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bishovapls · 2 days ago

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You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You're Sorry.

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: A strange day in class and a cryptic text from Natasha have you dreading what’s next. At home, Wanda’s waiting, and together, they’re about to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy Kink, Daddy Kink, Age difference, Older WandaNat/Younger Reader, BDSM, Dom/Sub, Spanking, Cunnilingus, Strap-on, Punishment, Overstimulation, Safe word check-ins, small bit of angst.

A/N: Look, I wasn’t planning to write this, but then Natasha and Wanda crawled into my head right before bed the other night and refused to leave until I caved. This is my first one-shot, and easily the filthiest thing I’ve ever written. I have no idea if it turned out any good, but hopefully it flows well. So, enjoy, or survive, whichever seems more fitting.

Word Count: 12,527

NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

College had drained the life out of you today. You’d sat through back-to-back lectures, trying not to let the endless blur of PowerPoints and polite academic discussion turn your brain into useless soup. By the time your final class rolled around, you were already operating on autopilot, held upright by nothing but caffeine and sheer, exhausted stubbornness.

And yet, despite the fatigue, despite how desperately you wanted the day to be over, you found yourself unconsciously smoothing your hair and tugging your top into place as you stepped into the room.

Because this wasn’t just any class, there was always something different about walking into her room. A hum in your veins. A pulse just beneath your skin. It wasn’t the subject matter, it was her.

Professor Romanoff.

Or just Natasha, when the door was closed and no one else could hear the name fall softly from your lips.

Usually, you’d steal a few precious minutes after class. Ten, maybe fifteen, if she didn’t have another lecture lined up immediately. She’d lean back on her desk, arms crossed, mouth twitching in amusement as you tried, more often than not successfully, to talk her into a heated quickie in the quiet lull before the next hour began.

But that was only ever behind closed doors. In public, she was something else entirely. She had the kind of presence that made even the most confident students lower their eyes and double-check their notes. And it wasn’t an act, Natasha didn’t do acts. She was hard, cold, and impossible to read unless she wanted to be read. And more often than not, she didn’t.

You liked that about her. Actually, you more than liked it. There was something magnetic about the way she commanded a room without ever raising her voice. Something in the quiet precision of her words, in the danger you could sense just beneath the surface. It made your skin tingle, and your cheeks flush as you shift in your seat, trying to relieve the ache that always seemed to build around in her presence.

On a normal day, focusing during her lectures was already difficult, not because the material wasn’t interesting, but because she was more interesting. Because she stood there like a force of nature disguised in slacks and a fitted blazer. Because you knew what that mouth could do when it wasn’t explaining the inner workings of federal power structures.

And because, in some twisted, ridiculous way, part of you liked having to work for her attention. Liked knowing she was the hardest thing in your life to get close to, even when you already had her.

And usually, she kept her distance with practised ease, never letting her gaze linger too long, never allowing her attention to wander toward you, no matter how many times you tried to catch it. She didn’t fall for your excuses to hover near her desk, or the innocent questions you’d find reasons to ask.

She was disciplined, deliberate, and always composed, always professional, navigating that fragile line between teacher and temptation with the kind of precision that left no room for mistakes.

But not today.

Today, Natasha kept looking at you. Not constantly. Just glances. Fleeting, quiet checks. But you felt every single one of them. It wasn’t like her usual rhythm, when her eyes would catch yours so quickly during a particularly dry section of theory and flicker with the faintest hint of amusement.

No, this was different, even subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. Her eyes would lift from her notes, sweeping the room with feigned indifference, only to linger on you a heartbeat too long. Then again, after each slide, her gaze inevitably found its way back. Until eventually, she was watching you mid-sentence, the shift unmistakable.

Her brow would twitch, her jaw tighten just slightly, small betrayals in an otherwise unreadable face. But you saw them. You felt them.

Your nerves prickled. You sat up straighter and tried to follow the lecture, but your attention fractured every time her eyes found yours. You’d give her a faint smile, a small nod, some invisible reassurance that you were fine, that everything was normal.

But clearly, something wasn’t because her face never changed. And yet, with each minute that passed, the tension in her jaw seemed to wind tighter.

The class dragged on. Her voice stayed controlled, of course, but her movements grew clipped, maybe even impatient. She wasn’t just stern. She was simmering, and you didn’t know why.

You looked down at your notes, and they were useless. A few broken lines from the opening ten minutes, before you realised you were being watched like a suspect, not a student. Your chest felt too tight. You could feel it, the storm building behind her silence, the sheer weight of her restraint. Her eyes hadn’t softened once.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d looked at you just a couple of nights before, barefaced and warm, as you curled between her and Wanda in bed. That softness felt galaxies away now. As if this woman standing in front of thirty tired college students wasn’t capable of it at all.

When class finally ended, you stayed seated for a moment, waiting for everyone else to leave. You tried to catch her eye. You needed something, an explanation, a gesture, anything.

But when you stood and took a hesitant step forward, she froze you in place with a single look. Her eyes were ice-cold; it wasn’t a glare, but something worse, something that felt like it was carved from stone.

Her lips didn’t move, but her expression spoke louder than words ever could: Do not come closer. And then, as if to seal it, she gave the slightest shake of her head. You stopped in your tracks, your heart hammering in your chest.

She turned without another word and walked out, the echo of her heels swallowed by the corridor. Gone. No explanation. No signal to follow.

You sat back down slowly, palms clammy against the fabric of your jeans, your chest too tight for proper breath. Fumbling, you pulled out your phone and typed:

Y/N: Hey, just checking in. I can see you want space, but if you need anything, you know where I am 💕

You didn’t expect an answer right away, but waiting felt unbearable. Students passed by in the hallway, voices echoing down the corridors, but it all blurred together beneath the pounding in your skull.

Then, finally, your phone lit up:

Nat ❤️: Don’t even think about going back to your dorm tonight. I want you at the house when I get home.

You stared at the message, heat rising up your neck. Your mouth went dry. It was a Wednesday. You never stayed over on a Wednesday, and she knew that. This wasn’t routine. This wasn’t planned. This was a summons. Your fingers trembled slightly as you replied:

Y/N: No problem, but I do have class tomorrow?

The response came back immediately, with the kind of precision that made you feel like she’d been waiting to strike:

Nat ❤️: I do not care. You have some explaining to do and a punishment to take.

Your stomach dropped. The words didn’t excite you, not the way they sometimes might have. Because you hadn’t done anything. Not that you could remember, anyway.

Y/N: May I ask what I did? 🥺

You watched the typing bubble appear and vanish, reappear, vanish again. That alone was terrifying. Then came the final message:

Nat ❤️: If you don’t know, that’s even more of a problem. I will see you later.

Your fingers went numb around your phone. The conversation was over. Not a door closed, but slammed. You were being summoned, not invited. And Natasha was not the kind of woman who forgave ignorance.

You sat there, alone in the empty lecture hall, trying to piece together what had just happened. Trying to slow your racing heart. Trying to make sense of the shift in her, and the way she’d kept watching you, the subtle fury in her shoulders by the time she’d left.

Eventually, you stood slowly. The world outside was still moving, students were chatting, feet were pounding down the stairs, but you couldn’t hear any of it through the roar of your thoughts. You had no idea what you’d done, but tonight, you’d find out.

And Natasha? She’d make sure you never forgot.

-----

You push the door open to Wanda and Natasha’s house, the familiar click of the lock sounding almost like a welcome. You’ve had a key for a while now, a simple gesture that felt far too intimate at first, but over time became just another part of your routine.

You stay with them most nights, save for Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays when it’s just easier to commute to your early classes from your dorm. As much as you love their place, the commute isn’t something you’re willing to make five days a week, not when there’s a perfectly good bed waiting for you just five minutes from campus.

Wanda’s been on a mission to get you to move in permanently. She’s convinced you’re one bad decision away from passing out from dehydration or malnutrition. She wants to keep you close, so she can make sure you're actually eating and hydrating properly on those long days of class. And honestly, she’s not wrong.

Since you left on Tuesday morning, not a drop of water has passed your lips. You've been running on caffeine and convenience, coffee, soda, instant ramen, and the odd granola bar when you remember it exists. It's not that you want to neglect yourself, you just… forget.

Between the whirlwind of lectures, social obligations, deadlines that keep multiplying, and the constant pressure to stay ahead, basic self-care always seems to fall to the bottom of the list. But Wanda, with her soft, knowing smiles and that relentless stream of gentle, insistent nagging, never lets it slide. She pushes you persistently to do better, to take care of yourself the way she so clearly wants to and moving in would make that job so much easier for her.

You’re just not sure you’re ready to take that leap, even though you’re there most nights anyway. Even though, when you open the door, you feel like it is more of a home than your dorm ever could be. More of a home than you have ever had.

You are just about taking off your jacket when you hear it, footsteps pounding across the hardwood floor, fast and frantic, followed by a high-pitched shout, “Who’s there?!”

You freeze in place, but before you can even process what’s happening, Wanda rounds the corner, eyes wide and panicked. She’s holding a rolling pin, raised high, defensive, like she’s ready to take down any intruder. But the second her eyes meet yours, the tension in her posture melts away.

Her hand flies to her chest, breath rushing out of her in relief. “Oh my God, I thought someone was breaking in!” she says, voice trembling with laughter as she lowers the rolling pin, clutching it like a lifeline. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here! Thank God it’s just you!”

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, watching Wanda’s wide-eyed panic dissolve into a warm, relieved smile. It’s like she’s just narrowly escaped some disaster, her whole posture shifting from defensive to relaxed. The rolling pin, once held in her grip like a weapon ready for battle, now seems almost comically out of place as she smooths her messy hair, catching her breath with a small, almost sheepish laugh.

“Wow, I’m sure that rolling pin would’ve really done some serious damage,” you tease, stepping further inside, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread wrapping around you like a warm, comforting hug. It feels like home, and the weight of the day lifts just a little as you breathe it in.

Wanda’s eyes flicker with a glint of mischief, her smile widening as she taps the rolling pin against her palm, the sound sharp and deliberate. “We can test it if you like, printsessa (princess), ” she says, her tone light but with an undeniable edge. It’s playful, but there’s an authority in her voice that makes your pulse skip just a little.

You laugh nervously, but the teasing fades quickly as the reality of why you’re there settles back in. “Please don’t. I’m already being punished tonight. I don’t think I can take two.” The words feel heavy as they leave your mouth, and you can’t help but drop your playful demeanour, anxiety creeping back into your chest.

Wanda’s expression shifts immediately. Her eyes narrow slightly, her gaze becoming more intense as she takes a step closer to you, the playful dominance replaced by something a little more commanding. “Oh, malyshka (baby) ,” she says, the softness in her voice not hiding the concern that edges into it. “What did you do? Is that why you’re here on a Wednesday?” Her words are measured, her presence filling the room as she stands a little taller, every inch of her radiating control.

You nod, your stomach twisting with unease. “I don’t know what I did,” you admit softly, almost ashamed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda’s eyes flash, the edge of authority sharpening as she steps closer still, crossing the space between you in two long strides. She leans down just slightly, her eyes never leaving yours. “How can you not know?” she asks, as if she can’t fathom how you could be this clueless about the situation.

You hand her your phone, the text thread from Natasha clearly visible on the screen. You don’t say anything, just letting Wanda read it in silence, feeling your heart race in your chest as she scans the words.

After a moment, Wanda chuckles softly, the sound rich with both amusement and disbelief. “Oh, she is mad, little girl,” she says, her voice low. “Surely, you must have some idea?” Her gaze softens just a touch, but the air is thick with the weight of her words.

You whine softly, feeling small under Wanda's gaze, your chest tightening with the anxiety that's been building for what feels like hours. Your voice comes out shaky as you mutter, “I promise, I don’t.”

Wanda stands there for a moment, her gaze hard, but she softens before you can even register the change. Then, without saying a word, she steps closer and gently places her hand on your cheek. The touch is tender, yet firm, grounding you in a way that only Wanda can.

Her thumb brushes over your skin as she leans in slightly, her voice quiet but commanding, “I think we should get you fed before Daddy gets home, don’t you?”

Her words send a shiver running down your spine, and you can’t help but feel the mix of anticipation and dread swirling in your stomach. “You are in for a long night,” she adds with a small, knowing smirk, and the intensity in her tone makes your heart skip.

You’re too nervous to say anything back, but you nod, unable to form any coherent words as the anxiety continues to crawl up your throat. Wanda watches you for a moment, assessing you, before she takes your hand, guiding you like a puppy as you follow her to the kitchen island.

You sit down as she instructs, the weight of everything still pressing on your chest, but Wanda’s calm presence is the only thing that keeps you grounded.

“Do some schoolwork while I cook dinner,” she orders gently, her tone still laced with that quiet authority. She pulls your laptop from your bag and places it in front of you before sliding a tall glass of ice-cold water across the counter toward you. “And drink up,” she adds with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You obey, opening your laptop and trying to focus on an essay for one of your classes. Wanda moves around the kitchen with ease, a soft hum escaping her lips as she begins cooking. The familiar, comforting scents of whatever she’s preparing fill the room, and your stomach growls in response. You try to ignore it, but the gnawing hunger in your stomach only intensifies the unease you are already feeling.

Eventually, Wanda moves back over to you, two plates in her hands. She sets them down gently and moves the laptop aside, her movements fluid and confident. You smile at her gratefully and shift the plate of food closer, your stomach growling louder.

Wanda sets herself on the other side of the kitchen island, her own plate in front of her, and begins to eat. But you can’t seem to shake the gnawing anxiety, the constant thought in your head: What did I do wrong?

Punishments aren’t something you fear; in fact, you crave them. They ground you, help you find clarity, but this time is different. You don’t know what you’ve done, and that uncertainty is eating away at you.

Wanda notices, because of course she does. Her sharp eyes never miss anything, and she can sense the distraction in your body language. She pauses mid-bite as she places one of her hands gently over yours, pulling your attention back to her. “Hey, malyshka (baby), you okay?” she asks, her voice gentle but firm, the concern in her eyes unmistakable.

You nod, but it’s a lie. The words don’t come, and you can feel the weight of them sitting heavily on your tongue. Wanda doesn’t buy it. She looks at you with concern, her brow furrowing as she places her fork down. “Are you sure?” she asks again, her voice soft but insistent.

This time, you can’t just nod; you know she won’t accept that. You huff and let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Wands!” you finally spill out. “I hate this, she’s never done this before! She usually at least tells me what’s wrong! But now I don’t know! I don't know, and I’m stressed, and I…” You’re cut off as Wanda calmly places a finger over your lips.

“Sweetheart… do you want to safeword?” she asks, her tone low and understanding. “We can call off the punishment, we can cuddle. I’ll text her and tell her to come home as Nat, not Daddy?” Her voice is soothing, but there's no mistaking that she would respect your decision, whether you chose the safeword or not.

You shake your head quickly, almost panicked at the thought. “No! I want to take my punishment if I deserve it! I do! I just hate not knowing,” you admit, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Wanda nods, her expression soft but still serious. “Okay. Do you want me to text her and ask her what happened?”

You hesitate, if Natasha finds out you’ve been whining, she might only get more upset, and you know what that means. The punishment will be harsher, sharper, drawn out with precision. And worse still, Wanda would know sooner what you’d done. She’d be disappointed too. That thought alone threatens to undo you.

The fear of making everything spiral further roots you to the spot. Your head shakes slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, thin and fragile. “I can wait,” you murmur, even though the tremble in your tone betrays just how hard that wait will be.

Wanda’s brow furrows in confusion. “But you’re upset,” she says softly, her gaze filled with concern.

You shrug, trying to find the right words, but they’re hard to grasp. “Not upset, just anxious. It’s okay, I swear. I’m green, promise,” you say, trying to reassure her, but it doesn’t feel convincing, even to you.

Wanda studies you for a moment, her eyes softening as she nods. “Okay, then. How about we go to the living room with our food and watch TV? You can keep your mind off it for a bit,” she suggests, her voice light but still commanding in that way that makes you feel safe.

You can’t help the huge grin that spreads across your face, the tension in your chest easing just a little at the idea of escaping into the comforting normalcy of watching TV with her. “Yes, please!” you say, a wave of relief washing over you as you get up and follow her to the living room.

-----

Thirty minutes later, you find yourself nestled in Wanda’s lap, completely relaxed. Your head rests against her chest, the steady beat of her heart soothing you as her fingers rake gently through your hair. Every pass of her hand makes you feel more grounded, more at peace than you have all day. The warmth of her embrace envelops you, and for a moment, all your worries seem to fade away, leaving only contentment in their wake.

But that peace is shattered the moment you hear the jingle of keys in the door. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoes through the room, and your body stiffens instantly. Your muscles tense, your heart rate spikes.

Wanda notices immediately, her soothing presence never faltering. She coos softly, her voice a gentle balm against the sudden rush of anxiety. “Shh, it’s okay, Malyshka (baby),” she whispers, her hands stilling in your hair for a moment before she resumes her tender strokes. “It is going to be fine, I promise.”

You try to take a deep breath, but your chest feels tight, your pulse quickening. The sound of the door opening only makes everything feel more real, and you can’t shake the anticipation that’s been building.

Wanda continues to hush you, her touch gentle but insistent, her own calmness seeping into you as she holds you close. She knows you’re on edge, and she’s determined to help you settle, even as the door swings open and the sound of footsteps grows louder.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Natasha’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, her gaze locking onto you with immediate intensity. Every muscle in your body tenses at the sound of her voice, and the calm Wanda had provided suddenly feels distant. “Did she not tell you she’s in trouble?”

Wanda, unfazed, offers a simple shrug. Her lips curl into a knowing, gentle smile as she leans down to plant a kiss on the side of your head, fingers brushing your hair softly. “She did, but she also said she didn’t know what she did. Can’t really be mad if I don’t know what I’m angry at, can I?” Her tone is soft, but there’s no mistaking the authority she carries in her words.

Natasha’s expression tightens, but there’s an unmistakable glint in her eyes, something between amusement and affection that flickers for a second, only to be quickly replaced by that hard exterior she wears so effortlessly.

She rolls her eyes, a silent acknowledgement of Wanda’s ability to disarm her, but Natasha knows this is only temporary. She knows exactly how this is going to unfold when she gets the full story. So she turns to you again, “Have you really pretended that you do not know?” Her voice is stern, but there’s an edge to it that makes you want to curl into Wanda even more.

You freeze, her gaze pinning you in place. “Nat, I—” you start, but Natasha interrupts you with a growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Who?!” she spits out, her voice a low, threatening rumble, and you feel the power of it go straight to your gut.

“Daddy! I’m sorry!” You blurt out quickly, the realisation hitting you hard that you’ve made the mistake of addressing her the wrong way.

“Now, tell me what you did,” Natasha orders, voice cold and firm, yet there’s an unmistakable tension in the air. Every inch of her radiates control, and you feel utterly exposed under her scrutiny.

Your heart begins to race, anxiety clawing at you from all sides. You search your mind desperately, but you can’t find anything that would explain the situation.

“Daddy! I don’t know! I swear I don’t!” you cry out, the panic creeping into your voice. Your chest tightens, and the air feels thick with pressure as the anxiety begins to overwhelm you. “Please, just tell me, and I’ll never do it again. I promise!” The words spill out in a flood, desperation lining each one.

Wanda cups your cheek gently. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” she coos, her voice soothing you just enough. “Tell her, Nat. She’s anxious. She genuinely doesn’t know.”

Natasha’s hard gaze softens just a fraction, but only for a moment, as she looks at you, taking in your state. She studies you quietly, the weight of her eyes never leaving your face. “Check in?” she asks softly, the sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. Her usual cold exterior is melting just a little, the concern in her voice undeniable.

You nod quickly, feeling the tension in your chest finally start to release just a little. “Green, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice shaky, “Just wanna know, please.” The words come out in a rush. You need to know what you’ve done because the uncertainty is almost unbearable.

Natasha’s gaze is piercing, unwavering as she studies you. You can almost feel the weight of her thoughts pressing down on you, trying to decide whether to accept your check-in or call everything off. It’s not the first time you’ve refused to use your safe word, after all.

You’ve always hated disappointing them, even though they’ve tried to reassure you time and again that using the safe word would never make them angry, that they would always prefer that over you suffering in silence.

Luckily, both Wanda and Natasha are masters at reading you by now. They can see the smallest shift in your body language, the way your breath catches or how your eyes dart, and they know when you need it, even if you don’t say a word.

This time, Natasha clearly reads that you are fine, and her decision is clear. Her expression hardens, her posture shifting as she straightens up, the cold, controlled version of herself taking over once more.

“Do you want to tell Mommy why you were being a little whore in my class, then?” Natasha sneers, her voice dripping with venom. It isn’t a question, it’s a command, an accusation that hits you with a force you weren’t prepared for.

The air grows heavy with tension, and you feel yourself shrinking and exposed. Wanda stiffens beneath you, and you feel her body tighten, the subtle shift in her posture unmistakable. Her voice is low, dangerous. "You what?" she asks, her tone sending a shudder through your entire body.

See, while Natasha can be jealous, Wanda is something else entirely, possessive in a way that runs deep. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, she’s there in an instant, staking her claim. A possessive hand on your waist, pulling you closer, her eyes locking onto whoever dared to cross her, shooting daggers that make it clear: you’re hers. And later, she’ll make sure you never forget it. She’ll remind you, again and again, who you belong to.

And that's why Natasha’s words have your heart sinking into your stomach. You can feel Wanda’s temper flare, like a storm building just beneath the surface. The possessive, primal energy she exudes in moments like this is enough to make you feel both cherished and utterly helpless in her care. And now, with Natasha’s harsh words hanging in the air, you know that things are about to escalate, one way or another.

“I... I don’t know what you mean, Daddy,” you stammer, your words coming out shakily. “I didn’t do anything in class?” you ask, but your voice wavers with uncertainty, as if you don’t trust your own memory now.

Wanda’s gaze sharpens in an instant, her posture stiffening as she looks at you, her tone turning cold. “Are you trying to say Daddy’s a liar, little girl?” she murmurs, her voice laced with a warning that sends a chill down your spine.

“N…no, Mommy!” you rush to correct yourself, the panic evident in your voice. “I just… maybe she was confused,” you offer, though deep down you know that’s not going to help.

The moment the words leave your mouth, you see Natasha’s face darken, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint, and her lips curl into a dark, menacing laugh.

“So, I’m confused, hm?” Natasha spits, her voice dripping with disdain. The way she speaks makes you feel small, insignificant under her gaze. “So, you didn’t have that blonde slut all over you today?” The words cut through the air like a knife, and the heat in her voice makes your stomach twist.

Wanda’s grip on your waist tightens, her eyes flashing with a possessiveness that you know well. The air between the three of you feels thick, charged with the unspoken tension of what’s to come.

You think, like really, really think, and that’s when it hits you. Today, Carol came in and sat next to you. She’s in one of your other classes, and you’ve been working on a project together. She just decided to sit with you in this one. You hadn’t even thought twice about it, your mind focused on one thing and one thing only: Natasha.

“Y…you mean Carol?” you ask, your voice hesitant, heart racing as it all starts to click into place. The moment the name leaves your lips, Wanda’s grip tightens around your waist again, this time her nails digging into your skin with such force that you can feel the sting. You’re sure she’s leaving little indents.

Natasha’s eyes narrow, lips curling into something far darker than usual. “So you do know what I’m talking about,” she says, her voice low and filled with barely contained anger.

You swallow hard, the weight of what you’ve just admitted making your throat tighten. “Well, I guess… now you mention it. But it’s not what you think, I promise!” you scramble to explain. “We’re in a class together! We’re friends!”

Natasha’s voice cuts through the air with an icy edge. “She spent most of my lesson touching your arm and whispering to you, not once did I see you push her away.”

Your pulse spikes as you try to think of something, anything, that could make this right. “I wasn’t even paying attention to her, Daddy!” you protest, your voice wavering. “I was watching you!” You can’t help the desperation creeping into your words, but you know it’s a weak defence. If Natasha saw Carol touch you, she also saw Carol slip you a piece of paper with her number on it.

“Come here,” Natasha commands, her voice like steel.

You freeze, dread pooling in your stomach. You don’t want to, but there’s no escaping this. Wanda’s hand on your waist pushes you forward, an unspoken command in her touch.

You glance back at her, hoping for some sign of leniency, but Wanda’s expression is unreadable. She just nods towards Natasha, her lips pressed together in a line. “Go,” she says softly, but the command is clear, and you obey.

You walk to Natasha, your steps unsteady. When you get close, Natasha doesn’t say a word, she just leans into you, her body pressing against yours, solid and unyielding. Her hand slides around your back, pulling you close, before slipping into the back pocket of your jeans.

She pulls out the piece of paper, unfolding it slowly, eyes scanning the digits with a smirk. “So what’s this, then?” she asks, her voice dripping with barely contained fury. “I bet if I call this number, it’ll ring straight through to her, right?”

You feel the heat rising in your face, the guilt settling in your chest like a heavy weight. The words stick in your throat, but you force them out anyway. “We’re just working on a project together, I swear. It’s not what you think.” Your voice shakes slightly, small and uncertain.

“Does she know who you belong to, Kotenok (Kitten) ?” Natasha asks, her grip firm as she tilts your chin to meet her gaze.

“Of course not, we would get in trouble, Daddy,” you reply, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. You wish you could shout it from the rooftops, to let everyone know the truth of your bond, but you can’t, not yet, at least. Not until you finish college.

“So, she thinks you’re free for the taking, then?” Natasha says, her voice sharp as her hand moves to rest lightly against your throat, a subtle pressure that sends a ripple of heat through you.

You nod as best you can with her hand on your throat, it’s not like you had any words that would make this any better for you.

Just then, Wanda’s presence shifts behind you, her voice soft but laced with something possessive as she murmurs in your ear, “Do you want her to take you, malyshka (baby)? You want to be hers instead?”

"No! I only want Mommy and Daddy!" you say quickly, your voice trembling. "Just you, only you!" you plead, desperation creeping into your words, hoping they'll understand and let it go.

"So why didn’t you tell her that… You…Are…Taken?" Wanda growled, her voice low and firm, each word emphasised as her hands once again hold your waist possessively.

“I... I didn’t know what to say!” you stutter, your hands trembling by your sides, your eyes desperately darting between them both, searching for any sign of understanding. “She just wanted me to call about the project!”

Wanda’s eyes narrow, the intensity of her gaze enough to make the air around you feel suffocating. You can feel her anger rising, thick and palpable, but there’s something darker behind it, something more possessive, more protective.

Her lips curl into a scowl, and before you can blink, she spits the words at you like venom, “Next time you see her you tell her you are taken, or I swear i’ll send you there with a collar saying ‘Daddy and mommy’s Little Whore’, do you fucking understand me?”

Part of you can’t help but be completely captivated by the thought, the idea sparking something deep inside you and making you instinctively rub your thighs together. It makes your skin flush with heat, a pleasant, electric sensation running down your spine, and for a fleeting moment, you find yourself lost in the possessiveness that pulses in the air around you.

But then, just as quickly, the other part of you can’t shake the growing tension, the irritation radiating off both Natasha and Wanda, so raw and so intense, it’s almost suffocating.

The contrast is overwhelming, the pull of desire at odds with the heavy weight of their disapproval. You feel yourself caught between two forces, one tugging you towards them, the other urging you to retreat. The battle within you makes your chest tighten, your heart beating erratically in your ribcage.

With a sharp breath, you lock eyes with Wanda, your gaze wide, pleading, desperate for them to see how sorry you are. “Yes! I will tell her, I promise, all yours!” you cry out, your voice trembling.

Natasha watches the exchange quietly, her eyes, dark and unreadable, flicker between you and Wanda, her expression shifting from one of hard discipline to something softer, more calculating.

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches you with a look that makes your stomach churn. Finally, her grip on your neck loosens, but there’s no warmth in her touch, no comfort. “Good,” she says flatly, her voice cold but laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of satisfaction. “But you’ve still got a punishment to take. You still let someone touch what is ours, and you didn’t tell them you were taken.”

You nod, your voice quiet but firm. "I understand, Daddy."

Natasha’s smile widens, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she steps back slightly. "I'll be lenient this time," she says, her tone softened just a fraction. "You didn’t know what to say. But next time, there will be heavy consequences."

You offer a weak smile, your eyes locking with hers as you try to convey your gratitude. "Thank you," you murmur, your voice quiet but sincere.

She smiles back at you, her expression softening for a brief moment. "Of course, Kotenok (Kitten). Anything for you," she replies, her voice gentle. But then, as if snapping back to reality, her tone sharpens as she takes a step back. "Now, since I am being lenient, I will let you choose, me or mommy?"

The question lingers, and you feel the tension coil around you. You knew exactly what it meant, the decision of who would be responsible for determining the consequences of your actions.

There was a strange mix of both fear and heat at the thought, as each choice came with its own set of pros and cons, a balance of pleasure and discipline. Every scenario had its own sting, its own thrill, and you found yourself torn between the two.

With Wanda, you knew exactly what to expect: there would be a spanking, no question about it. It was inevitable. But as much as the thought of it made your stomach tighten, deep down, you knew it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

In fact, you knew that once you settled into it, the sting would fade into something else entirely, something that left you breathless, your body humming, and your thighs soaked.

When it came to Natasha, however, punishment wasn’t physical in that way. She didn’t need to raise a hand to make her point; she only needed to make you feel her dominance. It was always intense, overwhelming, and she would take you to that edge over and over, until you thought you might break, until you begged for that final release.

Despite the intensity, though, you knew either option would end on a positive note. That was how they worked, at least most of the time: punishment followed by reward. It wasn’t clear whether that was because they simply couldn’t help themselves when they saw your face stained with tears and your ass warm and bruised.

Or if they truly thought you needed it after a heavy punishment, but in the end, it didn’t matter. You always got what you wanted, and more, so there was no room for complaints. You were theirs, completely, and as much as it sometimes scared you, you couldn’t imagine wanting it any other way.

"I'll take Mommy," you say, your voice quiet but steady, hoping by choosing her, your punishment would be over sooner and you could get to the reward.

Natasha smirks, her eyes sharp with quiet understanding. She’s not the least bit surprised by your choice, it’s the one you gravitate toward most often. She’s observant enough to know why. She gets it.

But there’s a part of her that finds it amusing, maybe even a little telling. Because the faster route means you skip the slow unravelling, the careful teasing apart of your restraint. And sure, you get what you came for, but it’s not as deep, not as intense.

It hasn’t been dragged out of you, layer by layer, until you’re nothing but trembling need, until you’re sobbing, your voice breaking as you plead for mercy.

When it’s over too quickly, it never quite hits the same, and she knows that. Knows you’ll crave the kind of release that only comes when you’ve been pushed to your edge, and then held there just a little too long.

But still, you choose the faster path, because you’re ruled by the moment, always chasing the high without the patience for the slow burn. Immediate gratification. That’s your weakness, and Natasha sees right through it.

But you’ve made your choice, and with that, something changes in Wanda’s expression. Her eyes darken, a flicker of anticipation sparking in their depths, slow and deliberate. There’s a hunger there now, undeniable, smouldering just beneath the surface, as the reality of what she’s about to do sinks in.

The power of it. The control. It stirs something deep inside her, a heat curling in her chest, coiling low in her belly. And for a moment, she doesn’t look away. She lets you see it, lets you feel exactly what you’ve just invited.

After staring you down as if you were her prey, Wanda turns to Natasha as if you aren't even there. “I’ll heat up your food for you first,” her voice is smooth and teasing, with a playful glint in her eye.

There’s a soft warmth to her words, but she can’t help but add, “I’m sure you’re going to work up quite an appetite… though I think it’s more than just food you’re after, isn’t it?” She smirks, clearly enjoying teasing Natasha, who has an equal look of pure lust on her face.

“Thank you, love,” Natasha replies, her voice warm and genuine. She leans past you to kiss Wanda on the cheek, a soft, affectionate gesture that feels like a contrast to the intensity you’re feeling.

Wanda meets your gaze, “Go upstairs and wait for me,” she says, her words gentle but with an unmistakable edge, “you know what I expect of you.”

You nod, your thoughts spinning as you make your way upstairs, the anticipation building with each step. The familiar mix of excitement and nerves tightens in your chest as you reach the bedroom.

Without a second thought, strip down and position yourself on your knees, your back straight and your hands resting gently on your thighs, waiting in silence. You know the drill by now, the routine you've followed countless times, it's instinct.

You wait, the silence in the room stretching into what feels like an eternity, the minutes dragging on longer than they should. Five minutes feels like five thousand. Just as you're starting to wonder if the moment will ever come, Wanda enters, followed by Natasha, who holds a plate of food in her hands.

She settles herself on the chaise lounge in the bedroom, before casually tucking into her meal as if everything is perfectly normal, which leaves you staring in pure confusion.

You're here, waiting to be punished, naked as the day you were born and on your knees, and yet Natasha is sitting there, eating as if nothing is about to unfold. As if she weren’t the one who made this happen.

Wanda, however, doesn't miss a beat. She moves toward the end of the bed and gestures for you to come over. No words are needed; it's a command in the way she moves, in the way her eyes meet yours. You follow, your heart racing.

The moment you lower yourself across Wanda’s lap, the atmosphere thickens again. The air feels heavier somehow, charged with something unspoken but deeply felt. Anticipation winds itself tight in your chest, each breath more shallow than the last.

Her hand finds your back, steady and sure, fingers trailing with deliberate slowness. It isn’t quite a tickle, not really, it’s lighter, more precise, like she’s drawing something into your skin with invisible ink. Every pass leaves goosebumps in its wake, your skin tingling, burning, as though her touch carries heat just beneath the surface. And she knows. She always knows exactly what she’s doing.

“So, how many do you think you deserve?” she asks, her voice steady but with a hint of amusement.

You hesitate for a moment, but you know what you should say. “That’s for mommy to decide.” The memory of that one time you tried to choose, only to end up with triple the spanks, flashes in your mind.

“Correct answer. That’s my good girl,” Wanda murmurs, a small smile curling on her lips as her hand rubs your back.

Another shiver runs down your spine at the praise, a mix of warmth and something deeper pooling lower. You try your best to hold yourself still, the tension between you and Wanda hanging thick in the air.

She’s taking her time, letting the anticipation build in the way she knows best, and it only makes your heartbeat quicken. The silence seems to stretch on forever before she finally speaks again, her voice smooth, calm, and laced with that unmistakable authority.

