freckled in Steve’s brown hair and how it melts golden in the sunlight. How he looks encased in the green pine of the mountains. The way his hands grip the ski pole and the velvet red of his jacket matching the rosie flush of his face. 

But you can’t tell Robin any of this, because it never happened. You never took the photos. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you’d been too afraid to. The memories you want to preserve are the same memories you try to forget. In putting aside your turmoil and grief for the sake of the band, you’ve slowly lost pieces of yourself in the process.

You’ve slowly lost the love for the art your mother left behind.

Gregory coughs again, this time with more force. It’s enough to break the mountainous silence and bring the attention off of you and onto him. “Excuse me,” he clears his throat excessively, putting on a show. “Didn’t someone say there’d be drinks?”

Robin allows the distraction, worried she’s pushed you too far. Tossing Gregory a beer, she offers one to you as well. “Here. You look like you need one.”

“Thanks,” your mumbled response doesn’t make her feel better. You crack the can open, drink the bitter liquid, and it tastes better than the empty realization of tonight.

– 

The second night in Los Angeles follows the same as the first night.

Steve stumbles into sound check covered in hickies and a bruised eye. He reeks of alcohol and his normally tanned skin looks grey. The Februarys’ bite their tongues when they see him. At the very least he’s shown up for rehearsals sober, albeit hungover. 

You watch them sound check as you normally do. As you watch the band go over the setlist and bicker as usual, the conversation from last night sits heavily in your skin. When Steve shows Robin how to hold a guitar in order to settle a playful argument, you reach for your digital camera before you can second guess it.

The image of them comes out hazy. You were too quick, too ill prepared, but even the lack of skill can’t explain the broken way Steve’s body appears in the photo. The shadows under his eyes are only emphasized in the pixels. The hickies that mar his body look more like cruel bruises than passionate ones. 

Unsettled by how devoid his beauty has become, you put the camera down. You don’t want to remember Steve this way. 

The show itself doesn’t help the pit of dread in your stomach. The overcrowded audience feeds into Steve’s spiral. They shout his name and jeer crude remarks and toss beer cans for him to catch and crack open after every song because he shotguns them with impressive speed. They’re too blind to recognize that he’s fading.

You break from your usual habit of taking pictures of the crowd. Something about the people in the venue makes you uncomfortable. You don’t like how they treat Steve like their shiny new toy. 

Instead you focus on the band the whole night, photographing Robin’s lithe fingers and Jonathan’s exposed neck and Max’s light eyes and Mike’s wild hair and Steve’s lips.

Only the lips you photograph are hard to recognize. Bitten raw and dry and chapped. They no longer resemble the soft lips that used to kiss you to sleep. 

The dread in your stomach only grows. Nothing about this is right. 

You’re desperate at this point. As soon as the show wraps up you jump over the barricade and intercept the Februarys before they walk into their dressing room.

“Wait, hold on a second.”

They all jump back, surprised by your sudden appearance. 

“Someone’s here early.” Robin remarks, eyeing you. “What’s up, pretty girl?”

“I just–” A hickey peeks through the top of Steve’s collar and it punches you in the throat. Your entire body goes numb, yet your nervous system screams at you to run. “Can I take some pictures of you guys? I-I mean, how I used to? After your gigs where I’d take pictures of your guys’ instruments and outfits and–”

“Breathe, dude.” Mike clamps his hand over your mouth. “You’re stressing me out.”

Jonathan slaps his hand away. “You’re all sweaty from performing, don’t be gross.”

“You know fast talkers stress me out!”

“You don’t just shove your hand onto someone’s mouth–”

Robin pushes both boys behind her. While they continue to argue, she grazes your arm. “Take as many pictures of me as you want, babe. You know I love it when I’m your muse.”

Max kicks the boys, causing them both to kneel over in pain. “And these idiots will agree once they get their heads out of their asses.” 

“Perfect,” exhaling in relief, you look past the group for the missing member. “And Steve–” 

He isn’t there. 

Robin lets out an exasperated breath. “Where the hell did he go?”

Your mouth opens to suggest checking the dressing room, but the words die in your throat when a horde of girls run past you. Steve is in the center of it all, already drunk off the attention, tattered in lipstick marks and booze.

–

California feeds the excess of loneliness innate in Steve.

Every night the alcohol consumes him. He drinks to forget how your lips kissed the inside of his thighs and then he drinks even more to feel the phantom touch you left behind. The girls he sleeps with are happy to pretend to be someone else for him. 

They all just want to be able to say that they fucked a rockstar. 

Steve just enjoys the sensation of being held, if only for a brief second between parting lips and hushed tongues. 

He hangs precariously on the thin line he drew out of faulty promises and hurt feelings. A tightrope of his own creation, Steve toes the line between preserving enough of himself for the Februarys and erasing the remaining pieces to forget you.

The morning the band leaves for San Bernardino, he spends the entire drive nursing a hangover. He buries himself in blankets to block out the excessive sunlight and has to clutch onto his bunk railing to steady himself against the rocky pavement that jolts the bus back and forth. 

Robin spares him enough sympathy by hand feeding him some crushed granola and even asks Mike and Jonathan to keep their voices down so that Steve can sleep. 

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve her in his life, but he’s glad he did at least one thing right. 

By the time they arrive at the festival grounds of Glen Helen, it’s late noon.

Max sees them first.

“Holy shit…” She stares out the window, for the first time in her life completely speechless. 

“What’re you–” Mike pushes beside her. His jaw drops. “Oh fuck.”

Hours before the Februarys are expected at the amphitheater, a sea of people intersperse through the trees and tall grass of the forest. Thousands lay in the grass and stand with their friends and clink their drinks together and inch their way closer to the stage. A haze of smoke clouds over them, some acrid wood, some herbal.

“Jesus fuck.” Robin can’t take her eyes off the crowd. The bus creeps past them down a private road and it takes several security guards to clear the way. A dozen onlookers try to follow the bus, but they’re denied access. 

Jonathan roughly pulls Steve out of bed. He’ll want to see the visceral proof of their success. He has to be reminded of it in order to accept that it’s real. That it’s his.

“What the fuck–” Steve hits Jonathan’s chest as he falls off the bunk, but Jonathan doesn’t even blink. He shoves Steve towards the window instead. 

“Remember this,” he tells Steve. “Remember why we do this.”

I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.

A sold out show of thousands, and they’re all waiting for the Februarys.

When Steve was twelve his father taunted him for wanting to learn the guitar. When he was sixteen he was told by his mother that he would only suit a traditional career if given enough luck. When he was twenty-one and waiting tables in a shitty diner downtown all he had to his name were two songs. One Robin wrote, and one he wrote. 

Now he’s twenty-four. One EP, one album, dozens of songs, and a sold out show at Glen fucking Helen his last night in California. 

And everyone does know the Februarys’ name. 

Leonard greets them when they step inside the dressing room. “About time you kids made it to beautiful fucking Hollywood!”

Gregory coughs. “We’re in San Bernardino, sir.”

“Same shit.” The man waves his hand in the air. “I don’t give a damn. So long as the speed is fresh and the women are titty it’ll always be Hollywood to me.”

Max barely suppresses a snarky comment. He’s her boss whether she likes it or not. “We didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I!” Leonard cackles. “But I was bored and own a plane. Bought her after McCartney lost a bet with me. Bastard hasn’t answered any of my calls since. It’s a shame, really. Beautiful wife. She’s who I named the plane after.”

“And you think Paul McCartney hasn’t called you back because he’s upset he lost a bet ten years ago,” you say carefully, tilting your head at Leonard. “And not because you named an airplane after his wife?”

He lights a cigarette. “Who gives a fuck why he hasn’t called back? Moral of the story is that I’m here and expecting tonight’s show not to be a complete ass fuck like Chicago was,” smoke drifts around Leonard. “Tell me, will I be fucked in the ass tonight?”

Steve steps forward, a handsome smile covering the scent of alcohol that leaks from him. “Not unless we have your consent, sir.”

“Aw,” Leonard clasps a thick hand to Steve’s face. “The alchie thinks he can make jokes now, huh?”

Jonathan has to cover Mike’s mouth before the kid can break out into hysterical laughter. He ends up dragging him outside, away from the rest of the group. Leonard watches in amusement. Steve watches in shame.

“We’ll give you a show.” Robin cuts through the silent standoff. She hates how quickly Leonard can turn Steve into a broken shell. He idolizes the man more than she’d care to admit. They all do. “We can promise you that.”

Leonard takes another drag. He lets the smoke simmer in his lungs. You feel his eyes travel slowly from you to the remaining members of the band. 

Smoke gets exhaled. “Then let the show begin.”

–

People shove against you and compress your chest to the barricade and loudly talk over one another in an anxious anticipation for the show that will start any minute. Warm bodies and hard limbs stifle your breathing, yet in the deafening chaos of it all you wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Maybe it’s the outdoor sanctity or the loose alcohol or the access to drugs and sweat and tears, or maybe it’s simply the music, but the Februarys have never experienced a crowd quite like this one. 

“You guys are fucking rowdy!” Steve whistles into the mic after the second song. The ground shakes beneath him in response. His ears ring from the impact of the screams. Feeling like a little kid given his favorite toy, Steve bites his lip and leans over the mic, “Can you guys scream a little louder for me?”

White, bone rattling noise echoes back.

“That’s what I like to hear!” His laughter rings throughout the amphitheater. Boyish, prideful, charming like honey. The sweet taste of it fills your mouth as you watch Steve enamor the audience. He gets them to bite onto his wit, to eat from his maroon voice. 

Stars glisten behind Steve in the dark of the night and yet he outshines the galaxy without even trying. 

He decided to tempt the stars tonight by playing into the part himself. Stealing a dress suit jacket from Gregory and pairing it with a tight button down shirt with only the first few buttons done, he drips grungy Hollywood with his silver cross necklace stacked against endless chains around his neck. 

Rosie has come out to play. 

“This next song is a favorite of mine,” Steve caresses the mic stand and smirks when he gets the reaction he’s desired. “It starts out a little rough, messy, even. But isn’t that what teasing is all about?”

Jonathan starts the count and Robin plays the first few chords. Immediately everyone recognizes it.

Tease sends the crowd into a frenzy. Energetic and sensual and fucking addicting, they dance and scream along and beg for more, just as the song instructs them to. 

Steve feeds into their wanting ways. He bounces around and head bangs with Mike and kisses Robin’s cheek and plays right back to Max and even slams down on one of Jonathan’s cymbals and he comes back to life after months of vacant death. All smiles, all love and passion and endearing charm. 

This is the Steve Harrington you fell in love with.

Terrified you’ll miss the rare glimpse of the boy you once knew, you take as many photos as you can. You don’t pretend to find anyone else in the viewfinder. The images you take are all of Steve.

His jaw and the shine of his nosering. The cross that nestles against his chest and the buttons that don’t cover anything else. The moles that adorn his melancholy skin. How the pads of his fingers press against his guitar and the thrust of his hips. 

He’s a beauty that offers no salvation.

You get lost in it. 

That’s when someone slams the camera into your skull.

It happens quickly, faster than you can even fully react. All you remember doing is screaming out in pain as the camera hits the crest of your temple and crying at the blinding pain throughout your entire body. 

“Fucking bitch.” You will never forget the way the assailant slurred viciously, unsteady on his drunken feet yet unwavering in his venom. “Blocking my goddamn view.”

Blood drips down your brow. You can’t see out of your left eye. Someone screams your name and pulls you behind them. He sounds like Gregory. You aren’t sure. Your ears ring too loudly from the impact of the assault to focus on anything other than the pain that explodes in your skull. 

“Don’t fucking touch her.” 

Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage?

The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin. 

“Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

“Steve!” Gregory tries to pull him off. You don’t know where you are. Your ears ring and there’s so much blood and you should be doing something. You can’t just let Steve ruin another show for you, but metal fills your mouth and you think you bit through your tongue from the impact. 

Security shoves through the crowd. Jonathan jumps down from the stage to help them pry Steve off from the man now screaming out in pain. Gregory calls for more help and suddenly Robin’s familiar and warm and gentle arms drag your body over the barricade. 

“You’re okay,” she whispers against your ear as she pulls you from the crowd as carefully and quickly as she can. “Can you move your legs for me? We gotta get you backstage, sweetheart. Help me out, here.”

Numb and overwhelmed you do as you’re told, forcing your legs to move. Robin guides you through a swarm of people. The second you’re backstage, away and alone from prying and public eyes all demanding more, you finally break. 

The tears come faster than you can stop them and your body shakes so violently that you’re afraid you’ll fall. Robin takes you into her arms immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she holds you tight to her chest, careful not to touch the bleeding wound on your head. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone get some fucking gauze!” Max screams at any crew member who will listen. She runs around and slams through every drawer she finds, Mike right behind her. 

“Is Y/N okay?” He asks, too nervous to look at you.

Robin holds you even closer. “She will be, but let’s just focus on finding something to clean her up first, okay?”

Both kids look so distraught and worried and it breaks something even deeper within you. Weaker than ever before, tears wet your face and the dull ache nauseates. Humiliation coats your skin, fear claws at it. 

But it all fades the moment Steve runs into the room.

“Y/N.”

He doesn’t look at anyone else. He doesn’t hesitate or wait or overthink. In seconds his arms replace Robin’s. Fear paints every inch of his face. His hands trace every dip of your skin. 

“You’re hurt.” Raw despair drips into Steve’s voice. He cups your face and carefully tilts your head so that he can inspect the injury. He has to hold his breath to steady how irrevocably his heartbeat stings seeing you in so much pain. “Oh, angelface.”

Steve’s touch burns, yet it makes your skin cold and you aren’t sure if you want to pull away or collapse into the cavity of his chest. “You’re okay, yeah? Just look at me. Max and Robin will find you something to stop the bleeding.” He brushes hair out of your face and attends to you in such a delicate way that you never thought you’d see again. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Though your tongue feels raw, you still can’t resist reassuring him. “You’re not the one who hit me.”

He doesn’t respond, instead grabbing the gauze that Robin offers and dabs your temple with a wet rag that Max threatened a crew member for. The cold stings against the wound and you wince with every touch, but Steve shushes you with soothing words. He apologizes under his breath over and over again. 

“You can’t be serious.” Jonathan’s raised voice gets everyone’s attention. He stands in a corner with Gregory, who Steve hasn’t let come any closer to you. 

“What’s going on?” Max sets down the rag and stalks towards the men.

Mike jabs a finger at Gregory. “This asshole just told us to go back on stage.”

Robin laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, fuck no.”

“You guys sold 20,000 tickets,” Gregory closes his eyes, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. “You only have five songs left, it’d be unprofessional to waste the remaining time–”

“Y/N was just fucking assaulted!” Jonathan’s malice surprises everyone. He doesn’t fucking care what Gregory or anyone else thinks. You’re one of his closest friends and your blood hasn’t even dried yet. “No way in hell are we going back out there.”

“I care deeply for Y/N, and what happened tonight was despicable,” Gregory tries to look at you, but Steve blocks his view of you. Suppressing an agitated sigh, he begs the band to understand. “But I wouldn’t ask you guys to do this if it wasn’t important.”

Steve tightens his arms around you. “We’re done. End of discussion.”

“If you’d just listen to me–”

The door opens. Leonard Branham walks in. “Let them cut the show early.”

Gregory’s jaw drops. “Sir, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m plenty serious. I mean,” Leonard snorts loudly and gestures towards you and Steve, holding each other still. “Look at these two kids. Young and in love. No better drug than that. Even I can be sympathetic enough to that, you heartless cow.”

Max stifles a laugh. Mike doesn’t. 

You ignore the way Steve’s fingers dig into your waist when Leonard says “in love.”

Gregory clenches his fists. This is the most uncomposed you’ve ever seen him. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a sold out show. Thousands of dollars that people paid for.”

“And I don’t give a shit. I’ve already made millions off this band anyways.” Leonard claps Steve’s shoulder, reminiscent of a proud father. “Fuck if I care if this kid’s knight in shining armor act makes me lose a few thousand. At least it’s entertaining!”

“But–”

Leonard’s amusement quickly turns to displeasure. He reels Gregory with a steely look. “I don’t pay you to suck my dick, do I? I pay you to do as I say, and right now I’m telling you to go make the announcement that the show’s over.”

Swallowing down humiliation, Gregory nods his head stiffly and leaves without another word. 

“Fucking asshole,” Steve says under his breath, pulling you even closer. 

“Alright, well.” Leonard adjusts his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He flits through the endless money within it before settling on five hundred dollar bills. He shoves the cash in Robin’s face. “Here, take this. Should be enough to cover the girl’s injury. If you need any legal fees: don’t.”

She accepts the money, albeit reluctantly. “Thank you, Mr. Branham.” 

“I repay my investments. Remember that.” He shrugs, looking right at you when he says it. A silent reminder of his offer with the Jinxs that you have yet to accept. “Anyways, I should get going before the horde of angry people pit me like a pig. Good luck.”

The Februarys don’t even blink at his departure. They swarm around you instead, asking you a million questions a second. 

“Do you feel sick?”

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“Do you need ice? More gauze? Stitches?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“She’s injured, not blind, Mike.”

“Had to make sure.”

Steve remains silent, holding you rather than asking his own questions. In his selfish ways this is the only thing he knows will keep him calm. Your scent, your soft skin against his, your hair in his face, your body with his. 

You try to answer their questions and ease their concern, but as you attempt to reassure Robin that you don’t need stitches, a loud, macabre sound leaks through the dressing room from the audience outside. 

