#but also i just need to get it off my chest

[lostinlovingrevery]

Crumbling Desperation

70s Logan X F! Reader

Logan wants you pliant for him

A/N: Based off some feral conversations between me and @cruel-as-sin today. DOFP has my heart and my pussy. Also this maybe a lil rough as I get back into fic writing after being sick for a week!

Warning: SMUT MDNI, mean! Logan, rough sex, unprotected PiV, multi creampies, teasing, fingering, blowjob, very very rough, some light pussy and thigh smacking lol, a little degradation (but not super mean), taunting, begging, uuuuuuh this is just a nasty fic in general

The only light that filled the darkness of the apartment bedroom was the street lamps.

Light pouring through the windows. Shadowing two figures that were rocking softly in the dark. 

Logan's arms kept you pressed against his body. His broad chest against you, his hips rocked with yours. He rested his chin atop your head, his hands resting on your hips, slowly brushing up and down your curves. 

Your eyes closed, as you leaned into him. A faint smile on your face as you felt his hands squeeze you a little tighter. He tipped his head lazily, his lips brushing over your ear, along your jawline. You hummed happily, tipping your head back, giving him purchase to kiss your neck. 

His arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand sliding up, gently cupping one of your breasts, before tracing along the collar of your dress, his fingers tucking underneath the sleeve and pulling it down your shoulder. He leaned down, pressing several kisses to your neck and shoulder. You exhaled softly, eyes fluttering open as Logan sucked and nipped at your skin.

“You looked good tonight baby.” He hums, his lips brushing over your jawline. “Luckiest guy in the world to have a pretty girl like you by my side.”

You giggle, biting your lip as his hand continues brushing over your curves. “I’m the lucky one.” 

“Mmm.” His hand brushed down your body, finding the slit of your dress that exposed your thighs. His hand dipped underneath the satin cloth, brushing over the lace panties you put on for him. “Feeling needy darling?” 

“Mhm.” You nodded, a subtle movement of your hips into his touch. “You were playing with me all night Lo.” Your hand stretched up, curling into his hair. “I need you.” 

“You got me.” He says with a lighthearted tone- but the way he touched you, told you had had ulterior motives. His hand moving to tracing along your inner thigh instead, not touching you where you really needed him. Your bodies still rocking back and forth together.

“I need more.” You brought your other hand to where he was touching your thighs, grabbing his wrist to move him towards your needy cunt. 

You were soaked, and it was almost painful how badly you needed his touch. He kept messing with you all night. Stroking your thighs, cupping your ass everywhere you walked, his fingers tracing up and down your arm. He’d lean in and press kisses to the back of your neck and ear- his breath hot on your skin and sending you goosebumps. He kept teasing you, working you up so much you asked him multiple times to take you home, or even go into the bathroom just for him to give you some relief. 

Then he’d give you that cocky smile, and ask you what the rush was for. He was enjoying the night out, he didn’t want to go home yet. 

“More?” He asks, not doing anything to stimulate you, only allowing you to move his hand as you attempt to get stimulation from him. He suddenly ripped it away from you, turning you around and shoving you onto the bed. You gasped, shuffling to push yourself up.

He walked over, shoving your legs open and pushing himself between them. “More what?”

“Lo…” You whined, a small pout of your lip. “I want more of you.” 

He raised a brow. “I’m right here sweetheart. All of me.” He shrugged. He brought his hands down over your hips, adjusting you on the bed, pulling your closer to him- so the tent in his pants pressed teasingly against your panties. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Heat bloomed in your face as you considered what he was implying. 

“I…” You stammered. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” He leaned down over you. “Can’t talk? You were quick to ask me to take care of you earlier when we were having a good time. ” His tone became annoyed.

“Logan-” You pouted. He slid a hand over your belly, the valley of your breasts, coming over to squeeze your neck. He tipped his chin up, looking down at you with an unamused expression. 

“What do you want?” He asks. 

“I…I want you to touch me. To take off my dress.” You reply, your voice barely a whisper. He smirked, leaning forward to press a kiss to your nose before he brought his hands to the collar of your dress.

You gasped as he ripped it apart from the middle. The tear sounded through the room. 

I actually liked that dress….

You thought to yourself but didn’t voice it. That would only mean he’d stop playing with you.

Logan's hand came up to cup your breasts, his thumbs rubbing circles over your peaked nipples. You arched your back, lifting towards his touch, his calloused thumb stimulating your breasts and creating a warm honey feeling that pooled in your lacey lingerie. 

A soft moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, amused by your reaction. You tipped your head to the side. 

“Getting off just from me playing with your tits?” 