“I think we should go for an even 20,” she says, the words lingering in the air. “You know the drill. Count, or we restart. Understood?”

The instructions are clear. Your pulse spikes with a mixture of dread and excitement, but you nod, determined to obey. “Understood. Thank you, Mommy.”

Wanda hums softly, the sound rich with approval, and shifts beneath you with slow, purposeful movements. You feel her adjust her grip, one arm anchoring you more securely, her body bracing to keep you from slipping away once the inevitable squirming begins.

The anticipation wraps itself around your ribs, pressing tight. It’s almost too much, the stillness, the waiting, but you hold yourself steady, grounding yourself in the reassuring weight of her hand. It’s a silent promise, one that says she’s in control now, and all you have to do is take it.

“Good,” Wanda murmurs, before her free hand lifts, the room seeming to hold its breath. The first strike comes quickly, sharp and firm, and you gasp, the sting resonating deep, your body jolting with the impact.

“One,” you say softly, the word barely escaping as the shock of the strike settles in.

Wanda’s fingers gently trace the spot where her hand had just made contact, and her voice comes, low and coaxing. “That’s it. Keep counting, sweetheart.”

The next strike lands, as harsh and deliberate as the last, and you gasp sharply, the sound escaping before you can control it. Your mind scrambles to keep up, to count each blow, but each one piles onto the next, making your muscles tense and coil tighter.

You fight to focus, trying to force the numbers out of your mouth, but with each impact, helpless whines and gasps slip past your lips. Your body is caught in a battle, pull away, or stay still, torn between the instinct to escape and the overwhelming pull to please them.

Wanda stops halfway through; she doesn’t speak immediately, letting the moment hang between you. “Halfway there,” she comments after a moment, her tone neutral, but you can hear the faint edge of satisfaction. “You’re doing so well, you make such pretty sounds when you're sorry.”

Your body hums with a heady mixture of discomfort and desire. The line between pain and pleasure blurred just a few strikes in, your nerves now tangled in the sensation, electric and consuming. You’re grateful for the brief pause, your breath coming in shallow bursts, because you were teetering dangerously close to the edge. And coming without permission, and during a punishment, was asking for a whole world of trouble.

Been there, done that. Couldn’t sit for a week. Didn't cum for two. Never, ever again.

The sensation thrums through you, overwhelming and all-consuming. And yet, what leaves you most exposed, most unsteady, is Natasha. Seated just beyond reach, her presence a quiet constant, she hasn’t looked away once. Calm, unreadable, completely focused on you, on every twitch, every kick, every sound.

She’s impossibly calm, sitting there with her meal, each bite unhurried, her posture loose and at ease, as if you aren’t draped over Wanda’s lap, your skin flushed a vivid red, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. As if the sounds you’re making, the trembling of your body, aren’t happening right in front of her.

And somehow, it only makes everything worse, in the best, most unbearable way. The casualness of it, the way Natasha observes without a flicker of surprise or discomfort, makes something inside you ache.

Eventually, Wanda starts spanking again, each one taking you closer to the end of the 20. There’s no rushing; Wanda’s pace is deliberate, making sure every strike has its intended effect.

The last strike comes, and you can’t help but gasp, your entire body tightening as you brace yourself. “Twenty,” you manage to say, your voice shaky, relief filling your chest.

Wanda’s hand rests lightly on your ass, her fingers grazing over the sensitive skin, the touch soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness of what came before. There’s a brief moment of stillness between you, the room quiet except for the sound of your breath.

Slowly, Wanda lifts your chin, her gaze meeting yours, taking in the tear-streaked lines on your face. She leans forward, placing a soft kiss on your temple.

Her voice, when she speaks again, is softer, but the control remains, a steady thread woven through her words. “Good girl. You took your punishment so well.”

“Thank you, Mommy,” you whisper, your throat already a little sore from the crying out and moaning from your spanks. Your body still hums with the lingering heat of what just passed.

The fingers of her free hand make their way between your thighs, very gently pushing them open before dipping down to tease your slit. “You got so wet from Mommy’s spanking, malyshka (baby),” she mused. You automatically push back into her touch, your pussy begging for relief, a small moan ripping up your throat from the contact.

She chuckles darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Doesn’t seem like it was much of a punishment if you are this worked up, hm?” she says, her fingers gently stroking between your folds, collecting the wetness that has built up. “What do you think, Natasha?” she asks, glancing toward the redhead with a knowing smirk. “Does she need more?”

You can’t help the soft whine that escapes your lips at her words, but you stay quiet, focusing on keeping yourself composed. You know better than to speak out of turn; your mouth will only get you in trouble right now.

Natasha leans back slightly, studying you for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. She places her plate down on the side table and moves closer, her presence almost overwhelming as she crouches in front of you. Her eyes soften just a touch as she meets your gaze, before she leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

“You did good,” Natasha murmurs, her voice low and steady, wrapping around you like a soft caress. The words sink deep, easing the rawness that still lingers in your chest. “You are forgiven, my love.”

Wanda’s voice cuts through the moment, smooth and teasing. “You’ve gone soft,” she says to Natasha, her fingers never pausing their motions. The warmth blossoming inside you is undeniable now, between the spanking and this teasing, you already feel ready to cum. Your body is on edge, waiting for that command, waiting to be told it is okay.

Natasha chuckles, her gaze darkening slightly as she watches you. “You just enjoy spanking her too much,” she says, voice dripping with a mix of affection and challenge. “Maybe you need to remember what it’s like.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You swallow hard, a wave of pure desire rushing through you at the thought of watching your Mommy over your Daddy’s knee. Your mouth goes dry, and before you can stop yourself, a loud moan escapes your lips, the sound betraying your excitement at the thought.

“You like that idea?” Natasha asks, her tone rich with amusement and something more. “You wanna watch Mommy get spanked, Kotenok (Kitten) ?” You can only nod, your body betraying you once again, words refusing to form as your brain shows you images in your mind.

“You are going to regret that,” Wanda warns as she suddenly pushes her fingers inside your soaking hole, pumping in and out of you mercilessly, hitting that deep spot just right. All you can do is squirm and moan; you are entirely at her mercy.

“Mmm, shit….shit… so…good, Mommy….so goood” you manage to let out between moans as your hips try their best to push back to somehow get her fingers even further inside you. You certainly regret nothing right now.

Wanda keeps up the pace, and you can feel your walls getting tighter, squeezing her fingers. You are close, so close, and she knows it. Wanda leans down slightly her mouth hovering just above your ear as she murmurs, “are you about to cum for us, slut?” which results in an absolutely obscene moan falling from your mouth as you nod feverishly.

Suddenly, Natasha’s voice slices through the charged silence, sharp and commanding. “Wanda, stop.” Her tone is final, leaving no room for defiance.

To your absolute disappointment, Wanda obeys without hesitation. The abrupt stop leaves you with a sudden emptiness, and you can’t hold it back. The whine that escapes you is loud, desperate, and completely unrestrained.

Your chest tightens as fresh tears well up, spilling down your cheeks in silent frustration. “Please! Daddy, please let me cum!” You beg, giving her the best puppy dog eyes you possibly could, “You said I was forgiven!”

Natasha ignores your whining as she walks towards the closet with her usual confident stride, her eyes glinting with a playful spark. A few moments later, she emerges, naked apart from the most girthiest strap you own hanging from her hips, the smirk on her face never fading.

Your eyes linger on her, unashamedly taking in every detail, and you notice Wanda's gaze following suit. She chuckles softly at the sight, her amusement clearly evident. Then, with a wicked smile, she continues, "You’re forgiven, but there’s one thing you didn’t count on."

Your breath catches, eyes wide with curiosity and a touch of apprehension. “What?” you ask, the word coming out more strained than you intended, a knot forming in your stomach.

“I know you,” she says, her voice low and sure as she strides toward you. With a firm grip, she manhandles you off Wanda’s lap, and you go willingly, your body already responding to her touch as she lays you down on your front on the bed. “So I know exactly how you think,” she adds, her tone almost teasing, as if she’s savouring the anticipation of what comes next.

“And I know,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear, “you thought choosing Wanda’s punishment woud mean you get to cum faster.” Her voice is a soft whisper, filled with knowing amusement, as if she’s fully aware of the thoughts that ran through your mind.

She grips your hips firmly, lifting them so you’re forced onto your hands and knees. With a swift motion, she pushes you down, guiding your back into a deep arch. You surrender to her touch, allowing her to position you just as she wants, the desire to please and obey coursing through you, making you still and compliant.

“Wanda, sit in front of her,” Natasha commands, her voice steady and authoritative. Wanda responds with a simple nod, acknowledging the instruction before gracefully moving to take her place, sitting directly in front of you, spreading her legs wide, giving you a complete view of her soaking folds.

“Now, since you thought you were clever, you don’t get to cum until she does,” Natasha growled as her eyes locked on Wanda’s bare cunt. The intensity in her gaze was palpable, and her voice, though strained, carried an unmistakable edge. “Go on, make Mommy feel good.”

You immediately set to work, your focus absolute, as if your very life hinged on the task at hand. Natasha was pushing your face hard in Wanda’s cunt, as if you didn't need to breathe. In your eyes though, you would die happy if it was right there, between her thighs; licking and sucking in the exact way she taught you.

“F…Fuck, you’re so good at that,’ Wanda moaned, her hips pushing even further into your face. “Need to put that pretty mouth of yours to use more often.” Her voice was breathless, her eyes locked on yours, pupils wide with desire.

You can’t help the way your chest swells with pride at the praise. The compliment sent a jolt directly to your core. You swore you felt yourself clench around nothing, and a moan accidentally slipped from your lips.

It didn't take long, though, for it not to be nothing; suddenly, Natasha was behind you, her strap stroking through your folds as she got it wet using just your juices. You all knew it would be enough, you had felt them dripping down your thighs ages ago, you’re pretty sure she could slide right in with how turned on you were right now.

And she did. She didn't give you a single bit of warning before she forced the whole thing in at once, in one long thrust. You cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure tearing through you at the stretch. Your body shivered, and you instinctively tried to pull away. Natasha’s grip was firm on your waist as she stayed still.

"Shh, it’s okay," she murmured, her voice softer than anything she’d said all night. "Take a moment, detka (babe)." The tenderness in her words was a stark contrast to the intensity before, offering a brief respite that you hadn't realised you needed.

She waited, giving you time to adjust, but it was clear she waited too long when your hips began moving of their own volition. She watched with amusement. She could see that you were seeking more, but she wouldn't be moving until you used your words, even if desperate little whines were falling from your lips.

Plus, the vibrations from the whines only added extra pleasure for Wanda, so really, it was only you losing out. Natasha was having fun as always, and Wanda had you eating her cunt. They were on cloud nine while you were waiting to join them.

"Use your words," she scolded as she landed a spank to your right ass cheek. The sensation, though not particularly harsh, jolted through you, and you couldn’t contain the sharp cry that escaped your lips, especially with your ass still raw from Wanda’s earlier strikes. The sting felt amplified, every nerve on edge, and the sound you made was almost instinctual.

Natasha laughed at your reaction, and the sound only deepened the flush of heat spreading through you. It was as if her amusement made everything feel sharper, more intense.

Before you could fully register it, another blow landed, and this time, you jolted forward, and she harshly pulled you back until you had taken her to the hilt again. Yet another noise left your throat, a sound caught somewhere between a moan, a whine, and maybe even a sob.

You knew you needed to get the words out if you wanted more, but the difference between understanding that and actually doing it felt impossible when your brain was starting to melt from the feeling of Natasha’s cock buried inside you and Wanda’s soaking cunt on your face.

“Just use your words, and you can have what you want, printsessa (princess),” she coaxed, her tone both soft and demanding.

You huff, the frustration building up inside you. The words feel thick on your tongue, as if they’re stuck, unwilling to come out. You whine softly, a mixture of embarrassment and desperation creeping up in your chest.

Finally, you force the words out, each one scraping against the rawness inside you, “Please, Daddy. Please fuck me.”

"There we go, was that so hard?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of satisfaction as you finally managed to answer her. You shook your head, ready to respond, but before the words could leave your mouth, she silenced you when she pulled out and slammed back in again, and again, she gave you no time to breathe, no time to recover. She just pounded relentlessly, and you just took it, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed over, moans tumbling from your lips.

“Is this what you wanted, hm?” Natasha’s voice was a low growl, laced with raw desire as she drove into your soaked cunt. “To be shown who owns you? Why, we own you, hm?”

“Mmm…shit, yes. Daddy!” You pant out, lifting your head from between Wanda’s thighs for a second. “Want you to use me, Daddy. Make me your toy, your doll. Just please, please don’t stop!” you end up practically screaming the last of that sentence as your desperation to finally get to the edge spikes.

Natasha groaned at your words, the sound escaping her before she could stop it. She took a deep breath, collecting herself as best she could, her composure slipping for just a moment before she regained control. “Then get your face back in your Mommy’s cunt and make her cum,” natasha ordered.

You followed her instructions, knowing that this was the path to getting what you desired. You poured all your focus into Wanda’s cunt, trying your best to push aside the mounting pressure building in your core.

Soon, Wanda's body language shifted, her legs quivering, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A glistening sheen of sweat coated her skin, the evidence that she was close to her own high, clear to both you and Natasha. “Gonna cum,” she breathed, “doing so good, so close. So close!”

Then, without so much as another breath, she reached her peak, her head tilting back as a loud moan escaped her lips. You slowed, allowing her to ride out the wave, a lazy smile settling on her face. Her eyes fluttered shut, her entire body relaxing as she savoured the aftermath.

You turned your head, resting it gently on her thigh as her hand came to cradle your hair, her fingers brushing through it with a tender touch. Natasha was still fucking into you, but less intensely allowing you both a moment to settle. “Thank you, little one,” Wanda murmured softly, her voice full of warmth. “You did so well. Made Mommy feel so good,” she praised.

But the softness of the moment was shattered, as Natasha got impatient and gripped your hair, pulling you sharply upwards. Your body arched involuntarily, until your back was pressed against her front, and a high-pitched squeal escaped your lips as the strap inside you shifted almost painfully.

”Now, it’s time I show you why it is us that you belong to, whore,” Natasha growled lowly in your ear, her hand moving from your hair to around your throat as her thrusts became even harder, even deeper than before.

Each thrust left you breathless, your mind a haze as you surrendered completely to her, trusting that you were safe in her care. Your skin felt like it was on fire, every nerve alive with a sharp, buzzing heat, and your legs began to tremble.

“Taking my cock so well,” Natasha purred, her breath wet and hot against your ear as she watched your whole body writhe below her. She kept up the relentless rhythm, her free hand making its way across your stomach and down towards your clit. She applied pressure, rubbing small circles against your clit and you stopped even trying to contain yourself. You moaned and whined with no shame.

“Just like that,” she panted as she continued thrusting. “I know you can take it, I know you can! Good girl, Khoroshiy malen'kiy kotenok (good little kitten), ” she mutters, focused on nothing but thrusting in and out, losing herself in the moment.

Natasha’s voice was starting to fray at the edges, laced with something raw and hungry, like she was losing the battle to keep control. There was a roughness to her tone now, not just command but craving, deep, aching and barely restrained.

She sounded desperate, and it did something to you, hearing her like that. Like she loved the way you needed her. The way your body trembled, the way every sound you made was a plea you didn’t know you were making.

Each second that passed, you slipped further, your need unravelling in waves, and she was watching it happen like it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

She squeezed your throat tighter, before gently kissing your hair, as if she couldn’t decide whether to break you apart or hold you together. You whimpered, and she let out a low groan in response, the kind that came from somewhere deep in her chest, and you felt the weight of her hunger press down on you like gravity.

“Look at you,” she breathed, her fingers still working your clit, but her other hand was gripping your neck, maybe hard enough to bruise. “Falling apart just for us.”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked, your throat too tight from the relentless hold. Wanda was still in front of you, eyes heavy-lidded and warm, a flush on her cheeks that told you she was still riding the high you gave her.

She looked at you with such tenderness that it almost hurt. Her gaze was a soothing warmth, the kind that wrapped around you like a blanket, contrasting sharply with Natasha's burning fire. Together, they created a balance that made you feel like you were slowly melting, and you were.

��Breathe,” Wanda murmured, reaching out to brush her fingers across your cheek, her touch feather-light. “You’re doing so good, little one.”

You nodded weakly, eyes shimmering, tears slipping down your cheek, not from pain, not even from pleasure anymore, but from the sheer intensity of it all. From being seen, being wanted. Being claimed by these two beautiful women.

“I wanna keep you like this,” Natasha whispered, a promise and a threat all in one. “Forever desperate. Always Needy. Ours.”

And god, you wanted that. You wanted them, both of them. The roughness, the tenderness, the way they made you feel everything all at once until it overwhelmed you in the best possible way. You were already theirs, in every way that mattered.

There was a tremble in Natasha’s touch now, barely noticeable, but you felt it. She was shaking too. For all her dominance, her unwavering commands, she was just as lost in this as you were. And something about that made your chest ache.

You wanted to say something, anything, but your voice was buried under the moans she forced out of you with every brush of her fingers against your clit, every thrust of her hips.

You felt Wanda’s eyes still on you, soft and steady, grounding you again when Natasha felt like too much. That balance between them, between being cherished and undone, was addictive. You needed it like air.

“I love watching you fall apart,” Natasha mumbled, more to herself than you as she continued her merciless assault on your cunt. “Every time, you’re so fucking perfect like this.”

You couldn't help the way your breath hitched sharply in your throat, overwhelmed by her words. The position she had you in left you with nothing to grasp, no solid ground to hold on to as your body trembled beneath the weight of it all.

A stuttered gasp escaped your lips, your fingers digging into your own thighs, nails sinking deep into your skin in a frantic attempt to ground yourself, to find something to cling to.

Then Wanda reached for you, her touch gentle but insistent as she pried your hands free, interlacing her fingers with yours and holding tight. The moment her palms met yours, warmth flooded through you, grounding and steadying.

“We’ve got you, baby,” she whispered, voice thick with affection and something far deeper.

You managed to look at her, your eyes wide and wet, rolling back like you couldn’t focus. You were barely present, teetering on the edge, and they both saw it, even felt it. Your breathing was erratic, shallow, desperate, and your body gave itself away with every uncontrollable twitch. You were close. And they knew.

Wanda squeezed your hands, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she was trying to soothe the storm in you. Behind you, Natasha’s grip tightened with intent, and the pressure between their presence and your own unravelling senses pushed you that much nearer to the brink.

“Please, please! Please let me cum!” you finally sob, the words ripped from you like a confession. Your voice trembles, thick with desperation and barely contained emotion. You’re falling apart at the seams, and you know you need permission; you need it.

Every nerve in your body is stretched tight, every second dragging you closer to a release that feels like it might break you. “I can’t…I can’t hold on,” you whisper, breath hitching as your body quivers under their touch.

Natasha leaned in then, her breath hot against the back of your neck, lips barely grazing skin as she murmured low and deliberate, “Don’t hold back. Let go for us. Make a mess on my cock.”

The command coiled through you, and your whole body went taut, your back arching involuntarily as sensation surged through you, wild and uncontrollable. It didn’t feel like one thing; it felt like everything all at once. Pleasure, pain, safety, release. Like your chest was caving in and expanding at the same time. Like you were unravelling from the inside out, piece by piece, and yet being held together by the grip of their hands on your body, their voices grounding you in the chaos.

Wanda’s eyes were locked on yours, her expression soft and awestruck, her lips parted like she was witnessing something sacred. “That’s it, malyshka (baby), just like that,” she praised. “So pretty for us, so perfect when you cum.”

And Natasha, still behind you, didn’t let up. Her movements steady, her voice low and encouraging, even as her hands tightened around you to hold you up so she could continue thrusting.

Your breath came in broken gasps, your hands trembling in Wanda’s grip. You weren’t sure if you were sobbing or moaning or both. Your body was shaking so hard it barely felt like it belonged to you anymore. “No more…I can’t. Too much!” you gasped, your words choked and breathless.

But despite your pleas, Natasha didn’t stop. She knew you, knew your limits, so she pushed you further, drawing out every last tremble, every shuddering breath, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure from your body until you were barely able to stay upright, your eyes fluttering closed, your body nothing more than deadweight in her hands.

Natasha knew then it was time to stop. With a care that contrasted the intensity moments before, she eased you back down, guiding your trembling form gently until your head came to rest in Wanda’s lap once more. You didn’t even think about it, you just nuzzled your cheek into the softness of her thigh, chasing warmth, comfort, the closeness you craved. Her hand was already there, running through your hair with slow, soothing strokes, her touch quieting the aftershocks still rippling through you.

Natasha settled beside you, her presence grounding in its own way, and began peppering your face with soft kisses, your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips. “You’re so good for us,” she murmured, her voice a soft hush against your skin, barely louder than your unsteady breaths. “You took everything so well.”

She kissed you again and again until your breath hitched into something lighter, a small, surprised giggle escaping you. That sound, fragile and warm, made her smile. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?” she asked, fingers brushing your cheek.

You nodded, though your lower lip jutted out in a faint pout that made her laugh under her breath. “I’ll be back in two minutes, little one,” she promised, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before slipping away.

True to her word, Natasha returned quickly, a glass of water in one hand and a small bowl of fruit in the other. “Let’s get some of this in you, then we’ll relax a bit before we clean up, alright?” she offered, her tone gentle and coaxing.

You nodded again, still too dazed for speech, the world around you muffled by the sheer weight of everything you’d just felt. Wanda’s arms came around you as she helped you sit up against her chest, cradling you close.

Natasha took the glass and held it to your lips, careful and patient, feeding you sips of water and little pieces of fruit. You let yourself be taken care of, basking in the warmth of their attention, their quiet smiles, their steady hands.

In that quiet moment, your body drained, your soul exposed, you felt it envelop you completely. Fulfillment. Peace. Satisfaction. But above all, love. You knew, in that instant, that you would need nothing else for the rest of your life, as long as you were with them.

As if she’d plucked the thought right from your head, Natasha spoke up, her voice low and teasing, “Was that enough of a reason to tell the blonde whore to leave you alone?” There was a smirk playing on her lips, but her eyes still glinted with that possessive edge, like even now, hours later, the idea of someone else touching you made her jaw clench.

You let out a breathy laugh, your smile soft as your head rested against Wanda’s chest. “I would happily never speak to her again,” you murmured honestly. “Though you guys had nothing to worry about.”

Wanda leaned in, brushing her nose affectionately against your temple. “We know,” she said, her tone warm and reassuring. Then she chuckled, light and unbothered. “But if we didn’t get a little jealous sometimes, we wouldn’t have amazing sex like this, now would we?”

"I mean, we definitely still would," you teased, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, knowing full well that jealousy wouldn’t have been necessary for tonight's events to unfold; it just made everything that much more intense.

Their teasing wrapped around you like a blanket, warm and familiar, easing the last of the tension from your bones. Eventually, Natasha scooped you up without warning, ignoring your sleepy protest as she carried you to the bathroom. Wanda followed close behind, humming softly to herself as she gathered towels.

You took your time together, rinsing off the remnants of the night with gentle touches and sleepy smiles, stealing kisses between lathered hands and whispered reassurances. When you finally dried off and made your way back to bed, everything felt heavy with satisfaction.

You curled between them, limbs tangled together, the soft fabric of the clean sheets brushing against your skin. Whispered "I love you"s floated between you all, each one met with a kiss and an even tighter embrace, as if holding on could make this moment last forever.

Wrapped in their arms, safe between their steady breathing, you let your eyes flutter closed, your body at peace, your heart completely full.

#natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff smut #wanda maximoff smut #mommy wanda #daddy natasha #wlw smut #marvel fanfic #marvel smut

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secretlysimpash · 1 day ago

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If you took one of the boys home, and you had a big ol' dog, I think that...

John would do the thing where instead of petting the dog, he just lovingly pats it's side..."The dad pat". And he's definitely sharing whatever he eats with the dog, too (as long as it's safe for the dog, ofc...he wants to spoil the dog, not make it sick).

Kyle would be on his best behavior with the dog...Until you're not looking. As soon as you leave those two alone, he riles the dog up. You'll be on an important call when there's just a cacophony of barking, play-growling, and stomping from a few rooms over.

Since Johnny doesn't like dogs all that much, he would try to stick close to your side...Or wherever the dog will leave him alone. But alas, the dog definitely decides that he's their new best friend, father, playmate, and everything else that involves Soap being as close as possible. Wherever the Scot goes, the big puppy isn't far behind.

Simon is on the opposite end of the spectrum when compared to Johnny. Simon LOVES dogs, and he comes prepared. Every time Simon comes through your door, expect a gift for you...And one for the dog. Suddenly your dog has a skull bandana to match Ghost, and looks almost disappointed when you come home without him sometimes.

The Shadows already have some German Shepard's and Belgian Malinois on the team...So when Phillip sees that you have a dog that's bigger than the ones he's used to working with, he's excited. Phillip is high-energy, your dog has a lot of pent up energy...Take them to the park, and just watch them both run, play frisbee, fetch...They could do this for hours. And when you get home and the dog is sound asleep, Phillip will still have enough energy for you.

König would IMMEDIATELY try picking the dog up like a baby. As soon as he knows the dog won't try to rip his face off, he just scoops it up into his arms. Half as a show of strength ("Look, Schatzi...They weigh nothing to me!"), and half because I can't help but see him as an animal lover. And if you're watching a movie, or cuddling, or doing anything together, nine out of ten times he'll want the dog to come. Sorry, but that's his baby now, too.

#cod imagines #price x reader #gaz x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #graves x reader #konig x reader #john price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #phillip graves x reader #könig x reader #cod fluff #writing something longer but just wanted to get This out of my head

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abbotjack · 2 days ago

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Wearing War

summary : Jack Abbot’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed—but instead, you go to his favorite dive bar. You wear the skirt. You wear his tags. You push, and Jack—tired, restrained, and entirely yours—snaps.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! explicit smut, dominant boyfriend Jack Abbot, semi-public sex (in a parked truck), use of dog tags in kink context, possessiveness, fingering, vaginal sex, marking/bruising, overstimulation, reader is bratty and teasing, not much plot, mostly smut

word count : 4,323

Jack’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed.

You’d imagined it—his weight pressing into the mattress, one arm tossed over your waist, the rest of the world pushed away by the rhythm of his breathing. You’d imagined curling into the heat of him, tracing the faint scar beneath his ribcage with your thumb, pressing your face into his chest and not moving for hours.

But instead, you were standing in the doorway of your kitchen, watching him rinse his hands in the sink like he couldn’t quite turn off the part of his brain still stuck at work. His scrub top was balled up on the counter beside him, and his undershirt clung to his back in soft lines.

“Let’s go out,” you said, voice careful but certain. “Just us.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just let the water keep running over his hands like he hadn’t registered the question—or maybe like he was pretending not to.

“Out?” he echoed, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth after ten nights of nothing but fluorescent lights and hallway coffee. “You mean… out out?”

You stepped into the kitchen, folding your arms. “Yeah. Not fancy. Not fussy. Just somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or have a monitor beeping in the background.”

That made him glance over. Barely. But enough.

His brow creased like he was doing the mental math—how long since his last shower, how much energy he had left in the tank, whether he could fake his way through being social when he barely felt human.

“You sure?” he asked. “You don’t want… like, a real night out? Something normal. Reservations. Wine list?”

You shook your head. “No. I want you. I want O’Malley’s.”

That got his full attention.

He turned, leaning back against the sink. His dog tags swung slightly when he moved. “O’Malley’s?” he asked, like you’d just suggested robbing a bank.

You took a few steps closer. “Yeah.”

He blinked once. “You want to go to a bar where the jukebox hasn’t worked since ’08, the floor sticks to your shoes, and that guy with the mullet always thinks you're hitting on him just for saying hi?”

You smiled, letting your hands slip up under his shirt, resting lightly against the warm skin of his stomach. “I want you. Where you feel good. Where you’re not someone’s doctor or someone’s emergency. Just… mine. I’ve been coming home to your things, not you. And I want to be somewhere that feels like you again.”

He went quiet at that. Quiet in the way Jack gets when something actually lands. The way he used to go quiet back when you first met him—when you’d say something kind and he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

O’Malley’s wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even clean. But it was his.

Brick walls stained with decades of smoke and sweat and spilled drinks. The barstools wobbled. The bathroom door didn’t lock unless you jammed it shut with your heel. But it was familiar. Steady. Like Jack.

It was the first place he ever kissed you in public.

The first time you saw him relax—really relax—with his hand on your thigh and his smile easy and unguarded. No pager. No badge. Just him and a beer and the kind of quiet contentment he didn’t let anyone else see.

You wanted that Jack tonight.

Not the version who came home bone-tired and silent, who sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dark. The one who carried too many stories in his hands and didn’t know where to put them.

“Alright. We’ll go. But I’m not shaving.”

You smiled. “I like you scruffy.”

He kissed you, slow and low, then murmured, “Twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” you said, already slipping out of his arms and heading for the bedroom. “You’ve got first round.”

And as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you made a beeline for that skirt.

The black one.

The one that hadn’t seen daylight since your fourth date—back when he’d taken you to a bar kind of like O'Malley's. A little louder, a little messier, but the same kind of dim lighting and cracked leather booths. You’d leaned against the doorframe of your apartment when the night was over, keys in your hand, heartbeat wild under your skin, and asked, “Do you want to come up?” like you weren’t already hoping he’d press you into the wall and never leave.

He kissed you before he even got his boots off.

Not soft. Not slow. Like something in him had snapped loose. You barely made it to the couch—his hands on your hips, mouth trailing heat down your stomach, skirt bunched at your waist. He was on his knees before you could say another word, eyes dark, breath rough against your skin.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured, voice all gravel and restraint.

You didn’t.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Just held your thighs open like he needed to, like he hadn’t had a real taste of anything in months. He made you come twice before he even touched himself. All control. All focus. Like the only thing that mattered was what your body was doing under his.

You still think about how he looked that night.

The way he moved—deliberate and slow, like he was memorizing every inch of you. The low curse he let slip when he finally slid inside. How he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight, barely breathing, like you were the only solid thing left in his world. No dirty talk. No theatrics. Just him, wrecking you with nothing but steady hands and a look you’ve never been able to shake.

That night, Jack Abbot stopped pretending. He stopped playing it safe. He stopped pretending he didn’t want you like a man starved.

You hold the skirt up in the warm light of your bedroom, thumb brushing the fabric like a secret, and smile. It’s tighter than you remember. Shorter, too—but maybe that’s just the way you’re looking at it now. With the memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice when he said your name like it was something sacred.

You slide it up your legs slowly. Deliberately.

Because you don’t want soft tonight. You don’t want tired.

You want him. The version of Jack who doesn’t know how to hold back. The version who comes home and remembers exactly who the hell he belongs to.

And by the time he sees you in this?

You want him wrecked.

Not by the shift.

Not by the world.

By you.

When you came downstairs, he was in the kitchen with his phone in one hand, wallet in the other, the porch light casting long shadows across the hardwood.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t look up until he had to.

And when he did—he stopped mid-motion. The screen of his phone still lit, thumb frozen over it, breath caught in his chest like it had nowhere to go.

His eyes dragged down your body and then back up, slow. Controlled. Like he was trying not to react. Like he had to try.

His mouth opened, then shut again. His jaw ticked once.

He wiped a hand down his face, slow and rough, like the sight of you was something he needed to get a grip on before it undid him. “You really—” he started, voice low and ragged, gesturing vaguely toward your legs. “That skirt?”

You leaned against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that was anything but. “Figured I’d dress for the occasion.”

Jack didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“That skirt’s been in the back of your closet since…” He stopped, biting off the rest like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

You smiled gently. “Yeah. I remember.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between you. His eyes never left yours.

Then, quietly—honestly: “I’m not gonna ask you to change.” He paused. “But don’t ask me to keep my hands to myself.”

You pushed off the frame with a soft shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

When you reached for your bag, he still hadn’t moved.

You had to walk past him to grab your keys, and even then, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just watched. Like he was counting his breaths. Like if he said one thing too soon, this night would tip into something neither of you were dressed for.

You walked out together into the thick hum of summer, the heat sitting low and wet across the driveway. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. The air smelled like warm concrete and fading sunlight.

As you made your way toward the truck, you let one heel wobble—just a little. Just enough.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stopping, bending at the knee like you needed to fix the strap.

You didn’t.

But you knew exactly what you were doing.

And you could feel his gaze on you. Hot. Still. Quiet.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t come closer. Just waited, jaw tight, fists curled around the truck keys.

You stood, slow. Turned, met his eyes.

He blinked once. Swallowed. Then turned and opened the passenger side door for you like he wasn’t two seconds from backing you up against it.

The drive was quiet at first. The windows down, the music soft—something bluesy and old, not quite loud enough to distract from the weight between you.

You reached over, let your fingers brush his thigh gently. The shift in him was instant. A subtle inhale. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. His hand gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“You sure you don’t want something nicer than this bar?” he asked finally, voice low and quiet like he already knew the answer but had to give you the out anyway.

You turned toward him, soft smile still in place. “No, honey. This is about you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead and nodded once. The streetlights passed in slow intervals, the engine humming beneath your feet.

And Jack?

He just drove. Knuckles white against the wheel. Thigh tense under your hand. Mouth pressed into a line like he was already counting down the minutes until you got home—and he could stop pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

When you walked in, his hand found the small of your back.

“Usual booth,” he said. “I’ll grab drinks.”

You turned, looked up at him with a soft smile. “No, babe. Let me. You always do it.”

He squinted slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Go sit. Relax.”

He hesitated. Then pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, and handed you his card. You turned and walked to the bar, slow and confident, letting your heels click against the hardwood. The bar was a straight shot from your booth, just far enough that he could still see you. And you made sure to give him a show.

You leaned forward, pretending to read the drink list. Let your hips tilt. Let the skirt shift. Just enough for the lace of your thong to show.

The whistle was immediate.

A low sound from a table of men a few feet away.

And then Jack was there.

Behind you in a blink.

His hand clamped to your lower back.

And the other—

yanked your skirt down.

Hard. Final. Like the motion itself was a correction.

The fabric snapped against your thighs, the sudden pressure sending a jolt through you. You straightened instinctively, blinking.

“Jesus,” you said under your breath.

Jack leaned in. “You really wanna do this here?”

“I was just reading the menu,” you murmured.