They’re booing the Februarys. 

A deep, hollow vessel of dread sinks into your stomach. 

“You have to–”

Mike cuts you off. “Wait, you know I’m only holding up two fingers, right?”

“The show, you guys can’t–”

“I really think we should get your wound looked at.” Robin touches your face slightly and frowns at how deep the gash appears now that the blood has been wiped away. “I’ll take you. We can use the money Lenny left.”

Max nods. “Use every last cent that bastard left.”

They aren’t listening. No one is listening. “Please, just go back on stage–”

Only Steve hears your pleading. It’s always him. “You heard Lenny, Y/N. The show’s over.”

“But-but I’m fine.” This isn’t what you want. The booing persists and leaks through every crevice of the dressing room and drills into your skull and it only seems to be deafening you. “The fans, they’re upset and-and you can’t just let them down like this–”

“Y/N,” Steve pinches your chin between two fingers, forcing your head to tilt up at him. In his eyes is tenderness. Resentment cannot be found. “I don’t fucking care what the fans think. No show is worth your safety.”

You guys sold 20,000 tickets.

Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.

Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.

The booing outside grows into a nauseating crescendo and Steve looks at you with such softness. You can’t be the reason he loses a childhood dream that’s already been salvaged from ruin because of you. 

Desperate, you raise your voice to be heard over the roar of the audience’s fury. “But this is everything you’ve ever dreamed of!”

“And I’m not sacrificing you for it! Nothing is worth losing you! Do you understand that? I’m not fucking losing you. I-I can’t lose you.” 

All the air escapes your lungs.

The confession rings throughout the room. 

And you stare up at Steve with no resolve or hesitancy or fear of what he’s said, as if you’ve expected it, as if you’ve always known, and isn’t that why you left that Chicago morning? Because Steve couldn’t admit to you what you already knew?

But as he stands before you, breathing in and out heavily, his adrenaline finally abandons his body. It leaves him weak and afraid. Like a shock to his system he comes back to himself, realizes where he is, who is with him, what he’s just admitted. 

Everyone looks at Steve and they know. They know he’s in love with you they know he’s going too fast they know he bruised his knuckles tonight because he’d rather be in pain than to have you afraid and they know you’re wound so deeply into his skin and this is all happening too fast he’s going too fast.

Steve lets go of you as if you’ve burned him. Maybe you have.

The door slams shut.

No one calls after him.

–

Robin and Jonathan shove you into the back of a taxi and drag you into the first emergency room they find. Jonathan fills out all the paperwork. Robin holds your hand while a kind nurse cleans your injury. 

Two hours later you’re cleared of a concussion and discharged with an ice pack to your head. The nurse instructs you to take it easy the next few days. Robin promises the woman she’ll keep an eye on you and Jonathan picks up your prescription pain meds for the swelling.

You’re just relieved that your camera made it out alive without any damage. Your skull took the brunt of it.

Even though it’s nearly one in the morning by the time you get back to the hotel, Mike and Max are waiting in the lobby. When they see you, they jump to their feet. 

“What’d the doctor say?” Mike eyes your bandage wearily. “Are you brain damaged?”

Max pinches his side. “Can you be normal for five seconds?”

Though their worry endears you, the pain meds haven’t kicked in yet and your head feels like it’s on fire. Smiling thinly at them, you manage small reassurance. “I’m fine, guys.”

“No concussion, which is good.” Jonathan steps in for you. “She just can’t do anything reckless for a few days.”

Max snorts. “I’m sure that’ll be easy.”

“Now isn’t the time.” He gently berates her remark. “It’s late and we’ve all had a long day. Let’s just get some sleep. Tomorrow you guys can be your usual asshole selves.”

Mike boos, but Robin swats his chest and looks pointedly at Max. “Do as Jonathan says or I’ll hit you, too.”

She rolls her eyes but yanks the back of Mike’s shirt and drags him to the elevator. Jonathan accompanies them, kissing your forehead with a whispered goodnight as he leaves. The kids send you one last concerned glance before the elevator doors close and they’re gone.

“Do you need anything else?” Robin asks you, eyebrows knit in worry.

You shake your head. “I’m fine. Really.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “I can stay in your room tonight.”

“Robin,” you squeeze her hand, understanding her worry but hating the sensation of it. “I love you, but tonight was overwhelming and I just…”

All you’ve felt since leaving Glen Helen is overwhelmed frailty. The crash of your camera lens to your head, the man’s slurred anger, Steve’s fists cracking his skin, Leonard’s indifference and Gregory’s guilty eyes. 

The terror on Steve’s face when he saw all the blood. His desperation to hold you, to search your skin for any other injuries and kiss them better. How raw his voice was when he confessed to you what he’s fought so hard to hide.

Closing your eyes, you exhale the weakness that bites your lungs. “I just really want to be alone right now.”

The edges of Robin’s eyes soften. “Yeah,” she says. “Of course, but if you’ll allow me to be selfish, I’d like to at least walk you to your room.”

You kiss the back of her hand. “Guide the way, Buckley.”

Her soft laughter eases the ache in your head for just a moment. Your hands remain intertwined the entire way to your room. She only lets go of you once you’re at your door, but even then she lingers. 

“You know I love you, right?” Robin studies your face, as if trying to find something within it. “You’re still my best friend.”

You want to tell her that of course you know she loves you, but for some reason the words die in your throat. For hours now your body has been locked in a state of fight or flight. A varying mix of emotions heighten and depress every minute and all you want to do is close your eyes forever.

“I love you, too.” You caress her cheek, allowing yourself this one thing. Grabbing the key to your room, you unlock the door. “Thank you for taking care of me tonight.”

Robin cups the back of your head and kisses your hairline, right where Jonathan did earlier. “Always,” she mumbles against the skin there. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.”

You leave her standing in the hallway. The silence in your room somehow amplifies the ringing in your ears. Alone for the first time all day, your knees sink to the floor, too exhausted to find the bed. 

You don’t know how long you stay like this, head down and knees pushed against your chest with the hard floor beneath you. Long enough to leave your body numb to the pain, though not long enough to lessen the tugging in your chest that begs for attention. 

Not now, you plead to yourself. Please. 

The tugging in your chest only continues to constrict. Crawling out of your skin, you throw off your shirt and unzip your skirt and stumble into an old t-shirt before falling into bed. You force your eyes closed. Inside your ribcage something buries itself into the bones there. A million pins prick your skin.

A string ties around your throat and pulls tighter and tighter. Your chest squeezes, rattles your lungs, the begging doesn’t stop.

You have to see him. 

Steve’s room is across from yours. It takes you less than a minute to cross the bridge of the hallway that divides you. Your legs carry you to his door, where you stand, hesitating, ears straining for any sign to turn around. That you’re making another mistake. 

But there’s only silence in his room. 

He’s alone.

Memories of the last time you stood before his hotel door flood your mind. Pleasurable, bitter flashes. The kiss that was on your lips from someone else. How Steve kissed them clean and poured liquid honey down your throat. The screaming the morning after. Vicious words that ruined the sanctity that the night had salvaged. 

You knock on the door and wait several heartbeats. 

No one answers.

Frowning, you test the handle and find that it’s unlocked. Your breath catches. For a moment you consider going back to your room, but the tugging in your chest pleads for release, it pleads for the reassurance that he’s okay. 

You let yourself inside.

What hits you first is the stench of alcohol. Then you see the remains of the room. 

Fragments of plates are shattered on the floor. Torn pieces of sheet music litter between the glass. A table on its side, thrown against the wall. Clothes strewn everywhere, torn from their suitcase and left in piles throughout the room. Cigarette butts burn holes into the carpet. 

Careful to avoid the mess you’ve made, you step through the ruin.

Steve sits at the foot of his bed, a crumpled body on the ground. His head tilts to the side, knees curled into his chest, more a child soothing a hurt too big for his body than a broken man. 

His glossy eyes find you in the dark room. A weak sound escapes his lips. A sheen of sweat covers his face, drenching his body. Paler than you’ve ever seen him, you’re afraid to ask how much he’s had to drink tonight. 

“Is this real?” Steve’s hoarse question breaks the last of your resolve. He stares up at you like a little kid, lost and alone. “Are you real?”

“This is real.” You talk to him like an injured animal, lowering your voice, approaching him slowly. “I’m real, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers something incoherent. The sound weakens your knees and sends you to the ground beside him. Back against the bed, Steve’s head falls to your chest and you cradle his frail body that shakes through tears.

You’ve never seen Steve cry before.

You’ve seen him exhale elated laughter, you’ve seen his face twist in moanful pleasure and ecstasy, you’ve seen him spew bitter words and malicious anger, but you’ve never seen him cry.

“I’m sorry,” he cries into your skin, repeatedly, without pause, like a prayer that he begs salvation from. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

You don’t know what exactly he apologizes for. He doesn’t know, either. The only thing he knows is that he’s missed being in your arms and that his mouth can’t form any other words. All he can say is your name and the remorse that builds in his chest and spills down his face. 

Eventually Steve falls asleep pressed to your ribcage. Your arms fall numb but you don’t want to let him go. Early morning sunlight creeps through the window and you stare at his sleeping profile like you used to, back when everything was easy with him. 

Steve still looks the same as he used to. His freckles align in the same place, eyelashes still kiss his cheeks that are stained with tears. But his pale skin cracks at its edges, dry and lifeless. The warm gold he used to be is gone. You can feel the ridge of his spine through his shirt, the outlines of his ribs. 

Sucked dry by the alcohol and sex, Steve has become a skeleton of his potential. 

Blinking back your own tears, your finger strokes his cheek. Even in his sleep, Steve leans into the touch. 

You can’t keep doing this to him. 

The deal had been suffocating Steve. You had been suffocating him, all for the false hope of holding onto the scattered pieces of your relationship with him. There was never any other way for this to end. The pieces settled where they landed for a reason. 

His mistaken confession tonight only evinces it.

And I’m not sacrificing you for it.

Steve would give up everything for you, renounce his entire life for the possibility of remaining at arms length of you, to even just breathe the air you exhale. 

And it’s killing him. What you have is slowly killing him. It isn’t something that can be messily stitched back together, not like you once naively believed. 

Robin was right. You really are a catalyst. 

Gregory’s offer nips at the scattered remains of your mind. Go back to New York. Photograph another band. Give up the Februarys. 

Tomorrow you’ll talk to them. They deserve to be the first to know what your answer will be. But tonight, you hold Steve and watch the sun rise over the wreckage of a reliquary love. 

– 

“What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving us?” 

You should’ve known Robin would voice her disbelief over the news loudly and with great proclivity. 

“Robin–”

“Absolutely fucking not.” 

She paces the room and laughs to herself hysterically. When you asked the Februarys to meet you in the hotel’s conference room before leaving for Vegas, she thought you were just going to ask them to pose for a few more photos. Maybe confess that it was really you who ate the last batch of cookies that El sent. 

She didn’t think she’d be stepping into the conference room with a goddamn resignation speech prepped and ready. 

“This is a joke, right?” Mike looks around the room, as if expecting Leonard to jump out from behind the curtains. When he doesn’t find anything, he aims his disbelief and upset at Gregory, who unhelpfully stands beside you. “What the hell did you do to Y/N in her concussed state?”

“I was never concussed.”

Gregory pushes his glasses up. “And this was entirely her decision.” 

Max can’t look at you, arms crossed on the couch as if to protect herself against the sting of betrayal. “Some bullshit decision.”

“C’mon, guys,” you hate the hurt on their faces. “It’s only for a few months. We all still live in the same building.”

“I don’t.” Max’s eyes cut right into you, forcing you to look down at the ground. 

Jonathan sits on the couch next to her, his own arms crossed. He’s looking at you like he looks at particularly complex and almost uncomfortable displays of art. You recognize the look from the classes you shared together and from late nights exploring the city to find inspiration for your next film projects. 

“Why do you want to leave?” He asks you, no hint of anything in his voice. Emotionless, without any indication how he feels, and in the lack of emotion he reveals the quiet regret that his eyes can’t hide. 

“I don’t want to leave, it’s just–” The excuse gets caught in your throat, its jagged edges cut your gumline and stab your teeth. Steve sits alone, in his own seat away from his bandmates, and he hasn’t once looked at you since waking up to you at the end of his bed this morning, tucked away from him. 

You aren’t sure how much he remembers from last night. You aren’t sure that you want to know. Not when he remains quiet now, head turned away from you as you tell the Februarys that you’re leaving. 

“I miss New York more than I thought I would,” you miss the weightlessness the city provided you, but you can’t say that you miss the city itself. Only the memories you made within it. “And I figured that if I photograph the Jinxs then maybe it’d revitalize my love for photography. Go back to my roots, you know?” 

Robin chokes on her spit. “Did you just say the Jinxs?”

You give her a funny look, unsure why that’s what she chooses to focus on. “Yeah. They’re the band that requested me from Lenny.”

“Oh dear fuck.” She clutches her stomach.

Immediately Mike turns on her. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I-I happen to, um. Know Amelia Sloan. Pretty well.” Robin squeaks out, face red and splotchy in embarrassment. “She’s the lead singer.”

Jonathan drops his head. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you.”

“You’re sleeping with the enemy?” Mike jumps away from Robin as if she’s physically injured him. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I didn’t know she’d try to take Y/N away from us!” Robin exclaims, panicking as well. 

Max glares at her. “You probably fed the idea into her head.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t talk about Y/N or the band whenever I’m sleeping with a girl.”

Mike scoffs. “Of course you do, it’s how you get laid in the first place. And now you’ve slept with the goddamn enemy. Not even Steve has done that!”

Steve closes his eyes. Jonathan rolls his. Robin tugs at her hair.

Max still can’t look at you. 

“Stop saying I’m sleeping with the fucking enemy!”

As the Februarys continue to argue, Gregory gives you a silent can we please get the fuck out of here? look, which you don’t hesitate to act on. Using their argument as a distraction, you slip out the room to go call Leonard and inform him of your decision. 

The moment the door closes behind you, Steve throws himself off the seat and grabs his things. “I’ll see you guys on the bus.”

His voice comes out raw from disuse and the alcohol that burned it last night. He can’t stay in the conference room where his friends mourn the loss of you. Not when he desperately wants to mourn as well. Alone. 

But suddenly the Februarys look at one another in frightening synchronicity and within seconds they’re jumping into action. Jonathan throws himself onto Steve, hooking his arms tight. Mike and Max gather anything in the room that can be used as a weapon and throw them behind the couch. The giant oval table that the hotel provides in the conference room gets shoved against the door by Robin, locking everyone inside. 

“What the hell?” Steve fights against Jonathan, but the guy’s surprising strength has him pinned to the wall. The rest of the band members stand in a circle around them and Steve’s cynical laughter cuts into the silence of the room. “Is this a fucking impromptu intervention?”

“I think we can all agree you’re long overdue for one.” Robin snarks back. 

Steve tightens his fists. “Fuck you, Buckley.”

“No, fuck you.” She sneers. “You need to sort your shit out with Y/N, do you hear me? Because I’m not fucking losing her over some petty miscommunicated feelings that goddamn third graders can express more eloquently.”

“We actually really like Y/N.” Max says. “She’s our friend.”

“She takes us to parks!” Mike gestures wildly. “And she actually thinks I’m funny!”

Jonathan nods solemnly. “She’s been good for us, Steve. Even you have to see that.”

“Do you guys think I want this?” Steve’s eyes sting and the cavity in his chest collapses. Baring his teeth to protect himself, never to be malicious, he sucks in a defeated breath. “I mean, fuck. I can’t even go an hour without seeing her and you think I want her to leave?”

His head knocks weakly against the wall behind him. He lets it hang there, tired of holding himself up. “That’s the fucking problem. We aren’t good for each other. If she’s unhappy then I can’t stop her from leaving.”

Mike makes a mocking gag of a sound and stomps over to his bag. “Oh, just shut the fuck up.” He grabs a book from within it and throws it down on the table. The thud echoes throughout the room. “Open the goddamn book.”

Steve tilts his head at Jonathan. “I’m pinned to a fucking wall right now.”

Robin yanks Jonathan off of him and then grabs the back of Steve’s shirt, collaring him, before throwing him onto the table without any gentleness. “And now you’re not. Open it.”

A pulsing ache instills Steve’s body. It screams at him to run. Taunts him to ruin everything yet again. The rusted leather book that gets thrown at him like a stray dog gets thrown a bone persecutes him to open it; it sees through who he is and all he tries to hide.

Inside the book are all of your photos. Steve could recognize the style of your art anywhere after spending hours observing the way you create it effortlessly. 

“How the hell did you get Y/N’s portfolio?” He doesn’t understand why it’s being presented to him now.

“Mind your own business.” Mike grunts.

Robin pushes the book closer to him, her eyes now gentle yet again, sympathetic. “Look through the photos, Steve.” She brushes hair out of his face and pauses for a moment, thinking through her words carefully. “Really look at them and finally fucking accept what’s been obvious from the start.”

Steve shakes his head. An image of himself stares back at him, smiling into the mic with your familiar handwriting beneath it, February, 1989, my first time hearing rosie sing.

“I-I can’t–”

“You can,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to his. She breathes in the shaky exhale he releases. “Remember why we stay.”

She kisses the crease between his brow. Steve wonders how he can tattoo the kiss into his skin. 

“We’ll see you on the bus.” Max throws his earlier words back in his face, though there’s a lighthearted teasing behind them. She grazes Steve’s shoulder, an uncharacteristic act of tenderness towards him. 