“Mm…” You nodded, your hands gripping the sheets. He leaned down, swirling his tongue over a nipple and you gasped. “Oh-” You bit your bottom lip. His tongue continued playing with your peaked buds, as he nipped and sucked on your tits. “Logan- I need you- down there.” You gasped.

He parted from your nipple with a pop. “Down where sweetheart? Australia?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, shaking your head. He grinned, pressing a kiss to the valley of your breasts, but then bit at your skin and you yelped.  He chuckled. 

“That hurt?” He asks, you shake your head, and lowers himself down to your belly, biting you again, making you flinch. “Knock it off.” He says with fake annoyance, pressing kisses over your belly, before biting the fat of your hip, once again making you jump. He sat up harshly, scowling down at you. “What did I say?”

“Sorry I-” 

He delivered a smack to your thigh, making you yelp. “You want me to make you feel good sweetheart?”

You nodded, pressing your lips together. 

“Then stop fucking moving.” He growls. You sighed in frustration, wanting to wiggle and get him to move on with it- he was going purposely slow, doing everything he could to avoid giving you what you wanted from him. The same thing he’d been doing all night.

“Can you just… Touch me?” You ask desperately. He raised a brow.

“Touch you?” He says. “What’s the magic word?” 

Your eyes filled with tears. “Please, Logan, please touch me!” 

His eyes turned dark, a quirk of his lips as he leaned down over you. His hand swiped up over your panties, making your legs twitch from his touch, he slid his back down underneath your panties. “Touch you?” He tilts his head, a click of his tongue. “How? Like this?” 

His fingers found your swollen clit, and he flicked it with two fingers. You gasped, nodding. He smirked, flicking it again. You tilted your head to the side, spreading your legs farther open. Other than flicking occasionally though, he didn’t touch you, didn’t stroke or rub circles. 

“I need more…” You whined, lifting your hips up to him. He chuckled. He pulled his hand away. 

“Can’t do much with this thing in the way.” He mumbles, pointing to the panties before glancing back up at you. Then he delivers a smack to your cunt. You yelped, tears stinging your eyes. “Take em off.” He orders. 

You took a deep breath, sitting up, pulling off the rest of your torn dress, he stepped back from you. Watching as you slid off your panties, pushing them past your ankles. He walked back over- snatching them from your hand- stuffing them into his back pocket. 

You leaned back onto the bed, spreading your legs open again, giving him a view of your weeping pussy, soaked, and swollen from no relief. He smirked.

“You opened your legs for me without even asking. Good girl.” He mumbles stepping forward. “You that desperate?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, pouting. “Can you touch me again?” 

His hand came down, brushing over your folds, and you could barely feel him. You whined, lifting your hips up again. He pressed one finger against your burd. “How about that?” He asks.

You shook your head, so he removed it- making you nod desperately. “No- Keep it there!” You looked up at him begging. “Just move! Please?”

He placed his finger over your bud again, slowly swirling your clit in circles. It provided relief- but not enough. Your entire cunt felt like it was throbbing, your hole clenching over nothing over and over again. 

“Another-” You begged. “More?” 

He added another finger, still rubbing you slowly, becoming torturous as your pussy leaked arousal, begging to be stimulated. 

“Logan-”

He smacked your cunt, making you yelp.

“Logan-” He mocked your voice. “You’re so whiny.” He taunts. Your lip quivered as frustration bubbled in you, a tightness in your chest for some relief in your body. Logan was playing with you, and he was drawing it out as long as possible. What his game was with you, you didn’t know- but you could barely take it anymore. 

He stepped back from you and you let out a small sob. “Quiet down.” He orders, and you opened your eyes to see him unbuttoning his shirt, staring down at you with that cocky smile. You tipped your head back and sighed, your hands gripping the sheets so tight you thought they would rip.

His clothes were abandoned to the floor and you looked back up at him.

The sight of him could have made you cum right then.

He towered over you. You admired his broad frame, the veins that popped out through his arms and belly. The tone muscles of his abs, his biceps, and his thighs. Your eyes landed on his thick girth, erected, with a red swollen tip and pre-cum beading out of his slip. 

At least I’m not the only one feeling this way…

You bit your lip, looking up at him with a pleading look in your eyes. He smirked, walking over to you, his cock bouncing with every step making you part your lips as you watched it. You thought he’d climb between your legs- give you the relief you so badly needed, and fuck you within an inch of your life. 

Instead he pushed your legs shut, reaching over to grab your arm and pull you up, pulling you to the ground on your knees. 

“You think you’re the only one needing some relief sweetheart?” He looks down at you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. You swallowed. “Open up.” 

You obliged, and he slipped his tip between your lips. You moaned at his heady taste, dripping onto your tongue. His hand slipped from your jaw into your hair- a tight grip on it, as he pulled you farther down over him. 