“Bullshit. You order the same thing every time. Diet Rum and Coke. No lime. Half ice.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move again. Just pressed his hand firmer to your lower back and let the moment hang.

The bartender handed over your drinks. You took them. Didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the booth with Jack two steps behind.

You slid into the booth—on his side.

He gave you a look.

“What?” you asked, sipping your drink.

“You’re pushing it.”

You shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You’re doing this because I haven’t fucked you in ten days.”

You flushed—heat hitting your cheeks hard.

But you didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned in. He thought you were going to kiss him. And then your hand dipped beneath his collar. You pulled the chain free.

Unclipped it.

And slid his dog tags over your head. They settled against your chest, heavy. His name resting between your breasts.

Jack blinked.

Then laughed once. Dark. Rough.

“You wear them,” he said, voice low, “you ride. That’s the deal.”

You smiled. “I know the rules.”

He stared at you another beat.

Then stood.

“We’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“You want people to see your cunt?” he cut in. “You want attention? Then let me remind them who you belong to.”

You didn’t argue.

Just followed him out, heart pounding.

You thought you were headed home.

But when he opened the truck door, he looked at you.

“You’re not gonna ride me in bed.”

You blinked.

He nodded to the truck. “You’re gonna ride me right here. Since you wanted to act like bait.”

You got in.

Because that’s exactly what you wanted.

And he knows it.

The truck door shuts behind you with a heavy, final thunk. One of those sounds that doesn’t echo—it lands.

Jack circles around the hood without a word. His boots hit the gravel with a quiet crunch, one slower than the other, rhythm faintly uneven from the prosthetic he’s never once complained about. Shoulders set. Gait loose, but loaded.

He’s not in a rush.

Not because he doesn’t want to touch you.

Because he’s trying not to break.

You sit in the passenger seat, legs drawn up just slightly, thighs tight, heart climbing higher into your throat with every second he doesn’t speak. The skirt’s still riding too high despite his earlier intervention—and the lace between your thighs is still damp. Still warm.

When Jack slides in behind the wheel, he doesn’t touch you.

Just plants both hands on the steering wheel and exhales. Once. Deep. Grounded.

Then he turns his head.

“I knew you wore that skirt on purpose,” he says, voice low. Strained around the edges. Not tired from work, but from holding back. Like keeping his hands to himself has taken more out of him than the last ten nights combined.

He says it like a confession. Like a warning.

And you don’t bother playing coy.

You tilt your head, smile just enough to be dangerous. “Figured you deserved something to look forward to.”

He shifts beside you, slow and quiet. One arm drapes over the back of your seat, casual on the surface—but his fingers find your shoulder. Trail down, soft as breath, to the edge of your collarbone. He lingers there. Just enough to feel your pulse.

“I’ve been looking forward to you for ten nights,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, his palm drags slowly down your chest, not lingering, not teasing—reading.

Then he moves lower.

Hand slipping down your stomach, over the edge of your skirt, until he finds the lace. The wet. The heat.

He hisses through his teeth.

"You’re soaked."

You don’t answer.

“You’ve been walking around like that since the house?” he asks, more statement than question.

Your breath catches.

His fingers press in slightly—not a thrust, just pressure. Just enough to feel.

“I know this body,” he says, low, barely a whisper. “I’ve had this pussy every way you let me. In the shower. Against the wall. Bent over the fucking sink. You think I can’t tell when you’re asking for it?”

Your hips twitch into his hand.

He doesn't give you more.

“You thought this was gonna be cute?” he growls, thumb brushing just beside your clit. “Bend over at the bar. Show everyone the lace I’ve ripped off you a dozen times?”

You bite your lip. Nod.

That makes him laugh. A rough, breathless sound.

“I should take you back in there,” he says. “Let them see what it looks like when you beg.”

You shift toward him, no hesitation now—like your body’s been waiting for this as long as he has. You climb into his lap with practiced ease, knees against the worn leather of the truck seat, thighs bracketing his hips, breath warm against his jaw.

He exhales like the contact knocks something loose in him.

His hands find their way under you, palms settling at the curve of your ass—rough and sure, reverent in the way only a man who’s gone without you can be. Like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. Real. His.

“You missed me,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb dragging a slow arc along the edge of your hip.

“I missed you,” you breathe, your lips brushing his. “You weren’t home. Not really. I kept pretending it was enough just to hear your keys in the door, but it wasn’t. I was alone. I needed—”

Jack kisses you.

Hard.

Not like a question. Like a claim.

It isn’t soft. Isn’t slow. It’s hungry—the kind of kiss that splits you open, that tastes like every second he had to swallow the urge to call you in the middle of the night just to hear you. His mouth is hot and demanding, his grip tightening like he wants you closer, like closer still isn’t enough.

You gasp against him, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders, and that’s when he groans—deep and wrecked—like you just pulled the last thread keeping him together.

Because this isn’t just a kiss.

It’s ten nights of wanting.

And now?

Now he’s got you in his lap, and your skirt’s hitched up, and you’re not stopping him.

You’re meeting him there.

He bites your lip, slow and deliberate. Tugs it between his teeth, groans when you gasp. The sound spills into your mouth and coils low in your stomach, sharp and warm. His hands shift, drag you harder against him, and you feel it—how hard he is under his jeans. How close he’s riding the edge.

You rut against him before you can stop yourself, hips grinding down like instinct, like need. His hands grip tighter, grounding you, guiding you, pulling a sound from your throat you’ve never made for anyone else.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like you’ve undone something deep in him. His mouth finds your jaw, your neck, the corner of your shoulder—fast, focused, starving. Each kiss lands like an answer to every silent plea you made in the nights he was gone.

“Jack,” you whimper, breath stuttering. “Please—”

He growls. Low. Close. A sound like something tearing loose inside him, sharp and intimate and only for you.

His thumb presses into your waist, anchoring you. His eyes are on you now, heavy and dark, like he’s drinking you in—committing this to memory in case the world asks him to go without you again.

“You want it that bad?” he rasps, voice tight. “You want to fuck me right here, like this truck’s the only place that’s ever existed?”

You nod—frantic, breathless.

Your moan says the rest.

And the way he looks at you then—like restraint was never about control. It was about respect. And now, finally, he doesn’t have to wear it.

He grabs your face, hands big and steady, his thumbs resting under your jaw, holding you like he needs you still to speak clearly.

“You wear those tags,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You ride. Like you promised. You gonna be good for me?”

You nod again, quicker this time.

“Words,” he breathes, brow low. “Tell me.”

“Yes. I’ll be good.”

He exhales like that undoes something else in him. But he doesn’t thank you for it. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches you, jaw clenched, thumb brushing your chin like you’re both already undone and just getting started.

“You made me watch,” he murmurs. “Watch every man in that bar eye what’s mine.”

You meet his stare, voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to remind you.”

“You did.”

He unzips his jeans without breaking eye contact. Slow. Controlled. Not hurried, not desperate. Just decided. Like he’s already known for days exactly how this was going to end.

The tags shift when you lean forward. They clink once against his chest before settling back against warm skin—your skin.

“Do it,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Do what you promised. Ride me.”

His hands guide you—slow, steady, reverent. Like he knows what this is. What it means. What it’ll undo.

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

A pause. One breath. Then another.

“Remind yourself who the fuck you belong to.”

Your hand slips between your bodies. Sure. Smooth. No hesitation now. You find him—hot, hard, already pulsing in your palm—and line him up.

You sink down.

You don’t even make it all the way down before Jack’s hands are on you—possessive, certain, like your body belongs to him and he’s just reclaiming it.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. His head falls forward, lips brushing your sternum as you sink fully onto him. You feel the tremor run through him. Hear the sharp breath he drags in like he’s been choking without you. “You’re still so fucking tight.”

His fingers splay wide across your hips, holding you there. Not letting you move. Not yet.

“Stay right there,” he growls. “Let me feel it. All of it.”

You whimper, thighs already shaking, because he’s thick, hot, deep—so deep it makes your chest ache. You try to move, to set a rhythm, but his grip tightens instantly.

“No,” he says, tone dropping lower. “This isn’t yours to lead.”

You gasp. “Jack—”

He shuts you up with a thrust so sudden, so deep, you see stars. The sound you make is guttural—raw and involuntary.

His hands grip your waist, drag you down harder against him with the next roll of his hips, his cock hitting that spot that makes your spine arch, your jaw fall slack.

“I’ve been hard for you for ten fucking nights,” he rasps against your collarbone. “You think I’m letting you play games? You think I’m letting you tease me, ride me slow like you’re in charge?”

He pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You’re not in charge tonight, sweetheart. I am.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease you into it.

He fucks up into you like it’s punishment for making him wait—hands bruising your hips, his mouth hot against your throat, his body straining under yours like he’s holding back from breaking the whole damn truck apart.

Your skirt rides up higher. Your knees scramble for leverage. The windows fog, the air thick with the slap of skin, the creak of leather, your name torn from his throat like he’s never tasted anything better.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through the chain around your neck. His dog tags. His.

And then he yanks.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough.

Enough to snap your head back. Enough to leave you gasping. Enough to remind you—he’s home now.

He thrusts up, harder now, sharper. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, your body unraveling under every precise, unrelenting movement.

“You wanted me to lose it. Wanted to feel me snap.”

“Jack—please—”

His fingers twist the chain tighter, the metal cool against your throat. “You wanted this? You take it.”

Another thrust. And another.

He’s all teeth and tongue now—biting at your jaw, kissing you deep, swearing against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You feel your orgasm building hard and fast, coiled tight in your belly.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice almost gentle in contrast to how he’s fucking you. “You gonna come on me, baby? Hm? Let go for me?”

You nod, eyes wide, breath ragged. “Jack—God—Jack—”

“That’s it,” he says, and he fucks you through it. “Come for me. Come now.”

And when it hits, it slams into you—your whole body tensing, toes curling, nails digging into his chest, a moan torn from your throat that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

He fucks you through it—relentless, controlled—until your walls flutter around him and your body starts to fold.

That’s when he lets go.

He growls your name, hips bucking once, twice—and then he’s buried deep, his jaw clenched, eyes shut. Like he’s finally home.

He stays there. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

One arm around your waist. The other still curled in the chain around your neck.

Breathing hard. Pressing kisses to your chest like prayers.

You let a beat pass. Then two.

You shift slightly, still filled. Still aching.

Then you lean back and smirk.

He notices immediately.

“What,” he says flatly, eyes opening just enough to pin you in place, “is that look.”

You blink, all wide-eyed and faux-sweet. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

He raises a brow. “Surprised.”

You nod. Slow. A little too pleased with yourself. “Mmhmm. I thought you were gonna ruin me.”

Jack exhales through his nose. Once. Controlled. His jaw shifts.

“Careful.”

You shrug, grinding down just a little—not enough to be obvious. Just enough for him to feel it.

“I mean… it was good,” you say lightly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

His hand flexes on your hip. Hard.

“But I was expecting…” you trail off, eyes dancing, “more.”

Jack’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then: “You done?”

You grin. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re done.”

He shifts under you, cock hardening again. Already thick. Already ready.

Your smirk starts to fade.

But it’s too late.

You’re about to get it.

#the pitt #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #smut #shawn hatosy #fanfiction

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starrvsn · 1 day ago

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🫐 ˎˊ˗　fruit for thought ⠆your child not recognizing lando because he shaved his mustache (single-parent!reader, relationship!au)

lando had been away on a work trip for almost a month, the longest he’s been away from you and madeline and it would be an understatement to say that madeline missed him. lando has embraced the role of being a parental figure to your daughter and it came so naturally to him, to care for madeline– so it was safe to say his relationship with her was a special one. when he was away, she’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night begging for him to snuggle with her, and it broke your heart to tell her— that he won’t be coming home for a while. it was hard not having him there to comfort her but lando made an effort to call you whenever he had the time mostly talking to your two year old daughter than you but you found it massively endearing. sometimes he’d hand the phone over to george or alex who were madeline best friends when they weren’t racing around the world. so when you told madeline he was coming home today she was practically bouncing off the walls in excitement.

you both wait quite a while for lando to arrive home, it was around madeline bed time when he had texted you that he landed and you had just finished getting madeline ready for bed. you initially were just going to have her go to bed and have lando surprise her in the morning, you tucked her in and everything kissing her good night when she suddenly asks why lando isn't home yet, you try to tell her that he isn't coming until much later, when she's asleep and she insists she stays awake until he's home. you knew what if you tried to resist her wishes of staying up then you would have an earful of whining and crying the whole night. so here you are lying on the couch with your daughter waiting for your boyfriend to come home. you wait for about an hour and you could tell madeline was going in and out of sleep, trying her hardest to stay awake and just about when you think you daughter succumbs to sleep. the door begins to rattle signaling landos arrival. madeline head lifts from your chest at the sudden noise, doe eyes looking at you with excitement. a smile spreading on your lips at her reaction. she stumbles off your chest to where your husband is, you hadn't got the energy to get up so you lie contently until he makes his way to the den to greet you.

"lan lan!" madeline shouts as she runs towards the front door, little feet padding to your boyfriend. "mads! i missed you!" lando exclaims, thick accent lacing his words. you can practically hear the beaming smile in his voice. he shoves his backpack off his shoulders to kneel down to your daughters height with open arms. just as she gets closer to embrace him she stops dead in her tracks, uncertainty washing over her little features. it’s quiet for a few moments, curious you pull yourself up from the couch and see lando by the door with a pout. madeline a mere foot away from him, her hands held tightly to her tummy and chin tucked into her chest.

"what's wrong honey?" you stand behind your little girl, patting her head softly. bending down to her height you see fat globs of tears at the corner of her eyes, her solemn expression pulls at your heart, asking her softly why she's upset. lando joins too, now kneeling in front of her but she backs away to hide behind your legs. you look at him confused as he looks up at you with wide eyes, unsure why she's reacting this away. you assure her that it's just lando, the same man she's been missing while he was away. "it's just me sweetheart." cooing at madeline, lando voices softly as he treads carefully inching closer to the little girl but instead she presses tighter into your leg. her face tucked into the juncture of your knee.

"someone took lan lan's mustache!" she whimpers, pointing at lando. her face still hidden. you now notice his clean shaven face, he must've shaved it when it grew to long to maintain. his gaze softens as he looks up at you, now entertained upon hearing the reason why madeline became so upset. his fingers ghost his upper lip where his mustache once was.

lando stifles a laugh, pressing his lips together, eyes wide and warm as he realizes just how much that tiny patch of facial hair meant to your two-year-old.

“oh no,” he whispers dramatically, glancing up at you with a glint of amusement. “i didn’t know the mustache had such a fan club.”

you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing, crouched beside your daughter. “It’s okay, honey,” you murmur gently, brushing her curls back. “lando’s still lando. be just… shaved his mustache, remember? like when we trim your bangs?”

madeline peeks up at you, then at him—very suspicious, like she’s solving a crime. “but he looks like someone else…” she says with a shaky voice, bottom lip wobbling.

lando’s heart pretty much melts on the spot.

he sits back on his heels, then does the one thing he knows will get to her—he starts doing her favorite silly voice, the one he always uses during storytime.

“look at me! it’s lan lan,” he says in an exaggerated tone, puffing out his cheeks, making a goofy face. “i just had to make the mustache go on holiday for a bit. he was getting kinda itchy, you know?”

a little giggle escapes her. just the tiniest one. your heart aches at the sight.

“can i get a hug now?” lando asks softly, holding out his arms. “even without the mustache?”

she hesitates for a second, and then she runs—chubby arms flinging around his neck as he catches her with ease, hoisting her into his arms and spinning her gently. her little fingers tug at his cheeks and chin, inspecting.

“you’re still soft,” she whispers, as if that confirms his identity.

lando grins, pressing a kiss to her temple. “told you.”

you watch them, warmth blooming in your chest as you lean on the doorway, eyes soft.

“she made me promise to let her stay up just to see you,” you say quietly, walking over and resting a hand on madeline’s back.

“i’m glad she did,” lando murmurs, looking at both of you with a kind of softness reserved just for this little corner of his world.

madeline yawns in his arms, head resting on his shoulder now. “you’ll grow it back, right?” she mumbles.

lando chuckles. “anything for you, sweet pea.”

ownership of starrvsn. please do not repost, modify or translate.

#lando norris #formula one #lando norris imagines #lando norris fluff #lando norris x you #lando norris blurb #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #f1 imagines #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader

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wbbobsesser · 2 days ago

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ᯓ sweet spot — chapter two

pairing: paige bueckers & azzi fudd

notes: i really enjoyed writing this chapter! looking forward to writing more and seeing where it goes. i love the idea of paige being completely obsessed and gone for azzi i couldn’t not make her that way. please keep in mind this is meant to be silly and unserious so don’t take it too literal. i hope you enjoy this chapter— i’m already working on the next one, so it should be expected soon. love you.

wc: 2.5k

it had been three weeks.

three weeks of pretending azzi fudd didn’t occupy 99% of paige bueckers’ waking thoughts. three weeks of trying not to stare during film, of forcing herself not to “accidentally” sit next to her at every team meal. three weeks of scrolling through azzi’s social media accounts like they held the secrets of the universe. three weeks of watching every reposted workout clip like it was a sacred ritual. three weeks of dying. slowly. softly. lovingly.

it was hell.

because azzi was still azzi.

sweet. soft-spoken. warm to everyone.

she high-fived her teammates. she brought extra protein bars to practice in case anyone needed one. she complimented everyone, everyday.

and paige? paige was losing her mind.

she’d never felt like this before. not about anyone. there had been hookups, of course. flings. a very short-lived situationship with a girl from back home who smoked too much weed and ghosted her after two weeks. but azzi?

azzi made her feel like a middle schooler with a crush. like she was trying to act normal during a fire drill while her entire body was combusting.

and the worst part was that azzi didn’t even know.

or maybe she did, and she was just too nice to say anything.

practice had ended an hour ago, but paige was still in the gym, sitting on the bleachers with a bag of ice balanced on her knee and her phone glowing in her lap. she wasn’t texting anyone. she was just looking at azzi’s most recent post: a photo from the locker room after the team’s first practice. azzi smiling, flushed, holding up a peace sign. caption: “i love it here already.”

she’d liked it within 0.3 seconds of it going up.

now she just sat there, staring at it like it might change.

“hey.”

paige nearly threw her phone across the gym. she looked up. it was azzi, hair pulled into a high bun, hoodie slung over one shoulder, and a water bottle tucked under her arm. she looked like a nike ad. or her own personal dream.

“you good?” azzi asked, stepping closer. “didn’t see you leave with everyone.”

paige sat up straighter, hiding her phone screen. “yeah— just icing. knee’s a little sore.”

azzi nodded, then sat next to her. right next to her. their knees almost touched. paige stopped breathing.

“you looked good today,” azzi said, like it was just a fact. “sharp on that last drill.”

paige shrugged, trying to act chill. “you always look good.”

silence.

paige’s eyes widened. “i mean— you played good. you looked good playing. like— your shot. your form. it was— good.”

azzi laughed quietly. “thanks.”

paige wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

they sat in silence for a few moments, the quiet hum of the lights buzzing overhead. azzi leaned back on her palms, gazing out at the empty court.

“you like being here?” paige asked finally, voice low.

azzi turned her head, smiled. “yeah. i do. it’s… different. but good-different. i feel like i’m supposed to be here.”

paige nodded, then swallowed. “you are.”

azzi’s smile lingered. “what about you? you still like it?”

paige glanced down at her hands. “i used to think it was just about winning. getting a national championship. now… i don’t know. it feels like it matters more when you have the right people around.”

azzi looked at her, something soft in her eyes.

before paige could completely combust, someone called from down the tunnel— lou, probably. something about team dinner.

azzi stood, brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “you coming?”

paige blinked, then nodded. “yeah. just need a sec.”

azzi lingered for a moment. “you sure?”

“positive.”

azzi gave her one last look, then jogged off.

paige watched her go, heart a tangled mess of hope and helplessness. she grabbed her phone again and looked at the photo. zoomed in just a little.

yeah. she was so, so screwed.

the team dinner was supposed to be casual. nothing fancy— just some bonding, a little pasta, maybe a couple of dumb games nika liked to spring on them out of nowhere. coach had even given them the evening off to “build chemistry,” which everyone knew really meant “don’t get in trouble and try not to burn the dorm down.”

paige almost didn’t go.

because azzi.

and because paige had barely survived three practices without turning into a puddle every time azzi looked in her direction. but nika wouldn’t let her skip, practically dragged her by the collar out of her room with the promise of free garlic knots and good lighting for selfies.

the restaurant was small and loud, with big booths and sticky menus. half the team was already there, squeezed into one corner and tossing crumpled straw wrappers at each other. azzi sat near the end, her curls pulled up and her smile lighting up the table like a lantern.

paige picked the seat next to her before she could think twice.

“hey,” azzi said, voice soft over the buzz of conversation. “glad you came.”

paige nodded too fast. “yeah. me too. i like… food.”

azzi blinked.

nika snorted soda out of her nose.

lou choked on her breadstick.

“smooth,” aubrey muttered, bumping paige’s knee under the table.

but azzi just laughed— a quiet, melodic sound— and passed paige the basket of garlic knots like she hadn’t just committed a social crime. “i meant to tell you— you’ve got a really quick first step. it’s hard to guard. you kinda burned me yesterday.”

paige blinked. her soul left her body.

“i— uh. i didn’t mean to? i mean, i did, but not like— burn— like basketball, not like… fire.”

nika buried her face in her hoodie.

azzi smiled. “i got what you meant.”

it was fine. everything was fine. except her hands were sweating and her fork was now mysteriously on the floor. paige reached down to get it and hit her head on the table.

azzi leaned over, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “are you okay?”

“never better.” paige’s voice cracked. she never wanted to die more.

later that night, paige laid in bed, phone screen glowing inches from her face. she should’ve been asleep— they had weights in the morning. but instead, she was twenty minutes into another accidental deep dive of azzi fudd’s instagram.

it started innocent. a few scrolls. a couple likes.

and then she found him.

noah.

the boyfriend. azzi’s boyfriend.

smiling next to azzi on some beach in california, both of them mid-laugh. another post from valentine’s day— azzi in his hoodie, captioned “my favorite human.”

her stomach twisted.

azzi didn’t post often. but when she did, the captions about noah were always so full. like she really meant them. paige lingered on one in particular— a photo of the two of them in front of the usc gym. the caption read: “through every win, every loss, every late night practice— you’ve been my home. i love you so much.”

paige closed the app.

then opened it again five seconds later.

she wasn’t proud of herself.

she was about to close the app for good when nika barged into her room with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.

“you’re so gone for her.”

paige flinched so hard she dropped her phone.

“excuse me?”

“don’t even try to deny it,” nika said, plopping onto the bed like she owned it. “you short-circuit every time she so much as looks at you. i’ve never seen someone so flustered.”

“i don’t—”

“you do.” nika pulled paige’s pillow out from under her and whacked her with it. “you’ve got the biggest gay panic i’ve ever seen. and i roomed with lou.”

paige groaned, burying her face in her hands. “she has a boyfriend.”

“yeah, and you have zero chill,” nika leaned back. “i’ve never seen you like this before. nervous, shy. it’s weird.”

paige didn’t answer. she couldn’t.

because now, every little moment replayed like a loop— azzi’s compliment. the softness in her voice. her dimply smile that lingered too long.

well, fuck.

practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but paige was still out there, lazily flipping a ball between her hands as the last few teammates trickled out. her shirt clung to her back, sweat drying slowly in the gym's faint breeze. she could’ve left. should’ve. but something told her to stay.

and then azzi appeared.

“hey,” she called softly, pulling her hair into a ponytail as she approached. “you staying to shoot?”

paige’s heart dropped to her knees, then tried to crawl back up her throat. “uh— yeah. just a little.”

azzi smiled, grabbing a ball from the rack. “mind if i join you?”

“join? no. i mean yes. i mean— of course.”

they started with simple catch-and-shoot drills. easy rhythm. azzi’s release was still perfect, every shot as clean as glass. paige couldn’t stop glancing sideways, watching the way azzi’s eyes followed the arc of each shot, the way she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet after every make.

paige hit her stride eventually, sinking threes from the corner, then fading toward the wing. they passed back and forth, no words, just the soft echo of the ball and their sneakers squeaking on the court.

azzi shot like she was born doing it. No wasted movement. every jumper was soft, clean, perfect rotation. paige tried to stay focused— tried to match her rhythm— but she kept getting caught in the way azzi would laugh lightly when she missed, like even failure didn’t rattle her.

“your arc’s so pretty,” paige said before she could stop herself.

azzi looked at her. “mine?”

paige nodded, suddenly shy. “yeah. it’s, like… the perfect rainbow.”

azzi smiled. “thanks. yours is faster, though. quick release. super smooth.”

paige’s stomach did an actual flip.

“thanks. i, uh— yeah. i work on that,” she said, for what felt like the tenth time this week. why was she always saying the same thing around her? like she had five phrases and two working brain cells?

they continued shooting.

after a few more rounds, azzi passed her the ball and stretched her arms over her head. “you know, you’ve got such a calm confidence about you. like, on the court. even when you mess up, you never look rattled.”

paige literally missed the rim.

not the net. not the backboard.

she missed the rim.

azzi’s eyes widened, a little startled. “you okay?”

“i— yeah. i’m just— tired,” paige mumbled, retrieving the ball like it wasn’t the most humiliating moment of her life.

azzi laughed, light and genuine. “that was kinda cute.”

paige stopped breathing.

she didn’t even know what to say. her mouth opened, but no words came out— just a small, embarrassed sound like a kicked puppy.

azzi tilted her head. “sorry, was that weird?”

paige shook her head fast. “yes. i mean, no. i mean— not weird. totally fine.”

azzi walked over and gently bumped her shoulder. “you’re funny.”

you’re funny.

paige wanted to throw herself into the sun.

just then, nika popped her head into the gym.

“ohhhh,” she called, loud and dramatic. “what’s this? a little after-hours hoop date?”

paige glared. “we’re just shooting.”

azzi, ever the sweetheart, smiled and waved. “hey, nika!”

nika waved back and winked directly at paige. “don’t stay too late, lovebirds.”

she disappeared before paige could cuss her out.

azzi giggled. “she’s funny.”

paige swallowed hard. “yeah. real funny.”

they kept shooting a little longer. paige never fully recovered from the embarrassment she put herself through.

when they finally called it a night, azzi walked beside her toward the locker room. “i’m really glad i transferred,” she said quietly.

paige looked over. “yeah?”

azzi nodded. “everyone’s been really welcoming. especially you.”

paige could barely breathe.

“oh. uh.” she blinked, thinking of the words. “well, you’re easy to welcome.”

azzi’s smile curled into something almost shy. “that’s really sweet.”

paige scratched the back of her neck. “i mean it. you’re… like. good. at everything. and nice. and— you know. people notice that.”

“people like you?” azzi teased, gently.

paige almost dropped her water bottle. “i mean, yeah. maybe.”

azzi smiled so softly, paige thought she might cry.

paige was halfway through tying her shoes when she spots azzi just a few feet away, standing by the gatorade cooler, laughing at something aubrey just said. it should be normal. it is normal. but paige’s brain short-circuits the same way it always does lately when azzi’s in the room.

and then it happened. a moment. a mortifying, soul-leaving-your-body moment.

“yo, paige!” nika yelled across the gym. “you left your phone in the locker room. again.”

she tossed it with a perfect spiral. paige reacted late and fumbled the catch. the phone hits the floor with a dramatic thud, screen up, very much alive, and very much still open to instagram.

specifically, azzi fudd’s instagram page.

a beat of silence. then a few beats.

someone snorted. probably aubrey.

paige dove for the phone, her face already bright red.

“i’m fucking killing myself,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut.

out of the corner of her eye, azzi’s gaze landed on her. she never said anything. but she smiled.

oh, jesus.

during a quick water break, azzi was sitting beside paige on the bleachers, who was untying and retying her sneaker for no real reason. nika and caroline are arguing about music again. nobody was really listening.

“god,” azzi groaned softly, scrolling through her phone. “i forgot how cursed my finsta is.”

paige, stretching her calves, froze like someone hit pause. “you have a finsta?”

azzi laughed. “unfortunately— i don’t call it that, though. more like my friends-only account,” she paused. “my friends at usc made me make one. it’s mainly me complaining about homework or pictures of my boyfriend.”

she didn’t mention the username. but paige tucked the information away in the back of her mind.

“sounds cool,” paige said casually, but her mind was already in overdrive. she knew what she’d be doing later, that’s for sure.

paige was supposed to be writing a paper. she had three tabs open for it. but none of them matter. what mattered was the list of usc mutuals she’s stalking, scanning every tagged photo of azzi from the past two years.

it took time. it took way too much time.

but eventually, she found it.

@fuddleazzi. azzi’s not-so-secret account.

private. 63 followers. the profile picture was azzi in a pair of massive ski goggles, wearing a bright smile with her dimples on display. no bio, no nothing.

paige stared at the screen for a full five minutes, thumb hovering over the follow button.

she doesn’t press it.

instead, she swiped up, into the messages app and texted nika:

p: i found azzi’s secret account and i think i deserve a metal

n: SEND ME THE @ U MANIAC

p: it’s private. should i request or would that expose me as terminally obsessed

n: baby u already dropped u phone OPEN TO HER IG. embrace ur downfall

paige groaned into her pillow.

she didn’t request.

but she did screenshot it.

and maybe saved the profile pic too.

just in case.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #uconn wbb #pazzi #pazzi fics

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hughes-your-daddy · 2 days ago

Note

Luke has been a little bit of a helicopter dad because it’s their toddlers first time at the lake house since learning how to walk. All week, Luke has been telling their kid “no,” so their baby decides that they’ll ignore dad all day and just stick to mom. Luke feels a bit upset that their kid doesn’t want to listen or talk to him, but his family and y/n assures him that he’s just a concerned parent and did nothing bad. When the thing that Luke has been warning their kid about happens, like maybe running and tripping on the dock, he’s surprised that their baby runs to him for comfort rather than y/n. He softly explains to them that this is why he was telling them not to run and asks if they’re okay kisses the little scrapes on their palms.

diapers and docks

pairing: luke hughes x fem reader

summary: requested above 🫶🏻

warning: a little suggestive

you smile seeing luke play with ellis, down in the docks, jack and quinn around him as you sit on one of the small deck chairs bundled up in luke’s hoodie and a pair of shorts, hair tied up in a messy bun.

this had been the first year you had brought ellis to the lake house since he could walk now at 18 months, and luke, well he had been a bit worried.

ever since he first learned to walk luke made it his mission to baby proof absolutely everything in your guys apartment even being cautious of the elevator.

you both didn’t plan to have ellis, it was a bit of a surprise when you found out you were pregnant so living in an apartment t wasn’t great but you’d made it work. with luke baby proofing everything ellis could reach, also came with baby proofing you from opening cupboards as you could never figure it out.

so coming here to the lake house was sending his stress levels through the roof, a dock that ellis could fall into the water from, a pool table with heavy balls, a whole kitchen that he could access, for luke this was living hell, which has meant you’ve barely had anytime alone together since he’s so worried, but you didn’t really mind.

so here luke was now sat on the dock with ellis in his lap playing with some toys with jack and quinn, while you watch. you hear the young boys squeals and calling out for his “daddy” or “quinny” or “jack jack,” but what you didn’t expect to hear was luke’s panic.

“ellis no running.” he calls out as ellis runs out of luke’s lap to grab the toy car. the harsh sound causing ellis to freeze before erupting into loud wails, luke immediately moving to grab him but ellis only screams louder at luke’s hold.

you sigh, getting up and quickly heading down ellis reaching out for you as soon as he can see you.

“hey baby,” you coo, taking him from luke’s grasp, ellis immediately burying himself into your chest as you bounce him, “it’s ok, daddy didn’t mean to shout.” you soothe, pressing a small kiss to his head.

you look up at luke seeing guilt all across his face, “hey, it’s ok, he’s fine, will be wanting to play again in like 5 minutes.” you say with a small smile, luke shaking his head.

“he didn’t even want me when i tried to hold him.” he mumbles, wincing at his own words.

“luke, he loves you ok, you’re his dad.” you say, your free hand cupping his cheek seeing him give you a small nod.

“how about you guys go out on the boat, relax a bit.” you say looking between the three brothers, “well chill a bit, watch a movie, he needs a nap anyways.” you say the three nodding.

“you sure you’re fine with him for a few hours?” he asks, hand grazing your hip, pushing under your tshirt to feel your skin, grounding himself.

“babes, i carried him for 9 months, we’ll be fine.” you say causing him to laugh before he’s pressing a kiss to your lips as you head back inside.

“ok baby, you wanna nap with mommy?” you ask ellis, moving through the kitchen to warm up some milk for him. you keep him on your hip, his cries now died down to hiccups, as he rests his head on your shoulder.

you quickly warm up his bottle before moving over to the small living room area, grabbing a blanket before laying down, ellis against your chest with his bottle before turning on the tv, playing an old disney film.

you lay the fluffy blanket over both of yous, ellis falling asleep in no time. you gently remove the half drunken bottle from his grasp placing it on the floor beside you before switching the tv to netflix playing ‘you.’

you find yourself starting to drift off, letting your eyelids droop and fall asleep. you manage to get a few hours sleep before you wake up to the front door being open and closed voices drifting down the hall.

you look down at ellis seeing him still asleep and gently move yourself away from underneath him, tucking him back into the blankets and cushions before walking through to the kitchen seeing the three of them with ellen and jim unpacking groceries.

“hiya baby.” luke smiles as you come round to hug him, “you were sleeping when we came back so thought we’d run out for some groceries.” he smiles, pulling you into his side, press a kiss to your head.

“you mind watching him, i’m gonna take a shower.” you ask and he nods, letting you go upstairs. you make your way to his bedroom, grabbing a towel and heading into the en-suite.

you turn on the shower letting it run for a while before stripping of your clothes and stepping in letting the warm water run over your body. you let yourself relax for a while before starting to wash your hair jumping when you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around you.

“oh my god luke you scared-“ uh start before turning around and seeing his red eyes, tear stained cheeks, “oh my god honey what happened?” you ask, taking his cheeks in your hands.

he tries to get words out but he just shakes his head, leaning down to hug you, arms tightening around your waist. “talk to me honey.” you say, running your fingers trough his now wet curls.

you feel him take a breath against your neck before pulling away looking down. your hands find his cheeks, lifting his eyes up to meet yours.