Jonathan stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives him a small nod. Mike waves a sad goodbye and Robin leaves with one last reassuring smile. 

He’s alone again. 

Yet he doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to run. Instead, Steve finds himself wanting to run his fingers through the pages of your portfolio. He loves every picture you’ve ever shared with him, but he’s never seen this collection of photos before. The edges of the book’s pages are frayed and worn from love. Small doodles decorate the gaps between pictures, small comments and thoughts meant only for you to read. The portfolio encompasses who you are, the purest manifestation. A small sense of guilt tinges Steve’s chest at the idea that he’s intruding on something you wouldn't want him to see. 

The kiss that Robin left on his skin warms, reminding him of what she’s asked. 

A collection of your work resides in the book. The pages start from the very beginning of your time with the Februarys. Within the images Steve recognizes the first night you ever photographed the band, a picture of his face pressed against Robin’s as they share a mic. It’s been a long time since they’ve been so close during a performance. 

Steve swallows the remorse down and flips through the photos. They’re a collection of every memory he’s ever wanted to preserve, but within the images he can’t help but notice a repetitive pattern that connects them all together. 

All the photos are of him. Each and every one of them contains pieces of him. But it’s not the photos that fill his chest with dandelion fondness. It’s the words you write beneath them.

Snow on his winter jacket with a box in his hands, standing beside a bright yellow taxi in front of your old apartment – Steve, the gentleman who carried all my boxes. 

His head buried under a blanket, hair peeking out the first morning he woke up to your laughter – A surprising early riser.

Silver rings around his fingers as he taunts Jonathan for questioning your decision to include a Velvet Underground song – Jonathan might be onto me. 

The corner of Steve’s mouth as he smiles at the first crowd you documented for the Februarys – What a dangerous smile. 

All the photos contain the same date.

February, 1989.

You’d only known Steve for a week prior to the documented film and yet you captured such a softness to him. You’ve always seen through him, Steve knows this, but he didn’t think the view would be so gentle in the destruction that it brought. 

But even in the destruction, the soft way you photograph Steve never quite disappears.

A lipstick mark on his cheek, red and vibrant despite the bitterness that came before it – Rosie with my kiss on him.

Pink lights encasing a halo around him – And he claims I’m the angelface. 

His back against a small restaurant window, sitting next to Robin and listening to a story she tells him because he couldn’t bring himself to sit next to you – I love how sunlight is gentle with him.

The photos are dated with different months, different stages of the deconstruction you brought upon each other, yet the softness remains. 

And in the most recent photo, dated only yesterday, displays Steve in his suit from Glen Helen, a hand on his hip and his shirt straining against his chest – There’s my rosie.

You must’ve added the picture this morning. Before you told the Februarys that you were leaving, you glued one last photo of Steve into your portfolio, depicting him as the rockstar he pretends to be, captured in a light that makes him feel like he’s worth something.

Steve is your muse just as much as you’re his. 

It’s then that he finally releases the breath he’d been holding ever since he ran into his apartment one night, sweating and late for what he thought would only be a simple introduction to a possible new roommate, but instead he found you in his living room golden and holy.

From the very beginning, he’s loved you.

And you’ve loved him. 

You still love him. 

– 

Steve spends the entire three hour drive to Vegas going over and over the portfolio. He memorizes every picture, every line of writing, every small detail and drawing and messily glued on scrap of art and each passing minute his body warms. 

No one talks to him during the drive, though the Februarys share secretive glances with one another. He kept the portfolio. He walked onto the bus. They’ve done all that they can. They just have to hope that it’s enough.

You meet everyone at the venue, smiling as if you haven’t just made the band mourn the loss of you. Gregory chose to stay on the bus, worried that his presence would only further upset the band. 

“Welcome to Vegas.”

Robin takes your camera from you and places the strap around her own neck. “I imagine this will be your last show with us, considering Leonard doesn’t value anyone’s time or money but his own.”

Opening the stage door for the Februarys, your smile turns into a bittersweet one. “You know Lenny so well.”

One by one the band members step inside, each offering you their own remorseful smile. Max thanks you under her breath as you hold the door open, Mike winks playfully, and Jonathan grabs your shoulder for a brief moment and squeezes it. 

“Let’s make this show count, then.” He says, slow, savoring the last moments he has left with you. 

You grab his hand. “I like the way you think, Byers.”

Jonathan laughs and walks inside, leaving only Steve outside, the last of his band mates. You glance at him for a moment, unsure how to look at him after the vulnerability he wept last night. His stoic reaction to you leaving hurt you this morning. You’re not sure you know how to be around Steve anymore. 

But he surprises you. He always surprises you. 

Steve grabs the door and his other hand lands on your waist, his fingers slotting around the skin he once carved his prints into, and gently, ever so gently, moves you to the side so that he can hold the door open instead. 

“After you,” he murmurs, a playful lilt in his voice. 

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

“Always.” 

One word, and still it kisses your fiendish skin. 

You walk inside. The venue is beautiful. Mike has already made himself at home, sprawled across a lush cream couch. Robin sits at one of the vanity tables, fixing her makeup and luminescent as ever. A mosaic covers one of the walls and forms an image of a field of desert flowers, its multicolored tiles bright and smooth to the touch, Max’s finger runs over their edges in silent awe. Jonathan stares at the wall of photos next to the mosaic, a picture of every artist who has ever performed in the venue displayed. 

An empty frame waits with the Februarys’ name etched into the wood. 

You nudge Jonathan’s side. “Think I could take your guys’ photo?”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know if you’re qualified.”

“Hilarious.” Grabbing your camera from Robin, you spin around and clap your hands. Once you have the Februarys’ attention, you point at the mosaic wall. “Listen up, assholes. I’m taking your portrait for the wall and you’re all going to smile and look happy. Understood?”

Mike salutes and Max pulls him to her side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Robin walks from the vanity and stands behind her, placing her chin on Max’s head and smiles wide. Jonathan stands beside Mike, two brothers who stand back to back like a vintage poster. Steve takes his time walking over to them, as if savoring the final moments of normalcy. 

He stops next to you. “Where do you want me?”

His question startles you. You didn’t think he wanted your input anymore, not like he used to. “Oh, um,” you clear your throat and try to lessen how tight your vocal chords are. “Stand next to Robin, behind Jonathan. Try to balance the height difference, maybe? And try to be in contact with someone. You’re all linked together, I really like the patterns it forms.”

Steve has a tender look in his eyes that makes you suddenly nervous. Voice dying off, you struggle to finish the sentence. “I-I mean, if that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.” He walks to Robin and presses his cheek to hers, eliciting a giggle, and ruffles Mike’s hair. With an easy, charming smile, he asks you, “this alright?”

Bringing the camera to your face, you can’t suppress the gooey smile that melts into your lips. “It’s perfect.”

The Februarys all knit together in a beautiful and intimate piece of history that only they possess. Childhood friends smile at one another. Their bodies embrace. There are no unattached strings between them, only clean, uniform lines that draw them even closer together. 

A family. 

Once you’ve taken the picture they break away from one another, though the lighthearted energy remains. An easy peace settles over the dressing room, lighter than it’s been in a long time. Not wanting to lose these final moments of delicacy, you take as many pictures as you can, for old time’s sake. 

Your viewfinder captures Robin in the mirror, Steve helping with her hair. He braids the strands together, fingers lithe from years of practice. She winks at the camera and his coy smile sets your heart pounding. 

A game of tag breaks out between Mike, Jonathan, and Max. You follow their childish laughter with your camera. Max’s emerald green jacket clashes with Mike’s burnt orange t-shirt and Jonathan’s gold rings that Nancy gifted him for his birthday. Their youthful smiles paint the nostalgic memory. 

You take pictures of the instruments in the room, just as you used to. Mike’s sage guitar resting against an amp, nestled next to Max’s red bass and Steve’s blue guitar, an explosion of colors all combining into something iridescent. Robin plays her keyboard for you and you capture the light that spills onto her fingers and onto her pink fingernails.

As you capture every fleeting detail you find, eyes never leaving your camera, you feel someone watching you. The weight of Steve’s gaze, impossible to forget. From the corner of your eye you notice his honeyed eyes. His eyes simmer on your skin, though you’re terrified to meet them. 

When a stage crew member knocks on the door and gives the Februarys their usual five minute warning, Steve finally looks away and turns to his bandmates instead. Something akin to content settles into his features. 

“We know why we’re here,” he tells them. “We know why we stay.”

“Because it’s only us.” Robin finishes, knocking her head against his. 

Steve pulls her close, he pulls everyone close. “It’s only us.” He affirms. “And we know what we have to do tonight.”

Max smirks. “We give them a show.”

As they lean against one another you take a photo of the harmony between them. The easy way the group looks at one another. How bright Steve’s eyes become when he’s with them, when he’s talking to them and laughing with them.

This is how he’s supposed to be, you think. Alive and bright. 

Steve leans down, the Februarys follow, and he allows the anticipation to build into barely contained desperation. The seconds spill over and he looks at his friends and bites his lip and can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

“Showtime.”

The Februarys break into cheers. 

Steve will never grow tired of the sound. 

– 

The Vegas venue is one of the smaller venues they’ve performed in. Capped at a capacity of one thousand, the sold out show murmurs conversations and speculation as the audience awaits the Februarys. 

You stand at the center, placed in the barricade that only gets built for you. Camera warm in your hands, you breathe in deeply. The excited rumblings of the crowd, the hot stage lights, the scent of bodies and smoke and alcohol in a building meant to be danced in. 

You hope you never forget any of it. Already you grieve the loss of this version of you, this part of your life, that you will never get again. Not quite like this. Never the same. 

Your reverie ends with Steve’s arrival on stage. He walks up the mic while the rest of the Februarys take their places behind him. The crowd bursts into the cheers they’ll never get used to hearing, that you hope they’ll always receive. 

Steve grabs the mic stand, fingers lazily wrap around the metal. His skin glows golden under the stage lights, a thin silk shirt drapes over him in a dream-like manner. “We fucking made it to Vegas!”

More screams and applause. He chuckles, the rough edges of the boyish laughter presses against your chest. “God, you guys know how to make a guy feel special.” 

Mike plucks a few strings to the tune of the crowd’s pleasure. Steve nods along, extends his arm towards the kid. “Over here we have Mike Wheeler on electric guitar, arguably better than me,” he bows down, getting Mike to laugh. “Next we have Robin Buckley on keyboard, isn’t she pretty?” Robin plays a few chords and scrunches her nose in flirtatious manner. Steve blows her a kiss and turns to Max. “Here we have Max Mayfield on bass, a fucking monster.” The girl shoves him, but not even she can hide her smile. Finally Steve drags the mic stand to Jonathan and places a messy kiss to his cheek. “And last, but certainly not least, we have Jonathan fucking Byers on drums!”

A series of beats get pounded into the drums and at Jonathan’s cue the crowd goes fucking wild. Whistles and energetic praise all demanding for the show to finally begin, for the music they came for to come to life and become a part of their jugulars. 

Steve lowers the mic and gets caught in the moment. He can’t believe any of it is real. 

You watch his awe. The volume inside the venue only grows louder and Steve’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. In the crowd his eyes find you already staring back at him, and because nostalgia has always tasted sweeter dipped in melancholy familiarity, he winks at you. 

Your heart beats out of its chest. He ducks his head seeing the blush that blooms on your cheeks, and the shyness, though endearing and lovely, lingers in the back of your mind. 

“We’re the Februarys,” Steve shouts into the mic, teeth peeking through his confident smile. “Let’s go!”

Jonathan dives into the first drum solo and Max plays along, head banging to the rapid staccato tempo that Mike one day thought of alone in his room one night. Robin accompanies the tempo with a slower set of chords and Steve grabs the mic and the venue drenches in his clear voice. 

Throughout the night you lose count of how many pictures you take. It doesn’t matter to you. Your final night with the Februarys will be preserved through the film. This you’re sure of. 

Though as the show continues you find your attention drawn to the way the Februarys whisper between the songs. Poorly hidden glances at you follow the whispers. Their behavior confuses you slightly, worries you, but you’re desperate for one final memory of the Februarys that’s painted in lovely pinks rather than remorseful blues, so you push down the disquiet and cheer along with the crowd instead.

The setlist was carefully curated by Mike and Robin the week leading up to the tour. It took multiple days, arguments, and compromises before they were able to settle on which twelve songs to perform from their EP and album. You watched them agonize over the unseen details, such as whether Going should bleed into Lower East or whether it’s better suited as a closing song and if the flow of the music should tell a story or leave the audience unexpecting.

So when the Februarys don’t perform Rosie, a song that nearly broke the band apart trying to figure out where to put it in the setlist, you find it more than a little odd. 

None of the band members stumble over the unexpected setlist change. They knew they wouldn’t be performing it tonight. Instead they wrap up their set as they normally do, ending with Going where Steve screams everything he has into the microphone. 

Except he doesn’t say anything when the song is over. He doesn’t think the audience for the show or wishes them a good night. He’s completely silent as the fans scream for an encore, for any semblance of more. 

Mike moves first, unplugging his electric guitar from its amp. Max does the same with her bass. From his drumset Jonathan unplugs the microphone that sits next to him. Robin turns off her keyboard and goes to the wings of the stage. She brings out Steve’s acoustic guitar. He takes it from her. 

You watch along with the crowd, straining your neck to understand what the hell they’re doing. They’ve never done something like this before. The show feels unfinished, yet they take apart their instruments as if it is. 

Steve walks over to the edge of the stage. He stands in front of you for a moment, eyes only on you. A hush falls over the venue. Every breath gets held, you’ve forgotten how to release yours. 

He sits down. Close to the edge, his feet dangle over the sides, as close as he can possibly get to you given the constraints of the stage layout. Robin places a mic right next to him, angled so he doesn’t have to hold it, leaving his hands free for his guitar. 

“We’re going to sing Rosie a little differently tonight,” he murmurs. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

The question is only meant for you. He knows you’ll understand it.

Heart beating in your throat, you nod. 

Thank you, Steve mouths back, fingers already playing the beginning notes of the song. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t blink when he swears to you, for everything.

Under the dim pink lights he plays the song he wrote that spilled from his chest and onto a piece of paper one night. Steve had been alone in his room staring at his ceiling. Your laughter floated through the bedroom walls, giggling with Robin about something. He had traced the cracks in the building’s walls, silently whispering to himself rosie rosie rosie, unable to get the sugary saturated way the endearment fell from your lips the night before. No one had ever given Steve a name before with so much charm and sincerity. 

You get all rosie. I think it’s cute.

He remembers pulling out the photo you’d taken of him and staring at it, awestruck by how unreal it all felt to be portrayed as a rockstar. Steve had always had the far fetched dream, but somehow the growing recognition and crystallizing music couldn’t satiate the itch. He didn’t feel that he deserved it. But then there you were, somehow able to soothe the overwhelming craving for more that has always plagued him, all with one photo. One moment. 

That night Steve wrote Rosie. He still considers it the easiest, and truest, song he’s ever written.

And now he performs it for you. He was always meant to only perform the song for you. 

Steve’s lonesome fingers pluck the guitar strings. Mike and Max stand to the side, their instruments at their sides. Jonathan sits at his drums, head down, softly swaying to the melodic chords that remind him of his own love in New York, waiting for him. Robin leans over her keyboard, head in her fond hands as she watches her friend serenade you.

Slow, raw, aching, Steve never once looks away from you as he sings. His ember voice lilts through the guitar’s symphony. Everything he was never able to tell you, that he was afraid to tell you, intertwines within the strain of his voice and the pleading way he plays. 

Rock-a-bye-posie? 

No, maybe it’s ring-around-my-baby?

Or could it be rosie and falling down with you?

Through the blurry tears in your eyes you watch Steve. The ragged pause of his breath between the lines, his brown eyes a melted toffee adoring you, the darling way his freckles and moles dance across his skin as he sings. 

He’s never looked more beautiful begging.

Mixed up all inside my head the rush of lullaby blues.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

Or could it be forever rosie?

Steve plays a little harder going into the bridge. He gasps for air and his wanting turns into a requiem. “Yes or no?” He prays into the open wound before you and begs you to fill it with something holy. “Can I be forever rosie?”

“Angelface,” the scratch of a guitar string cuts the softness of the requiem. He has to tell you. He has to get you to listen and know that has given himself entirely to you. He wants you to forever call him rosie, to always be the cause of the flush on his face. “Pretty please,” he begs under his breath between the lines, broken and aching. 

Just before the bridge fades Steve prolongs the melody. He adds to the song, an extension of himself. He will not be left for want and nothing. “Let me be forever rosie,” his timbre softens around the edges of his prayer, finally tying his sacrament to you with the parting words, “forever rosie and falling into love with you.”

The final guitar note echoes irrevocably. 

Rosie has come to an end. 

All around you there are screams. Loud, blinding screams. The ground shakes and people cheer and throw their hands together in a frenzy that only music can strike. But you don’t hear any of it. The spillage of praise for the boy in front of you fades into nothing when he looks at you. 

“Thank you,” Steve acknowledges the crowd, though his heart isn’t in it. His heart resides in your chest. He gets up and turns to the Februarys, linking his arms through Robin’s and Mike’s as they all line up in the center of the stage and take their final bows. 

Robin blows you a kiss as she exits the stage. Jonathan and Mike both wink, following her. Max simply waves before she joins her friends. All of them knew what tonight would bring. 

Just before Steve steps off the stage he quickly grabs the microphone. He only has one last chance to beg you to stay. When tonight ends, he could lose you forever. 