A small gag escaped you and you heard him chuckle. “Can’t take it? Too much for you baby?”

You moaned, and he pushed himself farther down your throat, choking you. Tears finally broke through, rolling down your cheek. He looked down at you, arrogance across his face. 

“Crybaby.” 

He smirks, and you shut your eyes. Your hand slipping down between your legs, attempting to give yourself much-needed relief as his cock filled your mouth. 

“Uh uh-” He kicked your hand away, his cock choking your further. “No touching. You take care of me first, sweetheart.” 

A small sob escaped you, but you kept your hands off yourself, bringing them up to his thighs. You looked back up at him, pleading eyes for him to hurry up and use you, so that he’ll finally give you your reward. The throbbing between your legs was begging for your attention, and you couldn’t ignore it even with Logan choking you with his cock. 

His hand curled in your hair kept you in place, as he began slowly thrusting in and out of your mouth. Spit and drool rolled down your chin, and his cock reached the back of your throat over and over- so much your gag relax disappeared, becoming used to his intrusion. 

He tipped his head back, a moan escaping him as he thrusts faster. 

“Fuck, you got a sweet mouth baby.” He moaned. He looked down at you, mouth parted, his ears and cheeks flushed. “You like this?”

You closed your eyes, nodding as best as you could as he face-fucked you. He let out a weak chuckle. He brought his other hand into your hair, holding you tight as he went faster. Tears continued streaming down your face. Logan's jaw tightened, pushing your head onto his cock, bending over as he came to his finish- his cum shooting down your throat, filling your mouth. He planted his face into the mattress behind you, grunting and groaning like an animal as he rode out his seemingly neverending coitus. 

He straightened back up, pulling out of you and stepping back. You gasped, panting for air as his cum, your spit, and your tears stained your face. He reached down cupping your jaw, making you look up at him- with your dazed eyes. 

“You look real pretty like this.” He taunts, his thumb catching a dribble of cum, sticking it back onto your tongue. You wrapped your lips around him, sucking on it and closing your eyes- as if you hadn’t gotten enough of him already. “C’mon. Up.” He ordered pulling his thumb from your lips, before he became hypnotized by you.

You stood up and he shoved you onto the bed, spreading your thighs. “Think you deserve this?” He asks, lowering his face over your pussy, noting how soaked your thighs were now. 

“I-” Your voice was raspy, “I don’t know.” 

He hummed. “Maybe you don’t then-” 

“Wait wait! Yes, I do, I deserve this.” You whimpered, your hands reaching out to cup his face. “Please Logan-” 

He smiled, lowering back down. He took a deep inhale, his eyes nearly rolling back as he let out a groan. “God you smell fucking incredible…”

His hands came up, spreading your folds open, examining your cunt, his thumb brushing over your pussy teasingly, making your thighs tremble. You were so worked up, that any stimulation felt like too much. You whined, shaking your head as another sob broke through you. 

“Quiet it down.” He says. “I got mine sweetheart, we can do this all fucking night.” 

You bit your lip, tears streaming down as he continued messing with you, but never fully giving in to your pleasure. Your body trembled, his touch, his breath blowing over you. 

You gave in, body relaxing, shutting your eyes as your breathing calmed. 

Logan looked up at your now weak and pliant figure. He grinned. 

“There we go.” He cooed, standing up as he climbed between your legs. He pressed his lips to yours, savoring the taste of himself on you. “Good girl.” He purred, pressing more kisses along your jawline. You opened your eyes, looking up at him dreamily. 

He pushed his cock through your folds, hard again already. A small breath escaped you as your eyes rolled back. He rutted gently into you, leaning down to capture your lips again. You kissed him back weakly. 

“You still want me sweetheart?” He mumbles against your lips. “Or are you too tired now?”

You nodded. 

“Use your words. Too tired?” He grinned lifting himself off of you.

“No- No I want you.” You spoke up, your hands reaching to grab his shoulders and pull him back down. “Please.”

“Mm.” He angled himself at your clenching hole, pushing his tip inside. Your mouth flew open, head falling back. “Damn, just slid right in darling.” He groaned, nuzzling his face into your neck. “Real needy aren’t ya?”

You nodded, your arms wrapping around his neck. He slowly pushed in and out of you, but never fully, only his tip.

“Lo…” You whined. 

“What darling, aren’t I giving you what you wanted?”

“I- Yes…” You nodded. “I want more.”

“Greedy, aren’t you?” 

You let out a small cry. “Please? Please baby?” You begged. “I want all of you.”

“I don’t know sweetheart, seemed like all of me was too much for you earlier.”

“It’s not, it's not! I can take it, please, please, please!” You began to sob, turning your head to the side. You wrapped your legs around his waist so he couldn’t pull out. He smirked, watching you beg for a moment.