“ellis, he started kicking and screaming when i tried to wake him up, he wouldn’t let me touch him, my mom had to take him.” luke explains, his voice wobbly.

you nod, before taking him in your arms again, letting him relax against you.

“baby, go get dried and hop in bed. i’m sure ellis would love a night with his grandparents, we’ll just relax for tonight.” you say, feeling him nod against your neck before taking one last look at you, pressing his lips to yous before getting out, wrapping a towel around his waist.

you quickly wash the shampoo out your hair forgetting about the rest of your routine and just get out wrapping a towel around your body.

you walk through to his room, seeing him bundled up in bed, hoodie on with his hood up, only a few stray curls poking out. you quickly dry off your body, sliding on some panties and one of his hoodies before getting in bed beside him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

you feel him tense against your hold before relaxing, as you press your face into the back of his neck, pressing a small kiss at the nape.

“wanna watch a movie?” you ask, before hes turning around to face you, pulling you close against his chest.

“maybe, i don’t mind, just want to relax for a bit.” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple. you hum against him in agreement letting yourselves just breathe for a minute.

your evening pretty much is the same, apart from emerging for some food but you just spend the evening relaxing and taking a break, luke grounding himself.

the next day yous are both back out with the family, you quickly change ellis’ diaper to a swimming one before sliding on his little trunks ready for the day.

you carry him on your hip, out to the docks in the back garden. this time jack and quinn are swimming about, with luke sat at the end of the dock, feet in the water, as you sit back watching with ellen as ellis jumps in the water with his arm bands and life jacket on, jack and quinn taking turns catching him.

luke’s still a bit tense, but ellis isn’t kicking him today so you take that as a win. you just enjoy hearing the happy squeals of ellis as he keeps jumping in absolutely loving the water.

“luke feeling better?” ellen asks, taking a sip of her water, as you put down your book, moving your sunglasses onto your head.

“i think so, i just think he’s became really overwhelmed,” you say ellen nodding as she looks over at her youngest, “i think because we didn’t expect ellis, he’s even more protective over him, like we weren’t ready.” you finish, watching as ellis babbles away down on the dock.

“it’s your first kid, and luke’s the type to overthink everything as you know, but just keep reassuring him,” ellen says as you smile agreeing, “and if you ever need reassuring honey you can talk to me yeh?” she says, as you nod.

“we’re really grateful for you guys-“ you start before being interrupted by a loud smack.

you look over in shock to see ellis face planting the wooden dock as he runs over to luke. you’re up in an instant running down the small grassy hill, to hear ellis scream, “daddy!”

yoh find yourself frozen for a moment, luke’s eyebrows raising before he’s quickly sweeping the small boy into his arms, meeting you in the middle.

“what happened?” you ask, moving to look over your son, but he hides himself in luke’s chest.

“he tripped, was too excited.” luke says, and you can hear a mixture of emotions in his voice. yous take him inside, sitting down on the couch, you kneeling infront as ellis continues to cry.

“it’s ok bub, your ok.” luke soothes, rubbing the small boys back, as you let your fingers run through his wet hair.

his cried eventually die down to small hiccups and sniffles, luke gently bouncing him on his knee.

“bubs, did you hurt anything?” luke asks, ellis turning to look at him, showing luke his hand with a few scrapes on.

“hwurt.” ellis says, luke taking it in his hand pressing a soft kiss to his palm.

“you see, if you run then you can get hurt,” luke says softly ellis nodding before resting his head back against luke’s chest, “getting hurts no fun huh?” he asks, ellis shaking his head no.

“i’ll go grab a few band aids.” you say, luke nodding while continuing to soothe ellis.

you move into the kitchen, seeing everyone gathered as you grab the small first aid kit.

“he ok?” quinn asks and you nod, pulling out some band aids.

“just a few scrapes,” you smile before quinn chuckles softly.

“we meant luke,” jack says, seeing you chuckle to yourself.

“oh, yeh he’s fine,” you nod, “i’m not longer the favourite now.” you shrug sarcastically before heading back through to the living room seeing luke sat back against the couch cradling ellis to his chest like a newborn, life jacket and arm bands on the floor beside the couch.

“he’s exhausted huh?” you whisper, his head snapping up at your voice.

“just glad he’s ok.” luke whispers, cradling the boys head with his spare hand. you find yourself smiling at the sight before walking over, gently sitting next to luke, sideways, carefully applying the bandaids to ellis’ hands before pressing a kiss to the boys head and then turning to give a kiss to luke.

“told you he loves you.” you whisper, resting your head against luke’s shoulder, cuddling into his side.

“yeh, guess you were right.”

#hockey x reader #luke hughes #nhl #hughes brothers #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes dad #dad!luke hughes #dadfic

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shinoko-oshi · 16 hours ago

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Simon Riley is a nudist

And hear me out with this one, okay?

Simon loathed clothes. Ever since birth, he couldn’t stand wearing them. Tight shirts felt suffocating, clinging in all the wrong places, while loose shirts bunched up every time he sat down, irritating his skin like sandpaper. Socks made his toes feel trapped. Jeans? Felt like leg prisons.

So as he got older and lonelier, finally getting a place to call his own, he took full advantage of the one thing he had control over: being bare. Naked, free, relaxed. It was like finally exhaling after holding his breath for years.

He slept nude, cooked nude, cleaned nude, and lounged nude. If a neighbor caught a glimpse through the blinds? So be it. This was his damn house. His sanctuary.

He never had a problem with it… until he got a partner.

Simon didn’t really get the memo at first either. He didn’t think you’d mind. You were his, after all. And besides, he trusted you enough to be comfortable in his own skin and scars. And at first, you said nothing. You were happy he felt that at ease around you. Proud even.

But there came a point. A moment where things tipped.

A point where you could no longer ignore the way his balls quite literally stared at you while you were trying to eat lunch. A point where his nuts were uncomfortably pressed against your back at night because he liked to sleep curled around you. Hell, you could barely take him seriously during conversations not when all you could see was his ass swaying as he turned to grab something off the counter.

Still, you let it slide. Until that day.

Your friend was over, and Simon: tired from work and on autopilot made his way inside, tugging off his shirt, undoing his belt, already stepping out of his cargo pants and down to his boxers. The same boxers he was about to take off when he walked into the living room… and froze.

Silence.

Your friend’s face was a picture of horror. Yours was painted in full body embarrassment. Simon? Confused, holding the waistband in his hand.

That was it. The final straw.

You sat him down that night and had the talk.

“Look, Simon. I love you but can you at least wear boxers around the house?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like having to see your ass when I eat. And I can’t take you seriously when you’re butt naked trying to lecture me about safety knives.”

“What’s wrong with my ass?”

Eventually, he relented. He agreed to boxers. And it worked. Peace was restored. You had no further complaints.

Until he got an idea. A plan.

What if he converted you?

It started subtle. He hid a few of your shorts. Nothing major. And soon you were walking around the house in nothing but your panties and one of your shirts. Then he escalated. Began hiding your shirts too. But you simply grabbed his, oversized and soft.

So he played dirty.

He ordered some itching powder off the internet. Just adding a little sprinkle in your shirts, his too: he had to sell the lie. And sure, you could just wash them. But that took hours. Hours you’d be bare.

So when you said you were hopping in the shower, he smiled and sat back.

The door swung open as you stomped out of the bedroom, frustration written all over your face.

“Ugh! Everything I wear is uncomfortable and itchy!” you whined, dumping handfuls of clothes into the washer with enough force to shake the drum.

Simon sat on the couch, arms behind his head, casual as ever. “What I’ve been sayin’, love. Clothes are the curse of people.”

You pouted, flopping down beside him with crossed arms. “Maybe I’ll just go nude like you.”

His grin stretched wide, wolfish and smug.

“Would never say no to that.”

And from that day on, the conversion was complete.

You were barefoot, panty clad, and happy. No shirt, no pants, no problem. Sunlight touched your bare skin as you made breakfast, as you lay in his arms on the couch, skin to skin. You slept bare chest to bare chest with him every night, feeling every steady breath and heartbeat. It was peaceful. Intimate. Freeing.

Until you found the itching powder tucked behind some boxes in the closet.

You almost laughed.

Sneaky bastard.

You should’ve been mad. But you weren’t. You just smiled to yourself, grabbed the bottle, and poured a little bit into his boxers.

Let’s see how he liked it.

Might write more for theses two if I have any ideas since I liked making this

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stitchposts · 3 days ago

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Working on a few things but nothing's wrapped up this week so here's a project I finished last year. For someone's birthday I embroidered linen so they could make their own tie on pockets using the pattern from Burnley and Trowbridge.

Every motif was stitched with a single strand of thread and this took about 90 hours to complete. The bottle caps help to drive home the scale - 18th century pockets were not small! I stitched this on 1.5 yards of linen and gifted the entire length so that the person could sew the finished project themselves, as they liked to sew historical costumes and I knew they would have opinions on things like the bindings. The main motifs are based on the Four Gentlemen of classical Chinese art - plum blossom, orchid, chrysanthemum, and bamboo. I aimed for a cohesive design but didn't want to create duplicate matching pockets. The borders and floating motifs are largely taken from historical early American embroidery designs.

#embroidery #op embroidery #dmc 909 #dmc 722 #dmc 728 #dmc 321 #dmc 820 #dmc 961 #dmc 500 #dmc 3807 #dmc 900 #dmc 907 #dmc 890 #dmc 30 #dmc 744 #dmc 726 #classic colorworks 04

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stevie-petey · 2 days ago

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track three: you did me bad

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.” A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Summary: with tour winding down and an album set to be released, tensions inside the tour bus grows. when the already blurred lines between you and steve get crossed, the fallout of your relationship nearly sends the band spiraling as well.

Rating: mature, lots of swearing and sexual tension

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (max), excessive swearing, borderline smut, lots of alcohol use, and messy situationships

Words: 20.5k (the chapters only get longer from here)

Before you swing in: two things: 1) joe wearing a sleeveless shirt in pomona single handedly fueled half of this chapter and 2) all i can say is that i apologize for what youre about to read

The weight of the leatherbound book creases beneath your touch. Its edges have smoothed over from use, the pages yellowed with age and etched with stray pencil marks and dried up glue. Once originally a beautiful plum color, the leather cracks to a rust.

Unassuming on the outside, but the book itself explodes with images once opened.

Every inch of its pages are plastered with scraps of film, pieces of sketches, digital photos that shine in a light that you’re constantly trying to chase.

Reds, greens, blues, purples, pinks and whites and golds paint the photographs. The red of Robin’s favorite trench coat against Mike’s green electric guitar, both tossed onto an imperial purple couch after a show in Milwaukee. Max’s blue tie draped over Jonathan’s bone white drum set. A golden halo of stage lights that enshrine Steve’s pink, rosie face.

You bought the old leatherbound book at a small annex deep in the East Village. When you stumbled upon the book, it became a spur of the moment purchase that you hadn’t reflected much upon besides whether it could fit in your bag and if its pages were thick enough to hold glue.

You’d been looking for something to hold all your art, something physical to preserve your intangible, a portfolio for images you were never quite sure would become anything other than simply images.

Now the Februarys fill the once lonesome pages of your portfolio with a vibrance of life and color.

Gluing down a film photo from last night’s venue, you carefully smooth the delicate image of Mike’s cheeky grin onto the page. His hair sticks up at odd ends and in the background you can faintly see Max, mid-laugh, at something he’s said. It’s one of the only times you’ve managed to catch a smile on their faces these last few weeks.

August, 1989, Mike & Max laugh between rehearsals.

Your handwriting is a bit smudged and jagged due to the tour bus’ endless driving, but the detail of it only adds to the tenderness of the photo.

Setting the pen down, you close the book and carefully set it under your pillow. You’re not quite sure why you’ve kept your portfolio hidden from the band. It’s not like they haven’t seen your work already, but something about the images you choose for this collection, this assortment of art that is yours only, feels different.

You glance at your watch, follow the small hand with your eyes as it ticks by, and the moment it passes the hour hand, chords from Tease infiltrate the quiet of the bus.

“Do you really need to rehearse every hour, on the hour?” You poke your head down, looking under your bed to find Steve hunched over in his own bunk, curled into himself with his guitar nestled between his knees.

The only response you get is a gruff finger pointed at a sign that’s messily taped to his bed frame that reads, don’t talk to me. vocal rest. (even you, angelface).

“I really hate that goddamn sign.” It’d been drawn the night Leonard warned the Februarys not to fuck up, or else they jeopardize their entire career.

The threat struck a chord in the band, that much was clear by how pale their faces had grown in the phonebooth once Leonard hung up. Their fear was palpable, infecting your own bloodstream simply through proximity.

They cope with the fear in different ways.

Steve starts micromanaging every aspect of the band. What they wear, how they speak with fans, insisting upon hours and hours of rehearsals with hardly any breaks, and when he isn’t forcing his bandmates to rehearse, he’s plucking at the strings of his guitar until they cut his flesh.

Every performance from now on has to be perfect. Steve won’t accept anything lower than his dream-hazed need for perfection.

The only solace from his manic hysteria comes when he’s resting his voice.

Robin and Mike throw themselves into writing their album. Rather than follow Steve’s present-obsessed thoughts, they obsess over a future they have no control over. They engross themselves in lyrics and riffs and drum beats and tempos.

Though not as labor intensive as Steve’s coping mechanisms, Robin and Mike quickly become unbearable when they keep everyone awake at night whispering lyrics and ideas to one another.

The lack of sleep and Steve’s overbearing presence drives Max to start smoking during the day to survive. No one is sure where she gets the weed (she refuses to share her stash), but Steve loses his mind when he finds out.

“Are you fucking high?”

“Thank fuck I am,” Max giggled. “I mean, how else am I supposed to endure your fucking psychotic tendencies?”

“This isn’t some joke, Mayfield! You need to be as sober as the goddamn Pope before our gig tonight or I swear to fuck–”

“Y/N’s right,” she giggled again, eyes squinted at Steve. “Your face does get all pink. Like a pony.”

You had to drag Steve away before he started yelling. It carries on like this. Max antagonizes Steve to settle her own nerves, and he takes the bait every time. You’ve lost count of how many fights you’ve had to break up between them.

As for Jonathan, his anxiety gets so bad that he starts tapping his fingers and drumsticks on every surface he can find. Tables, beds, sides of venues, chairs, the floor, anywhere he can reach, and eventually he gets banned altogether from making any sound at all.

The tour bus becomes a war zone.

Stuck in a small space for three straight months with your closest friends, while fun at first, teeters on warfare with the added pressure of Leonard’s threat. Everything grows unsteady, heavy with tension.

Your job as a photographer is grim. With hardly any laughter remaining on the bus, the only photos worth taking are during the staged performances.

The only semblance of joy can be found in pieces of Robin’s laughter when Mike has thought of a particularly clever line. Steve’s proud smile, watching them. Jonathan’s quiet teasing in your ear and his shy chuckle when you pinch his side. Max and her wispy, rough voice crooning a country song that makes everyone giggle.

Even with the small pieces of joy, somehow the responsibility of keeping the quickly deteriorating band together falls on your shoulders.

The pressure of Leonard’s words are different for you. While your job technically hangs in the air as well, you’ve only just realized your dream of concert photography. While being with the band has been the best six months of your life, you know, eventually, you’d mend the broken pieces of your heart.

But the Februarys have been dreaming of this since they were kids. To have everything they’ve ever wanted stripped from their hands so suddenly, so close to the end, would ruin them.

So you force the band to participate in sightseeing parks and shitty roadside attractions. You keep a supply of Advil in your camera bag for Robin, knowing her migraines worsen the less she sleeps. You coax cold water down Max’s mouth for her chapped lips and smoke filled throat. You laugh at Mike’s jokes so that the relief of a pleased reaction can ease the sting of his exhaustion. You save some film for Jonathan so that he can slip away with your camera and get lost in the art he still adores.

You let Steve’s burnt out kisses soak your skin each night he crawls into your bed after crawling back from someone else’s, desperate to unwind from the pressure he can’t outrun. He tries to wash his sins with your warmth, and you become terrified that if you push him away, he’ll spiral.

One day, the Februarys will cite your presence as the glue that kept the cracks from shattering under the unbearable weight of finality.

–

Later that night, you’re crammed between Mike and Robin in a comically small dressing room. The Februarys have just completed their last show in Milwaukee, and though the hot, stuffy air is stifling, the heat doesn’t deter the band’s celebration.

“Three more shows!” Robin squeals, throwing her head back, knocking against your shoulder in her childish excitement.

“Chicago, here we come!” Mike’s lanky body hits yours next, his fist jumping into the air as his bony shoulder collides into you. “God, I can’t wait to be blown away in the wind.”

Max plops down on the couch the three of you inhabit, smothering your space even further, but none of you seem to mind. “We still have a show in Kenosha before we get to Chicago, dumbass.”

Mike waves her off. “Whatever. Wind is wind.”

Jonathan snorts at his response, though Robin makes a face. “Screw the wind, I’m just excited to finally be on the final stretch. I mean, Jesus. I was worried we’d lose someone by now. Homicide definitely isn’t a good image for the band.”

As if on cue, Steve flings the door open and stumbles inside, a handful of girls following close behind.

He throws his arms out, the shadows of his biceps rippling, no sleeves to hide them away. Robin was bored one day and cut off all the sleeves of his shirts, something that you haven’t quite forgiven her for. Steve gestures around the room as if it’s his kingdom and it’s hard to tear your eyes off of him.

“And this is where the magic happens.”

The girls fall into hysterics, giggling and clawing at Steve’s bare arms. Moles mark his tanned skin. Their fingers hide the beauty marks you wish you could kiss over.

“On second thought,” Robin narrows her eyes, scrunching her nose in disgust when one of the girls pulls down her top. “Maybe homicide isn’t so bad.”

“I know a good lawyer.” Max’s disgust mirrors Robin’s.

“No one is committing homicide,” you poke their chins, dragging their heads back so you can finally get up. You’ve kept to your own post-show ritual of leaving the dressing room as soon as Steve steps inside. “Anyways, can you guys help me find my extra film canisters? They were in my bag, but I couldn’t find them before the show started.”

Jonathan hops up. “Yeah, I’ll check by our equipment.”

“I’ll scour the dance floor.” Mike stands as well, saluting you. “And definitely won’t be looking for any money left behind.”

“You’re such a good samaritan, Wheeler.”

“I try to be.”

Meanwhile, Max wordlessly joins Jonathan’s side, ducked down behind his drum set to help. You thank them both, which they smile at, before you turn to Robin, who remains seated on the couch.

“And why aren’t you at my beck and call?” You ask her playfully, nudging her leg with yours.

“Because you indulge Steve too much,” she says, not taking her eyes off of him. She watches his every move, monitoring how unbalanced his coordination is, whether his pupils are too dilated, if the girls he’s with seem too incoherent themselves. “At least one of us has to tell you no.”

Her words upset you. Ducking your head down, you start looking through your bag again, giving your hands something to do.

“I don’t indulge him,” you can’t find your goddamn canisters. “Do you think I left the film on the bus?”

“I saw him crawling into your bunk last night.” Robin glares at you. “Again.”

“He’s under a lot of stress right now,” you remind her. “All of you are.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re sleeping with you as a shitty coping mechanism.”

You whip your head up, terrified Steve will overhear, but he’s too infatuated with the girls he surrounds himself with. “Will you shut up? We aren’t sleeping together!”

“Oh, my apologies. You just share a bunk bed like goddamn middle schoolers.”

“Look,” you set down your bag, crawl up onto the couch and kneel before Robin. Forcing her eyes on you, your hands clasp around hers. “I meant what I said about not wanting to be another girl Steve sleeps with.”

She doesn’t say anything; she’s seen how much more dependent Steve has become on you.

You sigh. “Whether or not you believe me, that’s your choice. But just because I refuse to sleep with him, it doesn’t mean I’ll abandon him, either.”

“Stubborn,” she says softly, her frail laugh almost pitiful echoing the warning from lifetimes ago. “Always stubborn.”

“Yeah, well,” you pinch Robin’s cheek. “I’ll be less stubborn if you help me find my canisters. Deal?”

“Deal.”

And though the conversation gets put to rest, it lingers on your mind the rest of the night.

Mike ends up finding the film canisters in the couch cushions, as well as a wad of fives that he pockets immediately, and you walk with the band back to the bus. Steve isn’t with you. The heat of his absence leaves a faint trace of smoke.

Jonathan falls asleep first. Mike follows, then Max, and eventually Robin. You’re left laying awake, staring at the bus’ ceiling, your conversation with Robin etching itself into the paneling, waiting for the stumbling of Steve’s footsteps to come home.

The anticipation draws into your chest like a tightrope. Taut, strung up high enough to hurt if you fall. The line tugs at your ribcage, coils in your stomach, its frayed edges a warning.

You’re afraid of what will happen when the tightrope snaps.

And it doesn’t take long to find out; the sting of its severance follows the morning after.

“It’s too nice of a day to stay inside,” you slam a pillow against Steve’s face, hoping the force of its collision will be enough to rouse him. He had come home late last night, crawling into your bunk at an hour that surprised even you. “Get up!”

Steve groans, rolling over as he pulls the blankets over his head. In the movement you catch a dark bruise on his chest, nail marks, before his body is covered again.

Seeing the bruises hurts. Smelling the perfume on his body twists your stomach. His exhaustion from girls who aren’t you infuriates you.

The remnants of Steve’s nights that he doesn’t bother to hide from you are enough to make you slam the pillow back down to his face, more forceful this time, childish, even, but his yelp of pain satiates the sting of his nights.

“Wake!” You hit him again. “Up!”

“Jesus, Y/N!” Steve shields his face from your attack, twisting in the blankets as he tries to escape. “Would you–” he ducks another blow. “Stop!”

When he’s finally on his feet, you drop the pillow and smile at him, innocent. “Good morning, rosie.”

“I’m not calling you angelface after you just maimed mine.”

“Don’t worry, you’re still a pretty boy.” Patting his chest condescendingly, you step past Steve and go wake the others. “Get dressed. There’s a park not even a mile away. Everyone is going. Mandatory band outing.”

“We pay you to take our photos, not to take us out on field trips.” He scoffs, though he grabs a pair of jeans and t-shirt anyways.

Pleased that he doesn’t put up much of a fight, you wink at Steve. “As if you don’t want to get me alone in a field.”

He trips over his jeans and you laugh, finally leaving him alone.

It takes about thirty minutes to get everyone awake and ready. Some are easier to convince than others. Max wakes up immediately and is the first one ready. Robin complains but lazily gets dressed. Jonathan has to be dragged out of his bunk, then Mike, but eventually you manage to get the Februarys out of their tour bus and into the open air.

The walk is leisurely. With only three shows left, the chamber of pressure slowly releases. They’re close to the end. Really close. And despite their hatred of Steve’s grueling schedule of rehearsals and practice and perfection, the band has never been as cohesive and amazing as they are now.

No longer on the brink of self-destruction, the Februarys are free to talk amongst themselves during the walk to the park, hopeful and optimistic of what’s to come. They’re laughing again, smiling, and Steve’s rough palm feels good in yours and the sun settles its rays on your skin like a lover’s lips, and for the first time in a long time, everyone can breathe.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Mike kicks a rock in the path, turning towards you. “What do we pay you for, exactly? Like. I know you take pictures of us, but do you, I don’t know, sell them on our behalf or something?”

“I’ve been with you guys for months now.” You look at him in disbelief. “You seriously don’t know what I do for the band?”

“Nope.”

Steve shakes his head, laughing. “Where do you think our flyers came from?”

“We have flyers?”

Everyone groans. You manage to capture the collective disappointment on film, and you know before you’ve even developed it that it’ll be yet another image that goes into your portfolio.

At the park, everyone splits into their now habitual groups. Jonathan goes with Mike. Max with Robin. Steve with you. The groups formed after the first park you all went to, and no one has quite managed to drop the habit, though you don’t think anyone really wants to.

Steve finds a small patch of dandelions in the shade. The strength of the sun scorns just enough to make your skin blister, but in the sweet cold of the shade its rays are more kind, tender.

He’s brought his guitar with him, another habit instilled within him now, and soon you’re in his arms with the instrument against your chest. You’ve been working on the early strings of Rosie these last few weeks. Steve insists you learn the song you created.

The day passes in a slow, dream-like way that leaves saccharin in your bones. Chords float through the air. In the distance you hear Robin’s infectious laughter and see the flash of Robin’s red hair. Somewhere Mike rambles to his newfound brother, both sharing stories of Nancy.

For a moment, it’s just the six of you in this small, intimate world built only for one another.

That’s when you see a red Camaro park next to the tour bus. A figure gets out, the long limbs suggesting a man’s body. You frown, nudging Steve to get his attention.

“Do you know who that is?”

He squints, the distance far enough to mask the person’s face. “No, I don’t think so.”

You shrug it off, about to go back to the bridge of Rosie, when the man in the distance starts to wave his arms at you and Steve, friendly, though demanding enough to alert you to the fact that he wants you to come to him.

Looking at Steve, he mirrors your shrug. “Seems he knows us, though.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, but Steve is already grabbing your hand to stand the two of you up. He brushes off the grass and dandelions you plucked together and tugs at you to walk along with him.

Robin and Max must’ve seen the man as well, because soon they join.

“Who the hell is that?” Max asks.

“No idea,” Steve whistles to where Jonathan and Mike are, shouting, “Hey, guys!” He points towards the parking lot, silently commanding them to follow, and they nod, confusion evident on their faces when they see the unexpected company.

The first thing you notice about the man is the green of his eyes. Trapped behind thick rimmed glasses, there’s no hiding their beauty. They remind you of the emerald ring your mother used to wear. Deep, multicolored, a tint of blue that makes you miss the ocean.

“Hello,” he smiles at the group. His slightly crooked teeth only add to his boyish features of soft cheeks, a rounded nose, a bashful chin. Freckles splatter over the crest of his nose. You wonder how long it would take you to count them all. “My name is Gregory Clarke.”

“Cool,” Steve grips your waist, holding you behind him, protective, unsure what to make of the man before him. “Can we, uh. Help you, Gregory?”

The rest of the band stands behind Steve, following his weary nature.

Gregory senses the unease and brushes his hair out of his eyes, apologetic. It’s brown. Almost a lovely amber in the sunlight. Hints of gold that match his freckles.

“My apologies,” he says, his easy laugh reassuring, comforting. “I guess Leonard never mentioned me.”

“You know Leonard?” Steve is surprised.

“I’m his assistant, actually.” Gregory takes a cautious step forward, nodding at everyone. “Nice to finally meet you guys.”

No one moves. Steve pulls you tighter against him. You can tell by the curl of his fingers that he doesn’t trust the man, but the green of his eyes draw you in, his smile makes your heart pound in a pleasant, delightful way.

“I’m Y/N,” you step out of Steve’s grasp, closer to Gregory, and smile up at him. He’s deliciously tall, broad, and you stick your hand out, body buzzing at the idea of touching his. “Sorry that you’re Lenny’s assistant.”

“It isn’t so bad,” he says, hand intertwining with yours, softer than Steve’s, alabaster and freckled. He smiles politely at you, but his eyes betray him for a brief second, lingering on your frame, and you see it. Your stomach warms at the idea that he’s succumbed as well. “Especially when I get to meet talent such as yourself.”

Your face flushes in the August heat. “You’ve seen my photography?”

“Of course I have. Leonard really admires your work. In fact, he even told me–”

“Why are you here?” Steve’s voice cuts through clenched teeth, stabbing into the conversation. He’s next to you again. You’re not sure when that happened.

Guess you weren’t the only one who noticed the lingering gaze.

Gregory’s smile doesn’t falter at the disdain in the other man’s voice. He only fixes his glasses, grins back at you again, before facing Steve. “Right, I should’ve explained that sooner.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Steve.” Robin snaps at him, yanking his shirt as if restraining a dog. “Don’t fucking start.”

“Really, it’s no problem,” Gregory addresses her now, patient and understanding. “He’s right to be upset. It’s quite humid out here and I’m only keeping you in the sun longer than necessary. In fact, why don’t I treat you guys to an early dinner? That way there’ll be some AC while we talk. It’s nothing bad, of course, but it’ll take some time to discuss.”

The way Gregory talks, with a soft smile around his vowels and genuine interest in what you have to say, you’re struck by how different his charm is from Steve’s. It’s real, delicate, authentic where Steve’s is performative, and there is nothing hidden in the way he looks at you.

“I think dinner sounds great,” you tell him, answering for the band before Steve can shut the idea down. “Don’t you guys agree?”

Max looks around uncertainly, noting Steve’s clenched jaw and your hopeful smile. “I guess I could eat.”

“Can we order whatever we want?” Mike asks Gregory.

“Within reason, but Leonard did give me his credit card.”

“Then I’m sold.”

Robin forces a smile on her face. “I’ve never said no to free food,” she clears her throat, not so subtly kicking Steve’s shin. “Right, Steve?”

“Whatever.”

You pretend he sounds excited, that his resentful gaze doesn’t brand your skin. “Byers, I take it you’re in?”

“AC sounds nice.” Jonathan grimaces. He’s never been able to hide his discomfort. “I, um. Like AC.”

“Then dinner it is.” Gregory beams at everyone, not at all expecting anyone to return the smile, but smiling anyway because he’s truly happy to be here, to talk to them, to finally meet the Februarys, even if their reception to him is cold.

Your heart flutters again.

Almost as if he can hear the unusual cadence of your heartbeat, Steve grabs your hand, strokes the underside of your wrist. A silent plea to look at him, but instead you place your hand on Gregory’s arm, walking away.

“So, know any good restaurants around here?”

–

Dinner is unbearable.

The restaurant Gregory takes everyone to is a small, local diner that he’s been to a few times during his time as Leonard’s assistant. He promises that the food will be worth the shitty weather, and for a brief second you’re all hopeful that the dinner will go over smoothly.

Then Gregory pulls a chair out for you and helps you sit down before sitting across from you.

Steve bristles immediately, deliberately choosing the seat next to you as retaliation, and the rest of the band has to bite their tongues to keep quiet.

“So,” Gregory doesn’t wait to explain everything, having already ordered a round of drinks for the table. You wonder if he’s caught on to the group’s tension by now and purposefully selected alcohol as a buffer. “I’m basically here on Leonard’s behalf.”

Steve huffs. “Like his little pet?”

“If you want to look at it that way, sure.” The laugh that falls from Gregory’s chest only darkens Steve’s already shitty mood. He isn’t reacting how he wants him to. “As I’m sure you all know, there’s three shows left of your tour.”

“We can count.”

You pinch Steve’s side, harsh, and he flinches. “What he means to say is that they’re excited to finally be wrapping up the tour.”

“Well, Leonard’s excited, too.” The waiter comes and sets the drinks down. A simple round of beers, a safe option, and you think Gregory accounted for that as well. “But, Leonard being Leonard, he wants to make sure your final three shows are, well. Uneventful, so to speak.”

Don’t fuck up.

At least Gregory tries to put the threat in a lighter, more optimistic tone.

“‘Uneventful’ is one way to look at it.” Robin sips her beer, leaning over the table to get a better look at Gregory. “He practically told us not to fuck anything up or else he’ll fuck our lives up.”

The assistant winces. “He… certainly has a way with words.”

“No kidding,” Mike orders two ribeye steaks. “His money doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Wait, you said Leonard sent you to make sure the shows go well?” Max asks Gregory, who nods. “Okay, so what does that mean? Are you our babysitter or something?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no I hope you guys don’t view it as that. Leonard just… really, really needs to make sure there’s nothing that will jeopardize the future of this band. He wants the Februarys to be successful. Believe me. I’m just here as a sort of precaution. All I’m doing is attending the last three shows to tell him what he already knows: you guys are a fucking once-in-a-lifetime band.”

“Or you’ll be an annoying snitch,” Steve spits out. “I mean, how are we supposed to just trust that you won’t go spewing bullshit to him?”

Your face burns in embarrassment at his treatment towards Gregory. “Why are you being such an asshole right now?”

“I’m looking out for my band!” He argues, grabbing a beer and sloshing it around. “I worked too fucking hard to trust some guy named Greg. I mean, who the hell even names their kid that?”

“Your name is Steve.” Gregory points out, though not unkindly, and you’re not sure if you want to kiss him for his unwavering confidence or kick him for antagonizing an already unstable Steve. “But regarding your concern of trusting me, I won’t force you to. That’s entirely your decision. All I can say is that I haven’t heard music like yours since The Velvet Underground. You guys are special. I’m not here to tarnish that.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to say more, but the food arrives and suddenly the tone in the conversation shifts. Gregory eagerly thanks the waiter, charming as ever, and before his eyes Steve watches his band members warm up to the assistant.

“Leonard is really okay with paying for all of this?” Jonathan asks in disbelief, staring at the sheer amount of food that can’t possibly be finished by them. “I-I mean, this has to be at least a couple hundred dollars.”

“Technically, he told me to do whatever to convince you guys I’m not the enemy.” Gregory shrugs, takes a bite of his burger. “So this will probably be a tax write-off for him.”

“Is that… legal?” Max doesn’t know whether to start with the truffle fries or the salad.

Again he shrugs. “You’ve met my boss.”

The stoic, uncharacteristically dry response makes you snort. Embarrassed, you try to hide it behind a laugh, but Gregory catches the reaction and leans in close to you, as if conspiring, “I heard that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you flick your hair over your shoulder, relishing when Gregory’s eyes follow the movement.

“Don’t worry, it was cute.” He steals a fry, winks at you, before sitting back again.

Robin has to take the steak knife out of Steve’s tight fist.

You don’t see the exchange, too focused on the dimple in Gregory’s left cheek and imagining yourself kissing it.

“Besides music, tell me about yourselves.” He turns back to the group now, though his shoulders lean towards yours, an easy intimacy to him that eats away at you.

Robin tilts her head. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” He says. “I’m all ears.”

One by one, the Februarys start to laugh at Gregory’s jokes. They tell him stories from their early years, explaining how the band formed, where their name came from. Robin lets him try her milkshake. Mike splits his second ribeye with him. Max discovers they’ve both read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and talks animidly with him about it. Jonathan shows him a picture of Nancy and smiles when Gregory says she’s beautiful.

And you latch onto every word. A breath of fresh air, Gregory’s intelligence and honesty pulls you under the tide like the moon controls the current.

Steve doesn’t think he’s seen you laugh this much since the winter in the apartment together. The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that he washes down with alcohol.