Losing you would be the one thing Steve would never recover from.

“Please don’t leave,” his lips press against the mic, desperate to ensure you hear him. His eyes sink into your chest. The words press into your bones. “Not when I’m finally ready to promise you everything.”

And then he’s gone. 

You don’t remember jumping over the barricade. You don’t remember running through the crowd, weaving through the onslaught of bodies. You don’t remember the hot desperation that singed your veins or the spiraling need to find him, for more. 

All you remember is Steve waiting for you.

He waits for you in the dressing room, one last stand, one last attempt. He draws into himself when he notices you standing in the doorway. Neither of you move. He watches you, tries to read your body language. 

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

He doesn’t know anymore. 

But then you’re running into his arms. 

The kiss starts the same way your relationship did. Messy, fast, all encompassing. There isn’t room for anything else. There was never room for anything else. 

Steve draws you so tightly into his chest and makes such a delicate sound. You nip his bottom lip, tug at his hair, and he answers your pleads with nails digging into your hips, where he carves himself into the outline of the bones there. The tender flesh welcomes him home, your skin exhales in relief, where have you been?

“I love you,” Steve bites the confession into your lips and soothes them with another kiss. “I love you,” he sighs against the mouth that he craves. “I love you,” he will die a happy man if all he is ever able to say again are these three words, marked nipped into your collarbones with his greedy teeth. 

“I’ll stay,” you answer the prayer, merciful face wet with tears. “I love you, rosie,” you feel him smile against your lips. You were always going to end this way. He was always going to be your rosie. 

Steve moves his lips to your cheeks, then to your nose, the crest of your forehead, the ridges of your collarbones, etching the same promise into them. It may never undo the hurt you brought upon each other. The scars left behind may not fade, but the tragedy of humanity wasn’t the fall of Eden, but the failure to stay in the garden. 

When you love someone, you stay. 

“I’ll stay.” Steve promises, human just as you are.

It is the only innate instinct to keep trying to hold onto one another. It is embedded within human history, and you once swore to him that you were going to be a part of his history.

-

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[lokischocolatefountain]

Warning || Men Like Me

Masterlist

Fandom: The Last of Us Pairing: Joel Miller x Virgin!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: girth age gap, virgin!reader, eventual loss of virginity (not in this chapter), gratuitous descriptions of Joel Miller's body, somewhat creepy!Joel, fetishization of youth, dom!Joel, breaking and entering, playboy magazine, objectification, fingering, sexual discoveries. Word count: 6.2k Summary: Joel's warnings about what men like him would do to girls like you only makes you want him more. A/N: Back in the depths of hell again, you guys. Now this isn't the most depraved thing I've written by any means but it's up there. Come say hi in my chat or inbox, I'd love to talk. Keep a look out for follow up parts and pleeeeease give me comments. I am very very desperate.

Joel Miller was a bad man. That much he knew. 

Even as he fixed taps and renovated houses that were falling apart, he could see the blood on his hands. The very hands that packed lunches for Ellie snapped necks, pistol whipped men, stole from a starving child so he could feed his grown brother. But there were lows even he didn’t stoop down to. 

Not that he didn’t have the opportunity. Men always did. And in this world, opportunities had only tripled. Even the Boston QZ, as strict as it was, had an underground brothel. He knew Tess to frequent it and never asked questions. Sometimes she needed to bury her face between a good pair of thighs and wrap her lips around a pretty pussy, and this wasn’t something he could give her. There was a lot he couldn’t give her.

Being in Jackson should’ve civilized him. It did in many ways. He’d reverted to the southern gentleman with table manners. ‘Yes, Ma’am’ spilled out of his lips effortlessly when he spoke to women. He held the door for anyone walking in after him. He even went to Church– sorry, the multifaith house of worship–to help renovate. 

That was where his troubles began. 

There was no point in him going where people prayed. Being back in civilization did not erase his decades of disbelief in a cruel God who would take his baby and keep him on this accursed Earth. But he did because he was back to being a contractor and Tommy asked him to go fix up the pews instead of him. He didn’t have much time, being a new dad and all.

He was on his knees checking out the rotting wood and evaluating how much wood he’d need for building new ones when he was confronted by a pair of legs and a sweet voice. Yours. 

“Lemonade, Mister Miller?” 

He looked up, his eyes traveling up your legs, bare until he got to your knees where the hem of your flowery skirt sat. Pure, unblemished knees, never taken a fall, didn’t fucking creak, and never knelt before anyone but God. You looked down sweetly, eyes wide and innocent like a newborn cow. Everyone had a kind of darkness about them in this world. Everyone except the kids who didn’t know a world outside the insular walls of Jackson. And you, it turned out, even though you weren’t a kid.

He wiped his sweat off with the greasy rag he carried and looked up at you once again. You had a pitcher and an empty glass in your hands. A sweet smile on your lips and hair falling down your shoulders and reaching your breasts. A yellow ribbon sat in a bow where your neckline dipped between your breasts, adding to the innocence of your look.

“Yes please, Ma’am. Thank you,” he said, giving you a nod. Your pretty plush lips curled up, a giggle escaping them as you poured him a glass of lemonade. 

His hand brushed against yours as he accepted the glass, his hand too large to curl around it without making contact with you. You giggled again before retracting your hand and occupying it with adjusting your hair. 

“I’m younger than you, you know? Don’t have to call me Ma’am.” 

“Just being polite. Ma’am.” He took the glass to his lips, mindful to take only a small sip instead of downing it in desperation. Another adjustment to make when food was no longer a scarcity. Sweet, sour, and salty danced on his tongue before it glided down his throat. Just a sip refreshed him. And the sight of a nice girl didn’t hurt the cause either. 

It’d been so long since he had a nice refreshing glass of lemonade. Summers meant worse infestations of infected, not the barbecues, lemonades, and swimming of past. When surviving each hour was under threat, small luxuries like this became out of reach of even one’s dreams.

“Well, guess I should call you Sir then,” you said, leaning against the wall. You held the pitcher up to your chest and the tails of the ribbon on your chest dipped into it, the soft shiny yellow turning dark, tainted.

His mouth watered and fucking hell, it wasn’t the lemonade you just gave him. He took a sip of the drink and licked his lips, imagining how you’d taste if he wrapped his large hand around your neck and pressed his chapped lips to your plush ones. Better yet, if he held your legs apart and devoured you other pair of lips until you were leaking down his mouth. Would you call him Sir then? His cock twitched in his jeans as he pictured you bent over one of these pews, your skirt pushed up and his hand in your hair as he slid his cock in your hole. 

Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Made the lemonade yourself?” He asked,  groaning as he managed to get himself back up on his feet. His knees creaked like the floorboards of the houses he renovated, but ultimately supported him as he stood. He towered over you, making you appear smaller, more fragile. 

“Depends. Do you like it?” 

“It’s wonderful, of course. Hot summer day like this…I really needed it,” he said, raising the glass up a little before taking another sip. 

“Well then yes, I did make it.”

He chuckled, feeling himself pulled in by your easy charisma. It was nice to have normal conversations like this once again. No agenda, no need for establishing himself as someone who wouldn’t hesitate to beat someone up if even mildly threatened. It was just…normal. 

“It’s very sweet, Ma’am. Like you I assume,” he added, mentally dusting off the part of his brain where he stored skills for conversing with pretty girls.

You laughed, holding your free hand up to your mouth to cover your lips that widened and revealed your teeth. 

“Is that the southern charm that I hear our townspeople talk about?” 

“They talk about my charm? I didn’t hear.” 

“Oh yes, they do… Joel Miller, charming pants off of everyone in town.”

“Pants? Well that’s disappointing. I was hoping I’d charmed some pretty skirts off.” 

“Lots of experience with that, Mister Miller?” you asked, sliding your hand over the soft fabric of the skirt of your dress. Such delicate fabric. He could fist the hem and give it one tug and it’d rip right off.

“More ‘n what you got for sure,” he said, loath to hint at how infrequent his encounters had become in the recent past. Tess died, he did a cross country hike with an annoying kid, he needed to maintain a good reputation in his new town. One buried after the other. Enough to leave a man with nothing but his fist and his imagination. He would kill for a fucking Playboy magazine. Literally. He’d killed for less.

“What do you know about how experienced I am?” 

“Been experiencing longer than you’ve been alive, Ma’am.” 

“Oh well. Nothing I can’t learn.” 

He laughed nervously and stuck his hand in his jeans pocket. Surely you couldn’t be flirting… Why would a young thing like this flirt with him? He was in his late fifties looking like mid sixties and you were… He didn’t know. Young.

“If you could teach me, Mister Miller. Give a girl some experience?”

“I’m sure you can find someone else.” 

“Oh. Not your type, am I?” you asked, and he deluded himself thinking you sounded disappointed. No chance. 

He didn’t have a type. Long time since he thought of frivolous shit like that. But you shouldn’t be his type. 

“There’s much more eligible men in town is what I’m saying,” he said, suddenly hesitant to lie. Lying had never been an issue for him. The right thing was to lie, say you weren’t his type so he wouldn’t cross lines. It’d been a long time since he did the right thing.

“I’ll be the decider of that,” you said with a shrug of your shoulder before taking the empty glass from him. “Have a good rest of the work day, Mister Miller.”

Later that night, he wrapped his fist around his cock in the privacy of his room. His mind flooded with images of you spread out for him, sweet lips and a sweeter pussy milking him. He couldn’t even recall the last time he was with a woman. It was Tess, of course. Sometime before she got thrown in FEDRA jail for the last time. Too fucking long ago.

Surely it was only because it’d been a long time since he got his dick wet. He’d never, in his entire life, pictured a woman so much younger spreading her legs for him. Sucking his cock. Crying out his name. How old was she even? Not past mid twenties for sure.

It was wrong, he knew, as white hot spend spurted out of his cock and covered his hand. A sour tang took over his mouth as the fog of unadulterated lust cleared up to reveal the ugliness in his head. He shuddered, feeling like something had crawled under his flesh. He hadn’t felt guilt like this in so long. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

You weren’t even as old as his kid would be had she been alive. 

He’d known men like that back in the day. Grays in their hair and skin like old leather, but pretty young things old enough to be their daughter hanging off their arm. It was obvious that none of them kept these girls around for love or for their personality. It was always sex and the feeling of self-importance when a sweet young thing paid attention to balding heads, beer bellies and limp dicks that needed a blue pill to get up. 

Fucking disgusting. 

He began avoiding you whenever you happened to be in the same space. At the house of worship, the town clinic where you interned, trading days when people exchanged what they had for what they wanted. His eyes never met yours and he always quickly looked away when they stared too long at your uh…feminine features– pretty legs, cute ass, round tits. Where the fuck did you get sundresses anyway? Who kept that shit around in this world? 

He didn’t know that when he avoided you, you took note of him. When he took glances of your features, you memorized his for later in the night when you buried your head in your pillow and pushed your fingers inside your pussy to simulate what it must be like to be with a man. 

He was older. That much you knew from his grey hair, sun-damaged skin, and gait that exuded bone-deep weariness. You knew Tommy had just turned fifty. Hard to miss occasions that meant a free slice of cake from the canteen. Joel had to be in his mid-fifties at the very least. At first glance, he wasn’t what you’d consider handsome. There were younger men in town. Fit and muscular. Didn’t groan and scrunch up their faces when they got up. Didn’t have lines on their foreheads. No bags under their eyes. 

Yet there was something about Joel that was more entrancing. 

After your first meeting when you offered him lemonade, you made sure to visit under the guise of worship. You didn’t know much about religion and were conflicted about embracing a god. The only faith you had rested in your medical instruments and the medicines the town’s chemist concocted. But it was a nice place to meet people, to check on healing patients.

The visits were worth it for a glimpse of Joel’s large hands wrapped around his carpentry tools. When the sun was the hottest, he sometimes stripped down to his tank top, giving you a show better than any film played in the community theater. His broad back looked masculine enough in his flannel shirts. But you didn’t know desire like the first time you saw him in a white tank, showing off his muscular arms as sweat dripped down his tan skin.

When you pleasured yourself in your room, it took time, imagination, your fingers, and a lot of effort to make slick pool in your pussy. That day, all it took was the sight of Joel Miller working. You sat with your thighs pressed together, rubbing them against each other in the most inconspicuous little movements. 

Could it be blasphemy if the God who was supposedly orchestrating everything made this man take his shirt off in front of you?

It made no fucking sense. Joel was old. He looked like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed every goddamn day. He had been chewed up and spat out by whatever the fuck was outside Jackson these days. Hardened expressions, graying patchy beard, hands calloused from carpentry and decades of using weaponry. Features that only indicated a long life lived, not attractiveness.

You were supposed to be attracted to the soft, sweet ones like the guys in the worn out copies of romance stories that the previous inhabitant of your house stashed in the basement. Even his little brother would be a more reasonable target for your lust. Younger, taller, softer, head full of dark, silky hair with few grays. But you wanted Joel Miller with his rough graying beard that would prick your skin were you to cup his cheek like the women on the novel covers. 

Something about him just screamed Man. Something that none of the other guys in town had. There was nothing wrong with any of the other Jackson men, but none of them made you want to take the plunge and lose your virginity. It wasn’t the lack of offers, per se. You’d gotten looks from many eligible Jackson bachelors. You had drinks with a few of them. Dinner with fewer and shared a kiss with more than one. Alright, two. But anything beyond that had you trembling in anxiety. 

It wasn’t anything precious to you, virginity. But you’d waited so long. Focused so long only on survival and then helping to build this town and now training to become a doctor. Whatever passed for doctor these days. With all your life dedicated to everything but your love life, you simply had no experience. What if you messed up and they laughed? You knew anatomy, but that didn’t translate to practical stuff. What if you couldn’t make them feel good? You’d have to see the guy all the damn time in the small town. There would be no escaping the awkwardness.

Sure it was counterintuitive to keep pushing away sexual encounters because you had no experience. But you didn’t know what else to do. You were too old already to not have done anything. But each day that passed with you rejecting perfectly nice men meant you were getting even older for your first time. 

You didn’t know where Joel fit into your need for exploring your sexuality, but it didn’t hurt to stare. God knew everyone else in Jackson did. 

So you stared. Work with his carpentry tools. Riding on horseback into Jackson after patrol. Helping with the fucking sheep. Walking around with Tommy. Carrying his nephew around town. It should be inappropriate to be fantasizing about a man when he was doing something as innocent as carrying a baby. But seeing his large hand cradling the baby’s little head made you want to scream into your pillow and kick your legs. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” 

Your heart fluttered and you let out a nervous laugh at being caught. You smoothed out the wrinkles on your clothes just to make it look like you were alright. Unfortunately you were wearing a pair of fucking jeans. You didn’t even want to know how awkward you looked. 

“‘m alright, Mister Miller.” 

“Joel’s fine,” he said, rocking his nephew in his arms.

Oh fuck, his fucking arms!

“Oh I don’t know,” you said, fidgeting with a belt loop on your jeans. “Wouldn’t want to be impolite addressing you by your first name like that.”

He smiled, recalling your conversation from the house of worship when you called him Sir and had him fucking himself in the shower to the memory. “Ah. ‘cause I’m an old man,” he said, more as a reminder to himself to fucking behave. 

“You’re not that old…” you trailed, looking him over in a way that set fire to every inch of skin that you laid eyes on.

Behave, Miller. You’re out with your nephew. 

“That so?” he asked, eyebrow raised. 

“Mhmm. You don’t look a day over seventy.” 

He snorted, making Miles stir in his arms just a little. That stung a little. It shouldn’t. Your estimation of his age, whether you were serious or not, was reminder enough that he was too old to be lusting after you.

“Thanks. I’m actually eighty-two.” 

You giggled your pretty little giggle, lowering your gaze to the ground and looking back up only when it had turned into a wide grin. “How old are you actually?”

“Old. Fifty six.” 

“Fifty-six isn’t that old…” you trailed as you brought a hand up to his bicep. Joel gulped, praying to the non-existent God that you would stop before praying to the same God that you would keep your hand right there. God answered his second prayer. You squeezed, licked your lips and looked up at him with your doe eyes.

“Checking if the hardware is still working, Doctor?” 

“I’m not a doctor yet.” 

“When do you become one then? Ain’t no Harvard handing out medical degrees in this town.”

“Howard?” you asked, squinting at him. Ah, of course you didn’t know. Harvard didn’t mean the same thing to you. Now it was just like every other building in Boston. Run over by infected. These ones were just the nerdy kind with glasses on.

“That was a thing, too. But I said Harvard. They were big universities back then.”

“Ah. Did you go there?” You asked, with no malice or bite. Oh, bless your heart. No one expected a dummy like him to have gone to university at all, much less Harvard. No one in his family had gone. Sarah was meant to be the first.

“Yeah. Traded some oxy and threw molotovs at clickers in the campus.” 

You rewarded him with a giggle and that was incentive enough for him to keep going. “Guys like me didn’t get into Harvard. Or Howard. Didn’t even go to community college. I finished high school and got a job in construction.” 

“You didn’t go to uh…construction college?” You asked, cocking your head and raising an eyebrow as though testing out the term.

“No such thing. Well, there were civil engineering programs, but I just learned on the job.” 

“Like me.” 

“Guess so. I see you reading from all those fat medical books. But there’s no need to study any books in construction. ‘cept if you wanna be an engineer or architect or something, which I’m not.” 

“Maybe you should write one. We could all do with some knowledge from before. It’s important to document it, pass it on to Ellie and little Miles over there.” 