Without warning he thrusts into you up to the hilt. You moaned, eyes shooting up to look up at him. 

“What? You wanted it.” He grins. His hand braced against your headboard, his other arm wrapped around your waist. He began thrusting into you at an inhuman pace, his hips slamming into yours. Your eyes rolled back, your pliant body fitting into him as he shook the whole bed fucking into you.

He sat up and grabbed your hips with both hands slamming into you with a fury. He watched your tits bounce with every thrust, the way your greedy cunt sucked him in eagerly, soaking his cock with you creamy arousal. Your arms fell to either side of your head, melting into the mattress as Logan finally gave you your reward.

You lost track of time as he fucked you, pushing you into different positions, and making you cum over and over. You turned into a ragdoll that he used at will- and you loved it. Even in your semi-conscious state. 

Your legs on his shoulders, pushed down to your chest as he buried himself balls-deep, spilling himself inside you for the second time, his cum overflowing around his cock and leaking out of you, ruining your sheets more than they already were.

He had you on your side, mouth hung open and eyes rolled back as he thrusts into and out, arm wrapped around your chest, a handful of your tit, his other hand supporting your thigh, the bedframe shaking and creaking- threatening to break underneath you both. 

His hand buried into your hair, forcing your face into the mattress while he slammed into you from behind. Your ass up, your legs trembling while his, and your fluids mixed streamed down your thighs. Your throat is hoarse, and you stopped crying a long time ago- no more tears left to shed;

But there was much more pleasure to revel in.

[slytherinshua]

໑　 KISSES WITH TXT 　 ( 투모로우바이투게더 )

genre fluff , headcanons , txt x reader   cw kissing (obv) , not proofread and prob a bit messy   wc 806   request no   note still in my txt feels BAD like its not okay im so tired i love them   net @kstrucknet @moadiarynet

CHOI YEONJUN 彡 최연준

he’s so smooth with his kisses

almost too smooth

he’ll come up behind you with an arm around your waist and spin you around to press a quick kiss to your lips

and then he’ll leave you dazed and wanting more but he’s already walking off with a cute little smirk on his face

or he’ll interrupt your sentence with a kiss making you forget what you were talking about in the first place

he always catches you off guard but it leaves your heart fluttering 

other times his kisses are slow and passionate

he loves taking his time to savour the feeling

he’s almost too desperate sometimes, kissing you like it's the last time he’ll ever get the chance to

which is wrong because he kisses you all the time

but he just can’t help losing himself in you

kisses are used to celebrate, to commemorate, or to apologize 

it's his way of communicating, of teasing, of acknowledging— the way yeonjun kisses you speaks a million words

CHOI SOOBIN 彡 최수빈

there’s nothing softer than soobin’s kisses 

his lips are just so perfect that even when the kiss is rushed or a bit messy, you could hardly complain 

you love to kiss his neck because it will make him flustered and shy 

he’ll tell you to stop with his cheeks flushed, but he doesn’t really mean it 

when he talks too much and you can’t get a word in, kissing his cheek always gets his attention 

his brain pauses whenever you do cause he doesn’t expect to be kissed 

even though he should by now because you can never resist kissing his dimples 

if you can’t reach his lips, there are simple ways to get him to bend down enough 

a tap on his shoulder or gently grabbing his wrist will give him the silent signal that you want to kiss him 

and it has him smiling because he thinks you’re adorable every time you want him to lean down so you can initiate the kiss first 

CHOI BEOMGYU 彡 최범규

beomgyu always kisses you when you need it the most

his kisses are soothing and loving, healing whatever part of you that was hurting instantly

kisses away your tears when you’re crying and delicately presses his lips to any part of your body that was aching 

when the mood is light and playful, you like to tease him by not giving him any kisses while he begs for it

when he’s playing video games next to you, he’ll pucker his lips expectantly while his eyes stay glued to the screen

you act like you have no idea what he wants 

it drives him slightly crazy, but he also loves it

because it means once he’s finally had enough of not getting what he wants, he’ll tackle you and kiss you until you’re both breathless and your jaws hurt from smiling so much 

when you brush his hair back and give him forehead kisses, he practically melts into a puddle 

he adores your delicate soft kisses more than anything 

as a slow and patient lover, he cherishes the quiet moments with you the most

KANG TAEHYUN 彡 강태현

taehyun won’t ask for kisses out loud, but there’s always a pleading look in his eyes whenever he wants to be kissed

eyes shiny and observing you to see when you’ll notice that he’s desperate to get his lips on yours 

if he gets too impatient he will definitely tug on your arm or something to get your attention 

loves when you hold his face in your hands and run your thumb across his cheekbone or jawline 