“You look like you’re trying to kill the guy with your mind.” Robin whispers in his ear halfway through the night.

“I fucking want to.” Steve watches you reach across the table to fix Gregory’s glasses. “I want him dead.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Can you save the melodrama for later? I actually like the guy. Don’t scare him off, please.” When the tension in Steve’s jaw doesn’t lessen, she sighs. “Steve, I’m serious. Don’t fuck this up for us. Lay off the beer. Plaster a smile on your face. Pretend you want to be here and that you have your shit together.”

He scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrington.” She grabs his arm, tugs him away from you, and whispers venomously. “I know you, okay? I know you and I love you despite that, but if you continue to throw a hissy fit with the guy who reports directly to Leonard Branham, I will castrate you.”

“I–”

“So, Gregory!” Robin throws a smile back on her face, releasing Steve. “You said you’re from Vermont?”

Steve gets the hint. He shuts up. Puts the beer down. He won’t pretend to play nice, but he at least softens his glare to a sneer, and it’s the most he can offer Robin.

Eventually the bill gets paid and Gregory walks the band outside. He’s perfectly civil, extending his farewells to everyone with his usual kind smile. “It was wonderful getting to know everyone tonight.”

Steve fucking hates that he seems to mean it.

“Thanks for the food, man.” Jonathan claps Gregory’s back. “It was really good.”

“I think Mike might puke.” Max points to the kid, who clutches his stomach with a red face. “How many steaks did you eat?”

“Not enough,” he pants out. “God, Jonathan can you carry me back to the bus?”

“I really don’t want to.”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell Nancy you let me drink beer tonight.”

“I dread the day I marry into your family,” Jonathan bends down, instructs Mike onto his back, and then turns to Gregory again. “Sorry, but we should go.”

He laughs. “I understand. You two have a good night.”

“We won’t.” They both say at the same time, before Jonathan treks home with Mike on his back.

“We should get going, too.” Steve says, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour. He looks directly at you when he says it, though, completely ignoring Max and Robin who remain. “Right, angelface?”

The name is purposeful, a way to mark you as his in front of Gregory, and the shame of it washes over you in sickly thick waves.

Your mouth opens, closes, no words come out. Steve stares at you, expectant in a way that isn’t demanding or cruel or even as a way to guilt you. No. He stares at you with the same expectant gaze that you frame on him every night he walks away with the girls he hides behind.

“Actually, Y/N needs to talk to Gregory about something, right?” Robin’s mercy saves you, giving you an out.

“Right,” you nod, finding your voice again. “I, uh. Needed to talk to him about some potential projects.”

The expectancy dies in Steve’s eyes the same way yours does every night. “A project?”

“Yeah.” Your throat squeezing at your lies. “I’ll see you guys back on the bus.”

Robin catches Max’s eyes and they exchange a brief look. They nod, grab Steve’s arms, and drag him away before he can say or do anything else, leaving you alone, finally, with Gregory.

Steve’s protests and yells can be heard deep into the distance, and you almost don’t want to turn back to Gregory, too ashamed to face him.

Only he gently grabs your arm, spins you around, and his head hangs low so that he can coax your eyes to his. “Angelface, huh?”

“It’s just a nickname.” The lie comes out fast, easier than you expect it to. You hate that it does.

If Gregory notices the lie, he doesn’t show it. “I think it’s sweet. Fitting.”

“Is it? I’ve always thought it was an exaggeration.” You brush off his compliment, not wanting someone else to agree with the name meant only for a boy with rosie cheeks.

“It’s not an exaggeration,” Gregory tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, stroking your cheek in the process. “You’re beautiful, Y/N, and, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner all night. A real, proper dinner, just you and me and Leonard’s credit card.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then why haven’t you?”

Gregory sighs. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were already spoken for.”

Your heart sinks. "I…”

“I’m still not sure,” he laughs awkwardly, boyish smile strained. “I mean, I saw Robin hide the steak knives from Steve.”

“He’s just an idiot,” this time it isn’t a lie. “I promise you that that’s all it is.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, though he isn’t accusatory. Only curious, empathetic and understanding. “If there’s something more, I’ll happily back down. We can forget that dinner was ever on the table. I don’t want you or anyone else to think I’m here to cause any harm.”

Fear tightens your vocal chords. “No,” your hand falls to Gregory’s. “No, please listen to me. I’m not Steve’s, and he sure as hell isn’t mine. I want to get dinner with you, Gregory.”

He squeezes your hand. “I just don’t want to cause any problems.”

“You won’t,” you promise him. Another lie. “Now, walk me back to the bus, properly ask me to dinner, and maybe I’ll kiss you goodnight.”

Gregory smiles, and it’s like a thousand soft raindrops on sun-torn skin.

He holds your hand the entire way back. His grip isn’t as heavy as Steve’s, it’s lighter, easier, less sacred and sacrilegious. He tells you a story from his childhood, more soft spoken now than he’d been at dinner, as if only your presence requires this gentleness overflowing.

When you get to the bus, Gregory pulls you so that you lean against its side, and he settles both arms against the bus, encasing you, and his height only makes the sensation of the proximity more pleasurable when he looks down at you.

“Please, will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’d love that,” you whisper up at him, standing on the tips of your toes, anxious to be even closer to him. “Pick me up after the show?”

His nose dips down to yours. “I’d love that.”

A grin eases its way across your lips, and before you can press them to Gregory’s, he cups your face, kisses your cheek once, twice, and then pulls away.

“Save the kiss goodnight for when I’ve earned it,” he tells you, hand trailing down your arm until he reaches your fingers to bring your wrist to his lips. Only he doesn’t kiss the back of it like Steve does. He kisses the front, the strip of flesh just above your watch. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

The words are murmured against your skin.

“Goodnight, Gregory,” you exhale.

He feels your eyes on him the entire walk back to his car.

–

When you walk onto the bus, you find the band caught in a landmine.

Robin sits at the kitchenette with a deck of cards in front of her, untouched. Her stiff posture and tired eyes tell you that it’s been a long night without your presence.

Max and Mike sit at their bunks, hunched over together, pretending to busy themselves with songwriting. Only their instruments aren’t with them and Mike’s nervous fidgeting gives away everything.

Jonathan lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, a book propped against his chest that he doesn’t bother to pretend to read.

They all greet you with weak voices, afraid that any sudden movement will set off a stray mine. None of them acknowledge Steve in his bed, his knees drawn in tight, his guitar clutched to his chest, aggressive, almost destructive chords plucked from his fingers over and over again as if he can drown his anger in its melody.

The agonizing sound shrieks in your ears. Max flinches, Robin squeezes her eyes shut, and you know that you have to be the to cross the bomb-ridden field to quell its dull roar. It isn’t fair to your friends otherwise.

Steve doesn’t look up from his guitar. He continues to play a song that you think is from their EP, though the angry way he’s playing it almost makes the song sound foreign, unknown.

“I doubt Lenny will like this version of Lower East,” you sit at the edge of the bed like a bird perched in a barbed cage. “Might be a little too aggressive, even for him.”

His lips don’t turn upwards. His fingers don’t relent at the taut strings.

You try to relax your spine, moving your hands from your lap onto the bed. The blankets are familiar, worn, remnants of Steve’s childhood home in Hawkins. “I think he’ll love what you guys are working on now, though.”

You’ve heard the early stages of their album, catching snippets between rehearsals and late night writing sessions. You aren’t telling Steve this to appease him or placate him. You tell Steve that Leonard will love his music because you truly believe it to be true.

“Have you guys thought about what you’ll name the album?” You move so that you’re laying beside him, enough room not to make him feel trapped, but close enough so that your body heat kisses his.

Only Steve still pretends that you don’t exist. His white knuckles clutch the frail instrument and he strums so roughly that the bed shakes with every movement.

Swallowing back your anger, your eyes close.

“You have slept with every girl in every goddamn state.”

The screech of stopped chords tell you that you finally have his attention.

“You get fucking wasted and sleep with the first warm body you find. And then you crawl into my bed when you’re finished. Every single fucking night.” A cold laugh snags at your clenched teeth. “You don’t get to be a fucking asshole to me just because I smiled at someone who isn’t you.”

The vitriol that laces Steve’s laugh cuts your skin. “What, so you decided to try and make me jealous? Is that it? You think that’ll get you my attention?”

You stumble off the bed, exasperated laughter foaming over your fury.

“Oh, you think I want your attention? Please, a fucking mannequin with tits is enough to get your limp dick hard.” Steve’s lips part in shock, but you’re furious. “I-I mean, I’m already yours, Steve!”

You’re screaming now, uncaring of the fact that the rest of the band members are only a few feet behind you. Your body shakes, your throat burns, but Steve’s cruel, callous eyes blind you with upset and insecurity.

“Jesus fuck, I’m yours. All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about!” You’re laughing, only it comes out tight, incredulous. Steve sits in his bed and you bend down, eye to eye; you’ve always known exactly who he was. “But you can’t promise me that, can you?”

Steve doesn’t flinch at your vicious words. He stares straight back into your eyes, skin crawling when he feels everyone else’s gaze on him. He’s hyper aware of their presence. Their bodies are too close, he wishes he hadn’t started this argument with witnesses. He hates that he’s trapped himself on a bus that he can’t escape.

But he had. Now he pays the price for it, biting his tongue, biting back a promise he hates that he can’t give you. Not with them here. Not with anyone else present.

Steve thinks he sees tears rimmed around your eyes when your manic laughter dies and all you can say to him is, “Then it’s your fault if I mess around.”

And then you leave, throwing yourself into Robin’s seat at the kitchenette, as far away from Steve as possible.

He doesn’t talk for the rest of the night.

You end up sleeping in Robin’s bunk. Her body isn’t as warm as Steve’s, but it’s softer, plush, comforting to rest your head on as you cry. She pulls her blankets over the two of you so that no one else will see your tears. She hums random songs to disguise your sniffling.

“Steve’s a jackass,” Robin whispers into your ear, drying the tears that spill out. “Ignore him, alright? You’re allowed to flirt with cute boys named Gregory who drive hot Camaros.” A wet laugh, though Robin is happy to hear the shadow of your normally bright one. “C’mon,” she pokes your stomach, “tell me all about Greg.”

And you do.

–

Sometime in the morning, Steve wakes up before everyone else, grabs his guitar, and slips through the doors. He doesn’t leave a note, he doesn’t tell anyone where he’s gone, and though a part of you is worried, you can’t help but be thankful for his absence.

Robin heats you up some oatmeal and dabs your puffy eyes with a cold cloth. She sets coffee in front of you and kisses your exhausted cheek and sits down at the table next to you as if the weight of Steve’s cruelty doesn’t hang over her as well.

Everyone tries to go about their usual morning routines, though it’s difficult with the ever present worry that Steve has finally slipped through their fingers, gone for good.

You try to distract yourself with film. Claiming the kitchenette as your office, you carefully mix together the chemicals, spread out the rolls of film you’ve combed through a million times now, and get lost in the hypnotic sequence of developing the photos.

“I don’t think ‘running after a venom kiss’ lands well,” you hear Robin chastise across the bus in Mike’s bed with him next to her. “I get what you’re trying to say, but it sounds like a shitty Spider-Man villain.”

He frowns, furiously erasing what he’s written. “What about ‘fighting though vicious lips’?”

“Too sexual, and that’s not what we’re going for. Not for this song, at least.”

“‘Soothing words on velvet faux lips’?”

“Now you’re just stitching v-words together.”

You set a photo down. “What about ‘chasing vitriol with someone’s lips’?”

Robin doesn’t expect to hear your voice, but when she thinks through what you’ve said, she hums, nods, and quickly writes the lyric down. “Not bad, L/N.”

“Where’d that come from?” Mike raises an eyebrow at you, the closest he’s come all morning to asking about what happened last night.

Except you don’t want any pieces of it to remain. Rather than feed into his question, you simply shrug at him and go back to your work.

About midday, an hour before the bus is set to drive the final few miles to tonight’s venue, Steve slams through the doors, storms past you and everyone else, and locks himself in the bathroom.

Despite his aggressive return, there’s a collective exhale of relief.

–

The venue for Kenosha is bigger than Milwaukee's had been. A large lounge area encircles the dressing room, spacious enough to house a small crowd with floor length mirrors built into the walls. The reflective space borders on disorienting, but Gregory looks around in awe and endearing excitement.

“Oh, this is just fucking cool!” He stands before one of the mirrors, his reflection reflected in the dozens of mirrors behind him. He spins around, looks at himself from the other side, and laughs even harder. “God, this would be terrifying if you were high.”

“Stand still,” you aim your camera at Gregory, giggling when he poses like a comic-hero. In the corner of the frame, you spot Mike’s middle finger sticking up. “You’re in my shot, Wheeler.”

“Considering we’re in a mirror-hell, I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. You can practically see everything in here.”

Steve yanks at his shirt, undoing the first row of buttons with unneeded force. “Fucking tell me about it,” he mumbles, bitter, unable to look away from your eyes shining up at Gregory.

“Tell me, was the keyboard custom made?” The man in question points at Robin’s multicolored keyboard.

“I painted it myself, actually.” She beams in pride.

Gregory whistles, ignoring the steely glares he feels from Steve. “If I gave you my violin, would you paint something on it for me?”

Steve wants to bash his head against the mirrors. Of course he fucking plays the violin.

Asshole.

You haven’t looked at Steve since he got back earlier and he really, really misses your voice. This is the longest he’s gone without hearing rosie fall from your lips. Yet here you are, giggling at someone else’s jokes, wasting your film on someone who isn’t him, and Steve thinks that maybe it’ll always be this way.

Gregory’s presence reinvigorates the band, even if it enrages Steve. He’s able to get Max to smile for your pictures again. He poses with Jonathan, holds the drumsticks up like medals. He plays a game of rock-paper-scissors with Mike and the winner’s triumphant smile gets captured by you. Robin throws her legs across Gregory’s when they sit on the couch together and you take a picture of her purple skirt over his denim jeans.

With the endless mirrors surrounding him, Steve can’t escape any of the images.

By the time they’re called onto the stage, he’s never been more grateful to perform.

Gregory stands next to you in the security area. His height makes him impossible to miss in the crowd, and despite Steve’s best efforts, he can’t stop looking at the way your body seems to fit so well beside Gregory’s.

What burns the most, Steve thinks, is that for the first time since yesterday he has all of your attention, your viewfinder always on him, taking only his picture as he performs. The art is meant only for him, yet Steve knows that if you had a choice, you wouldn’t choose him to be your muse.

And what a cruel reminder it is.

The concert nears its end and you adjust your aperture in preparation of the pinks and purples that cloud Rosie’s stage for the finale. You fiddle with your camera, head down, not paying attention to what’s happening on stage, until you hear the click of a mic and Steve’s introduction of the song.

“I need to ask you guys something,” he says to the screaming crowd. “It’s a serious question, so bear with me, alright?” A variety of agreements and promises cheer through the audience, and Steve licks his lips. “God, I knew I could rely on you guys. Okay, when you hear the word ‘rosie’, what color do you think of?”

“Pink!” “Red!”

Back and forth the crowd debates.

Steve draws the mic up to his lips. “See, when I hear ‘rosie’, I think of red myself. But isn’t it ironic that red also makes me think of anger? I mean, isn’t it supposed to be associated with love or some other shit like that?”

A slight murmur of confusion washes over the audience. Steve’s charismatic performance slips, ever so slightly, and they’ve sensed it.

Max eyes him, unsure what to do, and none of the other band members seem to know what to do with Steve’s odd comments, either.

A long pause stretches, almost unbearably long, but Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything else. Robin assumes this to be her cue to start Rosie and begins the melodic lullaby keys for it, only for Steve to suddenly grab the mic and surprise everyone with a completely different song.

For the first time since the start of the tour, he doesn’t perform Rosie.

It takes you a moment to recognize they’re the lyrics to Cool it Down by the Velvet Underground. The song you once suggested the band cover, before a tour was ever on the table, before they even had any other songs to perform, simply because Steve had told you a story from his childhood.

Robin’s fingers fumble on the keys, creating a disjointed sound that clashes with Steve’s voice. She grimaces at the sound, her face red with embarrassment, and it’s Jonathan who’s the first in the band to recover from Steve’s sudden change to the setlist, following the beat to a song that isn’t theirs, while Robin and the others slowly catch up.

You better cool it down.

Oh, baby, cool it down.

Steve stares straight at you, never faltering in the song that he knows has just as much meaning to you as it does to him. He leans down, stares past your lens, a pink haze of smoke swirls around his disheveled hair.

Gregory’s hand rests carefully on your waist, blocking you in.

In this lighting, you wonder if you can hate Steve with the halo that shines down upon him through your camera.

–

Gregory doesn’t recognize the wreckage he runs into, face beaming, after the show. He’s ecstatic, running around from member to member, talking a mile a minute.

“You guys are fucking incredible!” He grabs Jonathan’s shoulders, shaking him, and you have to gently pry him off your friend.

“Try not to kill your boss’ talent, Gregory.” You tease, smiling.

He steps back sheepishly. “Sorry, I just haven’t seen a show like that since I was a teenager and my dad took me to see Springsteen. I mean, it was an almost perfect performance, just be careful not to play the wrong songs when Leonard gets here.”

The temperature in the room drops at the mention of the setlist change. Gregory doesn’t register it, he doesn’t understand that he’s in a minefield now as well.

But Steve does.

He clenches his jaw, hissing through his teeth, “It won’t happen again.”

Gregory’s eyes widen slightly at the unexpected rage. Steve had been cruel to him last night, immature, but he had attributed it to his interest in you and his protectiveness of his band. Now, seeing the deep hatred in Steve’s eyes, Gregory understands that there’s more to his anger than he can ever know.

“Well,” he coughs awkwardly, knowing he’s overstayed his welcome. “I should get going, but I just wanted to say again that you guys were amazing tonight. Truly. I have no doubt that Leonard has nothing to worry about.”

Robin manages a small smile. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Not a problem at all,” then, salt in the wound, he turns to you, “I’ll wait outside?”

“Yeah,” your head jerks a nod, uncoordinated, aware of Steve’s eyes on you. “I’ll, um, meet you in a couple minutes.”

Gregory squeezes your hand and leaves with even more praise for the band, unyielding in his charm, warming the room before the inevitable storm comes. The second the door closes behind him, Robin rounds on Steve.

“You changed the fucking setlist?” She screams so loud in his face that everyone stumbles back, momentarily blinded by her fury.

“It was just one song,” he tosses his guitar onto the couch and rolls his eyes. “Why the hell does it matter?”

“It matters because you didn’t tell us!” Robin grabs at his shirt, pulling him back so that she can force him to look at her. “I looked like a goddamn idiot on stage!”

“You didn’t look like an idiot, Robin.” Jonathan reassures her, though when he turns to Steve, his patience slips into disappointment. “She’s right, though. You can’t just change the setlist whenever you feel like it.”

Mike flicks a guitar pick, watching it thud off of Steve’s head in pleasure. “Yeah, you’ve been a control freak for weeks, but now when Leonard’s freakishly tall spy joins you’re a selfish asshole?”

“You can act out when we’re alone,” Robin’s grip on Steve’s shirt tightens, they’re nose to nose as she spits in his face. “You can be a malicious bitch when Leonard isn’t watching, but that’s the last goddamn time you pull a stunt like that. Don’t fucking ruin this for me, for us.”

“Ruin it?” He laughs incredulously. “I’m the reason why Jonathan recovered so well from the setlist change!” He stabs at his own chest with every word. “Those were my rehearsals that prepared him for the change. I’ve been the one holding this fucking band together! For years it’s been me keeping us afloat, finding our venues, encouraging Jonathan to join, buying your goddamn keyboard, practically begging Mike’s and Max’s parents to let them live their dreams!”

He sucks in a harsh breath, eyes cold and face broken. “Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.”

“Then where have you been this entire fucking tour?” Max shoves Robin aside, sick of the hypocrisy. “Huh? Where the fuck have you been since we left New York?” She laughs in his face. “What, you don’t remember? Did you forget that every night you get drunk off your ass and fuck every girl you can find? Did you forget that you abandon us the second our shows are done so you can go get shitfaced with complete strangers who don’t care for anything other than your saggy dick? Did you forget all that?”

Something cracks under the surface of Steve’s indifference. A twitch of his mouth, a sting in his eyes, but Max sees it and cuts even deeper, no longer respecting the boy she grew up admiring.

“Did you forget that it’s been Y/N holding us together while you’ve gone and done fuck all else?”

He stumbles back, the lash of Max’s viscous words severing the last of his resolve. His body collides into Robin, only she doesn’t catch him. Not this time. He barely regains his balance, nearly deafened by the silence that follows Max’s death kill.

The mask falls. His head spins around in a dizzying manner, looking at his childhood friends like a little kid, lost in a grocery store, terrified and alone. His face bears no trace of the anger that marred it only seconds ago.

Steve would do anything for the Februarys. From the very first day you met him he’s made this evident. He’s bled himself dry for them, given everything he can for the chance to make them happy, to hold their hands through the journey, to be a rockstar with his best friends, to be their leader when they call out to him in need.

Somewhere along the way he lost sight of that.

He’s only now realized how far he’s fallen.

“Steve,” your breath comes out more like a plea, a conciliation. You turn to him like a hunter does an injured deer, aching to patch his wounds.

He’s all alone.

And he knows it. Steve pushes past you, pushes past everyone, and the slam of the door echoes the weight of grief that plagues the room.

No one sees him for the rest of the night.

Steve doesn’t return to the tour bus. In the end, you cancel your date with Gregory. You don’t have it in you to plaster a smile on your face when you’re wracked with guilt over what’s happened tonight.

You apologize over and over again, but Gregory frustratingly understands it all. He tells you it’s okay, that he doesn’t spite you for caring about your friends.

The hollow cavern in your chest rattles at the thought of Gregory referring to Steve as your friend, but you don’t correct him. It’s easier for you not to.

–

You’re up before everyone else in the morning.

The sun rises over the crest of mountains, pinks and oranges glisten in the distance. The stiff, humid air clings to your skin uncomfortably. The rest stop the bus resided in for the night lays deserted. You’re the only ones there.

You find yourself missing Dustin’s endless rambles. He would’ve loved talking with Gregory, both of them fond of mechanics.

Sitting outside the bus, picking at the dirt underneath, Gregory finds you. He doesn’t say anything. He simply sits down beside you and the sun continues to ascend the sky. He watches your side profile. You watch the skyline for any sign of Steve.

When you see his figure stumbling home, you run straight to him. “Steve!”

He doesn’t react to your presence. His bleary eyes can barely focus on you. The bridge of his nose is sunburned, his hair freckled with dirt and debris, his pants torn at the knee and his shirt reeks of booze.

“Oh, rosie,” you carefully touch his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

Steve’s cracked lips bleed a smile. “I know.”

You help him into the bus, careful not to move him too fast in fear of overwhelming him. Gregory stands back, aware that his presence will only provoke Steve. Once he’s on the bus, you turn back to the other man and smile apologetically.

“I should get him cleaned up.” A dismissal, one that Gregory nods at.

“Alright,” he turns to go, but hesitates. “You know, there’s almost a two hour drive to Chicago. Are you… sure you want to ride with them?”

Your mouth turns down. “Where else would I go?”

“You could ride with me?” He’s hopeful. Naively so.

“I’m sorry,” all you seem to do lately is apologize for Steve’s behavior. “But it doesn’t feel right leaving the band like this. They need me.”

“Steve needs you.”

Your body tenses. “If you see it that way.”

“I’ll see you at the venue, Y/N.” Gregory still kisses your hand before you leave.

Steve has thrown himself into bed when you finally close its doors. The rest of the band sleeps, the early hour still fresh. You make your way to him, quiet, no wanting to disturb the others. When you reach him, he moves to the side, silently asking you to lay with him.

You do.

He curls around you, a tight ball of shame and loneliness. Holding Steve, you can feel the ridges of his spine through his thin t-shirt. You’re not sure when he falls back asleep, or when you join him, but eventually you’re woken up to Robin’s morning chatter and Jonathan’s tired yawns.

“Good morning,” Robin says politely to you when she sees you awake. “I made you coffee.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, Steve’s soft breaths still asleep.

She nods, eyes only on the boy in your arms, before going back to her conversation with Jonathan. Mike and Max are in their own world, slowly waking up themselves. The usual morning routine remains undisturbed from last night’s fury.

Soon the bus starts to move and Kenosha fades into the distance. You let Steve sleep for the first hour of the journey. It’s a quiet drive, no one really speaks besides the occasional comment on the scenery. You’re left alone with him, which you’re thankful for.

It doesn’t take much to wake Steve up, and even though you brace for his unrelenting malice, he’s gentle when he awakens. He listens to your soft commands to shower. He doesn’t put up a fight or scream or demand his independence. Instead, he obliges.

He only tries to push you away after he’s showered and you try to soothe his burned face with some cooling lotion you stored in your bag.

“I’m fine,” Steve insists, scrunching his face to ward off your tender care.

Now it’s your turn to ignore his pleas, resting your entire weight against him on the bed instead. He craves the heat, he misses having you in his arms, and you use this weakness to get what you want. “You’re extra rosie today,” you smear the lotion on his nose, smiling when he shivers. “I’m just trying to help.”

He crumbles immediately, melting into the bed beneath him. He wishes he could melt completely into you. But the physics of it aren’t possible, so he settles for resting his hands on your hips. “Fine.”

You smile, victorious, and Steve doesn’t think he can believe in a heaven when there’s already an angel in his arms.

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you. In the safety of Steve’s bunk, there are no prying eyes. It’s just you with him and your soft scent of the soap you’ve stolen from him and your gentle, ever present warmth.

Here, with you on top of him, Steve feels the most human.

“I shouldn’t have treated you how I did the other night.” He confesses, nose pressed to your neck. Where it belongs. Where he hopes he can always keep it. “I was awful to you then and even worse last night.”

“You were pretty miserable to be around,” you twist his hair in your fingers, staring up at your mattress above. Tucked in the corner is a polaroid of you and Steve, laying in the exact position that you are now. “What you said really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” You feel the graze of his eyelashes against your skin as his eyes close. “I don’t like who I’m becoming.”

Your fingers still in his hair, the strands wrapped around them. He’s offering you a piece of himself as he says this. Vulnerability where he normally exudes bravado. The action makes your chest ache even more. Swallowing, you tell him what you hope he’ll be able to understand one day.

“Then change who you’re becoming.”

He laughs, not cruel, not mean, but tired, exhausted. “It’s that easy, huh?”

“It is,” you flick his ear, turning his broken laugh into a true, Steve Harrington laugh that bellows in his stomach and coats his cheeks pink. “It’s that easy, Steve.”

“Alright!” His laughter turns to giggles when your fingers find his sides and attack him. “I-I’ll be nice to Gregory, stop! I-Christ, I’ll make it up to you once the tour is done!”

I’ve already forgiven you, you think, smiling down at his joyous face.

His laughter fills the cold bus with warmth once again. Jonathan sighs in relief at the sound.

–

Chicago is the biggest venue of the tour. The grand finale, as Leonard would say. With the largest capacity and two completely sold out nights, the Februarys step inside cautiously, staring up in awe at the ribbed ceiling and elaborate furnishings in the dressing room.

A long, white couch lines the stark black wall. On the other side, mirrors sit on top of vanities with every possible accessory needed. Lights shine along the mirrors’ edges, golden and honeyed. Every amp of every kind litter the floors, spare guitars hang above, excess instruments at their disposal in an almost greedy capacity.

“Holy fuck,” Max places a careful hand on a royal blue guitar. “This is all for us?”

“Leonard wanted you to have the very best for your final two shows.” Gregory sets down a crate of champagne. “This is for you as well, and don’t worry, it’s store bought.”

The smile Steve gives him is tight, strained, but at least he’s trying. He told you he’d be civil with Gregory, and at the very least he can thank him for the generous gift. “Thanks. We, uh. Didn’t necessarily enjoy the homemade stuff he sent us.”

“Jesus, did you drink it?” Gregory gags. “I’m so sorry. He told the NYPD he’d stop sending people his basement liquor.”

“He didn’t.” Jonathan clutches his stomach. The ghost of his pain from the liquor eminent. “He definitely didn’t.”

Mike pats his back sympathetically and Gregory shakes his head. “Well, I guess I have some phone calls to make when I’m back in New York.”

Everyone laughs, though Steve’s smile borders on a grimace. You can practically see him biting his tongue in a desperate attempt to remain polite. He isn’t his charming self, far from it, but his effort to keep his promise to you is more than you ever could’ve hoped for.

When no one’s looking, you quickly stand on the tips of your toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” you mumble against the skin, lingering for longer than you need, not quite knowing how many more times you’ll be allowed this small privilege of kissing the crest of his cheekbone.

Instinctively Steve’s hand comes to your waist and he holds you against him. The moment lasts less than a second, yet it feels like a lifetime passes before he finally lets go enough for you to pull away.

And when you do, you laugh at the lipstick stain that paints his face. Steve looks at you, confused, but you simply grab your camera and take a picture of the pink shimmer upon his tanned skin.

“What was that for?” He asks you, narrowing his eyes in teasing suspicion.

You wipe the lipstick off, saddened to see it go, but selfishly happy only you got to witness it. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Something akin to intimate worship washes over Steve’s face, melting his hardened features into an oil painting of love and adoration. The painting before you catches your breath. There is no form of art that could ever capture his beauty.

“Y/N, can you help me with my hair?” Max’s voice breaks the moment.

Steve steps back. Your hand drops. “I’ll be right there,” you tell her, not quite ready to look away from him yet.

“Go,” he tells you. “I’ll see you on stage.”

Reluctantly you step away.

Max wants her hair in braids, so you help pin the mess of hair up and twist her red curls around your fingers. In the corner of your eye you see Robin and Gregory talking, laughing occasionally, while Jonathan and Steve stand in their own corner, heads low, discussing something you can’t hear.

Mike has a field day with the instruments. He fiddles with a bright gold electric guitar and Steve has to gently chide him that it wouldn’t be the best idea to try out a new instrument during the show.

A familiar energy returns to the room. Banter between Mike and the older boys. Max’s quick wit joining in. Robin dotting glitter onto Steve’s eyelids, giggling together like school children. The spillover of last night’s argument doesn’t exist at this moment, and you relish in the photos you take of the Februarys, whole again, at least for now.

“Alright, guys.” Steve gathers everyone around, minutes before the show. “It’s just us, okay? I mean it. It’s just the five of us. On and off the stage, we have each other.”

A deviation from the traditional just us just us just us mantra.

The Februarys look at Steve and he allows them to see his regret. He allows them to see his genuine love for the group and his nail-grip hold of success that he craves.

“It’s just us on that stage. It’s always been just us. It will always be just us.”

“Just us,” Robin repeats back to him, her smile rivaling the sun.

“Just us!” The others chant.

Steve’s eyes shine. Whether from tears or from gratitude, you aren’t sure. All you know is that he shakes his head, as if he can’t believe that his band is real, and says the words they’ve all been waiting for.

“Showtime.”

Despite everything, the Februarys best performance happens on their first night in Chicago.

Steve infects the lively audience with his endless charm. He leaves them wilted in his hands, leaves them screaming his name and everyone else’s. The roar of their demand for more vibrates the venue’s walls.

The biggest crowd of their entire career falls to their knees the moment Steve’s pretty mouth sings the songs he’s dreamed of creating since he snuck into his parent’s bedroom one day and listened to a rock album that changed his life forever.

Fans scream when Max and Robin do their handshake, never once missing a step in their sacred tradition. They scream when Mike’s electric solo comes up between the chorus of a song dedicated to his sister. They scream when Jonathan’s drumsticks break and he pulls new ones out from his jacket and they erupt into a frenzy when Steve’s shirt slips down his shoulder and his collarbones wink at them.

Each and every moment, your camera documents it all.

“Lenny’s going to fucking love them!” Gregory shouts in your ear in between songs, tall frame dancing to the beat that has already ended.

His words make you falter, camera half-raised to your face now dropping back down. It hits you, then, that tomorrow night will be the final performance. The show that will make or break the Februarys’ entire career.

One more night, and then it’s all over.

No more shitty roadside restaurants. No more walks through national parks. No more cramped bunk beds and Steve’s hot breath on your skin.

A deep sadness ebbs its way into your chest. You’ll miss the small moments from the tour more than anything else. Homesick for something that isn’t quite gone yet.

“I know he will,” you shout back to Gregory. It’s your only comfort, knowing that tomorrow night Leonard will see the band performing and finally sign them, finally give them the album they’ve always wanted. “He’ll fall in love with them.”

It’s impossible not to fall in love with the Februarys.

The sad ache in your chest dissipates when Steve takes center stage and basks in the pinks and purples of the stage light. Rosie is next. He opens his arms to it, he embraces the song, and you’re falling hard and fast.

“This next song was inspired by lullabies,” he says into the mic, his nose ring catching in the light. “I thought it was a nice contrast. They put you to sleep, but my girl keeps me awake all night long.”

Jonathan slams his drumsticks together and Steve cheers and suddenly the song starts and he smiles sickly sweet at you from the very first note. He sings the song to you like he used to, like the very first night when he ambushed you with such a raw devotion, and for this small fragment of time everything is rosie.

After the show you’re in Pennsylvania again and it’s the first night of a three month tour that will change your life forever. You’re running through twisted hallways, desperate and weak, searching for a boy that’s made of stars and strings, and when he finally finds you, you’re in his arms again just like that very first night.

Breathless laughter falls from your chest. Steve spins you around, his tired body alive with yours so close. He whispers angelface angelface angelface into your exhilarated skin and you’re sugarcoated in his love.

“Did you enjoy the show?” He asks after he’s finally set you down. He yearns for your approval, to hear your praise.

“You’re a fucking rockstar,” you grip his arms, needing something to steady your vibrating body. His flesh is soft beneath your tight grip and he doesn’t flinch at the way your fingers bruise it. “You’re-you’re incredible, rosie.”

Time is a fickle thing, because when Steve’s bashful smile crosses his face, for a moment you think you’re back in New York, laying in your bed with him promising you that he could never forget you, even when he becomes a rockstar.

But the present tears into you when Gregory’s arm falls over your shoulders. “Y/N’s right, Steve. You have such natural talent on stage.”

“Thanks,” he ducks his head, not uncomfortable, but not at ease, either. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Gregory smiles wide at the small compliment from Steve. He’s been eager to appease him ever since he stepped out of his Camaro at the park a few days earlier. “No problem, man,” then, lost in his small win, he forgets the context behind the former animosity and says to you, “so, ready for our date?”