“I ain’t writing books, sweetheart. Don’t think I even remember how to write much. I’ll just keep to fixing things up in this town. So, if you need some help with your place…I’m happy to help.” It was the least he could do. Maybe as some kind of penance for having impure thoughts about you. Or as a fucked up trade for starring in the mental images he conjured to jack off in the shower.

“There is something, actually. But I don’t have anything to trade for, so I’ll wait until I do,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying in place in an endearing manner.

“Nonsense. You patched me up just last week. You’ve done enough for the town’s health to not have to trade for anything ever again.” 

“Well, no. That’s not how it should be… It’s people’s health. Can’t put a price on that.”

“Believe it or not, health had a steep price back in the day. Cost four thousand something just to give birth. Double that if they had to cut you open.” And that was just how much it cost when Sarah was born. He was sure it had only gone up by 2003. If he hadn’t worked his ass off, there was no way he could’ve escaped debt. It helped that his Ma and his then wife’s parents helped with childcare. Would’ve been even more expensive without that.

“Damn. I don’t know how much that is, since…y’know we don’t have money now. But that sounds like a big number. It shouldn’t cost anything just to be born.” 

“Tell me about it,” he said, shaking his head. “But listen. Anything you want fixed, I’ll help out. You can give me something later if you’re worried. I know Ellie’s always on the look for new books to read and you seem to have a lot of them.” 

“Nothing Ellie would like. Not like the special limited edition of Savage Starlight or anything. Just medical textbooks and romance novels.” 

“We could trade for the lemonade from that afternoon,” he insisted, desperate to do something for you. Take care of you as you took care of everyone who walked into the clinic be it papercuts or a fucking knife in their abdomen. 

“Alright. Trade for the lemonade it is then,” you said, giving in to his pressure.

“Now tell me. What d’ya need fixed?” 

⌘⌘⌘

It had been a few days since Joel promised to fix your shower for you. Each time he came by and rang your doorbell, you hid somewhere away from your windows. When he caught sight of you in public, you quickly walked away or engaged in conversation with someone else. You didn’t need shit fixed. Everything in your house was perfectly alright. Tommy and his guys had given the place a complete makeover just a couple months before Joel and Ellie arrived. 

You were no paragon of honesty, but you didn’t make lying a habit. There were a few white lies here and there and this was meant to be one of them. It just didn’t fucking hit you that if you lied to a contractor that your shower was broken, he would eventually come over to fucking fix it. All your desperate sex starved brain wanted that day was for Joel Miller to come use his tools in your room and flex those muscles while at it.

So invested were you in that particular fantasy that as you unwound after a long shift at the clinic, it was with Joel’s beefy arms in mind. You stood in front of your mirror, taking in your reflection. One of the magazines you’d found in a box under your bed laid open on the dressing table. Playboy. Entertainment for Men. Each had a scantily clad woman on the cover. And many more inside. 

You made comparisons to yourself and the woman in the center page of the issue.

She stood in front of a dressing table too, but much different from how you stood. Her legs were on either side of her dressing table chair and her hands on the top of it. Between her arms were breasts, big and round and with smooth skin. They didn’t have any marks on them like yours. No moles, no stretch marks. Just plain. And she just stood there, soft brown hair down, tickling the top of her breasts and her lips parted as she gazed at you. No, at the men she was meant to entertain in this men’s entertainment magazine. All she had on was panties that went high up to her flat belly that connected to high transparent socks.

You reached behind your back and unclasped your bra, wishing that you had something nicer like the woman on the cover of another one of the magazines. Bright red and showing off her breasts wonderfully, but pulled down to reveal almost everything. What was the point of a bra then if it didn’t cover or support anything? Entertainment, you decided. Men seemed to be very entertained by breasts. 

Many a man had stared at yours even though you had them behind layers of fabric unlike the naked women of the magazines. Many had conversations with them instead of your face. Some brushed up against them ‘accidentally’. Joel thought he was being covert, but you felt his brown eyes rove all over them. You thought maybe that he too would brush up against it sometime, but he never did. Maybe entertainment stopped at just looking, as in the magazines. 

You wondered if Joel sought out men’s entertainment magazines like this. He was from before everything went to shit, so it was very possible that he did. Did he like the women in these pages, sticking their asses out and looking through the pages at him? Would he be entertained if he saw you like this? 

You didn’t know that if you turned your head to your bedroom door, you would have your answer. Joel’s cock strained against his already tight jeans as he stood awestruck by your figure. He swallowed as you held on to the top of the chair and lifted your knees, one after the other and placed them on the plush seat. You arched your back, a little too much at first before reducing the curve. Your ass stuck out enticingly and he didn’t know whether to grab, squeeze, slap, or spread your cheeks apart and fuck your ass. 

He should leave. 

It was stupid of him to walk into your house with a box of plumbing tools to fix your shower when you hadn’t yet given him a date or time for it. Plus you were avoiding him. Running away with your little friends and picking up stuff to hide your face from his view. He was plenty sure that when he’d rung your doorbell, you weren’t always away from home. 

He should leave. 

Fixing the shower could wait. He could confront you some other day. 

But you were putting on such a pretty little show in nothing but your panties and he was only a man. A bad one. 

His boots stayed put on your hardwood floors as you enjoyed yourself in front of the mirror. You spread your knees and let your fingers between your thighs, eyes closed, lips parted and low whines escaping your lips in just a few minutes. He palmed his growing erection over his jeans, consequences of being caught be damned. He was a foul beast already. What bad was another sin on the list? Besides, you were the one who’d left the fucking door open. 

Your soft whimpers grew into moans as you brought yourself closer and he forced his feet to stay put despite their urge to walk up to you and give you something to really moan about. 

“Fuu– mmm Joel, pleeease.”

He let out a gasp, all his restraint flying out the window as soon as he heard his name from your lips. You couldn’t actually be doing this… There had to be another Joel in town. Younger, better looking, smarter.

Your voice grew needy and the pitch higher as you kept at it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Gimme it, Sir.” 

No, it couldn’t be anyone else. 

Joel toed his boots off and took quiet steps towards you, emboldened by the filth that spilled from your lips. If this old man was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stop himself from reaping the benefits. He wasn’t a goddamn saint. Never was. 

He stopped in front of you, surprised you still hadn’t sensed his presence. As though the universe heard his thoughts, it had you open your eyes. You gasped as soon as you saw him and buckled off the chair, but Joel caught you. You shuddered, unable to cope with the sudden touch. 

“J-Joel?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, touching your cheek with the back of his hand. You whined, your body molding itself against his chest. You brought a hand to his arm, feeling the rock hard muscles underneath his sleeves and your other hand worked between your legs.  

Your fingers no longer felt adequate as you felt his large fingers on your cheek. “Want you, please,” you whined, desperate to return to the edge where you had been right before you saw him. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me…” he spoke dangerously, soft brown eyes clouded with a kind of desire you had longed to see in him for weeks. 

“Want you…want you to be with me,” you repeated stupidly, your desperation clouding your senses too much for you to say anything else. While in the past you only wanted to get rid of your virginity, your goals had become more specific with his arrival. You wanted him. You wanted his big hands and broad shoulders, to hold on to them as you rode him. To watch his grumpy expressions turn to ecstasy under you. 

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said, his tone low and almost threatening. Any other threat from him, you would’ve heeded. But not this one. 

“Touch me!” 

It was as though something in him snapped at your words. While darkness only loomed over him before, it now completely took over.The hand that previously only caressed your cheek now wrapped itself around your neck. Before you could completely process the move, his other hand slapped yours away. He replaced two of your puny fingers with his middle finger, eliciting a strained moan from you. 

“Touching yourself to a Playboy magazine, huh?” 

You only nodded, unable to form words now that a fantasy of yours had finally come to life.

“Dirty little thing…Thought you were a nice girl and all. Helpin’ out at the clinic, head buried in books all the time. Turns out you actually got your head in dirty magazines.” 

You whined, your pussy clenching and gushing around his finger at the way he was speaking to you. The same man who insisted on calling you Ma’am despite your protests was calling you a dirty girl now. The veil of respectability seemed to have floated away at the sight of you naked and pleasuring yourself. Had you known that this was all you needed to get Joel Miller to touch you, you would’ve done it much sooner.

He added another finger, the girth of him enough to stretch you more than you had done for yourself. You brought a hand up to his shoulder and fisted his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself to. 

“You ever been taken by a man, sweetheart?” He asked, his tone too cool and casual for what he was doing to you. You shuddered, partly from his phrasing– taken, he said. Taken. Like you were a thing. Like the women in the magazines positioned so uncomfortably just so their breasts could look a certain way for the picture. Printed on the cover page with the words Entertainment for Men written on top. You shook your head, feeling small as you confessed it for the first time. 

“Any man?” 

“N-no,” you managed to breathe out, whimpering at the way the bulge beneath his jeans twitched at your simple answer. He took a step to position himself behind you, letting you lean your back against his chest. The angle at which he touched your pussy changed, opening your world up to a wonderful new kind of pleasure. 

“A virgin. Pretty young things like you ain’t for men like me,” he whispered in your neck, making you shiver. His thumb roamed between your legs as far as they could reach, caressed you gently, his softness with you contradicting his warning about men like him. The hand around your neck slithered down your torso, cold air forcing you to face your new desire of having your breath kept hostage. 

He took your left breast in hand, squeezing the flesh like someone starved would hold on to a piece of bread. It felt more like a punctuation to the warning he issued than a part of sex. Just then, his thumb between your legs stopped its search, stopping a little above the fingers inside you.

A moan you didn’t recognize as yours at first filled the room and you buckled forward. Blunt nails sunk into the flesh of your breast as he saved you before you could fall. He hauled you back up, making you collide against his chest. 

You gasped and quickly grabbed the hand between your legs, the sensation too intense for you to know what to do with. His thumb kept on, rolling over something there that set your person on fire. 

“Fuuuck! Joel– I– I– hnnng–”

“I know, sweetheart,” he crooned, keeping at whatever the hell he was doing to make you feel this way. 

“Please… I don’t– what was that?” 

You felt his chest rumble before you heard his laughter. Heat rose to your face and your throat felt strained though there was no hand around it anymore. 

“Never touched your clit? Do you even know what that is?” He mocked, the cruelty somehow not repelling you from him. He forced you to look up at him. Your heart lurched at how close you were to his face. You could see every gray hair, every minute blemish and line.

“Don’t know your own fucking body but you want a man? You don’t know what you’re handing me on a silver platter. I ain’t like the other guys in town. I walked across the fucking country and lemme tell ya, there’s no pretty things like you out there. I’m starved.” 

“Take me, then,” you begged, using his own words from earlier. “Please. Whatever you– a-aaah!” 

He ramped up the pressure on that spot– your clit– and with it, took your ability to speak coherently. It was as though he’d done it on purpose. You hated it. To be so bereft of control. To be a puppet in someone’s hand. For someone to acquaint themselves with parts of you that you didn’t know of. But it was too much to fight, so you let go. Let him play with you. Take you. Like a thing.

You renounced control of your lips too, his name slipping out effortlessly like it did when he caught you. Then you renounced what was left of your dignity and began begging relentlessly. For what, you didn’t know. In his hand, you’d gone from woman to pupper, your strings pulled by a man, your voice now his. Sounds that would be indiscernible from that of a wounded animal emanated from somewhere deep within you. 

Perhaps none of this was real. Why else did your own voice grow so distant from you? Why did your vision become blurry? Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. Your eyes clenched shut, depriving you of your blurred vision. Your toes curled. You wanted to shrink into yourself, shrink away from all this goodness. You went higher and higher, soaring like a bird. Every nerve ending in your body felt electrified, awoken like one switch turned on every light on last winter’s Christmas tree. 

You let out a loud cry, the soaring bird in you reaching its peak before beginning its fall to the ground. You could hear your breaths again, labored but doing everything to stabilize itself. Your thighs still shook. Your chest rose and fell. A hand caressed your hand. Behind you, something strong supported your back. Kept you from falling backward. 

“Joel…” 

“I know, I know…” he whispered into your head. You opened your eyes and looked up at him, surprised to see a softer visage. He picked you up off the chair like you’d seen him lift giant logs before. With ease. You didn’t protest as he carried you. Didn’t protest when he laid you out on your bed. 

He bent down and picked something up. No questions, no instructions. He simply spread your leg away from the other. Cold air touched the gushing mess dripping out of you and you shivered, feeling a sudden need to cover yourself but unable to defy him. His hand was on your pussy again. His hardened, calloused fingers behind a soft fabric this time. He wiped upwards, collecting the mess he made out of you. When he lifted the fabric up, you realized it was your panties. 

He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans and then looked back at your face, the intensity of his gaze making you want to run. Problem was your weak legs wouldn’t take you anywhere. You didn’t screw your eyes shut. You didn’t pull your blanket to conceal yourself. You looked back at him, defiant. Like you were trying to prove something. I can handle a man like you. 

“Be a good girl from now.” 

That and a condescending pat on your pussy and he was gone.

⌘

Part 2

[teamred]

so contagious

✩‌ logan howlett/wolverine x reader | fluff | smut | 2.8k

SUMMARY | following the kissing from your movie night, logan takes you out on a proper date, while you take him back to your place afterwards. // part two of any other way

WARNINGS | smut, breastplay, oral s*x (female receiving), piv s*x, unprotected s*x // this is 70% fluff - 30% smut!

RATING | explicit

NOTES | i didn't intend to make a part two, but so many of you loved it, i had to give it a shot! this one is from logan's perspective. yes, i know this logan is a bit ooc, but, in my head, this takes place some time after worst!logan enters wade's universe and he's softened up. please leave some love if you enjoy it!

Logan has absolutely no idea what he's doing.

Standing in front of the living room mirror, he debates if he should choose the pale blue plaid shirt he's currently wearing or one of his brown ones instead. But if he chooses the latter, it'd be too similar to the one he wore when you saw him yesterday. 

Overthinking isn't his style, and yet here he is, obsessing over something as trivial as his shirt color. It’s been decades since he’s been on a proper date, maybe even ever.

“Well, don't you look handsome,” Wade cuts through his thoughts with a grin and folded arms, peeling himself away from the kitchen door frame. He saunters over, reaching out to touch Logan’s hair, only for the larger man to shove him away immediately. 

“Not now, Wade.”  

Wade sniffs his hand dramatically. “Oh, my God–you even used hair product! This is so exciting. It's like witnessing a teenager on his first date. I feel like your mom!”

“Well, Mom,” Logan refocuses on the mirror, fixing the mess Wade made of his hair, “you can fuck off.” 

Wade points a finger at him with mock sternness. “Hey, watch your language, young man.” 

Then, to Logan’s surprise, Wade grows momentarily quiet as he stands next to him, both facing the mirror. “Also, the blue shirt’s the better choice.” 

“Yeah?” Logan quirks an eyebrow, glancing over at the brown plaid shirts laid out on the couch. 

“Yeah,” replies Wade softly, and Logan catches a genuine smile in the mirror. The heartfelt moment doesn’t last long though when Wade claps him on the back. “And don’t be so nervous, Wolvie. You already went to second base with her last night. The deal’s pretty much sealed.” 

Logan scowls. “I’m not nervous.” 

“Mm-hmm. You say that, but you’re being even more testy than usual. Dare I blame it on the hormones?” Suddenly, he plants a quick kiss on Logan’s cheek.

“What the fuck?!” 

Logan recoils, then almost lunges at him instinctively. However, Wade’s already retreating and walking backwards, making a beeline to his bedroom with a wave of his hand. 

“Be back by curfew, sweetie! But text me if you’ll be out late, or if you need anything. Some snacks, some condoms—” 

“Wade!” he growls, his patience wearing thin. 

Wade blows an air kiss, disappearing into his room. “Love ya! And you got this!” 

Logan mumbles to himself, “Yeah, I sure hope so.”  

Turning to the mirror for one final check, he adjusts his collar and straightens his shirt. His phone vibrates on the living room table and he reads the incoming texts from Laura: 

- hey sorry for the late reply - but if you haven’t gone out already, i prefer the blue over the brown - not that it matters though - she’ll find you handsome either way - don’t worry! it’ll go well :) 

Logan nods, reassured by Laura’s texts. It’s just a date with someone he’s already known for a little while; it’s not like a blind date or anything. He can do this. 

With one last look in the mirror to check his hair and beard, he grabs his keys and wallet, slings his dark brown leather jacket over his shoulder, and heads out the door.

Logan pulls up in front of your apartment complex and gives you a quick call to let you know he’s here. When you step out of the building, his eyes can’t help but sweep over you—fitted jeans hugging your curves, an off-the-shoulder top that shows just enough, and that stunning smile that lights up your face.

He notices you checking him out too. Realizing that his hair might be messy, he quickly combs his fingers through it as you stroll over. 

“Long time, no see,” you joke, referencing how you saw him just yesterday.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Logan greets, trying to sound more relaxed than he feels. He holds a helmet out to you, but catches how his grip is more tense than usual. “You ready for a ride?” 

You nod, eyes sparkling with excitement. As he steps away from his bike to help you with the helmet, he finds it endearing how you lift your chin and pout a little, making it easier for him to secure the straps. He hopes his touch isn’t too rough, but when your eyes meet his and you smile up at him, he knows he must be doing something right.

With his hands so close to your face, his mind flashes to how he palmed your cheeks and neck last night as he kissed you deeply. It’s presumptuous, but he hopes for a repeat tonight. 

Once you hop on the bike behind him and wrap your arms snugly around his waist, he revels in the warmth of your body against his. As he weaves through the city streets, he occasionally glances back to make sure you’re comfortable. 