he’ll turn his head to press a kiss to your palm and his smiles are breathtaking 

his kisses are so romantic with the perfect push and pull 

he always knows where to put his hands or how to guide you perfectly 

and when the time comes to break away from his lips, your heart always sinks a bit in your chest

because he has you addicted like nothing else 

HUENINGKAI 彡 휴닝카이

his kisses are soft and sometimes teasing 

hand kisses are some of his personal favourites

he’ll get down on one knee or bend down to kiss the back of your hand in the most chivalrous way possible just to see you giggle 

will also kiss your knuckles one by one while holding your hand in his

he loves when you run your hands through his hair while kissing him 

he’s addicted to the feeling and needs it like oxygen 

he’ll sigh in content and pull you closer because nothing could ever be more perfect than your lips on his and your hands in his hair

he loves to nuzzle his nose against yours too!

he’ll leave a trail of kisses across your face whilst breathless giggles escape his parted lips 

and delicate pecks to the apples of your cheeks or under your eyes are what follows

txt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @90steele,, @ddeonudepressions,, @cham3li,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,, @amara-mars,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore,, @ujisworld,, @sobun1est,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @sxmmerberries,, @talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,, @cupidslovearrows,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,, @stannwjnss,, @gong-fourz,, @nonononranghaee,, @forever-atiny,, @stantxtforabetterlife,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows,, @hyukabean,, @nicholasluvbot,, @i03jae

[vivwritesfics]

Pls I beg some soft Max with reader who’s overworking herself with work and just having a bad time with the tism

For my autistic, crafty girlie's

Too Much

"I'd say you'll be the prettiest thing in the paddock, but you already are."

Warnings: will not fit everyone's ND experience, also not explicitly ND!reader - for all my lovely readers

The evening had started out nice, pleasant, if you will.

Max was streaming. He was always streaming, but she didn't mind. She was just visible behind him, her legs swinging as she did something crafty.

All that could be seen on Maxs stream was the ball of yarn, unravelling at her feet. Viewers couldn't see if it was a crochet hook or knitting needles she was working with.

Her hums couldn't be heard. Her laptop was beside her, headphones on her ears. Her project was so close to being done, the ends of it visible from just how long she had made it.

She had explained the concept of her project to Max, drew out the design as best she could, but he couldn't wait to see it. His mind couldn't wrap around, would only visualise it once she tried it on.

She finished it on stream, cast off her project and sewed in the ends. She sewed on what extra pieces she needed to and disappeared.

"Max," she called softly when she came back.

There she was, in her long, knitted skirt. It wasn't connected by anything but a belt, the side of it open. It went all the way down to her little white socks.

"I think it would look really cute with some black heels," she mumbled as she fiddled with the belt. She rambled as Max pulled off his headset and stood up.

Hands settled on her hip, feeling the stitches beneath his fingertips. "It looks beautiful, Moppie," he whispered and leaned in to kiss her.

It wasn't often they showed affection on stream. That was for them, for their privacy. But if Max wanted to kiss her, she wasn't going to say no.

"Gotta get content," she mumbled as she pulled away from him, her fingers holding his forearms.

He kissed her forehead and felt the skirt again. "Wear it to a race, please," he whispered. "I'd say you'll be the prettiest thing in the paddock, but you already are."

She giggled as she disappeared, heading into her 'office'. Her crafty room, where her book of designs and patterns was on her desk, where her mannequin was wearing one of her high concept dresses. Several boxes of yarn were stacked up against the wall, and she had more on the way.

Against another wall was a sheet. It was white with little flowers, making for a pretty background for her Instagram posts.

As fun as it was, being a crafty content creator, it was exhausting. She did what she had to, showed her youtube audience her skirt, got pictures of it for her Instagram and finished off her tiktok video. Any and all content she could get of it, to promote the pattern she had been writing.

As soon as that was done, she grabbed her notebook, grabbed some yarn and a crochet hook, and walked back to Max.

Still streaming, but he paused to send her a smile as she walked into the room. She sat by her laptop, put her headphones back over her head and flipped through her notebook.

The first project she settled on wasn't going right. It should have been a simple pattern to write, but it just wasn't turning out the way she wanted it to.

Frustration burned in her chest as she unravelled her project for the fifth time.

Instead of letting it get to her, she found a new project.

New project same problems.

Nothing was working out. That burning frustration got worse and worse until tears burned in her eyes. No matter what she tried, nothing worked, nothing was to her liking.

Nothing was as good as she knew she could make it.

Putting down her project, she grabbed a cushion from beside her and held it to her chest. She pulled her knees up and hugged them, pressing her face against the pillow.

Max didn't notice at first, not until he glanced at his screen. A little square in the corner, her just visible behind him. She wasn't happy, making something as she had been just an hour ago.