Without meaning to, your body braces for the impact of Steve’s upset. A wince slips from your lips and you close your eyes, preparing for the worst.

Except Steve surprises you. He claps a hand on Gregory’s shoulder, a jovial smile offered to him as he does so. “Good luck on your date, buddy.” Then he turns to you, endless in his surprises. “Get home safe, okay?”

You blink. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. “I will,” you finally say, timid smile gracing your own lips.

Steve nods, winks at Gregory, and then walks back to his bandmates. They wait for him by the stage door. Leonard has bought them hotel rooms to celebrate their final two shows. A luxury that they’ve been afforded. There are no girls who await Steve’s exit.

He goes with his bandmates, his friends, home.

–

Gregory walks you to a dive bar not far from the venue. A hole in the wall, the candlelit tables and soft jazz creates a quiet and intimate atmosphere. Lined in brick, the bar reminds you so much of the ones in the East Village that you can almost taste the homesickness on your tongue.

“This place is beautiful,” you say to Gregory as he pulls a chair out for you. “Have you been here before?”

He sits across from you. “A few times. I rarely get to do anything nice while running Leonard’s errands.”

“And am I an errand?”

“If you are, then you’re the best errand I’ve agreed to.”

You snort, grabbing the menu in front of you. Expensive wines and cocktails laced between craft beer and well shots. Something for everyone. “What do you recommend?”

An ease falls between you, then. Gregory recites his favorite drinks to you with detailed notes about each one. He makes you laugh, he shares his white wine with you to offset your red. Several times throughout the night he calls you beautiful. He asks you about your childhood, asks which artists inspired your work, asks whether you think you’ll ever settle down in New York.

Gregory’s pinky skims your hand when you reach over to fix his glasses, and for a brief second, your skin shivers pleasantly at the contact, delighted at the sensation of something new.

With his face illuminated in the candlelight, you watch the shadows cast over his delicate features and mourn the reality that you met him too late, under the wrong circumstances, in the wrong context.

Maybe if you had met Gregory in a coffee shop one day in Manhattan. Maybe if you had crossed paths ducking into the rundown shop to escape the rain. Maybe if your eyes had connected from across the room. Maybe if had introduced himself to you then with the shy smile you’re weak to. Maybe if you had never known Steve Harrington’s lips on your skin.

Maybe you could’ve fallen in love with Gregory had everything been different. Maybe you could’ve really loved him, been something beautiful together.

But you met him in a park in Wisconsin, far from Manhattan. Steve’s arms had been wrapped around you, his tattoo kisses already engraved under your skin.

Your heart already knows Steve. It didn’t leave space for anyone else.

And you fucking hate it.

Gregory tells you about Vermont and its snow. A vivid storyteller, the way he describes his childhood makes you feel as if you’ve grown up with it as well. He follows every anecdote with more drinks and, ashamed, you drink more than you should to mask the gnawing in your chest that Steve still somehow embeds himself in your skin. That he’s ruined something beautiful yet again.

Time passes. You’re not sure how long or if you’ve contributed anything more than polite hums to Gregory’s night, but he doesn’t seem to mind your unusual silence.

He pays the tab and walks you back to the hotel. He holds the elevator door open for you. His nails scratch tenderly on your hand, drawing small patterns into the skin while the floors pass by you one by one.

The elevator stops at the tenth floor. Gregory lets you get off first, ever the gentleman, and even this small act of kindness digs into the cavity that you call a chest.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Numb, you lead Gregory to your door. You try not to look at Steve’s door, his room nestled next to yours, as you walk past. The lights are off. You don’t hear anything from the other side.

“I had a great time tonight,” Gregory risks pulling you by the waist, drawing you closer, as he rests against your doorframe. His addicting height leans down to you. All you see are his green eyes that your mother would’ve loved. “I’m glad we were able to do this. At least once.”

Your head falls back, wondering if you've misheard what he’s said. “Once…?”

“I wasn’t the one floating through your pretty head tonight.” He looks down at you, a confusing mixture of regret and fondness dot along his face, just as his freckles do.

You hiss in a breath. “Gregory–”

“It’s alright, Y/N.” His lips land on the crown of your head. No one has ever kissed you there, not even the sun on days you’ve drowned in her warm. Soft intimacy that can never be yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” he wipes the tears that fall. You will never deserve him. “I’m so really sorry.”

Gregory must’ve envisioned meeting you in a coffee shop, too. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

He kisses you. Yet even this isn’t a selfish act. He kisses you because he knows that you would’ve loved being woken up to his lips each day just as much as he would’ve loved waking up next to you.

The kiss is soft, slow. He kisses you as if he has all the time in the world, and you suppose in this lifetime, he has to make up for the lost time.

Gregory doesn’t say anything when he breaks the kiss. All he does is look down at you one last time, memorizes the face that would’ve been his for a lifetime, before he finally leaves.

His footsteps grow quiet the further he walks. You stand outside your door, unmoving, listening to the sound of the elevator’s bell signaling its arrival, taking him away from you for good.

The moment Gregory’s gone, your numb body finds its way to a room that isn’t yours.

White gripped knuckles knock against the doorframe once, twice.

Steve answers. Of course he answers.

And he doesn’t seem surprised to see you.

He steps to the side, wordlessly offering you to come in. A moment passes where you hesitate, don’t allow yourself to move. It’s only when he reaches for your hand, bridging the chasm, that you finally give in.

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.”

A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Steve doesn’t react to what you’ve said. He stands before you and watches as your shaking fingers manage to uncork the bottle and bring it to your greedy mouth.

“I mean,” the tarte liquid burns. “I’m fucking furious at you. Gregory is a perfectly good guy and we had a perfectly good night where he asked me interesting questions and held my hand and called me beautiful,” you drink again, trying to burn away the guilt that settles in your stomach, “but when he kissed me all I could think about was you.”

You shouldn’t be telling him this. You shouldn’t be twisting the already tangled strings between you, but the wine coats your tongue and Steve’s brown eyes melt your integrity.

He doesn’t give you the reaction that you consciously aren’t even aware that you’re seeking. He simply shrugs at your fury, takes the wine from your hand, and tips it into his own mouth. Long, slow, sips drain from the bottle.

When he’s done, Steve sets the bottle down, grabs your unsteady hips, and falls against the couch behind him. You land on his chest, unphased by the inevitable fall. You’re used to his insatiable hands and you’re tired and confused and too angry to not fall back into the familiarity of it all.

The force of the fall brings the tip of his nose to your cheek. You can smell the wine on his breath, see the red that stains his lips. His calm expression admires you, studies the conflict on your face.

“What did you think about me while he kissed you?”

His whispered question follows the heavy weight of his hands. They start at the center of your spine, rubbing at the ridges, then down to the small of your back, to the exposed strip of skin that gets revealed to him when your shirt rides up, down the swell of your ass, until they finally hook over your thighs and he forces them open, pulling you so that you straddle him.

“Tell me,” he’s still so soft with you. Whispering, massaging your stomach with his tender fingers, hesitating just before your ribcage, right under your breasts. “What did you think about?”

All the wine you’ve had tonight settles in your stomach. The flush of the alcohol warms your body, the sensation of his patient hands sobering. Your dilated eyes look down at his chest that rises and falls in uneven patterns.

“Your lips,” your voice comes out wanting, gasping when his hands finally cup your breasts, as if rewarding you for your honesty. Thumb moving over your nipple, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t stop. “All I could think about were your lips.”

He sits up, pulling your hips deeper into his. You gasp out. He strains against his jeans and your thin skirt can feel every ridge. Steve laughs, husky and dark, a sound you’ve only heard through bedroom walls.

Needing more, you try to move against him, to feel him where you’re aching the most, but Steve’s strong hands prevent anything further.

A pathetic sound falls from your mouth. “What are you doing?”

His hands fall back to your hips, squeezing at the flesh that’s finally his. Your eyes fall shut, you try to steady your breathing, but when they open again Steve’s forehead rests against yours. His breaths become yours.

“Tell me.” He hovers over your lips, drawing a confession from them that he knows hangs on the tip of your tongue. There’s more. He knows there’s more. “Tell me why you’re angry at me.”

Left for want and nothing.

“You did me bad.” It’s all you can say in your guilty lust. It’s the only way you know how to convey how deeply he’s settled into your veins, into the jugular that he’s kissed over and over again.

There will never be room for anyone other than him.

In the dim lighting of the room, the moon the only illumination, Steve’s eyes dilate. You watch them fall to your lips, just as they’ve always done, envisioning how you’ll taste.

“Tell me to stop,” he’s begging you. He doesn’t want you to become another warm body, he doesn’t want you to think that there’s never been more to his fixation on you than only lust. That you haven’t done him bad, either. He begs you to stop him because he knows that eventually this will burn as well.

“Tell me,” Steve begs again, his lips grazing yours. “Please.”

But you don’t.

Steve kisses the same way he performs. Needy, wanting, begging for your attention and for your heart to bleed into his. He draws melodies from your mouth, kisses choirs into your chest. His tongue flicks rhythms against your collarbones and his breaths beat symphonies into your lungs.

Over and over again he begs you to tell him to stop. He pleads when his mouth latches onto your breast. He pleads when your fingers find his belt and he begs again when you fall to your knees.

You answer his pleads with begging moans. You beg him for more, to carry you to his bed, to go faster, to finally ease the ache you’ve felt since his eyes met yours in New York and he called you beautiful.

Over and over again.

There is no end.

–

You wake up to Steve’s nose in your neck.

Loud, early morning traffic draws lazily through Chicago’s streets. His hot breaths fan your skin, mouthing at the dip of your collarbones, slow and sweet, littering love-sick pecks down to your chest, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Good morning, angelface.” Steve murmurs, a shy smile on his face. His legs are intertwined with yours. He holds you against his chest, skin to skin, no longer any boundaries between you. He plays with your fingers and paints such domesticity in his fondness.

The vulnerability in his eyes sends the room spinning.

Your stomach lurches. Tearing yourself out of Steve’s arms, you stumble off the bed as if it’s burned you. Cold air stings your skin and you realize, too late, the state of undress you’re in. Cursing, you fumble for the bedsheets and use them to cover yourself as you desperately search for your clothes and escape the consequences that will inevitably come.

“Where the fuck is my skirt?” You’re running in circles, looking everywhere while simultaneously trying to assess the damage of the break. You shouldn’t have done this. You’re so incredibly, unbelievably, fucked.

Steve lays naked in the bed. This time it’s him who’s left wanting.

You find the skirt under a pillow that somehow was thrown against the wall. Next to it you find your shirt, then your underwear, and quickly you put the discarded clothing on. “Fuck.”

“What’re doing?” The gentle tone betrays the hurt that resides on Steve’s face. He watches you stumble around, not understanding what he’s done wrong, but when he sees you reach for your shoes, his face hardens.

He realizes what this is. You’re leaving him.

“You just can’t bear to be another girl I sleep with.” He hisses out a laugh, slicing into the suffocating consequences. “Guess I still can’t fucking promise you, can I?”

I won’t be just another girl you sleep with.

All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about.

Words and their faulty promises.

“I know you can’t promise me,” you force your shoes on, heart pounding out of your chest. It takes you several attempts before you’re able to tie their laces, hands shaking too violently. “Goddamn it!”

“What, so you’re just going to leave?” Suddenly he’s next to you, throwing a shirt on and storming through the room that rivals your own anguish. “I mean, fuck, Y/N! You just expect me to be okay with that?”

You stand, finally meeting his eyes for the first time all morning. “I’m doing this to protect myself!”

I’m doing this to protect the both of us.

But Steve doesn’t want to hear your explanation, and you don’t want to hear his.

“What the fuck are you protecting yourself from?”

“This!” Your hands shove Steve’s chest, forcing him to look at the mess you created together. A catalyst that will leave no survivors. You gesture wildly between your bodies. “We should’ve never done this.”

He falls back at your force, dejected and furious. “Are you fucking kidding me? You came to my room–”

You’re not sure who starts yelling first

“I don’t want to do this right now!” You need air. Your pounding head threatens a wave of nausea, and when you try to step past him, Steve blocks your path.

“Would you just listen to me–”

“Let me go!” The sheer desperation in your scream echoes in the room.

The screaming stops. All that’s left is broken silence.

Steve searches your face for something that you can’t name. When he finds what he’s looking for, he laughs, laced with ice, “Fine.”

He grabs his keys first. Then his wallet, his shoes, a baseball hat from his father.

“What are you doing?” You echo his question from earlier, and you hate that you feel a sense of grief watching him flee the room that doesn’t belong to you. “Steve, what are you–”

The only response you get is the slam of the door.

He’s gone.

The finality of his absence rings in your ears. It’s only after Steve leaves that the tears come. They build in your chest, punch their way into your throat, and spill from your eyes faster than you can control them. You heave at the impact of the despair, the collision of it sinks so deeply into your bones that it brings you to your knees.

Robin’s frantic voice and comforting embrace find you on the floor.

“Y/N,” she cradles your face, looks for any signs of injury or cruelty. “I-I heard screaming. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.” There isn’t time for you to be consoled by Robin. You grasp at her arms, your force frightening her even more, but you don’t care. In between sobs you tell her, “but you need to find Steve.”

“Find Steve–?”

“He–“ You try to stand, but Robin forces you down. “He can’t be alone right now.”

Her grip tightens around you. She doesn't understand. “You can’t be alone right now, Y/N.”

“We had a fight,” you’re gasping for air. “He-he was so hurt and–”

“Y/N, I need you to breathe, okay?” She demonstrates an inhale, forcing you to breathe air into your lungs as well. Only after you’ve gasped enough air does she ask you what happened.

Through shaky breaths you tell Robin everything. The almost-kiss in Pennsylvania, how you pulled away, how you told Steve the very first night of their tour that you refused to be another girl he slept with. You tell her about the night Dustin and the others visited, how Steve had almost kissed you under the streetlights.

You tell Robin about the endless touches, stolen kisses to your neck late at night after Steve returns to you, smelling of the girls you try to forget. You tell her about Gregory, the way Steve’s jealousy edged into something more than just lust, into something softer, something akin to love. Your date with Gregory, how it was Steve’s room you ended up in.

Robin doesn’t react when you tell her that you slept with Steve. She doesn’t react when you tell her that he fled the room this morning to escape your dismissive terror.

And now he’s gone, and it’s all your fault.

“He’ll come back,” she promises you instead, rubbing the grief out of your body. “He’ll be fine, okay?”

You shake your head, more tears spilling over. “But what if he doesn’t–”

“He will.” She sounds more confident than she feels. “He’ll come back. Sure, he’ll be a pain in the ass when he does, but at least he’ll be back. He always comes back.”

Except this time, Steve doesn’t come back.

–

“Where the fuck is he?” Max barrels through the venue’s door, impulsively checking her watch every thirty seconds. “He should be here by now.”

The clock on the wall reads half past three in the afternoon. It’s been seven hours since Steve stormed out of the hotel.

No one has seen him since.

“He’ll be here.” Robin’s newfound mantra since this morning. She looks at her bandmates and tries to pretend that their concern doesn’t leak into hers. “He… he’ll be here, alright?”

Steve has never once been outside of a venue this close to their scheduled soundcheck times. Their last night of tour, their final show, the very show Leonard warned them not to fuck up, starts at nine.

Soundcheck begins at six.

And yet Steve still isn’t here. His absence alarms everyone. He’s always been obsessive about soundcheck, never running the risk of being late to a performance. He’s bled too much to jeopardize his career over something as trivial as a late arrival.

The screaming everyone heard from Steve’s room this morning and your bloodshot eyes don’t ease the band’s now frantic concern. You pace the room, unable to do anything other than bite your chapped lips and wring your anxious hands together.

“Robin,” Jonathan picks at his nails. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we go and find him.” She’s already setting her keyboard down, hopping over cables.

Mike scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Wheeler.” She yanks the guitar from his hands and snaps her fingers at Jonathan. “Go with him and look through every hotel and shitty bar you find. Every dive bar, every club, fuck, look through strip clubs. I don’t care. But find him.”

Jonathn doesn’t look convinced. “What about you?”

“Me, Max, and Y/N will take advantage of the fact that Chicago uses a grid system and search every goddamn street we find.”

“But–”

Robin claps, drowning out the protests. “We don’t have time to argue, alright? That asshole needs us right now and unfortunately he sings incredibly well and we have an insane manager who will quite literally take our dreams away like a villain takes candy from a baby if we don’t find Steve.”

“I can go look for him,” you tug at her overalls, pacing even faster to try and swallow down the guilty bile that lingers in your throat. “Alone. You guys stay here. Rehearse. Do whatever you need to prepare for tonight.”

“Not happening.”

You roll your eyes at Robin’s inability to listen. “Look, I’m the asshole who slept with your lead singer the night before the biggest concert of your lives. It’s only fair that I’m the one who looks for him.”

“You slept with Steve?”

“Not now, Mike.” Jonathan covers the kid’s mouth, which he protests at, but his muffled complaints go ignored by everyone.

“That’s such bullshit,” Robin sneers. “Steve is a grown man who can’t keep running away from his problems or drowning them in booze. And we can’t keep letting him.” She looks at everyone, the silent reprimand of the fact that Steve’s slow spiral went ignored for far too long. “We’re his friends, alright? For better or worse, the fucker needs us right now.”

Jonathan nods. “She’s right.”

Mike and Max murmur their agreements. Neither of them bother to hide their uncertainty and worry. You bite your lip. It bothers you that they take collective responsibility for your actions, but you’re wasting time arguing. Your heartbeat won’t settle until Steve’s voice soothes your skin.

Finding Robin’s eyes, you nod at her, silently backing down.

“Then it’s settled. We meet back here in two hours.” Her smile mimics a wince; you don’t miss the way her hands shake, the worry for her best friend evident. “We’ll figure the rest out from there.”

Soon your feet bleed into the soles of your shoes as you duck through every street of Chicago. Its layout reflects New York’s, only the black asphalt beats heat from the sun into your skin and you’re sick with exhaustion after the first hour.

“We’ll find him.” Robin repeats over and over again, but neither you or Max pretend to believe her.

The second hour draws to a close without any sign of Steve. Chicago’s endless city taunts your shaken body. Your heartbeat slams in your throat. Memories of this morning twist their way inside your guilt. Pieces of Steve’s broken eyes, his hurt expression, how you’d been ready to leave him, only for him to leave you instead.

This is all your fault.

With every dead end, Robin’s concern simmers into fury. When the two hours are up, her clenched fists shake with how tightly she presses her nails into her palms. There will be scabs where her skin breaks today.

Inside the venue, Jonathan sits on the couch with his head in his hands. Mike sits next to him. When they notice your arrival, the younger boy jumps up and runs over. Soundcheck starts any minute. “Did you find him?”

Your throat goes dry. “No.”

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Robin stares at the ground. Her knuckles are white. “We rehearse.”

Max turns to her. “Without Steve?”

“We have to.” A dangerous calm resides in Robin’s words.

The other band members hear it, too. Jonathan exhales quickly, licks his lips, before taking a tentative step towards her. “Robin,” his softened voice alludes to his fear. “He’s our lead singer. We can’t just perform without him, not when Leonard will be here tonight–”

“He’s not going to fucking ruin this for us!” The dam breaks. “I-I refuse to let Steve ruin the one fucking good thing we’ve done with our lives.” Robin laughs hysterically. “Either he shows up or doesn’t. I don’t give a shit anymore, but if I can’t fucking control his temperamental meltdowns, then I can at least control how I perform tonight and force Leonard to accept that I’m writing a goddamn album whether he likes it or not.”

Her outburst rings throughout the room.

The silence burns tears into your eyes. This was never supposed to happen.

“I can sing the chorus for Lower East.” Max reaches for her bass, finding its tuning pegs and cord. “I don’t think my voice fits the rest of it.”

Robin nods. “I can do it.”

“Mike, can you do Back for More?” Jonathan finds his drumsticks. “If we’re doing this, then we can’t only have Robin sing. Not on such short notice, at least. Her voice won’t adjust to it.”

Mike shrugs. “Only if she sings the higher songs.”

“I can harmonize with you,” Max scribbles everything onto their setlist. “I think if we sing together we should be able to match the register it's originally written in.”

There’s a fluidity in the way the Februarys write out Steve’s absence. Within minutes they’ve come up with a new setlist and chord arrangement for their hour and fifteen minute show. They divide the songs into who can sing them best, even stretching the capabilities of Jonathan’s thin and wiry voice. Their options are limited.

As they work, they avoid your eyes. None of them blame you, not really, but there’s an underlying understanding that you’re the reason they’re here in the first place.

–

Leonard Branham has never once been on time in his life. He was late to his son’s birth, his second wedding, and even to his divorce settlement (unrelated to his second wedding, but related to his third).

It only makes sense that he shows up to the venue thirty minutes early, before the Februarys are set to go on stage.

He slams the stage door open in a grand manner, cackling as he steps inside. “There’s my moneymaker!”

Mike screams, Robin trips over her shoes, Max slams her head against the wall, and Jonathan’s chair flies back in his surprise, sending him to the ground in a pathetic crescendo, cymbals and all.

Leonard observes their reaction with disinterest. “What? Didn’t George tell you I was coming?”

“It’s Gregory, sir.” The assistant steps from behind him. He gives you a polite smile that you can’t return. “And I did tell them you’d be here.”

“Then where the hell is the kid with the hair?” It’s obvious to everyone that Leonard means Steve. When no one can give him an answer, he narrows his eyes. “Well?”

“He died!” Mike sputters out before anyone can stop him.

Max slaps the back of his head. “Dude!”

“I didn’t know what else to say!”

“What the hell is going on?” Leonard stalks towards the band, nicotine following his scent. He looks between them as if Steve is somehow hidden amongst them. “Did the kid O.D. or something?”

“Lenny,” you risk grabbing the man’s blazer, its expensive material soft under your fingers. “Listen, why don’t you and I go talk outside? Better yet, why don’t I show you around the city? Go for a nice, long walk–”

“Cut the bullshit.” The man snatches his sleeve out of your grasp. “Where the hell is your lead singer?”

A loud crash announces Steve’s arrival before the reek of alcohol and sex does.

His timing has always bordered on ironic.

“‘M here,” Steve stumbles through the door, feet dragging on the ground, hardly able to keep himself up. A melted smile bleeds onto his face when he realizes he has everyone’s attention. “S’it showtime?”

You rush towards Steve, relief flooding through you seeing him alive and safe. “Oh, my god–”

Only Robin’s faster. She gets to him first and punches him before anyone can react. You think you scream. Jonathan’s shoulder collides into yours when he runs over to grab Robin’s violent body.

“Asshole!” Her broken screams spit at Steve’s body, now sprawled on the ground from the force of her fury. She writhes in Jonathan’s tight grasp, kicking and twisting to escape. “Are you fucking wasted?”

Steve’s glossy eyes stare up at her, his half-lidded smile confirms what she already knows.

“I was worried about you!” Robin scratches at Jonathan’s arms, spits more venom at her best friend. “This band means so fucking much to me, you know that! This is my future too, and you’re fucking wasted and putting everything on the line for some fucking fling?”

Kneeling at Steve’s side, you wince at Robin’s vicious words. She’s right. He’s jeopardized everything for a single night with you.

And you let him.

“Take her outside,” Max shoves Jonathan towards the door. Leonard watches everything. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Fuck you!” Robin repeatedly screams at Steve. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you–”

Max flings the door open and follows Jonathan outside, helping him contain Robin’s rage. The door slams behind them.

“Get him up.” Leonard commands you and Mike, snapping a finger towards Steve. The man doesn’t flinch at what’s just happened. “He has a performance in twenty minutes.”

Mike makes a confused sound. “Sir, I don’t know how to professionally say this, but Steve’s one drink away from a very expensive hospital bill.”

“He’s awake, isn’t he?”

Your fingers tangle through Steve’s hair. His forehead is overheated, he barely reacts at your touch. Looking up at Leonard, you don’t give him the satisfaction of obedience. “He isn’t performing tonight.”

Leonard’s mocking laugh infuriates you. “Sweetheart, if he doesn’t sing, there’s not going to be a goddamn show tonight. Do you understand?”

Mike pales. “You wouldn’t–”

“I would.” Leonard’s condescension drips into his laughter. “I told you my end of the deal. Don’t fuck up. It’s as easy as that. Not having a lead singer sounds like a bigger fuck up than my brother.”

Bile rises in your throat.

Gregory coughs, forcing his boss’ attention to him. “Mr. Branham, why don’t we leave them alone to sort everything out? I’m sure they’ll sober Steve up in no time.”

His blinding optimism squeezes at your heartstrings. Leonard squints at him, thinks for a moment, before he shrugs. “Whatever. Twenty minutes. That’s all you get.”

Gregory guides Leonard to the doors that lead out of the dressing room and into the venue. When the man isn’t looking, Gregory mouths a quick good luck to you before he leaves.

The second they’re gone, you and Mike drag Steve’s body up and throw him onto the couch.

“Get Robin and the others,” you quickly say to the kid, slapping Steve’s face to try and get his eyes to focus on you. You’ve never seen him this gone before. When Mike doesn’t move, you raise your voice, “Go!”

He scrambles to the stage door. You don’t hear what he tells his friends, too busy pinching Steve’s sides and hoping the pain will jumpstart his sobriety. Suddenly water splashes on you, and you spring off the couch.

“What the fuck?” You find Robin holding a water bottle above Steve’s head. “You could’ve at least warned me!”

“No time.” She dumps even more water on him, and though you know it’s meant to help sober him up, you can’t help but feel that a part of it is meant to punish you as well.

Meanwhile Jonathan and Mike run around the room to sort through their instruments. They scream at one another to collect certain cables, to find amps and missing drumsticks and where the fuck did the sheet music go?

Max punches Steve’s chest to make him more coherent. “Stop pissing me off!”

“‘M fine,” he slurs, batting her punches away. “Relax.”

Max only punches him harder after that. You don’t blame her.

The first five minutes Max and Robin switch between waterboarding Steve and bruising his chest. You manage to find pizza from a shop next door and shove the greasy food down his throat.

Jonathan manages to set the stage up, running in and out of the room in a dizzying manner. Mike sprints right behind him. Together, they prepare the stage for either their funeral or their rebirth. No one can say which will come.

The ten minutes that follow you’re able to coax Steve onto his feet. He can hardly walk, but Robin kicks his shins and forces his legs to remain upright long enough to take off his drenched t-shirt in exchange for a nicer one that Leonard won’t scoff at.

“Did you suck the blood out of him?” Robin cringes when she sees the hickeys that litter his chest.

You throw a shirt at her. “Is now really the time?”

“No, but I deserve to make fun of you right now.”

“Five minutes,” one of the stage crew members knocks on the door, pointing to her watch. “Get ready.”

A mad scramble follows. Max shoves bracelets onto Steve’s wrists, Robin pushes him onto the ground so she can force better shoes on, and you lace them up while Robin yells at Jonathan and Mike to come over.

“Okay, I’m gonna be honest,” she tells everyone once they’ve gathered around. Steve still lays on the ground. The Februarys have to stand over his desolate body. “Odds of us pulling this off are about twenty/eighty.”

She kicks at Steve. “Probably more like ten/ninety since this motherfucker is Midas with a shit touch.”

“Robin.” Jonathan warns her.

“Right. Okay. Anyways, the point is that right now I don’t think I can emphasize enough that it’s just us. No one else is on our side. It’s just us and the music, okay? We just need to focus on the music and have each other’s backs. The second things start slipping, we help each other, alright?”

“We’re gonna die.”

Robin’s head drops at Mike’s words. “Yeah. We are.”

The stage crew member returns. Their time is up. One by one the Februarys look at each other, taking in their final moments, and then leave Steve on the ground. They don’t explicitly tell you that he’s your responsibility to get onto the stage.

“C’mon, rosie,” you grab him by his arms. He’s dead weight, still more drunk than sober, and all you want to do is cry. Forcing down the tears, you pry Steve to his feet. “You can’t let them down like this.”

Somewhere in his clouded coherence, Steve nods at what you’ve said. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but he’s able to walk to the door on his own. “Can let ‘em down.”

There’s a pathetic naivety when he says this.

You walk behind Steve the entire way to the stage, terrified he’ll fall and be unable to get back up again. Just before the stage area you meet with Robin, who yanks at Steve’s hand when she sees you and gives you a quick, curt nod.

“Wish us luck?”

“Always,” you tell her.

The stage lights turn off. Hundreds inside the venue scream. The show is about to begin.

You run down to the crowd and find Gregory and Leonard quickly. They’re roped off in a separate section from the crowd, an obscene amount of security surrounding them.

“There are you!” Gregory sighs in relief when he sees you. Looking over at Leonard to make sure he isn’t listening, he ducks his head down and whispers, “should I be worried?”

Your heart beats out of your chest. “Depends. How often does Leonard watch his talent take the stage blackout drunk?”

“Oh fuck.”

Suddenly the crowd’s cheers increase in volume and the stage floods with blues and purples. Robin walks out first, her usual sly and playful manner dimmed. Her too tight smile flinches at the lights and she almost trips over a cable trying to get to her keyboard. She’s nervous. Anyone can see that.

Max follows, stiffly walking to her bass. She doesn’t smile at the crowd or wave at them. She straps her instrument to her chest and nervously taps her fingers on its neck.

Mike and Jonathan walk out together, each of them laughing too forcefully to be genuine. Jonathan knocks into his drum set and Mike can’t find his guitar for several painful long seconds.

You hold your breath watching them tear at the seams of the cruel pressure. Next to you Leonard’s mouth pinches into a thin line.

“Are they always like this?” He asks Gregory.

His eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head. “No, never.”

“It’s been a long tour,” you tell Leonard, careful not to overstep, but anxious to help. “They’re tired. That’s all.”

“And the brewery that was on Steve’s breath?” The man laughs humorlessly. “Let me guess. Daddy’s medicine to help him sleep?”

Gregory shifts from one leg to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and you squeeze a laugh out of your lungs to appease Leonard’s cruelty. He can’t know how terrified you are.

“How’s everyone doing?” Robin shouts into the mic, waving at the crowd. She’s still tense, but behind her keyboard she starts to relax. This, at least, she can control. “Are we ready for tonight?”

The crowd shouts back their responses, the energy infectious in the venue. Everyone smiles and cheers and push towards the stage for a closer look. A sold out show, all for the Februarys.

Robin’s face breaks into a genuine, excited smile. “Hell yeah, I like what I’m hearing!” She presses on some keys, playing a simple, nonsensical melody as she talks. “Now, I don’t know if you guys know this, but this is our second night in Chicago and our last show of our tour!”

More screams. More than you’ve ever heard before. The size of the crowd overwhelms you, yet Robin finally seems to be at ease.

“And in case you didn’t already know, we’re–” She’s interrupted by the screech of a mic.

The side stage curtains swing open and Steve fumbles with the stolen microphone. He squints harshly at the light, stumbles back when the spotlight beams down at him. Blind and delirious, he has to grip onto the mic stand to avoid falling over entirely.

“We’re the Februarys.” He says into the mic, no charm or humor in his voice. He doesn’t greet the audience, he doesn’t allow them to warm up to him, to fall to their knees as he’s always provoked them to do. Instead, all he does is rudely beckon for Jonathan to start their first song.

Unable to do anything but follow along, Jonathan bites his tongue and hits his drumsticks together.

“Steve looks awful.” Gregory breathes out next to you. It’s not meant to be mean or cold-hearted, not when you know he’s right.

Thankfully Steve’s voice sounds fine, albeit slightly strained. What worries you is the way his hair hangs in his sickly face. How his sallow eyes are red. The songs continue and Steve’s only able to stumble through jerky movements, half-following the rhythm that Jonathan provides.

His sloppy performance doesn’t go unnoticed by the audience.

Max and Robin don’t do their handshake between songs. Mike doesn’t go to Jonathan during his electric solo. Steve doesn’t praise his friends or laugh with them after every song. He doesn’t clap for them or share the spotlight with anyone.

The show passes in a slow, nauseating blur.

You don’t take any photos the entire night. No one will want to remember the reek of alcohol that can be smelled from the stage during the final night of the Februarys’ career.

Leonard stands next to you, stoic. It’s impossible to read his face and you’re too busy biting your lips raw watching Steve butcher a performance he’s spent weeks agonizing over.

When the only song left is Rosie, Robin finds your eye in the crowd. Her fear-struck expression confirms what you already know. The song will break Steve if he sings it. You mouth at her to stop him, to cut the show short, but somehow in his alcohol haze he finds your lips and reads the words not meant for him.

“I guess the next song is Rosie.” Steve’s teeth clack against the mic in a painful manner. Only the pain doesn’t deter him. His breathing hitches, the lights burn his face and his flushed face worries you. “I-I mean, what kind of shitty name is’that?”

Robin fumbles to unplug her keyboard and Jonathan throws his drumsticks down and they both lunge towards an incoherent Steve. “How’s it fair that rosie sounds so-so pretty from her lips?”

“Steve, give me the mic,” you hear Robin hiss at him.

Sweat pours from Steve’s face, he fights to keep hold of the mic, but Jonathan wraps both arms around him and forces him off the stage. In the mess of cords and equipment it’s a miracle that he doesn’t fall, but they only make it just past the curtains before the sound of Steve’s vomiting infiltrates the venue.

The crowd isn’t sure how to react.

Robin says something to them, laughing out a joke about food poisoning and how it wasn’t video that killed the radio star, but you don’t stay to hear it. You’re already rushing towards backstage, towards the dressing room that started it all, and Leonard trails right behind you.

Steve lays face down on the couch when you run into the room. Jonathan paces the floor, mumbling to himself about calling Nancy and telling her to somehow get Mike back into college. You sidestep his manic anxiety and focus only on Steve, completely forgetting that Leonard stands in the middle of the room, watching it all unfold.

“You’re burning up,” your palm stings at the heat on Steve’s face. His hair clings to his forehead in sweat and you’re terrified that he’s taken something he shouldn’t have. “Steve, rosie, look at me, okay?”

His unfocused eyes squint up at you. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“You left.”

“And then I came back.” You unbutton his shirt, hoping cool air on his chest will lessen his sickly state. Memories from last night flicker in your mind as your fingers trail his buttons, skim the chest your kisses mark. Not now. Not here. Not again. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

Steve makes a panicked sound. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll be right back–”

Robin slams through the dressing room, long past fury. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Robin, no–” Jonathan has to jump in front of her to keep her from gouging Steve’s eyes out. Mike’s help is needed to help him hold her back, dodging her violent nails and words with terror in his own eyes.