Logan thinks to himself how good this feels, to ride around freely with someone he cares for by his side. It’s been awhile since he’s let someone get this close to him… 

Maybe he could get used to this. 

Eventually, he pulls up at an old diner he’s grown fond of across town. The place gives him a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of simpler times (and, even though he tries not to think of it, it also brings back memories of that one time with Wade in the Void).

He offered to take you here because it’s familiar, cozy, and he didn’t want to overthink this date with reservations to some high-end restaurant.

Walking across the mostly empty restaurant, a waitress leads you both to a window booth, where you sit across from each other.

At first, there’s a bit of awkwardness—Logan recommends what’s good on the menu, and you take a moment to decide what to order. His foot taps on the floor as he peeks over the menu, sitting in the silence uncomfortably. 

But once the waitress takes your orders, conversation flows more easily, just like it normally does at Wade’s get-togethers.

You check in with how Laura’s doing, if he and Wade have been on any more assignments recently, and how his motorcycle is running since he fixed it last. 

Logan’s grateful you’re leading the conversation and asking questions; it’s always been easier for him to listen than to talk. 

But he’s putting in effort tonight—he takes it upon himself to know about your life outside of work, if you’ve been reading anything lately, and how you felt about the ride over to the diner.

“A little scary, but it was fun!” you grin, resting your chin in your palm. “I’m just glad it’s you driving it. Like I said yesterday, I always feel comfortable and safe around you, Logan.” 

As your foot brushes against his under the table, Logan’s gaze meets yours. You flash him a shy smile, and before he can think twice, his foot instinctively strokes yours in return. A flicker of doubt crosses his mind—Is this the kind of thing people do on dates?—but your soft giggles melt away his hesitation. The lighthearted game continues until the arrival of your food.

You dig into your food, and a random thought crosses your mind. “Have you ever used your claws to cut your food?” 

Logan pauses mid-bite, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. “You know, in all of my two-hundred years of living, I’ve never really thought to try it.” 

“Probably ‘cause you always have a knife around,” you say. 

“Probably,” he smirks. With a glint in his eyes, he unsheathes his claws and the sound makes you jump slightly in your seat. 

“Whoa,” you whisper, eyes widening in awe. Logan realizes you’ve never seen them before. Slowly, he extends his hand, the blades gleaming under the diner lights. 

“Go ahead,” says Logan softly. “Just be careful.” 

You reach out carefully, your fingers grazing the cool, polished metal. You’re both unusually quiet, your attention fully on each other.

Once you pull away, he turns back to his plate with a slight grin. “Okay, let’s see how this goes.”

With surprising finesse, he slices through his burger using his claws, the action both impressive and a little absurd to witness. 

You burst into laughter, the sound contagious as he joins in. “Logan, I think you need to stop before you break the plate.” 

He chuckles, retracting his claws and grabbing a sliced up chunk of his burger. “Yeah, probably a good idea. At least we know the answer to that question now.”

As you move on to dessert, you savor a slice of cheesecake while Logan indulges in a slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. When he’s almost done, Logan takes a slow lick off his spoon and catches you staring at him. 

“What’s on your mind, beautiful?” he asks with a playful smile, raising an eyebrow as he takes another bite of pie.

You scarf down the last few bites of your cheesecake before answering. 

“Okay, I have to ask—” you lower your voice and lean in across the table “—can you actually smell how horny someone is?”

Logan freezes mid-chew, remembering what happened yesterday before you left.

“Fucking Wade…” he mutters, shaking his head. After a beat, he sighs. “Do I really have to answer that question?”

You gasp, covering your mouth with both hands. “Oh, my God, you totally can…” 

All Logan gives you is a brief laugh and a shake of his head. He fishes for his wallet, tosses some cash onto the table, and then stands up with a grin. “C’mon, gorgeous. Let’s get outta here.”

As he pulls you to your feet, you ask half suspiciously and half in jest, “Are you saying that because you can smell something or…?” 

“Maybe, maybe not...” he teases. He grabs your hand, fingers intertwining with yours, and leads you to the door. “Either way, let’s head out. C’mon.” 

As you step outside and Logan helps you with your helmet again, you look up at him with a different look this time than before—one that signifies that the night’s only beginning. 

As you fumble with your keys in front of your apartment door, Logan steps in from behind and grips one side of your waist. He leans in, pulling you close, and kisses the crook in your neck. You inhale sharply, losing focus as you melt into his touch. 

After you finally manage to unlock the door, Logan quickly shuts the door behind him before he presses you up against the wall. Initially, you share an intense kiss, but it soon becomes fervent and open-mouthed. Rough edges of his beard even brush against your lips at some points. 

Both parties quickly kick off their shoes. He peels off his leather jacket and aids you with yours. Still lip-locked, he then lifts you up and has you wrap your legs around his waist; his evident desire presses against your body. 

Logan drags your top off, his heated kisses trailing from your mouth, to your neck, and down to your clavicle. His mouth leaves love upon your breasts before he pushes your strapless bra down. You gasp as his push is so rough, the bra merely snaps off and falls away towards the floor.

But Logan doesn’t stop—he hones his attention towards your hardened tips, sucking and nipping with a fervor that makes him lose himself in you.

The moans that fill your entryway only drive him crazy further, along with your fingers tugging at his hair tightly. His hands are needy, kneading your other breast with a blend of tender and strength. After a moment, he pulls back, gently setting your legs back onto the floor.

He kisses his way down from your breasts to your stomach, dropping to his knees in front of you. Logan blinks up at you as he helps unbutton your jeans, pulling them and your panties off and tossing them aside. The sight of you, completely bare and vulnerable, only heightens his desire.

He kisses your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin as he moves towards your core. The scent of your arousal is unmistakable and intoxicating, but it’s the way your body reacts to him that drives him wild. Lifting one of your legs over his shoulders, he dives in without hesitation, his tongue exploring your wetness.

His tongue skillfully works over your most sensitive areas, each touch and flick of his tongue sending waves of pleasure through you. Logan is so immersed in the moment, he feels like he's freefalling, lost in the intensity of it all.

The need to be inside you drives him to a point of near frenzy, his own body responding with instinctive thrusts. Each lick and suck against your folds is fuelled by both the need to make you feel good and to be desperately inside of you.

“Logan, Logan—” 

You shatter and unravel for him, jerking your hips against his mouth. He holds you still, securing your orgasm rides out fully. Once you do, he stands up and kisses you gently, intermingling your taste with his tongue.

Dazed, you hook your fingers with a couple of his and lead him towards your bedroom. You lay yourself on the bed first, while he watches you as he strips his shirt and tank top. He sees the inflamed hunger in your eyes at the sight of his entirety. 

Crawling over to you on the bed, his hands roam your body, caressing you passionately before the next part. When he finally undoes his jeans and belts and throws them aside, he looks at you intently. 

“Do you have—?”  

You shush him with a finger, whispering, “Just get inside me, Logan.” 

A smirk spreads across his face as he aligns himself with your slit, teasing you slightly before sliding in. Being inside you draws out a low groan from him, while you throw your head back and expel a long moan.

When you finally acclimatize to his girth, he starts to thrust slowly and kisses you throughout. It’s so easy for him to lose control, to get this over and done with, but he wants to make sure it feels good for you as it does for him. 

But it doesn’t help when your hands dig into his back and your walls clench harder around him. 

“Faster, please,” you beg. 

He checks in with a smug grin, cocking his head slightly. “You sure, gorgeous?” 

You nod breathlessly, “Please, Logan.” 

And that’s enough to make him lose all restraint. He picks up the pace, his movements becoming more intense and primal. His thumb circles your clit, and the combination of his hard thrusts and gentle touch brings you over the edge in unison. He ensures you’re satisfied first before he pulls out and marks you with his release. 

Panting, he catches his breath, and grazes the back of his knuckles against your thigh. Logan turns to look at you. “You ready for round two, beautiful?” 

You laugh with disbelief and exhilaration. “Wait, round two alr—?” 

Logan cuts you off with a deep kiss, his grin wide and satisfied. He feels you smiling into his kiss, your excitement matching his own. 

Oh yeah—he definitely could get used to this.

EPILOGUE — ONE WEEK LATER 

Back at Wade, Logan, and Blind Al’s apartment during another weekend get-together, you’re seated next to Logan at the dining room table, caught up in a quiet conversation with him amidst the animated chaos around you. 

Suddenly, Wade appears behind you, throwing his arms around you both and playfully squishing you together.

“Say ‘thank you, Mommy Wade for our beautiful dating life and we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you and I’m gonna name our kid after you and—’” 

“What the hell is happening?” you cut in, looking at your new boyfriend. 

“Just ignore him, baby,” Logan groans, shaking his head. 

“Already using terms of endearment? Y’all move fast,” Wade quips. “And is that any way to treat the person who got you two lovebirds together?” 

“Hey, I helped too,” Laura interjects from Logan’s side.

Wade waves her off dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. You might’ve mentioned something here and there, but I saw the vision, and not Wanda’s, might I add.” 

“I’m not gonna call you ‘Mommy Wade,’ but I will thank you.” You lean over and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He gasps theatrically and ruffles your hair with exaggerated affection. Times like these remind you why Wade has always been one of your closest friends. 

“Well,” says Wade, as he steps back to return to his seat, “at least one of you appreciates Cupid Wade’s handiwork.”

Later, while you’re chatting with Yukio and Ellie, you notice out of the corner of your eye Logan and Wade exchanging glances across the room. Logan gives Wade a small, grateful nod. 

“Thank you, Wade,” Logan mouths, his expression soft and sincere. 

“Anytime, Wolvie,” Wade mouths back with a wink, raising his beer in a mock toast. 

You catch Logan’s eye, and both of you share a smile that speaks more than words ever could.

[hederasgarden]

Like Oil and Water

Summary: Your office power struggle with Scott comes to a head. Paring: Scott (Twisters) x F!Scientist!Reader Word Count: 2.1K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Enemies to lovers trope, PIV sex, fingering, and dirty talk. Slight angst.  A/N: The story is based on this ask I received. I know there are like…five Scott fans out there besides me so I hope y’all like this. I have no explanation for this fic except I’m horny for Scott. I had an alternative ending to this story but whoops feelings crept in. Thank you to @ryebecca, @whatblogisthis216 and @a-reader-and-a-writer for looking this over. The snazzy summary is courtesy of @writercole.

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day. 

David Corenswet Characters Masterlist

“I’m never picking up your coffee order again,” Javi swears, handing the Starbucks cup to you. “Whatever happened to coffee with a little bit of cream?”

“Capitalism,” you reply, taking a sip. It wasn’t exactly how you liked it, missing that deep caramel flavor, but you appreciate Javi’s effort. “Thanks again.”

He nods, drinking from his cup as you make your way down to the labs, discussing the results from the latest test. 

“We will need to adjust the relays, but other than that, I think we’re in good shape,” you tell him. “I’ll let the techs know we need those changes made this week.”

“Sounds good. I gotta make a quick call, but I’ll join you after,” Javi promises, disappearing into his office while you make your way down the hall.

You hear the low timber of Scott's voice before you spot him in conversation with one of the female techs. You loathe to admit it but he looks good, his tanned forearms on display with the sleeves of his white company shirt rolled up. The baseball cap tucked into his back pocket and dusty boots let you know he probably came straight from the field. 

"We need to fix the relays. They failed the test. Again. That's unacceptable," he begins, gearing up for another one of his infamous lectures. "Back when I was at MIT, this type of calibration was the first thing we were taught."

Scott may have been one of the smartest guys on Javi’s team but he was also a smug asshole. From the moment you met him, he irritated you, reminding you of every man who thought he was smarter and better than you just because of his gender. Everyone expected engineers to be difficult to work with, but Scott took it to another level. Who could blame you for taking him down a peg or two when you had the chance?

"So you went to MIT. Big whoop," you begin, delighted to see Scott tense up at the sound of your voice. When he turns to face you, the tech is quick to scurry away. "Call me when you have a PhD from a real school, like Caltech, Scotty."

He hates it when you call him that but today it's your jab about MIT that strikes a nerve. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and he exhales harshly. God, that angry look in his eye really did something for you. Too bad his looks couldn’t make up for how much of a dick he could be. 

Scott practically spits your first name out, stepping into your space to loom over you. His broad shoulders and muscular build block your view of the lab. You tilt your head to look at him, fighting the urge to smile. "You really should address me as ‘doctor,’" you calmly remind him, tapping your name badge. 

You arch a brow, waiting for his response but his mouth snaps shut, attention moving to something behind you. 

It’s Javi.

"Come on guys," he sighs. "Play nice."

You glance over your shoulder, smiling sweetly. "I'm always nice.”

"Why are you even in the labs today?" Scott questions, glancing down at your heels. 

You smooth a hand down your dress and smile. "I'm the Vice President of R&D for Storm Par. These are my labs. I belong here.”

"Dressed like that?" He scoffs. 

"What, you don't like it?" You ask, turning in a slow circle. 

"We had a meeting with some new investors," Javi supplies, trying to cut off the start of another fight between the two of you. 

Scott turns away and you can practically hear his teeth grinding together. He still hasn’t forgiven you for talking Javi out of letting his uncle invest in the company. It would have been easy money but you never liked the business plan. It was best to stick with government grants and investors without any personal connections. 

Javi touches your arm. “Come on, we gotta finish that grant.”

You hum in agreement, trailing behind him to the doorway. Pausing, you glance back and catch Scott watching you, his lips pressed into a thin line. With a grin, you wiggle your fingers at him, amused to see the furrow in his brow deepen even further.

The rest of your day is blessedly Scott-free and you spend your time buried in meetings and wading through needlessly complicated grant submissions. Javi employed some of the smartest people you’ve ever had the privilege of working with but they were terrible when it came to making the science digestible to investors. You sigh, rubbing your temples. It was going to be a long night.

You work uninterrupted, buried in the complexities of the grant, until Scott storms into your office, slamming the door behind him. “Did you tell the techs they could go home early?” he demands.

“Please, do come in,” you deadpan, setting aside the papers you’re holding.

“Did you send them home?” He repeats, rounding your desk and invading your personal space. At his side, his hands are clenched into fists, the veins in his neck standing out.

“I did.” You rise to your full height but even in heels, he dwarfs you. 

“That wasn’t your call.”

“You do remember my job title, right?”

“I’m VP of Operations,” he reminds you. “I say when they go home, especially when we’re on a deadline.”

“They report to me, and you’ve had them working long hours,” you fire back.

He shakes his head, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, as he gives you an unimpressed look. “You’re too soft on them. I told Javi you weren’t right for this job. This isn’t academia. We work hard here.” 

You bristle at his words, clenching your fist so tightly that your nails dig into the soft skin of your palm. He has no idea what it took for you to get here, the challenges you faced, or the men like him you had to prove yourself to.

“Go fuck yourself, Scott.” 

You glare up at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. You wait, ready for whatever asshole comment is sure to come but he just stares at you. Then, to your surprise, his gaze drops to your mouth. You freeze, electricity zipping up your spine when you realize you’re close enough for your chest to brush his as you exhale. Looking back, you won't remember the impulse that led you to tilt your head and press your lips to his, only that you did.

The kiss only lasts a second before you pull away, heart pounding in your chest. For a moment, neither of you moves, but then suddenly he surges forward, his large hand grasping the side of your face. His lips crash into yours roughly. A hand at your hip urges you back until you bump your desk but he doesn’t stop until he’s practically dragged you on top of it. He presses in close, eating up what little space remains. You groan, grasping at his shirt as you push your hips into his. 

“Fuck,” he pants, resting his forehead against yours as his warm breath fans across your face. For one terrible second, you think he might stop or say something stupid to ruin the moment but then he’s kissing you again. He forces a hand between your bodies and roughly pulls your underwear aside so his fingers can drag through your folds. You’d be shocked by how fast it’s all happening but any higher thought fizzles out once his thumb circles your clit and his tongue breaks the seam of your lips to taste you. 

You’re breathless when he pulls away, back arching in response to his talented fingers. Through your lashes you see him smirk down at you. “No smart comebacks now?” He questions.

Before you can retort he adds a second finger. You moan, rolling your hips to seek more of him. “Knew you’d be fucking greedy,” he whispers.

He watches you fuck yourself on his hand with a hungry glint in his eyes until your pace slows. He glanced at your face. You rise up on your elbows, brow raised. “Am I going to do all the work here?” 

“Shut up,” he growls, withdrawing his fingers.

A witty comeback is on the tip of your tongue but it dies when Scott brings his fingers to his mouth. He stares down at you while he sucks them clean, his Adam's apple bobbing. Your stomach clenches hard at the sight. 

“That’s better,” he comments, unbuckling his belt. “Nice and quiet.” 

He takes a condom from his wallet and rolls it on his thick length. If there was ever a time to stop, it’s now. You look at Scott, his dark gaze swimming with desire and push the thought away, rising up to kiss him. The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance and you lift your hips. You relish the way he looks, dark hair curling over his sweaty forehead and his body straining for you. Knowing you’ve done this to him sends a rush of want through you. 

Scott pushes inside slowly, hissing as your wet heat envelopes him until he’s halfway in and then he snaps his hips forward unexpectedly. Your breath leaves your lungs in a rush. He falls forward and the weight of him is electrifying. You’d be embarrassed at the desperate little sounds his mouth swallows up if he didn’t feel so damn good. 