It wasn't right.

Pausing his game, Max took off his headset. "Moppie?" He called, stepping towards her. She looked up at him with red eyes, squeezing her arms around herself tighter.

Max's hand touched her back. It was big and warm against her. "What's going on?" He asked, getting as close as he could without making her uncomfortable.

She let her leg fall from the sofa cushion and toed her notebook, now on the floor. "It's not working," she whispered.

Max picked up the notebook. A corset style top he knew she would look amazing in. "Oh, Angel," he whispered and pulled her to lay against him. "You're allowed to take a break," he mumbled and shut the notebook. "Stop knitting for the night and just sit with me."

She wiped her nose and her eyes. "It was crochet," she mumbled and turned her body towards him.

Max released a weak laugh. "Let me end the stream and we can watch something, okay?"

She nodded and Max stood up. His warm hands left her just long enough to end the stream. He didn't see the kind words in the chat, not in that moment. He would see them later, though, while he scrolled through social media in bed with her.

It was her choice what they watched, her choice how they sat. She laid down and pulled Max against her, giving her the pressure she needed to calm down, to regulate. He did whatever she asked of him, whatever he needed.

Anything for his girl.

[stevie-petey]

track one: i wanna get off

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.” Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm.  “I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it. But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well. 

Summary: a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (argyle)

Words: 15.4k

Before you swing in: SHES HERE !!! MY BABY !!!! ever since writing lonely hearts club ive been craving more band aus and then joe covered gasoline by haim fundamentally altered my brain so naturally i blacked out and outlined an entire series surrounding rockstar!steve so ,,, here we are lmao. this series is different from come home. steve is a bit edgier, more rough and mean but also still the same charming asshole. later there will be some excessive alcohol use and this is a slowburn of weird twisted feelings and messy situationship so ,,, prepare for that !

enjoy :)

-

The usual Sunday morning crowd has staked its claim in the cafe by the time your boots click softly on its tiled floors. Baristas call out names belonging to men in wool jackets and women with small children bundled beneath layers of scarves. 

Freshly fallen snow lines your own wool jacket and falls to the tiled floor when you take it off, draping it across the chair of the first empty table you find. It’s a bit further back in the shop than you would’ve preferred, but it will have to do. Setting your scarf across the other seat in front of you, claiming the chair for yourself, you catch a barista’s eye and smile as you walk to the register. 

You order a black coffee, no milk, only sugar, and a simple vanilla coffee for yourself. The barista tells you the drinks will be ready in a few minutes and you thank her. Heading back to your seat, you hope that you’ve correctly remembered Jonathan’s coffee order.

The last time you saw the man had been at your graduation back in May. You’ve loosely kept in touch since then through sporadic phone calls and gallery openings. Both having majored in photography and the visual arts, your friendship had been built upon red rooms and empty film canisters gallery halls. 

Now, as snow falls and coats New York in pristine white, he’s asked you to meet for coffee. The sudden proposal admittedly confused you, though you accepted the invitation without any hesitation. 

The barista calls your name right as Jonathan stumbles through the cafe’s door. His skin is flushed from the cold and snowflakes ravage his messy brown hair. Hearing your name, Jonathan grabs the drinks from the pick-up counter, spots you sitting in the corner, and quickly makes his way over to you. 

He places the drinks down, wincing when a few drops spill onto the table. “Sorry.”

You wave his apology away and stand, pulling him into a quick hug. “Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “I got you black coffee with sugar. I hope that’s alright?”

“God, of course it is.” Jonathan sits down and takes his scarf off. “You didn’t need to get me anything, you know.”

“Figured you’d be running a little late.” You tease gently, fiddling with the straps of your camera. 

“I’m only five minutes late. I’d consider that a new record in my book.”

“And would Nancy agree?” 

You have fond memories of Nancy from your few interactions with her. She had been majoring in journalism and was in the running for a position at the New York Post the last time you spoke with her. 

“No, probably not.” Jonathan snorts, now taking a sip of coffee. He sets the cup down and then leans over the table, arms bracing his weight. He raises his eyebrows at you. Smiles. “So, catch me up. What’ve I missed?”

“Nothing much,” you admit. “Still doing freelancing.”

“I thought you hated freelancing?”

“Oh, I do. The pay is shit and the clients are almost always shittier. Theater majors are really annoying about ‘capturing their good side’.”

Jonathan frowns. “You’re way too talented to be stuck photographing wannabe actors.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. “We live in New York, Jonathan. We’re surrounded by wannabe actors desperate for camera time.”

“It still feels like a waste of your talent.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” You wink at him playfully. “What about you, though? I think you were everyone’s favorite street photographer at the studio.”