“She just scratched me!” Mike hisses in pain, almost letting go of her, and Jonathan hits his head to keep him focused. “Why the fuck is everyone hitting me?”

While they’re distracted with Robin kicking and screaming, Max walks past them with a drumstick in her hand, aimed right at Steve’s crotch, and you quickly jump up from the couch and yank the weapon away from her.

“Can we not castrate him while he’s incapacitated?”

“I have a spare drumstick in my pocket.”

You twist to reach behind her, the two of you now grappling at one another in a petty fight, Robin’s own fist fight the backtrack to the argument, and eventually Jonathan has had enough.

He tightens his arms around Robin and finally screams, “Stop.”

You fall limp in Max’s chokehold. She loosens her grip. Mike stops complaining and Robin pauses in her abuse long enough to snarl out, “Let me go, Byers.”

“No.” He squeezes her arms behind her back, dodging yet another fist. “In case you’ve forgotten, our boss is watching you have a fucking meltdown right now trying to kill his lead singer.”

Leonard smiles.

But the smile only infuriates Robin more. She tries to lunge at Steve again. “I don’t give a shit!”

You attempt to settle her rage. Leonard’s watching. “Robin, this isn’t helping anything–”

“Fuck you!” She screams at you. “Fuck Steve, fuck whatever the hell you guys have been doing for who the fuck cares how long, and fuck Steve for being having dicks for brains and an impulse control weaker than a ninety year old man’s erection!”

She’s always been so lovely with her words.

Leonard seems to think so, too. He starts to laugh, loud, bellowing in a stoic room that fills with dread at his presence. The laughter cascades throughout the man’s body, disbelief, joy, manic in a way only someone who’s lost their mind can recreate.

It’s a terrible, horrifying laughter that silences even Robin’s rage.

Everyone holds their breath.

Steve lays motionless under you, ignorant of his destruction. In the midst of Leonard’s callous laughter Gregory’s nervous gaze meets yours.

You close your eyes. You wait for the blow to land.

But it never does.

“Now that’s what I call rock and roll!” Leonard cackles with inappropriate glee. “Sex, drugs, fist fights between band members. Hell, I don’t think the first time I slept with a blonde was as glorious as this moment.”

The man’s ecstasy stuns everyone. He claps Mike’s shoulder like a proud father, pinches Max’s cheek and laughs when she slaps him away. He blows a kiss to Robin and shakes Jonathan’s hand eagerly.

“And him,” Leonard points at Steve repeatedly, shaking his head as if at a loss for words. “He’s a goddamn rockstar, you hear me? A rockstar.”

Steve turns his head, his cheek pressed against the couch beneath him. “‘M a rockstar?”

“You sure as shit are, baby.” Leonard cackles again. His white teeth bite into the air and when he finally notices the rest of the band’s stunned silence, he settles his laughter. Clearing his throat, he straightens his blazer. “You can have your album.”

Robin’s jaw drops. Jonathan almost drops her in his own shock while Mike and Max choke on air.

“Have the songs ready by the end of this month. Record it at my studio. Get your shining asses ready to tour the album once you’re done. You’re a part of Major Tom’s now.”

Somehow Steve is the only one who can react.

He sits up, feigning sobriety well enough to fool even you. His tipsy smile shines back at Leonard. “Thank you, sir,” he giggles, his head nods to the side like a child’s. “We-we’re honored, Mr. Branham. Sir. Thank you. Um, again.”

Leonard picks lint off his blazer, turns to him. “Why, it’s my pleasure, Harrington.”

Steve extends his hand, leaning to the side in an obscene manner that Leonard huffs in amusement at.

“But if you ever, ever, pull a stunt again like the one you did tonight,” Leonard says as he accepts Steve’s handshake. “I will make sure your name dies an insignificant death.”

The room becomes cold.

“No one will remember who you are thirty years down the line. Your name will be less than worthless.” Leonard’s grip tightens around Steve’s hand. He makes sure he understands the weight of the warning. Just how easily he can ruin their lives. “Remember that.”

Dropping the handshake, Leonard Branham adjusts his blazer one more time and snaps a finger at Gregory. “Take me back to my hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” Gregory can’t look at anyone as they leave.

In the end, it’s just you and the Februarys left alone in a venue in Chicago. Quiet follows the revelation that they’ll be able to record the album they’ve been longing for since they first played together in Steve’s garage.

There will be no celebration tonight.

Leonard’s words hang in the air long after he’s gone.

It’s only after he leaves that the last of the alcohol in Steve’s system oxidizes, sobering him enough to feel the bands in his chest snap.

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #rockstar!steve harrington #stranger things fic #m's writing #i wish i could say it gets better #but it doesnt #steve is so hot tho so theres that

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queers-gambit · 17 hours ago

Text

Endure and Survive

prompt: ( x4 ? requested ) you need Joel to survive after enduring the unimaginable.

pairing: Joel Miller x female!wife!reader -> only height mentioned: you're shorter than Joel

fandom masterlist: HBO's The Last of Us

word count: 12k+

warnings: obvious spoilers, S2E2 reader insert, Fix It Joel, Joel Miller survives / lives, AU timeline, cursing, mentions blood and injury, guns, dead bodies, parentified!reader, wife!reader, found family obviously - Ellie calls you 'mom'. mentions of explicit material: marijuana / weed, the horses have names idc, established relationship, angst, hurt / comfort, drama, depiction of anxiety and panic attacks, not edited, Lord's name in vain, single Spanish word. imagination, caution, and maturity required. happy but abrupt ending, possible (past) morally grey!reader, petnames.

You woke earlier than your husband as usual, humming in the first streaks of morning light; stretching minimally as to not wake the man beside you, whose bare legs were tangled with yours. However, try as you might, the arm coiled around your waist constricted to a bruising strength; which caused your lips to stretch in a bemused grin.

"Sun ain't up," his gruff, gravely voice grated in your ear.

"Mh," you hummed, "but it is."

"Not if you shut your eyes."

"Still work that needs done."

"C'mon, baby, can spare another hour."

With a sigh, you laid your arm over his, "You know today's not the day for delay." He huffed, knowing you were right. "You know," you turned over in his embrace to greet the lightly tanned face aged with freckles and faint liver spots, decorated with few scars, "should ask Ellie t'go on patrol with you this mornin'."

"Baby."

"Joel."

"She's... Still a bit pissed."

"Okay, but what teenage daughter isn't?" You snickered.

"She ain't mad at you."

"'Cause I let her fight her own battles."

"Oh, so, now it's my fault for wantin' to protect her?"

"I didn't say that," you sighed with a patient smile. "But Ellie's not that vulnerable, green 14-year-old we met in Boston, baby. And... Look, I'm not saying Seth ain't deserve it, but they were walking away. You and I could've gone a different route, you know?"

"As her parents - "

"It's our right to protect our kid," you insisted. "But consider the circumstances, I think you embarrassed her a little."

"How?" You just offered him a knowing look, making Joel groan, "Fine, all right? Fine, I know, it was public - "

"So very public."

"And she was gonna say her own piece... But if not then, when the fuck am I supposed to step in? What he said was homophobic, doll, if we let him get away with it, would've opened the door for him or anyone else to run their mouth."

"We beat the shit outta him in an alley, of course. Or, you know, maaaybe we go out on patrol together and maaaybe they don't come back?"

"Yeah, yeah," he groaned, "but I ain't think."

"That's one thing I love about you - you act first. It's very noble, like you just have this inherent sense of right and wrong. Never really need time to think."

Joel chuckled, "It's too early for the sweet talk."

"It's never too early - especially when you're protectin' our girl. It's hot..."

"You just said - "

"I never said you were wrong, I'm just trying to take Ellie's perspective into account. Look, she's at that age where life feels invincible, where she's been through more than we can truly fathom - so, she feels twice the age she really is. But she's still young, still a trigger-happy-moron and will never stop needing her parents. She just wants to feel like she's a bit of independence, like we trust her to fight her own battles and handle her own shit. I think we're supposed to just... I don't know, keep watch and jump in if she can't handle it. You know? But we gotta give her the opportunity to do it on her own in the first place."

Joel offered you a side-ways glance, "You been talkin' to Gail?"

"Fuck off," you snickered, trying to sit up but being wrangled back into the sheets. "Joel," you laughed, "we gotta get gone. C'mon, you heard what happened last night - "

"Just ten more minutes, baby, please."

"You really wanna risk Maria siccing Benji on us again? I'm pretty sure we traumatized him last time, Maria said he kept asking if that's where babies come from."

You swore his cheeks bloomed brightly, but it was quickly hidden as his face shoved into your neck with a gruff sort of whimper. "Guess not..."

Taking pity, your hands shot into his salty locks to rake your nails over his scalp soothingly. "Ten minutes, handsome, then I gotta get to the stable."

Ten minutes with Joel turned into 30 easily, but it was worth the reprimand from Maria just to be able to get extra time in his arms and peacefully have coffee together before a long day. She asked you to send Ellie to her before she left on patrol, then requested you go with her - if only for your own peace of mind, knowing she's safe. After the previous night's report of a horde of Infected lying in wait under the snow and about 30 other frozen Infected used as insulation, she felt better sending you with the two young adults.

However, during your morning chores in the stables, you were surprised to see Joel, Dina, and Jesse enter together; asking for their usual mounts as the young man leaned on the stall beside you.

You shot Joel an annoyed look, but he just sighed, "I wanted t'go with her, baby, swear; but Ellie had a long night, you know? Should let her sleep a bit."

"Joel."

"It's all right, Dina said she'd go instead."

Your head shook, "Fine, but we're having family dinner tonight - no exceptions. Y'all gotta talk this shit out, okay? The tension's drivin' me insane."

"Me too," Dina quipped with a small smirk.

"Me three," Jesse chimed in, snickering when you and Joel pinned him with looks; only yours was out of amusement and his, out of annoyance.

"Family dinner, kid," he repeated.

You chuckled with Jesse and Dina, asking the young man, "Whatcha need, bud? You goin' with them, too? We sending trios now?"

"Nah, Maria said I'm going with you and Ellie," Jesse informed, and only Dina clocked the way Joel's shoulders released from the perpetual tension they were haunched in.

"Yeah, all right, cool," you agreed with a small sniffle. "Lemme get these two up and out - I'll get our horses after."

"Baby," Joel stepped up, "let Ellie sleep a bit more."

"We'll have her up for 8 o'clock patrol," you nodded, wrapping your arms around his waist to hang off his form and for hands to squeeze your hips. "Now, what're y'all gonna do?"

"Radio in."

"How often?"

"Every 20 minutes, doll."

"And?"

"Stay safe."

"And?"

"Don't be reckless."

"And?"

"Am I forgettin' one of your rules?"

"Mhm, I literally just said it - "

"Oh! I know, I know!" Dina waved her hand in the air, grinning, "Be home in time for family dinner!"

"That's my smart girl," you praised, making the girl preen with pride.

Joel chuckled, "Yeah, sugar, we'll be back in time. Channel 7 for us, right?"

"Exactly," you breathed, sudden nerves spiking to make your face fall as your eyes swept over his face. "Listen to me, don't play hero, Joel, y'all are just scoutin' the area, all right? You get the fuck outta there if something's up, don't try t'fight."

"I know, honey."

"And bring my Dina home in one piece, please. Preferably, fully thawed and unscathed."

Joel smirked, "Always do. You stay safe, too, baby. Hey - keep an eye on my wife, kid," he directed at Jesse.

"She's the one with a quick drawl, usually saves my ass," he mused.

"Then don't need saving," Joel warned in a growl.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, that's enough," with a chuckle, you patted Joel's waist and released him. In an effort to help you all identify one another when out there, you informed, "Dina, you're on Butterscotch, Joel, I got you on Cooper. Jesse, you're gonna be on Dewey, I'll put Ellie on Bean, and I'm taking Luxor."

Dina smiled as she approached her horse, "Thanks, Y/N. We'll be back soon."

"Yeah, I'll grab Ellie and meet you at the gate," Jesse agreed.

"Oh, uh, Maria wants a word before we go - so, can you make sure Ellie sees her?"

"Yes, ma'am. Where at?"

"Uh, probably the cantina - Tommy's gonna address the people, she'll be there with Benji."

"Right. On it," he offered you his fist to bump before heading out of the stable to do whatever he needed prior to patrol.

"Hey," Joel muttered, earning your attention, "you look worried. You good, baby?"

"Yeah, just... Something in the air, I guess." You glanced at Dina a few stalls up, lowering your voice, "It's remindin' me of KC, you know? Them fuckers lying in wait underground?"

"I know, baby, me too."

"And after Ellie's report, sounds like they're evolvin'. Joel, just... Be careful out there, all right? Don't take any chances, please, and just - look, I know you're not one to run from danger, but things are different now. You don't always gotta be so brave and tough, sometimes it's for the greater good to just run."

"I'll keep Dina safe, we won't take no risks, sweetheart. Promise."

"Good," you sighed. "C'mere, besos, please."

"Lessons with Tommy payin' off, I see," he grinned with pride. "Love hearin' you talk like that, baby, does somethin' t'me."

"I know, that's why I'm learnin'," you whispered, lifting to your toes in order to press a kiss to his lips. "Love you, handsome."

"Hm," he kept you close, stealing another kiss, "love you more, sweetheart. You be careful, too. We got dinner plans."

"Exactly. Now, go on, get gone, the sooner y'all head out, sooner you'll be back, right?"

"In theory."

"Make it in practice," you snipped, smirking into one final kiss. Joel sighed and released you, turning to grab Cooper. You left Luxor on cross ties to walk the pair to the front gate; hand laced tightly with Joel's as the three of you made mindless conversation about whatever you planned for dinner. You gave Dina a leg-up into her saddle, bidding, "Stay safe, kid."

"Always am," she smiled.

"Fuckin' liar, just listen to Joel, please, c'mon," you snorted, making her laugh as you turned for your husband.

"I'll see you soon," he assured, pecking your lips before hauling himself to Cooper's saddle. You frowned and kept pace with his side, calling for the gates to open. "Love you, baby," Joel hushed as he nudged his horse forward.

"Love you," you called, keeping the nerves out of your tone; watching them through the gate as the air turned poignant. You couldn't pin point it, but something felt... Strange. Off. Odd. Unsure and disproportionate. You heard the gate guards announce their departure, watching them for only a few moments before gesturing for the door to close up.

You missed the way Joel turned in the saddle to catch the last fleeting glimpse of you before the wood cut off all sight. Dina smirked, "Dude, you're whipped."

"Got a lady like mine, you would be, too. Now, c'mon."

Ellie pinned you with an unamused glare as she and Jesse approached about an hour later, taking hold of Bean's reins while snipping, "Really? You tell Seth to fucking apologize?"

"What's that?" You blinked.

"You said Maria wanted to talk to me - it was so Seth could apologize or whatever."

"Oh. Hm..."

"You didn't know?"

"Nah, kid, Maria just told me she wanted a word before we left," you informed, letting Jesse take the reins of his horse, Dewey. "I've learned my lesson 'bout askin' stupid questions. Usually, questionin' Maria is stupid."

"Right," she sighed, watching you from her own saddle as you mounted Luxor. The three of you moved together out of Jackson's gates, hearing the guards announce the departure, and venturing into the vast, open nothingness. Ellie eyed the grey skies wearily, asking you, "Are we worrying about that?"

"Nah, should just be up in the mountains," Jesse answered for the both of you - but for an unshakeable reason, you couldn't agree.

"Fucking hope so," Ellie mused. "Ten seconds in, I already can't feel my ass."

"You get some breakfast, babe?" You asked, eyeing Ellie.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no, but I'm all right."

"Fuck that," you sighed, reaching for the saddle bag. "Here, I got, uh... It ain't much, but eggs are good protein."

"Oh..." Ellie accepted the two hard boiled eggs you produced; unwrapping the cling wrap to hand back. Supplies were few and far between, everyone saving whatever material they could for repeat use after cleaning it. "Thanks, Y/N." You nodded, nudging Luxor into a trot. "Hey, uh... You let Joel and Dina go alone?"

"'Let'?" You snorted, "C'mon, honey, you know either of them to do anything I say?"

"Joel, yes... Dina... Not so much."

You and Jesse chuckled, turning off towards Cottonwood as a harsh, bitter wind swept over the three of you. It felt like the hand of Death; doing what you could to ignore your anxiety.

Amy's radio transmission barely reached you as the blizzard had rolled over the town you trotted through. She called for all patrols to return to Jackson, but the wind, snow, and frigid temperatures prevented your escape; already a couple hours from home base. Naturally, you were the decision maker and informed Amy you'd shelter in place until the worst of the storm had passed, leading Jesse and Ellie towards one of the cleared-out garages you knew of in the ghost town.

The horses were left with a supply of hay, knowing they needed rest and fed before attempting to brave the weather back to Jackson. You were familiar with this particular area after clearing and securing it just that past fall with Jesse, the two youngsters following you at a jog for the usual convenience store patrol members had commandeered. You yanked the door open, met with the sweeping smell of stale weed and seeping snow; panting as you slammed the door and dropped your pack almost instantly.

"You good? You all right?" You checked the kids, watching Jesse nod as Ellie was stalking around the rows of growing marijuana plants.

"Am I fucking hallucinating?" She asked gleefully.

"Maybe. Do you see a 7-Eleven full of weed?" Jesse mused, trailing after you towards the radio.

"Yep."

"Then no," he sighed, kneeling before the wood stove. "Hey, Y/N?"

"Yeah, honey?" You asked, turning the radio dial with a single headphone pressed to your ear.

"Whatchu want me to do 'bout this?"

Glancing over, you tried to wrack your memory, "Nothin' viable in there?"

"Some but not much."

"Try to light what you can," you nodded. "There's spare wood in the back. With luck, it's still dry."

"All right, yeah," he panted, the cold blistering as it seeped into all bones and cracked drying skin.

"How'd you know about this place?" Ellie wondered, still admiring the stoner's paradise.

"Eugene," Jesse answered with an undertone of remorse. Ellie's face fell, recognizing the name from the many times Dina had mentioned the old man. "He was my first patrol partner. One day, he showed it to me, said he found it a year earlier when he was on a solo patrol. Swore me to secrecy. Said Maria wouldn't be supportive of his, uh, farming."

"What about you, Y/N?"

You just shrugged, "I know everything, kid. Was a young thing in the '90s, I know what's up."

Jesse snickered as Ellie went quiet; making the lad look up in curiosity only to spy her at a spare table, examining an old medallion similar to a dogtag. He asked, "You okay?"

She paused, then breathing, "Yeah."

"Y/N, you got a lighter?"

"Uh, should be one or eight around here, kid," you answered, still receiving only static over the radio.

"Right," he sniffled, rummaging around to locate one with enough lighter fluid.

He got the fire going at last as Ellie questioned, "Eugene was a Firefly?"

"Yup. Just early on, though."

"Served with Tommy," you piped up, sparing a small glance and a smirk over your shoulder before refocusing.

"He quit back in 2010," Jesse continued.

"How come?"

"He said he was tired of killing people. I think he was in Vietnam."

"Oh."

Jesse grabbed a spare blanket, handing it to Ellie and nodding at you while taking a seat before the stove. She stood from where she'd sat on the side of a cot, unwrapping the wool to drape around your shoulders for you. "Thanks, baby girl," you muttered, barely aware of the added warmth.

"Come sit by the fire," she mumbled, squeezing your shoulders before returning to her seat.

It was quiet, the two sat in contemplation. Jesse spoke with bitterness over the haunting memory, "That was a raw deal. Joel having to put Eugene down..."

"Hey," you snapped, looking at him with a fierce side-eye. "Know y'all were friends, but Joel ain't do nothin' but deliver mercy. Eugene had a fuckin' stroke, wasn't easy for anyone involved."

Jesse nodded in agreement, "Just a fuckin' shame. Guy makes it through a war, end up goin' out like that." He sighed, "What are you gonna do? Like Y/N said, couldn't be saved."

"Yeah," Ellie breathed. "Hey, Y/N? ... Y/N? ... Y/N!"

"I got it, I got it!" You cried, radio clearing for a moment. You grabbed the CB, "Joel? Joel? Come in, Joel!" You waited a moment, sliding the headphones over your ears, readjusting on your knees and trying to dial the signal into anything stronger. "Joel, come in! C'mon, baby, answer the fucking radio!" But you only earned more static. "God fuckin' damnit! Told him to check in with me on channel 7 - right, Jesse?"

"Yeah, right, every 20 minutes, ma'am," he shared a nervous look with Ellie. "Look, I'm sure they're doin' the same - sheltering in place - "

"Joel!" You tried again, growling in frustration, "This fucking storm, man, I can't get through - it's all fucking static. Joel! C'mon, come in! Joel, Dina? Hey! Someone fucking answer me! Please!" But there was no answer. "Fuck!" Your fist banged on the bulky machine.

"Try Jackson, we might be in range," advised Ellie, the cold seeping into her lungs to make her voice quake.

You sighed, changing the channel and trying again, "Jackson, come in, Jackson. This is Cottonwood, come in... Tommy? Hey, come in, Jackson! This is Cottonwood... Amy! Amy, can you hear me? Over."

"Think we're gonna be here a while," Ellie mused to Jesse.

"Yeah. Hey, Y/N. C'mon, come get warm - leave the channel open, they'll radio in when they can."

But you were switching back to channel 7, "Joel? Hey, come in Copper Mine, this is Cottonwood. Someone fucking answer me! Joel! Dina! Come in! C'mon, I need to know y'all are okay! Come in, Copper Mine! This is Cottonwood..." But the static mocked you. "Joel, it's Y/N, please, fucking answer! Come in! Joel, please! Over..." You switched back to Jackson's channel, "Jackson, this is Cottonwood. Please, someone, come in! I-I can't get ahold of Copper Mine, please, come in... Amy, Tommy, I can't get ahold of Joel, come in! This is Cottonwood, we're sheltering in place - please, answer! Over..." This continued for another hour before you were gritting your teeth and leaving the channel open, still dialing, calling over the waves every so often - hoping someone, even another patrol group, would check in. But the wind and snow fucked everyone's radio transmission.

Ellie leaned over to Jesse, muttering, "Should we pack her a bowl? Sounds like she needs it."

Jesse snickered and nudged her shoulder, Ellie grinning as she stood to begin snooping; leaving the lad to stretch out on the cot. He watched you for a little bit before slowly shutting his eyes as the wood stove soon warmed them.

"Jesse," a muffled voice leered.

"What?"

"Check it," Ellie encouraged. When you looked up from your place by the stove, finally taking refuge by the heat, you discovered Ellie wearing a refurbished gas mask with a bong attached to the mouth piece.

You couldn't help the bark of laughter, shaking your head as Jesse scoffed and looked away from the sight.

Ellie giggled, yanking the mask off, "Did he make this?"

"Yeah."

"I'm taking this with me."

"Uh, no, ma'am, you're not," your smile dropped.

"Oh, c'mon," Ellie whined.

"Listen to your mom, kid," Jesse leered in a bored tone. "You're not taking that."

Instead of correcting him that you weren't her mother (by birth), she just sighed, "Yes, I am. And as much weed as I can shove into my pack."

"Ellie," you scolded.

"You said yourself, you did this shit in the '90s."

Your eyes rolled, "It was a different time."

"I'm still taking it, if the apocalypse isn't the time to get high, I don't know when is."

"Nope," Jesse now chimed, "leave it, Ellie."

"Dude, you're gonna be in charge of Jackson one day, we all know - but that day has not yet come."

"Y/N has superiority, she said - "

But Jesse cut himself off when the radio finally fucking came to life, the static clear - but Amy's voice cutting in and out as she tried to reach your party. He watched as you scrambled to your feet, leaving the wool blanket in place on the floor, and rushed to drop before the machine; knees nearly cracking from the impact.

"Repeat, Jackson?" You called over the CB; trying to carefully enhance the signal.

"Copper Mine, do you copy?"

"Hey! Hey! This is Y/N, you're barely there... Amy? Do you copy? This is Cottonwood. Over."

You waited only a moment, finding a sweet spot to hear the distorted reply, "Y/N, have - Joel or Dina?"

"Repeat? Jackson, come in, you're breaking up! Repeat last message!" You turned the dial with tears slowly gathering out of pure nerves and anxiety.

"Have - heard - Joel or Dina?"

You pieced the message together, nervously replying as Ellie slowly approached your shoulder, "No, why?"

"They haven't checked in," Amy answered. "Are - you - Copper Mine?"

"Fuck," Ellie hissed over your shoulder.

"Amy, repeat?" You pleaded. "Amy!" But the static was back. "Amy, come back!" You released the transmission to growl, "Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck!" Trying again, you begged, "Amy!"

But there was no answer, making you climb to your feet. "Woah, hey, Y/N! Y/N, wait!" Jesse yelped as you snatched your pack from the ground and rushed around the hideout. Ellie was on your tail.

"We're not far from Copper Mine, let's fucking go! We can't leave them out there like this! C'mon!" You barked, hearing him sigh and follow swiftly without protest. Ellie and Jesse followed you out the door, sprinting towards the garage and yanking the nearly iced-closed door up.

"Y/N, hang on a second - "

You snarled, "Fuck that! My husband's out there, Jesse, I'm goin' after them! We don't know how far they got, but they're not back home and they're not radioing in!"

"I know," he agreed as you and Ellie reached for your horses. "Look, the route's an oval around the mine. We gotta split up and come at it from both sides. Northwest and northeast. You two go together, we meet up in the middle."

"We'll take northeast," Ellie agreed, trio leading the horses towards the open door. "How much time do you think we have?"

"Go, c'mon," you directed them, Luxor trained enough to stand as you gave Ellie a leg-up. Jesse was mounting on his own as you answered her question, "If the wind holds steady, maybe 20 minutes."

"You gotta get to the mine by then," Jesse picked up, his authority ringing clear, "Ellie, Y/N, whether you find them or not."

"Yeah, you fucking too, Jesse," Ellie snarled, spurring her horse into the blizzard.

"Go! And be careful!" You demanded, smacking Dewey on the flank to send him and Jesse into the storm. You paused only to pull the garage door back down, Luxor already walking forward; making you jog to keep pace and hop to catch the stirrup. He was breaking into a canter by the time you were seated, spurring the ebony mount after Ellie and Bean as Jesse was cutting to the side.

"Y/N!" Ellie hollered over the wind.

"I'm right here, baby!" You cried, eyes squinted in the stinging, whipping, frigid air. "Don't stop, don't stop, I'm here, just go! C'mon! Stay with me, Ellie! C'mon, cut this way!" You directed Luxor, hearing Bean change direction after you. "We don't stop!" After several minutes, you checked, "Baby girl? You still with me?"

"I'm here!" She called from behind you.

"Keep going!"

"Y/N! The fucking snow - it's too thick! I can't see shit!"

"Don't fucking stop, we'll make it! Just stay with me, baby, c'mon, let's go! We're all right, we gotta make it!" By a stroke of pure luck, you heard a chatter over your radio. "HOLD!" You cried to Ellie, Luxor whinnying in protest as you skidded to a slippery halt; wrangling your hand radio from your belt. In time, you heard Joel, "Y/N? Y/N, come in! C'mon, baby, fucking answer me!"

"Joel!?"

"Y/N!"

"Joel, Joel, I-I copy! I copy!"

"Good t'hear your voice, baby."

"Where the fuck are you!?" You cried, Ellie looking relieved for a split moment before light static was heard instead of his deep, Southern accent. Yet... Something told you this wasn't just silence, but something else. Something worrisome. "Joel? Joel! No, no, no, come back! Joel! Answer me! JOEL!"

"The storm!" Ellie reminded.

"It's not the fucking storm," you panted, confusion marring your usually pleasant expression. You tried again, "Joel, come in! Do you copy!? Joel, please! Baby, fucking ANSWER me!"

Unknown to you, Joel heard your desperate pleas but couldn't answer as Abby and her mini militia had taken a frostbitten Dina hostage; gun to her temple, semi-automatic pointed at him in threat.

"Joel, where are you? Where are you, Joel, fucking come in!" You begged, shaking your head at Ellie as the silence was deafening; own automatic rifle suddenly burning into where it was latched to your saddle, pressing to your thigh. "Fuck! We keep moving - "

"Where?"

"North, c'mon, there's better signal outta the fucking trees. Let's go, baby, keep up!"

"Go! I'm right behind you!"

As a last ditch effort, you held the reins in one hand as the other radioed, "Joel, where the fuck are you!? Please!" You prayed the further north you got, the better signal. "Come in! Baby, please, please, we're fucking worried! Come in, please! JOEL! For fuck's sake!" No response, but you found something in the snow... Tracks. "Ellie! Ellie, follow the tracks - don't lose 'em! They're still fresh!"

You galloped forward, still trying in vain to reach Joel; who was wailing in pain as Abby bludgeoned his blown-out knee to the sounds of your frantic cries of his name. It was almost as if you could sense what was happening, wanting to be there with him in his end Abby promised to bring.

"Y/N, LOOK!" Ellie called, pulling her horse to a rearing-halt, eyes in the distance from mid-hill you climbed. "FUCKING STOP AND LOOK!"

"Ellie, we don't got time! The snow's gonna cover - "

"LOOK!"

You yanked Luxor to another halt, whipping him around towards Ellie - but seeing where she pointed. Through the valley, you could make out the sight of Jackson from miles away, mouth agape to gasp, "Oh, my fucking God."

"What the hell is that?"

You blinked back tears, "J-Jackson. Fuck, the Infected, they must've found 'em."

"Wh-What do we do? What the hell do we do, Y/N?" You had to think fast, fear seizing hold of your heart. "Do we go back? Or move on?"

You sniffled, "Tommy's got Jackson - that's the fire, see? We... We move on! We find Joel and Dina, these have gotta be their tracks, baby, we're so close now. We can't stop."

"Y/N..."

"You go back if you want! Back to the fucking 7-Eleven, but I'm not leaving without Joel! Are you with me?"

"What if they're not alone?"

"Then I fucking pray for those stupid fucking souls," you snarled, both hoods drawn in the thick, blinding flurries. "Now are you with me, baby girl?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fucking with you. Let's go."

You spurred Luxor around and followed the fading-fast tracks left in the blanket of crunchy snow. After several yards, you called, "C'mon, keep pace with me, Ellie - don't tire them out too bad, we gotta make the trip home!"

"I'm right here!"

Up the hill, you let Luxor and Bean canter at their set, desired pace; taking your own advice not to tire them too greatly. As you got up to a semi-even outcrop, you saw something over the treetops. "Ellie? Ellie, you see that?"

"What the fuck? What's up here?"

"Lodges? Ski resorts?" You guessed, encouraging Luxor faster.

"Y/N, there! There, look!" Ellie gasped, horses snorting with exertion when you halted once more. "Is that...?"

"Cooper and Butterscotch," you breathed. "Joel and Dina must've taken shelter - c'mon!"

"Why're they here? Copper Mine's back down - "

"I don't fucking care why, Ellie, they're here!" Realizing your tone and how it made the nervous girl frown, you apologized, "I-I'm sorry, baby girl, I'm just - I don't know what's going on. Okay? Something ain't right. Now, c'mon, please, Ellie, c'mon." You eyed the building, an old ski lodge some richie-rich must've owned before the Outbreak. "Hey, hey," you hushed, coming to another halt behind the tethered horses, hand held up with warning, "you see anythin'? Any movement?"

"No?"

"The windows, Ellie. C'mon, honey, use them young eyes for me."

She squinted in the sideways snow, but the reflective windows didn't show anything inside, no movement; making her head shake. "N-Nothing, I don't see anything."

"That's not exactly a good thing," you noted. "Dismount, we go on foot."

"What's the plan, Y/N?"

Your boots crunched into the snow, quickly binding Luxor's reins to the broken-down privacy fence surrounding the lodge's perimeter. Your breath came out in a puff of air, telling her as she followed your actions, "We go in smart. Check the first floor, we move up," you unlatched your rifle from the saddle. "We don't know what the fuck's inside. Don't shoot any movement on sight, we don't know where Joel and Dina are."

"Should you try the radio again?"

You gazed up at the windows, something sickly bubbling in your gut, "No... No, we go in - what if... What if?"

"There's Infected? Joel's got it - "

"C'mon," you worried, nodding at her after you, "I'm not willing to fucking wait."

"Right," she hurried after you.

"Quiet, quiet, quiet, shhh-hh-hhhh" you hushed, racking your rifle in favor of your handgun; reaching for the still in-tact door. It opened easily as if recently accessed, Ellie stepping silently inside after you and catching the door before it slammed shut. You nodded in praise, side-stepping over yourself as the ground floor appeared as just abandoned construction.

Ellie grabbed your sleeve, your worried eyes turning to her, but she silently pointed up towards the ceiling. You tuned in, hearing muffled thumping and feeling all air deflate from your pinched lungs. Worried that it wasn't the usual erratic sound of a feasting Infected, thinking it sounded too timed and planned, you looked back to Ellie - intent to whisper a plan - but she was surging ahead of you.

"Ellie! Stay together! Ellie! Don't!" You hissed, huffing as she disappeared around a corner as the sounds of distant screaming seeped from the floor above you. "Fuck's sake. I'm gettin' too old for this fuckin' shit." You peaked around the immediate corners, not finding any signs of life - but flinching when a gunshot echoed in the space around you. Taking cover, you realized the sounds were coming from up the stairs, gasping in worry for your adopted daughter, "Ellie!" To yourself, you hissed, "Fuckin' told you to stay together, fuck!"

The sounds of a squabble grew louder, Ellie's snarls ringing clear as you swiped the safety off. You followed her wet footprints, discovering an open door leading into the lodge's expansive living room - or perhaps, just one of them. You ducked when movement rushed in a flurry, catching sight of Ellie being wrangled to the ground; a stranger kneeling on her back. However, the worst sight was just beyond; before the vast windows showcasing Jackson's demise, one of the unknown forms moved aside to reveal your husband limp on the ground... Bloodied face seemingly staring out at you. His finger twitched, breathing staggered - and when his lips tugged, knew he saw you. Knew you'd always come for him. Even in a fucking blizzard, even when so worryingly outnumbered... But Joel wouldn't bet against you, no matter the circumstance.