He fucks with an intense kind of precision you’ve seen him bring to his work, reaching deep inside you to hit all the right places. You bury your fingers in his dark hair and pull, eliciting a needy moan from the irritatingly talented man above you. 

“You gonna come for me?” He asks, breathless. 

A desperate little, please, slips past your lips without your permission, spurring him on. He hooks a hand under your knee and forces your leg into your chest as he keeps up his frantic pace. The new angle takes him even deeper and pleasure ripples through your stomach. He feels unbelievably good and you practically sob when he pulls back and rises to his full height, afraid he’s going to stop. But he doesn’t, grasping your hips with both hands and forcing you to meet his thrusts. 

You’re tantalizing close and, without thinking, you reach down to help yourself along but Scott is quick to slap your hand away, replacing it with his own. 

“That’s mine,” he growls, the rough pad of his thumb catching on the sensitive skin. He watches with rapt attention as his cock and fingers work in tandem to drive you over the edge. You come with his name on your lips. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he gasps. 

Before you can recover your breath, he leans down and kisses you, his weight pressing you into the desk as his hips move relentlessly. Then he shoves himself deep inside and stills, groaning. Your ears ring and your body buzzes with the aftershocks of your own orgasm. The two of you stay like that, intertwined and panting until, finally, Scott moves. 

Cool air rushes between your bodies and you stare up at him. You can see him thinking in real time, his clever gaze searching your face as he continues to process what happened. What could either of you possibly say after this? Nothing good you realize. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, finger pressed to his lips. “Don’t ruin it.” 

Scott closes his eyes and swallows hard. Then he's moving, slipping out of you with a grunt. He turns away from you, redressing. The clink of his belt buckle is loud in the quiet office. Pressing your fingers to your swollen lips, you take a moment to let yourself feel everything before pushing it aside and standing on unsteady legs.

You fix your appearance the best you can and busy yourself with shuffling the mess of papers strewn everywhere. It might be cowardly, but you keep your gaze fixed on your desk when you hear the door creak open. You wait, the minutes dragging by until you know it’s safe to look up, only to find Scott still there.

He lingers in the doorway, his gaze fixed on you. 

Then you blink and he’s gone. 

♡

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[smileysuh]

after the seminar

🌙 staring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. In truth, Wonwoo has been tired. You haven’t fucked since the first night of the seminar, and although that was only two days ago, you’re definitely feeling the loss. On top of that, being wined and dined and looked after always makes you hornier than usual, and Wonwoo has been extra ‘husband’ today. He’s just so perfect. Well-mannered, kind, educated- God, you want him so bad.

tw/cw. sugar daddy Wonwoo, gentleman in the streets/softdom in the sheets, reader doesn't want to make choices, daddy/control kink, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral, blow job, deep throating, dirty talk, praise, masturbation, unprotected sex, holding hands while fucking, implied breeding/fullness kink, etc… I pet names: (hers) honey. (his) daddy.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.3k

🍭 aus. sugar daddy au, established relationship, fiance!Wonwoo, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I know not everyone is into this level of sugar daddy control, but I think there's something to be said about the trust that reader has for Wonwoo. Sometimes I just wanna shut up and let a man do all the work, and today, that man is Wonwoo

Wonwoo’s had few loves in his life. During university, he’d had a love for law, a need to do what was right. In his thirties, he’d found a new soulmate in legislative procedures related to the sustainability and efficiency of whole cities. Finance had been another long-winded lover, and now, on the cusp of forty, Wonwoo’s found the one thing in the world he loves most, you.

Holding your hand while he drives through the city, Wonwoo can’t help but keep some of his attention on you. 

Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress he’d bought you for your six-month anniversary in Paris, with your hair and makeup done, you look as stunning as ever. There’s a fat rock on your wedding finger, an engagement ring signifying his loyalty to you, and Wonwoo can’t help himself but play with it a little anytime your hands are linked.

As he makes a turn onto a busy street, the sun practically blinds him, and Wonwoo immediately lets go of you to adjust his visor. You make no movement, so he pulls yours down too, enjoying the way you flash him a small smile and whisper a ‘thank you.’

“You look lost in thought,” he muses, having noted your gaze fixed on the sidewalk trees passing by outside your window. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about seminar topics,” you admit. 

Over the past three days, you’ve accompanied him to multiple talks focused on accessibility, affordability, and green solutions within cities like yours. Tonight marks the last evening of the event, and the two of you are headed to a meet-up with some of Wonwoo’s closest lawyer friends. 

Wonwoo loves how diligently you’ve thrown yourself into his work-focused world. Not only do you attend the seminars with him, but you truly make an effort to learn, and that’s never more obvious than when conversing with his colleagues.

Wonwoo’s best friend, Kim Mingyu, has entertained a string of sugar baby relationships, and despite inviting three or four of those women to events like the one you’ve just accompanied Wonwoo to, none of Mingyu’s girls ever took to it the way you do.

You’re one of a kind, and Wonwoo knows how lucky he is to have you.

“I’m sure Seungcheol will have a few things to say about the housing crisis talk,” Wonwoo notes. Choi Seungheol, who had started in law and made the leap to real estate. He now owns half of the new developments being built downtown, and Wonwoo knows this will spur a contentious discussion later.

“He can’t argue with the stats,” you sigh, turning to look at Wonwoo, who threads his fingers with yours again. 

“He can try,” Wonwoo smiles softly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. 

You return the smile, turning your attention out the window again. 

You’re not voicing anything, but Wonwoo can read you like a book. It used to be his job to pay attention to body language, and while he tries to stay humble, people have called him something of a mind reader.

“It’s been an exhausting three days,” he notes. “We don’t have to be out for long tonight, I’m sure we both need our rest.”

“Hansol flies to New York tomorrow morning,” you remind him. “I want you to have as much time with him as you need before he’s gone.”

Your relationship is always something like this, the two of you caring for each other so deeply that you constantly make small concessions. As always, though, the ball is in Wonwoo’s court. He appreciates the way you can feel to him like an intellectual equal while still being submissive in other senses, although he never abuses this power over you.

He’ll keep an eye on you tonight, and when he notices you getting tired, or your energy depleting, he’ll excuse the both of you from drinks and take you back to his place. Then, he’ll take care of you in the ways only he knows how. 

You love Wonwoo. You love him for the big things, his character, his good heart- but you love him for the little things too, the way nothing slips past his line of focus. He’s always a hundred percent on and present with you, holding open every door, guiding you by the small of your back, and pulling out your chair first when you join his friends on the top floor restaurant in the most expensive hotel in the city.

“You look amazing,” Mingyu compliments you, flashing you a toothy grin before standing to greet Wonwoo with a hug. “You definitely know how to pick them,” he praises his friend.

“And look at that ring,” Seungcheol has zeroed in on the diamond on your finger, and he reaches across the table to take your hand and get a better look at it. Wonwoo’s eldest friend has always had an eye for luxury, and he studies the oval rock and silver-colored band. “I’d ask if this is sterling,” he muses, “but if I were a betting man, which I am, I’d say it’s white gold.” 

Seungcheol lifts his eyes to meet yours, waiting for an affirmative, which you give with a nod. “You know your metals, Mister Choi.”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers, “It’s Seungcheol.” 

“Stop flirting with Wonwoo’s girl,” Hansol tuts, pushing at Seungcheol’s shoulder.

The elder man makes a face, brushing off his expensive suit. “Not flirting,” he clarifies. “Although,” his gaze shifts to you again, “if you have any hot friends-”

“Aish,” Wonwoo has rejoined the conversation after greeting Mingyu, and he takes the seat next to you, his arm casually coming around the back of your chair to pull you closer. “What have I told you about asking her for favors?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Sungcheol sighs, sitting back and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “She’s one in a million, aren’t ya, little miss future Jeon to be?”

“Try one in a billion,” Wonwoo corrects, hand finding your thigh now that he’s pulled you close enough. “Have you three ordered drinks yet?”

“We were waiting on you,” Mingyu says, handing Wonwoo a cocktail menu, which he settles between you both so you can also read it. “Their margaritas are pretty good.”

You quickly find a drink you’d like to try, and you wordlessly reach out a manicured nail to tap on it. Wonwoo follows your motion, giving a curt nod, then he leans in to press his lips to your cheek. He waves down the waiter a moment later, and orders you your drink, sparing you the socialization.

This is yet another one of those little things Wonwoo does for you that you find incredibly sexy, and you tuck closer to him, placing your hand over his own on your thigh. 

“We should talk about the elephant in the room,” Mingyu sighs, drawing all eyes. You have no idea what he’s about to say, and then he hits the four of you with, “Cheol, you have to admit your new high rises aren’t sustainable or affordable.”

“They’re called luxury suits for a reason,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m not in the business of affordable housing.” 

Wonwoo grins next to you, looking down and squeezing your hand gently. It’s funny how amusing he finds this whole thing. 

“Don’t smirk like that, Woo,” Seungcheol tuts. “As if you didn’t do a walk-through of a penthouse suite in my new highrise last week.” 

This is news to you, and you turn to look at your boyfriend. You’re generally not one to question him, and luckily you don’t have to, because Kim Mingyu is just as nosey as you’d sometimes like to be. “You checked out a penthouse? I thought you loved your apartment?”

“I’ve had it for years,” Wonwoo says, and you can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “However, I can admit that the amenities at Cheol’s new builds are quite impressive.”

“Amenities,” Seungcheol scoffs. “As if that’s what you were actually interested in.”

The two powerful men share a look, and it’s a battle of wills that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. 

What was Wonwoo interested in?

He’s never talked to you about moving, and you’ve been living with him for nearly a year. Besides, Mingyu’s right, Wonwoo adores his apartment. He’s had it forever and it’s decorated exactly the way he likes it. Your bedroom is a lovely corner location with views of the whole city, and his home office is a sanctuary you’ve loved to desecrate. 

“We’ll talk about this more another time,” Wonwoo says finally, looking up as your waiter appears with a tray of drinks. 

Your cocktail is set in front of Wonwoo, and he gently pushes it toward you before reaching down to give your thigh a squeeze under the table. He picks up his Old Fashioned with his free hand, and Seungcheol raises his own glass in a toast. “To friends and new engagements!”

Seungcheol nods to you before taking a sip of his scotch, and it fills your body with heat to know his friends truly respect and like you. They’re happy to have you joining as a permanent member of their social sphere. 

You place your hand on top of Wonwoo’s as you bring your cocktail to your lips. 

The discussion moves to details about sustainability, and the men at the table trade opinions on the seminars. Mingyu is fast in his manner of speaking, always intent to prove his point. Cheol is loud and boisterous, scoffing at opinions that don’t align with his own. Hansol is often quiet, but he makes good notes ever so often, and they make the whole table sit and think. And your Wonwoo is as calm and judicial as always, listening to his friends with a contemplative expression even while his thumb draws small circles on your thigh. 

You give your own two cents a few times, and your musings are always the most well-received. None of the men at the table are about to pick a fight with you, and they’re attentive whenever you open your mouth, nodding and making one or two comments before getting heated with each other again. 

The waiter comes and Seungcheol orders a few appetizers while Wonwoo opens the menu for you. When Wonwoo begins to list three of his own items, you tap your finger on the one you’d like most and he voices that as well.

God, how you love the fact that you only have to lift one little finger with Wonwoo while he does the rest. You really aren’t in a super talkative mood, especially when it comes to mundane tasks like ordering food and drinks. You save your voice to join in on the intellectual conversation taking place, and you prefer things this way.

Seungcheol and Wonwoo begin to argue over rezoning laws, and Hansol turns toward you, leaning closer. “Congratulations on your engagement,” he smiles. 

“Thank you,” you grin back. 

“Have you guys talked about wedding plans yet?”

Out of all the people in the world, you didn’t think Chwe Hansol would be one of the first to ask you about wedding details. 

“We’re thinking destination,” you admit.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Hansol laughs. “And an expensive honeymoon too I bet.” 

“Of course,” you grin, playing with the stem of your cocktail glass. “Although, if I’m being honest…” you lean closer to Hansol, lowering your voice while Wonwoo and Seungcheol continue to argue, “as much as I like the lifestyle I have with Wonwoo, you know I’m happy just to be with him.”

“But the expensive trips are a bonus I bet,” Hansol grins. 

“I mean… would you say no to a trip to the Maldives?” 

Wonwoo’s friend shakes his head, still smiling. “Never.”

“When are you going to find someone?” you ask. Out of all of Wonwoo’s close friends, Hansol is the most level-headed. He’s stable, and kind, and if you weren’t so into Wonwoo, you’d even admit Hansol is quite handsome in his own way. 

“Someday,” Hansol sighs. “Maybe you’ll have cute bridesmaids at your wedding.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” you assure him. 

Hansol laughs. “I’d appreciate that.”

Food begins to arrive at the table, and you sit up straight again, tucking close to Wonwoo. He’s done this thing, ever since your first date, where he helps plate food for you, and for some reason, it’s always been a huge turn-on.

You like getting baby girl treatment, and you watch Wonwoo with a grin while he cuts through some carpaccio and sets up a piece for you. He makes sure to get a little bit of everything on your plate before putting anything on his own, and his friends are already digging in by the time he’s gotten the both of you settled.

“Do you want anything else?” he asks, always the type to be certain he’s pleased you.

“This looks perfect,” you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, lingering by his ear so he’s the only one who can hear you when you say, “Thank you, Daddy.”

Wonwoo reaches down and squeezes your thigh, the only sign you have that your words have done something to him. He’s not the type to be big on PDA, and it’s the little things like a constant touch, or acts of service, that remind you he loves you as much as you love him.

You wait for Wonwoo to lift a carpaccio bread spread to his lips before you reach for your own, mirroring his motions so you can experience the food together. 

You hadn’t been a carpaccio fan before meeting Wonwoo, but he’s expanded your pallet in the time you’ve known him, and you’re extremely thankful for this opportunity - as well as others - that he’s provided for you.

“Look at you two loved-up foodies,” Seungcheol sighs from across the table, watching you with eyes trained to assess. 

Wonwoo only grins, reaching for his drink to take a sip. You follow that motion too, smirking over the rim of your glass before downcasting your eyes. 

There’s no need to respond to Seuncheol’s comment because it’s an apt description of the pair of you.

“Stop being jealous,” Mingyu grins, reaching out to push at Seungcheol’s shoulder. 

“Never going to happen,” Seungcheol retorts. 

You know he’s in the market for a sugar baby, and Wonwoo’s told you how often Seungcheol brings you up when you’re not around. Apparently, his eldest friend is adamant that you’re one of the most perfect sugar babies he’s ever seen, and you wonder if maybe you should try to hook him up with one of your friends at the wedding. Give Cheol the Hansol treatment. However, in contrast to Hansol’s laid-back expectations, you’d have to give your Cheol-intended friend a cheat sheet booklet on how to please a rich man.

“Just watch,” Seungcheol continues, “these two are going to sneak off early and go to the bathroom or something. They’re sitting much too close together, and we’ve all noticed Wonwoo’s hand under the table.”

To show his innocence, Wonwoo lifts the hand in question. “We’re not doing anything,” he assures his friends calmly. “Although… unfortunately, we will have to leave early after appetizers.”

This is news to you, and you look at Wonwoo for further clarification, which he gives when pressed by Seungcheol.

“It’s been a long seminar,” Wonwoo explains, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. “I’d say Honey needs her beauty rest, but I think we all know I’m not so nice when I’ve been sleep deprived.”

You love it when he calls you Honey, in fact, he uses that name for you more than your legal one. 

Seungcheol lets out a groan, but he doesn’t push further, because Wonwoo’s excuse is true. He’s never been rude to you when tired, but he definitely has a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. 

“We’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning,” Mingyu agrees. “Maybe I should get another drink and call it a night too.”

“Come on Gyu,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’ll let these two ditch, but this is Hansol’s last night in the city, I thought we could go to a roof on one of my new waterfront builds and hit some golf balls at the sea.”

“Right, because that’s very environmentally friendly,” Wonwoo tuts.

“Jesus, you are tired, aren’t you?” Seungcheol laughs. 

It’s a rhetorical question, and Wonwoo simply lifts another appetizer to his mouth, chewing with a tight-lipped grin. 

In truth, Wonwoo has been tired. You haven’t fucked since the first night of the seminar, and although that was only two days ago, you’re definitely feeling the loss. On top of that, being wined and dined and looked after always makes you hornier than usual, and Wonwoo has been extra ‘husband’ today.

He’s just so perfect. Well-mannered, kind, educated- 

God, you want him so bad.

You take a sip of your cocktail again before resting your hand on Wonwoo’s thigh, and he stops what he’s doing to look down at your fingers toying with his pants. Then his gaze rises to you, and he cocks his head slightly, obviously a little stunned by how forward you’re being tonight.

It’s such a small motion, but it speaks volumes, and when paired with a small flutter of your lashes, Wonwoo reads you like he reads the books in his impressive office library. 

Part of you wants to toy with him, wants to tease your touch up to his crotch just to see if you can get him hard at dinner with his friends, but you know that would lead to something akin to consequence. 

As easy as it is for Wonwoo to read you, he’s not such an open book and his reactions vary drastically. You don’t want to push your luck today, not after you’ve been such a good girl for him for three seminars straight.

You remove your hand before playing with fire gets you burned, and the two of you continue to finish your appetizers. Each bite is one step closer to leaving with Wonwoo, but you try to take your time, try not to be too glutenous to make way for lust. 

Wonwoo finished eating and he lifts his drink with his left hand, his right palm finding your thigh again. His touch is soothing, gentle, but it still stirs a fire within you.