Jonathan blushes at the praise and looks down at his coffee. “Well,” he clears his throat and looks back up. “I’m actually in a band now. A drummer.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re kidding, right?”

It’s hard to imagine Jonathan Byers as anything other than a photographer. He was arguably one of the best in your class. His work was beautiful with such a natural edginess to offset the delicate scenery. Your professors raved about him whenever they could. His senior thesis gallery was such a success that the school had to prolong its exhibition dates an extra week. 

Jonathan laughs at your disbelief. He’d been expecting it. “I’m serious, Y/N. Sure, I love photography, I always will, but…”

“Music was your first love.” You finish for him, remembering the times you were in his apartment with soft rock records filling the silence as the two of you developed film together. 

“And I don’t regret it.” Jonathan’s fingers tap against the table. A nervous habit he was never able to break, and now you suppose that maybe he was never meant to break it. He shifts slightly in his seat, coughs as a sudden unease settles over him. 

You tilt your head at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to walk into a confessional with a priest?” 

“Christ, Y/N.”

“Correct. He’s who you usually confess your sins to.”

Jonathan sputters out a laugh and his shoulders fall, relaxed after being drawn tightly together moments prior. “Alright, you got me. I didn’t ask you to coffee just to catch up.”

Intrigued, you forward. “If you’re about to ask me to take engagement photos for you and Nancy, please know that I’m too broke to offer you a friend’s discount.”

“We aren’t engaged,” Jonathan’s face is even more red now. “Not yet, at least. But what if I asked if you were interested in being my band’s photographer?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I’d ask you to elaborate.”

“Look, my band, we’re good, Y/N.” Jonathan tells you, eyes alight more than you’ve ever seen them before. “Sure, we’re still relatively small and you definitely haven’t heard any of our music, but we’re consistently booking three gigs a week. I mean, we can’t pay you any better than freelancing can, but we’d definitely be less shitty than your other clients.”

“Jonathan…”

“I’m not just asking you because you’re painfully talented.” Jonathan shakes his head. “I’m asking you because you were my closest friend in college and we always had fun working together. You have to admit, we made a good team.”

You throw a napkin at him. “Way to guilt trip.”

“I’ll say whatever if it means you say yes.” 

And Jonathan’s sincerity is almost overwhelming. You’re hesitant, but not because you don’t believe him or the offer doesn’t interest you. If anything, you’re actually incredibly interested in being a band’s photographer. Portrait photography was never your favorite medium, and the mundanity of it is slowly driving you insane. 

You’re hesitant because you really, really need money. Freelancing, as unreliable and shitty as it is, at least guarantees enough money to cover rent. But being a photographer for a band no one’s heard of? Not so much. 

“As much as I want to say yes, I meant what I said earlier. I’m too broke, Jonathan. I have to sneak out the backdoor of my apartment building to avoid my landlord because she’s days away from evicting me.” Your head rests in your palm, sighing. “It’s grim.” 

Jonathan, however, doesn’t seem to think that your current financial situation is bleak. If anything, he perks up and fucking smiles at what you’ve said. 

“I’m sorry,” your eyes narrow at him. “But why are you smiling while I’m talking about getting evicted?”

Jonathan flinches at your brewing anger and quickly tries to explain himself. “Sorry, I just-it’s kinda a perfect dilemma?”

“You have five seconds to explain before hot coffee falls in your lap.”

“My bandmates are looking for a roommate!” Jonathan blurts out, unconsciously covering his lap with his hands. Surprised by his own outburst, he clears his throat and lowers his voice to a more neutral tone. “That’s why your dilemma is so perfect. I can talk to them for you, set up a time for you to meet them.”

Seeing that he has your attention now, Jonathan holds a finger up. “But only if you agree to be our photographer.”

Your head spins. It’s almost too perfect of a circumstance. The flesh on your lip stings as you bite down on it, uncertain. You’re tempted. Unbelievably tempted, but you don’t want to say yes just yet.

“Did I mention that they live in the same building as me?” Jonathan smirks, knowing the effect his words will have on you.

His apartment building is gorgeous. Positioned perfectly in the East Village with Tompkins Square a block away and lush green grass in the communal outdoor area reserved only for residents. You’ve complained to him a million times about how you’d kill to have as much outdoor space as he does in your own apartment building. 

That, and it’s one of the few remaining goddamn rent controlled buildings in Manhattan. 

“You’re evil, Jonathan Byers.” You stick your hand out and he laughs, knowing he already has you before you’ve shaken on the deal. “I better not regret this.”

“You won’t.” He promises. 

– 

A few days later you’re checking your watch nervously every few seconds. The silver on your wrist reflects in the moonlight. Small hand on the seven and long hand on the five, you curse under your breath. They’re still not here.