He was overturned on his chest, blood pooling under him, immobile from his shattered leg, and there were at least four - no, no, five, you counted five - bodies inside. You barely remembered protocol, feeling something white-hot and feral burst in your chest upon hearing Ellie struggling and crying. Eyes cast back over Joel and you lifted your gun...

"JOEL!" Ellie screamed from the floor, whose fingers twitched with minimal recognition. "Joel! Joel! Joel, get up! Joel, FUCKING GET UP!"

However, one man roared at her, "Stupid fucking bitch!"

"No! No!" Two men struggled inside, distracting the others.

"Fuck you!" The man with a thin upper lip mustache shoved his companion aside. "The bitch fucking cut me!" You smirked in fleeting pride, amusement dropping when he stomped up to Ellie and swiftly kicked her in the ribs; causing her to choke on the air stolen from her lungs. You flinched at the sound of her cracking rib; Joel's eyes locked on you. The stranger lifted his foot again as if to stomp on her, but his friend - with sandy locks - intercepted him and shoved him back several feet. "I'll fucking kill her!"

"She ain't who we want!"

They all - minus Joel - missed the way you silently stepped in. A hunter, a solider, a mother and wife dead set on protecting her loved ones. You aimed at the most obvious threat after a handgun flashed in one of the men's hands as if to aim at Ellie.

You were well-aware of the dire situation but took a steadying breath and squeezed the trigger, bullet piercing directly through the back of the dark sandy-blonde head; sending a splatter of blood over the ebony haired man's face. "One," you counted.

There was no time as the man looked up at your voice; barrel aimed at him, trigger sounding in a boom. "Two," you counted.

From the shock of your appearance, Ellie managed to wriggle away from woman pinning her to the ground as your sight turned to the other two women across the room. When one lifted from her seat near the fireplace, eyes wide and a plead on her lips, your gun popped off another bullet despite her hands held in defense; catching her in the chest, sending the young girl to her back, choking on her own blood. "Three," you counted.

"MOM!" Ellie screamed, her having been disarmed as the girl with a bald head proved equal strength. Plus, with her ribs, Ellie wasn't much of a fight anyways.

You didn't need to think, gun turning towards her. "Get the fuck off my daughter, bitch," you snarled, the girl with a septum ring's eyes widening at the sight of your angry threat. Another bullet fired, piercing directly between her eyes. "Four," you counted, turning to the last assailant. She was on her feet, handgun pointed at you; but her hands trembled as Ellie scrambled for her gun then found her feet. You sidestepped in front of her, "No, no, all eyes on me. Joel? Joel? Hey, you alive? C'mon! Fuckin' show us you're alive! JOEL! If you're dead, I swear to God - "

He whimpered; relief flooding your system.

"Who the fuck are you?" The girl in a long-sleeve, grey Henley demanded; trying to step around Joel's legs to get a clear shot of Ellie - but you moved with her.

"Aht, aht! Stay right there, don't move." She narrowed her eyes as you asked, "Ellie? With me, baby girl?"

"I'm - I'm here," she wheezed, laying a single hand to your waist.

"You hurt?"

"Yeah," she whispered.

"Hm," you growled, fingering the trigger.

"I asked, who the fuck are you!?" Abby roared, her desperation making her raw and unpredictable. You didn't want to rock this boat too much, not when the threat to your family was alive and real.

"Lookit, darlin', I don't think you're in the position to ask any questions," you warned. "Now... Step away from him. Nice and slow, please. I'm askin' you nicely - "

"No!" She snarled, gun turning to the back of Joel's head; heart leaping to your throat. "You take one step, either of you make a fucking move, and I'll blow his fucking brains out."

"And I'll blow yours," you warned evenly.

"Doesn't matter," she seethed, "'cause I would've done what I came here to do."

"Oh, yeah? What's that? Kill an old man?"

She chuckled ruefully, "Exactly that."

"You wanna tell me why? C'mon, now. I don't wanna have to shoot you, kid, got a real long life ahead of you." When her hands shook with more definition, you snapped, "Hey! Hey! Eyes on me! Back the fuck away from him right now and maybe I'll let you live."

The room's occupants knew it was a boldfaced lie.

Abby panted, quickly glancing around the dead bodies that fell by your hand; giving you a single moment to note the shattered golf club left to the side of Joel, then to the state of him. It didn't take a rocket scientist to piece together what she'd done. "Y-You killed them," she whispered, glare turned back to you; tears in her eyes, upper lip snarled. "You killed them! Mel wasn't armed and you fucking shot her, you bitch!"

"Bet your ass, I did. Didn't even hesitate, now, did I? Y'all were hurtin' my husband."

"'Husband'?" She repeated, scoffing. "Of fucking course. You're who was on the radio, weren't you?"

"That's right. Now... I'll tell you only one more time. Back. The fuck. Away from him. Now, please, I ain't known for my patience!"

"Just fucking shoot her, Y/N!"

"No, Ellie," you growled, aim narrowing. She sobbed behind you, protected by your body; only able to look between the stranger and her adopted father.

"She did that to Joel! FUCKING LOOK AT HIM!"

"I know, I got eyes t'see, honey, but she's just a kid - like you, Ellie," you didn't shift your gaze from the bitch with a braid; knowing no matter what, she was going to die today. By your hand or Ellie's, you didn't know - nor care. You continued, "Tell me why, darlin'. Why're you doin' this? Huh? The fuck could he've done? Hey? C'mon, now! Answer me!"

"It doesn't fucking matter why, Y/N!"

But you were trying to play for time, well aware of the gun pointed at Joel that would only take a fraction of a second to fire, not a whole lot of pressure needed to trigger the bullet. There was a good chance that if you opened fire, she could easily take Joel out; the exact opposite of what you were trying to accomplish. You needed a fleeting opening, anything; just a single moment - a nanosecond - to make your move without jeopardizing Joel's life. Or Ellie's. Or yours, for that matter.

"It matters, Ellie!" You barked. "She's got a reason, I wanna hear it. C'mon, darlin', tell me why! Why're you doin' this?"

"He's a fucking monster," she trembled.

"All right, good, that's a start. What'd he do? Huh?"

"Does it matter?! You're both coldblooded murderers, you don't need any reason!"

"You got a point, yeah. But you obviously got your own. Tell me what that is."

Abby took an unsteady breath in, shaking her head as tears leaked in pathetic trails down her ruddy cheeks. "He killed him..."

"Who?"

"My father - he killed my father and 18 soldiers!"

You breathed, "Oh, yeah? When?"

"Five years ago," she grit her teeth. "In Salt Lake!"

"The hospital?"

She seethed, "He was an unarmed doctor! Shot dead like a fucking animal!"

Her gun straightened at Joel, making you chant, "Hey, hey, hey, yeah, yeah, I remember that, I remember. But you're negating from the fact that they had our daughter." Abby's eyes shifted over to Ellie behind your shoulder. "Hey, eyes on me! Look, I fucking promise you, kid, it wasn't in cold blood - we had real good reason. You with them? You a Firefly?"

"They're all gone, you dumb bitch! Didn't you hear?"

"You all that's left?"

"No," she seethed, "there's more of us... Many more in Seattle, but your little family won't get a chance to see them."

"Sound real certain of that."

Joel groaned from the bloody floor as if trying to call for you. Abby snarled, "I'm the one with a gun to your husband, remember? You fucking blind!?"

"Oh, I'm aware, darlin'. But I don't think you're gonna kill him."

"Why the fuck not? You just killed my friends!"

"'Cause he ain't who you want."

"Oh, yeah?" She scoffed.

"We left them nurses alive, I bet they're who told you 'bout us. Right? Am I right?" Abby's jaw steeled, only inclining her head in confirmation. "Yeah, that's right. You came all the way here from Seattle on a mission to kill him. But here's the thing, darlin', Joel ain't kill your daddy."

"I know he did!"

"He didn't pull the trigger! Your witnesses got it wrong, but that's okay - happens during fits of panic. They don't see the whole picture."

"He shot my father in the head! Like he was nothing! Stepped over him like he wasn't even there and walked out the fucking door! Why shouldn't I do the same!?"

"No, darlin'," you smirked, seeing the rage building in her eyes. Good. It's what you wanted - needed. "No, see, Joel didn't fire the kill shot. I did."

"You?"

"Me," you agreed, chuckling - hoping to blind her with anger from your amusement. "Yeah, I shot your daddy - and just like your li'l friends, I ain't hesitate then, neither. What? You look shocked... You surprised I had the gull to do it? I'll tell you somethin' else, darlin', I didn't even look at him - " Abby cracked with a sob and it was the opening you needed. "C'mon, darlin', take your best shot. Or would you prefer I just shoot you now? Can reunite you with dearest daddy real easy."

The girl laughed, arm shifting a fraction as if debating turning her gun on you, "Like you could make the fucking shot, you old hag - "

Your gun recoiled slightly from being fired, striking Abby in the head; and you counted, "Five." Quickly, you shoved the weapon into the holster on your hip, sprinting across the room to where Joel was somehow still breathing. "Hey, hey, hey, baby, hey," you slid on your knees, Ellie charging in a limp after you, "you still with us? Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. C'mon, Joel! Gotta hang on for me, all right? I-I know you endured so much, baby, but hang on a little longer. Please!"

He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, making you heave a whimper. "Joel? Joel," Ellie sniffled from her knees at your side, "hey, y-you gotta get up. C'mon, get up - "

"No, no, not yet," you prevented, nodding to the shattered golf club. "Took a fuckin' beatin', Ellie, probably has internal bleedin'. We move him, might make it worse."

"Well, what the fuck do we do, Y/N!?"

"We do nothing - you probably got broken ribs, baby. Fuck," you breathed, looking around the room - something catching your attention. "All right, all right - shit, hang on, stay with him."

"Y/N?" Ellie worried as you found your feet; but her eyes drifted to the movement on the floor. The unarmed girl, Mel, was trying to army crawl through her own blood, sobbing when you stood over her.

"Hey!" You barked, flipping her onto her back, demanding, "Y'all brought med supplies? Right? RIGHT!?"

"Fuck you," she spat.

"You tell me true, doll, I'll help yah."

"Y-You - bitch."

"All right, I'll find it myself," you scoffed, gun back in hand, aiming at her forehead, and firing once. "What were you? Four? No, no, three."

"Y/N!" Ellie sobbed, "He's got a fever!"

"Hang on, Ellie, I got it," you rushed, kneeling at one of the packs - noting the embroidered wolf. There was no questioning it, overturning the pack and rummaging through the contents. Not finding what you needed, you did the same to a second pack; then a third, gasping when it was full of medical supplies. You shifted through it before noting another body in the room right next door. "Shit - Ellie!?"

"What?" She sobbed over Joel.

"Got another body!" It was quiet as you stood with your gun in hand again, aimed at the body before dropping it. "Oh, fuck! It's Dina!"

"WHAT?"

You knelt at her side, checking her pulse and sighing with relief. "S-She's alive! Just knocked out. I got her!" Holstering your gun once more, you grunted and took hold of her wrists to tug the girl into the main room. "All right, honey, just - fuck, stay there, be back for yah." You returned to the medical supplies, tears leaking without consent. "Ellie, here - catch!" Using the hardwood floor to your advantage, you slid supplies her way; not bothering to check if she caught them all or not.

"What do I do?" Ellie whimpered.

"Get over here and check Dina, I got Joel," you scampered across the floor; pair of you switching places. "Hey, hey, do me a favor - get on the radio, get ahold of fucking anyone. You hear me? Use channel 7 to try to get Jesse..." You prayed the lad was smart enough to tune in on the private channel you and Joel used after separating. "All right, all right," you sniffled, caressing your husband's bloody cheek, "baby, hey, hey, can you hear me? Just - Just squeeze my hand, honey, c'mon." When his broken hand squeezed yours, making you sigh, "All right, good, hey, you're - you're gonna be all right. I gotcha, baby, just, um, just hang on for me. Okay? Can you do that?" He squeezed again. "Good boy."

Perhaps his lips twitched in amusement, perhaps not. You didn't notice either way, sorting the supplies - discovering a half-used vial of milky white substance.

"Fucking Propofol? The fuck they doin' with this?" You muttered to yourself, finding a clean needle and drawing it into the syringe.

"What're you doing?" Ellie sobbed, "Y/N? What is that?"

"Tryna save him, Ellie! Radio in! C'mon, baby, I know you're scared - I know that was fucking scary. But I need you to be brave for me right now, Ellie, please. Okay? I need fucking help! Get on the airwaves, all right? Radio anybody!"

"Right, okay, yeah," she sniffled, doing as you told from Dina's side. "Jackson? Jackson, come in!" But there was no answer. So, she switched channels, "Jesse!? Jesse, please, it's Ellie - "

"Ellie? Ellie!"

"Jesse!"

"Where are you!?"

"A-At a lodge! Some lodge, halfway up the mountain! We found Joel and Dina, but w-w-we need help! Like, fucking now!"

"I'm five out!"

You whispered, "I'm so sorry, Joel, I gotta turn you over, okay? I gotta see..." Biting your tongue, you braced Joel and turned him over, whimpering when he hollered in unfiltered pain. "Oh, I know, I know, I know, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, I know, baby, I know, but I gotta see." You quickly shed your outer coat and bundled it under his head, "You're gonna be okay, hear me? You just gotta hang on f'me, I'm gonna fix this. I'm so sorry, I know," you repeated as you were forced to shred his shirt and reveal the blackening marks on his torso; some turning sickly blue, indicating the internal damage. "Fuck! Okay, okay, all right... I-I can fix this, fuck me, how do I fix this?"

"Y-Y-Y/N..."

"I know, Joel, okay? I know - "

"Go," he croaked, "gotta leave me."

"Fat fucking chance," you snarled.

"'M not makin' it," he whispered, "but you still can."

"I'm not leaving you! You're gonna be okay, I'm gonna fix this!"

"Go, baby," he wheezed, delirium setting in, "take... Take care... Of-of our girl..."

"Fuck that, we're both gonna do that. You understand? Joel, you stay alive! El-Ellie? Hey, h-how's Dina?"

"Waking up, I think."

"Good - hey, here, here," you snatched up a canister and slid it across the floor. "Wave that under her nose, babe, it's smelling salts. Might help her come-to faster."

"Okay, yeah," Ellie sniffled, doing as you bid.

"All right, hey, I-I can't do shit for Joel here - we gotta get him back to Jackson!"

"How?"

"Shit," you sniffled, shaking your head, "I-I don't know. His leg, okay, I can - I can splint his leg - oh, fuck me."

"What?"

You examined the wound between tattered bits of denim, "Looks like they blew his fucking knee out with a shotgun, Goddamnit." Ellie whimpered as you scanned the room, movement in the snow through the window catching your attention. "Jesse's here - "

"What do we do?"

"We need help," you nodded, "yeah, yeah, so... We're gonna send Jesse back to Jackson for aid."

"What about us?"

"We stay here - keep Joel warm. Remember? After the university?"

"Yeah," sniffled Ellie. "Y-Y/N, I can't lose him."

"Me neither, baby, so we're gonna help him, right?"

"Do you know how?"

"I'm workin' on it," you whispered, looking around the room.

"Y/N!? ELLIE!?"

"UP HERE!" You bellowed through the open door, stumbling to your feet. With a grunt, you smashed a wooden chair to the ground; shattering it to pieces and collecting viable planks of wood. "Okay, okay, okay," you rambled, returning to Joel's side, "hey, Joel, baby, I-I gotta splint your leg. Okay? Oh, this is gonna fucking hurt, I'm so sorry."

"Y/N," he whispered hoarsely, "don't. Just... Go..."

You glared and shook your head, knowing your next move was a risky one. "Fuck that, you and I go out together. All right, I got an idea. Gonna put you to sleep, honey, but it'll be okay. Hear me?" You hovered over his swollen, bleeding face, "You're gonna be okay, I promise, you'll wake up. Just gotta get you outta pain - then we'll get you home. Okay?"

"Baby," he slurred, "please."

"Oh, I know, sweetheart, I know, but just trust me." Joel's hand twitched and you snatched it in yours, lifting to your lips and pressed a series of kisses to it. "Please, Joel, I need you to fucking survive. You don't get to leave me, I-I need you. Hear me? Okay? Just trust me, I'm gonna get you help. Endure and Survive, right? Remember? Endure and Survive, Joel!"

He nodded as best he could, eyes fluttering as Jesse came sprinting into the room. "Holy... Shit..." He paused to take in the sight of fresh carnage. "What the fuck happened?"

Ellie sobbed over Dina, who was finally waking; and you were pressing the needle to Joel's vein and administering the anesthesia. "You're gonna be okay, baby, I promise, I swear, can't leave me - not like this. You're gonna wake up," you whispered to him, watching as his eyes fully shut and he went slack with slumber. "Jesse! Get over here, man, I need help!"

"What the fuck happened?" He repeated, jogging across the floor while dropping his pack - shoes squeaking in halt when he caught sight of Joel's injuries. "Oh, my fucking God - "

"Help me splint his leg, please! Fuckin' please! C'mon, we don't have time!"

"Right, okay."

Together, you and Jesse constructed a splint out of the chair debris and a torn sheet from the other room. You knotted it where you could, watching Joel's face for signs of pain - but he didn't twitch, only breathed shallowly. Your eyes met the lad's and admitted, "I-I don't know what to do next. How do we get him back to Jackson, Jesse, please?"

"We ride like hell," Jesse answered.

"He shouldn't be upright and bouncing around!"

"We got another choice? I can ride back, but time's workin' against him. We could try to build a sled, but - "

"We search the house first and if there's nothing, he rides with me. Luxor and I are fastest."

"There we go," he agreed, already rocketing to his feet.

"Ellie! Watch them!" You commanded as you and Jesse set out to ransack the lodge for anything that you might use to tote Joel. By stroke of fucking luck, in the basement, you found what the previous owner's kids must've used to skate down the icy hillside; figuring it was good enough to use now. After locating Jesse, the pair of you assembled the shed and tug ropes behind Luxor and used found pillows and blankets to line it; then rushing back inside.

"We can both get him down the stairs," Jesse panted.

"We're gonna have to."

"I can help," Ellie stood, Dina leaning against the wall as she regained her strength.

"Fuck it," you breathed, waving her towards Joel, "let's go!"

It wasn't easy; Joel being a grown man of pure muscle and the three of you with only minimal strength. Yet your adrenaline made you feel like Bruce Banner; letting Ellie support his shattered, shot leg out straight as you and Jesse upheld his torso. Down the stairs and out the door, you drug Joel into the sled and immediately covered him with the blankets as Jesse went back for Dina. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough - forced to leave Joel to help Ellie into Dewey's saddle.

"Wait, wait, wait - "

"Please, Ellie, don't fucking fight me, you're injured, baby, you ride with Jesse. Dina'll be all right, I promise - but we gotta go. Now, okay? Before the blizzard kicks up again."

Ellie nodded through her tears as the other two finally made it back. You explained to Jesse the plan and helped Dina into Butterscotch's saddle, ensuring her balance before telling them to get going. Leaving everything else behind including five corpses, you checked on Joel to make sure he was still breathing; kissing his forehead and muttering promises and apologies as you took your place at Luxor's side.

With a heavy sniffle, you begged the horse, "Don't fail me now, buddy, we gotta save him. C'mon - nice and easy, right? Together... Let's go."

You navigated the mountain on foot, keeping Luxor at an even pace while simultaneously ensuring Joel didn't slide away or topple over. It was frustrating to go so slow, but necessary; and the moment you were on level ground, doubled back to cover Joel's head before hoisting yourself into the saddle and spurred Luxor forward.

Snow was kicked up over Joel, but you had wrapped him tightly for protection; soon passing Jesse, Ellie, and Dina to gallop for the smoking town in the distance.

With shot nerves, you navigated through the makeshift hospital of Jackson; steaming mug of coffee in hand as your feet shuffled down the hall to the last door on the right. A voice called your name, making you pause and look back to spy Jesse approaching you with three wrapped plates stacked on top of one another.

"What's that?"

"Figured y'all hadn't eaten today," he eased.

"Hm."

"You all right?"

"Yeah, just fucking dandy, honey. You?"

Jesse frowned, "How's Joel?"

"Still asleep."

"You know, it's been two weeks..."

"What's your fucking point?"

"That you need a decent night's sleep - Ellie and Dina, too."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead, kid, thanks."

Jesse frowned, "We're just worried about'cha."

"Yeah? Well, I'm worried I killed my fucking husband 'cause he won't wake up. Guess we're all worried, huh?"

"Y/N," he sighed. "You haven't left his room since we got back. You can't just stop taking care of yourself, Joel's gonna need yah to help him - gotta have your strength."

"I'm fine."

"That why you look like fucking shit?"

"Don't push me, kid."

Jesse sighed, "Fine, but you gotta eat."

"I'm good," you held up your mug.

"Can't sustain yourself on fucking coffee. C'mon, I brought you all a plate."

"That's real nice of yah, thank you," you accepted the balanced to-go plates in your one hand; leaning them to your chest to keep hold.

"Just... Take it easy on yourself, okay? There's no way you could've known this would happen - "

"That's the thing, Jesse," you warbled softly, "I knew. He was beat t'hell, I knew the Propofol might've been too much, that he might not wake up... But the worst part? I promised him he would. I fucking lied to my husband and killed him in the same breath - "

"He's still breathing," Jesse snapped.

"Fine, then I put him in a coma. That better?"

Before he could retort, the last door on the right ripped open and Dina came toppling out, shouting your name. When she saw you just feet away, she sobbed, "He's awake!"

Three full plates and a mug of coffee shattered on the ground as you nearly tripped over yourself to race into the room. Inside, there was a single bed with a plethora of different machines all whirling and beeping obnoxiously; but there was Ellie, sat bedside, sobbing into Joel's tubed chest. "Hey, hey, hey, what's - "

"He's awake! Y/N, he's awake!" She wailed, forcing herself to lift up and reveal Joel's alert face.

"Holy shit," you heaved, eyes wide and chest hollow. "J-Joel?"

"Hey, baby," he croaked, wincing at the dryness of his throat.

In earnest shock, not even noticing Dina and Jesse behind you, your breathing turned choppy, "Oh, my God, Joel! Y-You're awake, Jesus fucking Christ!"

"C'mere," he mumbled, lips sticking together as Ellie removed herself as if to make room for you.

"No, no, uh," you sniffled, gesturing at Ellie, "you stay put, baby girl, I-I-I'll be right back."

"Where're you going?"

"To find Tommy," you backed up two steps; chest heavy and ready to cave in.

"I can do that - "

"I got it, kid, y'all keep him company f'me," you assured Dina, tears streaming as you stumbled out of the room.

"Hey!" Jesse followed you into the hall, door slamming shut. "Hey, Y/N! What the fuck was that?" But Jesse slowed when you collapsed into the wall, using it to keep upright as you tried to keep walking forward; slowly tripping over your feet and crashing to still-bruised knees. "Oh, my God, hey, Y/N. Hey, hey, hey, what's goin' on? You okay?" He worried, lowering to the floor. Noting the way your chest heaved up and down and how your breathing was rapidly shrill, he calmed, "You're okay, Y/N, hey, just breathe. You're panicking, you just - just focus on breathing. Hey, you're okay, you're not alone."

"H-He's alive," you managed breathed gasps. "He's alive, he's alive, he's alive. I-I didn't - he woke up, I ain't kill him."

"No, you didn't," Jesse chuckled in disbelief. "You saved his life, Y/N, just breathe. You're okay."

"I-I - "

"No, I know, but you just need to breathe f'me." You nodded and watched him, following his direction as he breathed with you - in and out, in and out, in and out. "All right, good, that's real good - just breathe with me. Good girl, c'mon, in, two, three, four; and out, two, three, four; in, two, three..."

The door opened again, Dina peaking out to discover the sight; catching Jesse's eye. He nodded with meaning, making the girl double back to grab Ellie; leaving you on the floor with the young man instructing your breathing. When the two girls exited, Ellie worriedly rushed for your side, questioning your name as she knelt, "What's happening? What's wrong? Are you okay? Hey! Oh, my God, talk to me, Ma!"

"She's having a panic attack," Jesse relaid, not commenting on her referal to you as something remotely motherly. "She's all right. Good, Y/N, that's real good - just breathe. Hey, look at me, look at me," he waited until your eyes lifted, "you're okay, I swear to you. Joel's alive, he's okay, he's awake - you didn't kill him, didn't put him in a coma. So, c'mon... You head back in, okay? Go see your husband, I'll get Tommy."

You sniffled and nodded, Ellie remaining in place as Jesse slowly got to his feet. "We got her," Dina assured, finally making him turn to head off. "Y/N? Hey," she squatted before you, "Joel's askin' for yah. Wanna head back in?"

"Yeah, yeah," you rambled, "I-I - yeah, ne-need t'see him. Need t'see him alive. J-Just needed - just needed a second. 'M sorry - "

"No, it's okay, you're good," nodded Ellie, "think you can stand?"

"Mhm."

"C'mon, I gotcha," she hushed, taking up your arm to help you clamber up the wall on trembling legs. "You okay?"

"Mhm."

"Right," she sighed. "Hey, c'mon, let's go in, he wants yah... I'm right here with you, I'm right here. We're all okay... You, me, Joel, Dina, we're okay, Ma, we're all okay - all alive."

"Y-You...?" Your eyes widened, holding onto her arms tightly for support. "Did you call me...? An-And back at the lodge, you did then, too, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah," Ellie shrugged as Dina giggled behind her hand, "I mean, is that okay? I don't have to call you - "

"No, no, no. It's so fucking okay, baby girl, good God," you gasped, yanking her into your embrace. In her ear, you sniffled, "I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just - I didn't know you felt okay with that - "

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it, or, uh, I-I guess, felt ready to say it."

"Gonna call Joel 'Dad' now or somethin'?"

"Woah, woah, woah," she chuckled, gazing up at you in wonder and gently reaching out to wipe your tear tracks as she's seen your husband do, "one step at a time. All right? Gotta see Joel first, everything else second. C'mon, now you just gotta put one foot in front of the other..." She encouraged you away from the wall, "There you go, you're okay. Now, deep breath... You good?"

"I'm okay."

"Good, all right. I got you, just... Open the door..."

As you reentered the room, Ellie and Dina hung back to allow your reunion to occur in privacy. You didn't notice, preoccupied by the sight before you; Joel awake and seemingly alert, his lips pulled on one side in a smirk. Despite the healing disfigurement, he was still the handsome, rugged, inherently and fiercely protective guy you married all them years ago. You hated the sight, but felt overwhelming relief he was awake, aware, looking at you with love, adoration, impression.

"Hey, there she is," he rumbled in greeting, haggard voice making you snap out of it to snatch up the cup of water on his bedside stand. "Where'd you - "

"No, no, hey, don't," you whimpered, bringing the lip of the cup to him, one hand around the base of his head, "just drink first, Joel, please."

Joel's gaze didn't tear from you as he accepted the water, choking minimally from the action he hadn't done by himself in two+ weeks. You determined what was enough, lowering the cup but keeping your one hand on the back of his head; twisting to set the cup aside before quietly turning back to him. "C'mere, baby," he whispered, casted hand twitching to pat his fingers beside him with indication. When your mouth opened to protest, he begged, "Y/N, please." So, you eased down beside him softly, careful not to jostle his injuries - but forced to take in the sight of his slowly-healing face. "Why'd you run? Not happy t'see me?"

Shaking your head, you admitted, "On the contrary, so Goddamn happy and relieved, I panicked for a second."

"Why?"

You sniffled, the tears cold against your dry cheeks, "Thought you weren't gonna... I mean, you were... Baby, I did this. I-I'm so sorry - "

"The fuck you mean? You saved me, sugar."

"No, you weren't waking up - I-I put you in a fucking coma - "

"That wasn't you."

"I took a risk with the anesthesia. I knew your injuries might've been too much, that too much damage was done and if I put you t'sleep, and you might not wake up, b-but I just - you were in so much pain and we had to get you back if you - "

"Hey, hey, hey," his fingers hooked around yours in an effort to take your hand. "Baby... You saved me. Ellie and Dina told me all what happened."

"They shouldn't've."

"I asked."

You sighed, shaking your head, "Joel, I..."

"Talk to me, baby, please."

Meeting his eyes again, you whimpered, "I didn't think you were gonna make it. That girl - Abby? Gabby? Whatever, she, uh, she... She used a golf club. You were more than fucked up, I thought you weren't gonna wake up - I mean, by all means, you shouldn't've - "

"But I did," he comforted, "because of you."

You sniffled again, "Don't say it like that, please. I just - I'm so fucking relieved you're awake. I'm sorry, Joel, I should've got there sooner."

"You got there just in time."

"Almost didn't."

"From what I remember, saved Ellie and I - again."

You shrugged, "I wasn't gonna lose you, either of you. You two are everything t'me that I just reacted, I didn't have t'think. I was so worried, but she - she had a gun at you, I had to stall for time."

"You did the right thing, Y/N."

"Then why do I feel so fucking guilty?"

"You shouldn't - you're a Goddamn hero."

"Don't feel like one."

"Maybe you will when I get up and movin'. Get us back to normal, right?"

"Joel, that ain't happenin' for a long time, baby," you informed quietly, glancing at his leg. His gaze followed, sighing deeply at the bulging knee the Jackson doctors managed to save under a warm blanket. "She had a shotgun..."

"I remember."

You winced, "You should get some rest - I'll-I'll grab the doctor - "

"Don't you dare leave me," he snapped, fingers lacing tightly with yours. "Just - c'mere, please, lemme feel you."

"Fuck no," you refused, "you're still healing and there's a limited amount of pain meds. She got you pretty good, Joel, you're real fragile."

"Enough that I can't hold my wife?"

"Enough that you can't hold your wife," you chuckled dryly. "But, um... I can sit here. I can stay - I'll stay. I'm sorry I left, I just couldn't believe after these weeks, you're awake. Made my heart feel... I don't even know - "

He sighed gently, just staring at you. "It's okay, baby, I understand. Know, you were the last thing I saw... But you look like hell right now, darlin', the fuck happened?"

"Haven't slept in weeks."

"You fuckin' eat?"

"When I remembered. Dina brings me most meals."

"Y/N Miller."

"I was just so worried," you whimpered, tears drowning you. "I worried you weren't gonna wake up, that I'd lose you at any moment. I wanted t'be here, just in case... I... Joel, I just..."

"I know, baby. Ellie said you haven't left this whole time. Hey," he breathed, earning your red-rimmed attention. "Need to thank you, sugar. F-For savin' us, savin' me."

You nodded, "Saved my ass plenty of times, now we're even."

"I heard you, you know? I heard you the whole time, it was all I could hang onto. But I heard you tell Abby you shot her father...? Risky move."

"I needed her to focus on anything other than you. She could've shot you, I wouldn't've been able to do anything and I needed to - I needed you to-to-to - "

"Endure and Survive?"

"Yeah, exactly. So, I lied, told her what I thought would piss her off enough to, you know, take the heat off yah."

Joel's lips twitched at the side again, "My smart fuckin' girl."

"Selfish girl, more like."

"How's that?"

You shrugged, "Didn't wanna be without you, Joel, I can't do this without yah. I need you, Joel, and I... I couldn't let her kill you. Bad enough I got there too late and she beat the shit outta you."

Joel's voice cracked with emotion, "It's not selfish, Y/N."

"No?"

"Nah, baby. The feelin's so fuckin' mutual, 'cause I need'jah, too, sweetheart, and I'll be damned to do this without you, either. You and I, we're gonna grow old - well, older, together, surrounded by our family, all of Tommy and Maria's kids - Ellie and Dina, too. We ain't gonna go out like that, we get t'die like we lived. Together."

"Yeah?"

"I promise," he swallowed tightly, eyes crinkling as he winced. "Can't get rid of me, baby, not that easily."

"Fuck you," you scoffed, "that wasn't easy, not t'see, not t'watch, not t'fight against. It was so fucking hard - I can't ever go through that kinda shit again. Hear me? Never again, Joel, I can't handle it - "

"Nah, nah, nah, never again, baby. I promise. I-I'll talk to Tommy, we're done with patrols - "

"No, you're fucking done," you snipped. "I'll earn both our keep, but you're done, Joel, I can't fucking go through that shit again."

"What if something like that happens to you - "

"I killed them all. There's nobody left that would come for us."

Joel's eyes flashed, "There's those in Seattle."

Your head shook, "Doubt they'd give enough of a fuck to avenge those bastards."

"We don't know that. So... So why don't we both retire, baby? C'mon, like we always said. You think you can't handle that again? Imagine how it'd fucking feel to learn something happened to you and I wasn't there to protect yah. Please, Y/N, we both retire - we don't run that risk no more."

"All right, deal," you agreed through your tears, leaning over him to hold his cheek and press several kisses to the corner of his mouth. "Fucking deal, all right, yeah - "

"Honey? You missed."

"Nah, you're still healing - "

"A kiss ain't gonna hurt nothing," he grunted. "C'mere, please. Don't make me beg... Besos, besos, besos." With a small, watery chuckle, you obliged and pecked his pouting lips - earning another groan. "That's not what I meant - mh!" You cut him off by pressing a prolonged kiss against him, careful not to press too hard and reopen his split lip. He hummed in content, free hand occupied by only an IV lifting to caress the back of your head in an effort to keep you in place. This time, when you pulled back, he mumbled, "Never again, sweetheart."

"Never again," you agreed softly, gently petting a salted curl from his forehead; hand drifting to gently trace the contours of his healing yellowing-skin. "I love you so fucking much, Joel. Don't do that to me again."

"I love you, too, darlin'. Never again - we're done. I swear, we're fucking done with all that."

"Good," you whimpered, glancing back to the usual seat you'd claimed the past couple weeks as you watched over him. "All right, hey," with a sniffle, you slowly lifted from his bed, "Jesse went to get Tommy, but you get some rest, all right?"

"Fuck that, been resting long enough. Just wanna be here with you, baby."

"Got a helluva long recovery ahead of yah, gonna need your strength."

"Think I'll walk again?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it - but we'll work on it together. You'll be okay... That, I can promise."

Joel nodded with a gentle sigh, watching you maneuver back into the armchair Dina had pushed into his room for you. He didn't let go of your fingers, eyes silently watching you as if to ensure you were there - but you did the same. After seeing him on the brink of death, you feared you couldn't look away from his living, breathing form ever again. Quietly, he garbled, "Don't leave."

"Never, baby. I'm right here, I gotcha."

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