You shift your knee, letting it rest against his, and you sip your cocktail trying to pay attention to what Mingyu’s saying about the stock market. 

Wonwoo is generally quite the stocks man. He pays attention to Mingyu, but you can tell his focus is still partially on you, and you reach down to play with his fingers, enjoying how pretty his hands are. 

You need him so badly. 

That’s when you realize Wonwoo has almost finished his drink, and you quickly grab at yours too, wanting to reach the bottom of your own cup. 

You’ve not been drinking since the seminar started, and the booze in your cocktail definitely heightens your senses. An electric tingle consumes your form, and it’s getting harder to ignore the panties sticking to your core. 

The conversation reaches a lull,  and Wonwoo lets out a sigh, squeezing your legs. “Well, it’s been fun,” he says, “but Honey and I should get going.”

“One more drink,” Seungcheol practically begs, already lifting a hand to call over a waiter.

“Not tonight,” Wonwoo says, soft but firm. 

He stands up first, grabbing your hand to help you out of your own seat. “Good luck with your flight tomorrow, Hansol,” he nods to the man on your right. 

“Good luck with wedding planning,” Hansol retorts, rising from his chair to pull you and Wonwoo into a hug. 

Hansol’s not usually a touchy guy, and the hug means something. It’s a true acceptance that you’re permanently a part of Wonwoo’s life, and it means the world to you. 

“Now I want a hug,” Mingyu also stands, holding out his arms for you and Wonwoo.

With a laugh, your fiance���s hand finds the small of your back and he guides you into Mingyu’s warm embrace, trapping you between their large bodies. 

Now you’re really turned on. 

Seungcheol doesn’t stand, he simply watches, lips all pouty. “Let me know about that penthouse,” he muses. “I’ve got some foreign buyers already wanting a walk through and I won’t hold it forever.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Wonwoo promises, giving one last nod to Seungcheol before he begins to guide you out of the restaurant.

As you make it to the front desk, Wonwoo stops and addresses the staff member there. “I’m going to take care of my table’s bill tonight.”

“I’ll put it on your tab, Mr. Jeon.” She nods, typing something into the ipad infront of her.

“That was kind of you,” you muse as Wonwoo escorts you into the elevator that will lead to the underground where his expensive Mercedes is parked.

“We’re leaving early, it’s the least I could do.”

“You know… I hope we didn’t leave on my account,” you say, thinking about the conversation you’d had in the car earlier.

Wonwoo leans down close to you, grinning. “I can safely say we left due to my own personal needs, although they’re not sleep-related.” 

“You really like this dress, don’t you, Daddy?” you smile, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck while his hands settle on your hips.

“I like what’s under it,” he retorts, which is a cheeky response by Wonwoo’s standards.

“Been missing my body, haven’t you?”

“More than you realize.”

Wonwoo had kept his composure on the drive home. He’d even kept his hands mostly to himself on the way up to your apartment, but your stoic lover is on you the moment the door to your home is closed behind you both.

He presses you up against the wall, grabbing your waist and tugging you close while simultaneously blocking you up against the hard surface at your back. His lips are hot against your own, his tongue invading your mouth and making you giggle as you grab the front of his shirt, already popping buttons open.

You release a moan when he reaches down and cups your core, pushing up your dress to access your lacey panties. “Where do you want it, honey?” he asks, biting at your lip.

“I don’t want to think tonight,” you admit, tired from days of brain power.

You love that Wonwoo likes to check in with you. He’s not the type to simply throw you over a kitchen counter and rail you when you might prefer the bed or even the shower- but at the same time, as soon as you give him full control, Wonwoo’s very good at taking charge.

“I’ll take care of you,” Wonwoo promises, pushing your panties to the side so he can slide two fingers against your heated core. You can feel how wet you are, and the contact against your clit has you whining, grabbing his face to bring his mouth to yours again while he pushes two digits knuckle deep into your aching core.

You’re sensitive from a few days without being touched, and it feels like heaven to have Wonwoo worshipping you like this again. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he draws his mouth down to your jaw then your throat, peppering your skin in kisses that have you shivering with pleasure.

“Daddy-” you whimper, your hips thrusting toward his hand as he works you open, palming your clit with delicious pressure. 

“I know, Honey, I know,” he soothes, and between gasped breaths and moans, you can hear your pussy squelching already. 

It’s getting harder and harder to stand on your shaky legs, your heels not meant for standing sex or heavy petting like this. But it’s also clear to you that Wonwoo has no intention of stopping his motions until you’ve cum on his fingers, so you do your best to grab his shoulders, steadying yourself while that wonderful feeling builds in the pit of your stomach. 

“I’ve missed this pussy,” Wonwoo tells you, voice low. It’s not often that he uses vulgarity, even in the bedroom, and his words betray how much he truly needs you. Your skin tingles with excitement, pussy throbbing, heart thundering in your chest-

It’s crazy how one sentence can nearly shortcircuit your brain when paired with Wonwoo using his hands like this- stroking the parts of you that he knows better than anyone else in the world.

Your fiance has taken his sweet time getting to know your body, and it shows in moments like these. 

“I’m so close-” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. You should care about his expensive suit jacket, but you don’t- all that matters is the orgasm you’re desperately chasing, hips moving to ride Wonwoo’s hand while his unrelenting fingers get you closer and closer to the edge-

“Come on, honey,” Wonwoo grins, mouth returning to the spot on your neck that always makes you go feral, “cum for me.” 

One more rough thrust with his fingers has you moaning, tumbling past the edge as your orgasm overtakes you. 

If you’d nearly been falling over before this, you almost crumple to the floor with all the pleasure coursing through you now. Wonwoo’s free arm loops around your waist, and he presses you closer to the wall, keeping you propped up while his hand continues between your shaking thighs.

He releases a low groan, and you can feel his cock pressing through his pants by your hip. You feel delirious already, body pulsing, skin tingling. Wonwoo’s broad shoulders are your lifeline, and you grip them desperately, taking everything he has to give you like the good girl you are.

“Wonwoo-” you whimper, seeking out his lips, cupping his face to draw him closer. His tongue glides against your own, and you’re enough of a distraction that his fingers begin to slow inside of you.

Finally, he pulls his hand away from between your thighs, dragging his lips from yours so he can sink his digits into his mouth. You watch him lick them clean, listening to the groan of satisfaction that escapes him while you do your best to catch your breath.

“You’re always so good for me,” Wonwoo tells you, lifting his gaze to yours again. 

You swallow thickly, mind swimming, searching for a response. “You deserve it,” you assure him finally.

“And I know what you deserve tonight,” he retorts. 

In one quick motion, he lifts you up bridal style. One of your stilettos crashes to the floor from the sudden way your body has just been swung like a rag doll, but neither of you care as Wonwoo carries you through the apartment toward the bedroom.

You can’t help the giggle that escapes you. Wonwoo always makes you feel like a princess, and he looks like a classic prince while doing it. His side profile is so regal- all sharp bones and pretty lips. God- how did you ever get this lucky?

When you get to your destination, Wonwoo is gentle when he sets you onto the mattress. He straightens and looks down at your form, letting out a deep breath.

“Can you take that pretty dress off for me, honey?” he asks, already shrugging off his suit jacket and setting it over a chair nearby. 

“Of course, daddy,” you grin, reaching down to grab at the hem of the silky outfit, dragging it up your thigh.

His eyes are glued to you even as he works on his cuff links, and you take your sweet time as he makes it to the buttons of his shirt. The dress has a corset style back, and you tug on the ribbon before slowly working it open.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, but you can see his breathing pick up as the fabric gets less tight on your chest, revealing more and more of your bralessness. 

When he makes it to his pants, you remove the dress, leaving you in nothing but your thong, which is soaked through. 

Your fiance swallows thickly. “Panties too, honey. I don’t think I have the patience to wait any longer tonight.”

His lack of patience is clear in the way his cock slaps up against his abdomen, released by the pants now pooled by his feet.

Wonwoo looks like a fucking God, especially while naked. He’s lean but muscled, and you’ve spent hours tracing each ridge and bone. His cock is an impressive length of around seven inches, it’s pale like the rest of him, but when he’s really turned on, it flushes in colour.

Right now, his cock is a pinkish red, and you can see the angry tip already leaking desperately. 

You stand up, sneaking a kiss to his lips while hooking your fingers in your panties. Pushing them down, you get onto your knees.

“Honey, you don’t have to-”

“Maybe I’m impatient too, have you ever thought of that, daddy?” you ask, grabbing the base of his length and leaning forward to kitten lick the tip.

Wonwoo releases a low groan, reaching down to thread his fingers through your hair.

“I’ve missed you,” you murmur, enjoying the way he reacts when you kiss his cock gently. “Missed the weight of you in my mouth.”

“Fuck-”

It’s not often that Wonwoo curses, and the word goes straight to your core.

“Can I touch myself while I suck you off, daddy?” 

“I’d be upset if you didn’t,” he admits. “I want you dripping when I finally pull you off my cock and fuck you the way you like it.”

You whimper, your whole body alight with energy as you take him into your mouth. You’re already practically drooling from his fingers earlier and the dirty talk now, which makes it easy to coat him in spit. 

You’ve never been able to take all of Wonwoo in your mouth, but you do your best, gripping the base and bobbing your head while you begin to toy with your clit.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Wonwoo groans, taking a deep breath as his hand guides you on his cock. “Always so good for me.”

The praise only makes you suck on him harder. You sink so far down onto him that his tip hits the back of your throat. You feel yourself constrict around him and Wonwoo lets out a loud moan, fingers flexing in your hair. 

“Careful, honey, I don’t want you to choke,” he tells you, but his voice has lost it’s usual commanding tone. He’ll let you do anything you want to him, even if it means gagging on cock- but he’ll do his best to be gentle with you verbally at least.

You get lost in the feeling of pleasuring him, closing your eyes and letting your mouth show him how much you’ve missed him… however, not in so many words. 

Actions speak volumes, especially in this case.

You continue working on your pussy too, eventually slipping two fingers into your wet core, which makes you moan around Wonwoo’s cock.

“Honey-” he groans.

You can tell that he’s on the verge of breaking, so you pull off his length, looking up at him while catching your breath. “Ready to fuck me now, daddy?”

“I’ve been ready all night,” he grins, reaching down to grab your hand and help you to your feet. 

He kisses you then, cupping your face and leaning forward, taking your breath away all over again. His palm flatens against the small of your back and he dips you backward- then you’re falling, a small squeal escaping you-

The fall is only an inch or two, and you hit the mattress, Wonwoo bearing down on your form almost immediately. You grab at his shoulders as his lips find yours, your legs wrapping around his lean hips to tug him closer.

His cock is still wet with your spit, and it rubs deliciously through your soaked folds, bumping your clit and making you moan into the kiss.

As impatient as Wonwoo seemed to be, he’s not quick to adjust himself against you- or at least, not quick enough for your liking, so you reach between your bodies and grab his cock, lining him up with your wet hole. 

Wonwoo grins against your lips, and in one motion, he sinks into your core.

You moan loudly, digging your nails into his strong shoulders and throwing your head back as he fills you perfectly, stretching out your walls.

Your fiance takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, finding your sweet spot.

He feels like heaven- you’re really not sure how long you’ll be able to last tonight, but that’s never mattered with Wonwoo. You have forever with this man, which means you can be as fast or slow as you’d like to be.

He begins to thrust in and out of your core, and it makes you cry out again, walls contracting around his cock. You can feel him so deeply, especially as he adjusts your legs, pushing your thighs closer to your chest.

“Wonwoo-” you whimper, not a care in the world for using a ‘correct’ title. Your fiance might enjoy the daddy kink, but he’s never been the type to punish you for slipping up and calling him something different.

It’s clear to both of you how far gone you are, and Wonwoo only grins against your throat, picking up his pace.

“How about you rub your clit for me, honey?” he asks. 

You’re not one to question him, and your hand slips between your bodies to seak out the sensitive nub. More sounds of pleasure escape you as you begin to rub yourself, and your moans only push Wonwoo to fuck you harder.

Each thrust has his cock hitting a spot deep inside of you, and it’s making you delirious. 

Wonwoo finds your free hand, threading your fingers and using you as leverage as he presses you against the mattress. His breath is hot on your throat, but soon he’s seaking out your lips again, and you eagerly kiss him as if your life depends on it.

There’s an orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, spurred on by your fingers on your clit and the cock filling you up with each rough thrust.

Wonwoo doesn’t need to check in on you, and you don’t need to tell him you’re close, you’re certain he can tell. He tightens his grip on your hand, a silent invitation to let go whenever you want.

Each drag of his cock against your inner walls draws you closer and closer to the edge, and when he breaks the kiss to lick your throat, it allows you to focus entirely on the pleasure between your legs.

“Fuck, daddy-” you whimper, back arching as you shift below him.

“I know, honey,” he groans. “Me too.”

“Yeah?” Your body jitters with near orgasmic bliss. “Can you cum with me?”

“Of course, just tell me when.”

“Please-” you moan, writhing against the sheets as he fucks you even harder. “Please, daddy- I want you to fill me up-”

Wonwoo groans, teeth dragging by the sensitive skin of your throat. 

“Please, please- fuck, I’m almost there-” you rub your clit harder, body tensing on the precipice of your orgasm-

“Shit,” Wonwoo tightens his grip on your hand to the point where it almost hurts- and even though he doesn’t say it, it’s clear to you that he’s reached his own high.

The thought that Wonwoo is so turned on he’s just cum before you - something that never happens - is enough to drag you over the edge, your core clamping down on his cock, eager to milk him for everything he’s worth while you cry out in ecstasy. 

He’s gasping against your throat, thrusts even deeper now- slow, steady little ruts as he coats your insides with him cum, filling you up perfectly. 

You get lost in the feeling of him, squeezing his hand back as a silent encouragement while your pussy continues to squeeze his cock, eager to get every last drop.

When he finally comes to a stop, he simply lays on top of you for a moment, the both of you breathing heavily.

“Wonwoo?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’ve just remembered-” you pull your hand away from your clit, instead moving to stroke his hair, “What did Seungcheol mean about the penthouse you were looking at?”

Wonwoo lets out a small chuckle. “Do you really want me to spoil the surprise?”

“Yes, please.”

Your fiance pulls away from your throat, looking down at you. “I’ve been thinking we might need a bigger place… one that could accommodate a few extra rooms.”

“Extra rooms?” you cock a brow.

“For any kids we might have, you know, after we’re married.” 

Your entire body tingles with excitement. 

While the two of you have talked about children in a general manner before, nothing has ever been set in stone. But you suppose now that you’re engaged, it’s natural this sort of thing would be on Wonwoo’s mind.

“How do you feel about that?” Wonwoo asks.

“I feel like…” you swallow thickly, “I want you to fill me up again, and also that I should book a doctor's appointment to discuss going off birth control.”

“I can definitely help you with that first one,” Wonwoo grins, pressing chaste kisses all across your face while you giggle and hold him tighter.

“We’re really doing this,” you whisper.

Wonwoo’s thumb brushes by the ring on your wedding finger. “Honey, I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else.”

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🔮 preview. You pull away just as his lips are about to meet yours. “You know how appreciative I am whenever daddy gets me a present,” you say, acting innocent. This only makes him laugh, and he grabs the back of your head, pulling you into a passionate kiss. You know buying things for you does the same thing to Wonwoo that it does to you. He loves seeing the excitement in your eyes, the way you light up at gifts. He truly lives to provide for you. 

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, mentions of breeding kink/wanting to get reader pregnant, sugar daddy Wonwoo, daddy kink, soft dom!Wonwoo, oral, pussy eating, fingering, breif edging, squirting, groping, sickly sweet loved up sex, crying during sex cuz reader is so in love, mentions of pain kink, hair pulling, teasing, dirty talk, fucking on a kitchen counter, Wonwoo talks about reader getting ‘plump’ with pregnancy, he adores the ‘soft bits’, etc.  I petnames. (hers) honey (his) daddy.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 4k I teaser wc. 300

🌙 staring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader

bonus

“Can I take this off yet?” you ask, wobbling in your heels as you grab at the silk blindfold blocking your vision.

“Be patient, honey,” Wonwoo breathes in your ear, his hands firm on your hips as he guides you to whatever surprise destination he has in store for you tonight. 

Christmas is a week away, and the last time he blindfolded you like this was for your birthday. He’d taken you to a Mercedes dealership to let you choose any car you wanted. You have no clue what he has in store for you now, and you’re practically shaking with excitement. 

You know he’s driven you somewhere, and you’ve been in an elevator, so it must not be another car- your list of gift possibilities is somewhat thin. You have a hunch, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself just in case you’re wrong about where your fiance is leading you. 

Wonwoo’s lips find your throat, and his hands stop you in your tracks. His breath is hot by your ear a moment later, and he lets out something like a contented sigh. “Okay. Let me help you take this off.” 

His deft fingers work at the loose knot behind your head; soon the blindfold slips away.

Your eyes adjust to the light, and you blink while taking in the space in front of you. You’re in a large open-concept kitchen, a living room sprawled in front of you with views of the whole city. The decor is lavish luxury, and you recognize the design concept as a Choi Seungcheol special when you notice a specific lighting fixture that Cheol puts in all his expensive builds. 

“Wonwoo-” you breathe, mind spinning.

The man behind you flattens his chest against your back, wrapping his arms around your frame while he rests his head on your shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Is this…”

“It’s ours,” your fiance confirms. “I wanted to show it to you on Christmas day, but I couldn’t help myself.”

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