“Y/N!” A feminine voice, familiar, surprises you as two bodies round the corner. 

Recognizing Nancy’s lithe figure and Jonathan’s awkward footsteps, you greet them, relief flooding through you. “Oh, thank god. Thought I was getting stood up.”

Nancy looks pointedly at her boyfriend. “Blame him. We would’ve been here ten minutes earlier had he not insisted on popping into a record store on the way home.”

“It was worth it.” Jonathan holds the record up. The Talking Heads bright and alive in the dim dusk light. “Sorry, Y/N.”

“Save the apologies for later. We still aren’t sure if I have a place to live after tonight.” You remind him. 

Nancy rolls her eyes at the two of you before grabbing your hand. “C’mon,” she says, now opening the apartment building’s door. “In less than twenty-four hours this will be your home, too.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

Jonathan pokes your side to shut you up and you swat his hand away. A doorman tips his hat at you and the others as you walk past, his smile kind and warm. The apartment’s lobby is the same as you remember it being. Plush sofas pushed against a soft white wall. A grand mirror across from the elevator that has a few scuffs in it, yet is charming nonetheless. Simple, though elevated enough that you can’t help but feel that you don’t belong here.

Inside the elevator Nancy presses the sixth floor. When she sees your slight confusion, she laughs. “We may live in the same building, but they’re two floors below us.”

“Mike says it’s physical proof that he’s better than Dustin.” 

You turn to Jonathan with a slight frown. “Mike is Nancy’s brother, right? And he lives with you guys?” 

Nancy nods encouragingly. “And Dustin is one of his friends from high school”

Jonathan pokes his head between the two of you. “And soon to be your roommate.”

“Hopefully.” Your tight lipped smile looks more like a grimace. Your stomach twists with every floor you ascend. You try to remember all the names you’ve been told. There’s Dustin, Mike’s friend. Then there’s… Rachel? Robbie? You think you remember Jonathan mentioning someone named Stephen.

Already the names are floating around your head. There are so many of them to remember. New faces you’ll be meeting tonight and desperately trying to impress. And you’ve already forgotten half of them. 

The elevator comes to a stop. Nancy and Jonathan step off, but you’re rooted to the floor, unable to move. “Please tell me this is a good idea.”

“It’s a wonderful idea, Y/N.” Nancy reassures you, grabbing your hand and gently pulling you from the elevator’s closing doors. Her eyes trace over your tense figure and she smiles sympathetically. The hand she isn’t using to hold yours plucks lint from your jacket, smoothing over its folds. “I promise you’ll love them.”

You really want to believe her. “And ‘them’ being…?”

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve.” Jonathan supplies. He’s smoothing your jacket down as well. The couple frets over your appearance in the narrow hallway and you almost feel like a lost child under their nurturing gaze. 

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve,” you repeat under your breath, over and over again. Their names roll over your tongue and you like how the weight of it feels. “Okay, I can do this. I’m fine. This will be totally fine.”

Jonathan nods eagerly and then shoves you towards a door at the end of the hall. In faded gold plating reads 6B on the door’s purple frame. There’s a cheesy floor mat that greets you in cursive lettering.

“Ready?” Nancy asks you.

You inhale, close your eyes, and exhale the remaining fear from your bones. Opening your eyes, you nod at her. 

Three soft raps against the door. There’s shuffling on the other side. Voices talking to one another. A set of footsteps running towards the door before a girl your age swings it open and lunges into your arms as if you’re lifelong friends.

“You’re here!” She exclaims happily, arms clasped tightly over your neck. You stumble back at the sudden embrace.

Jonathan sees your obvious overwhelm. “Ease up there, Robin. You can’t kill Y/N yet.”

The girl, Robin, you remind yourself, quickly releases you. Her freckled cheeks blush a pretty pink that matches the faded pink streaks in her choppy hair. “Sorry,” her blue eyes are wide and youthful. “I just-Jonathan and Nancy have been blabbing about you for weeks now and it’s just crazy that this is finally happening! I mean, you’re real! You’re here!”

She’s speaking a mile a minute and you’re trying your best to keep up with her, but you’re still nervous and deeply overwhelmed now and all you can say is, “Your hair is really pretty.”

“Thanks,” Robin’s bashful smile is beautiful. Her fingers tangle through her shoulder-length hair. “It was Steve’s idea. He helped me dye it.”

“Steve sounds nice,” you say, trying to keep the conversation going as Nancy and Jonathan watch the two of you quietly.

Robin laughs as if you’ve said something funny. She doesn’t say anything, though, and instead grabs your arm to pull you inside. She hardly gives you any time to look around the apartment before she’s talking a mile a minute once again.

“This is the kitchen,” she waves her arms out with a flourish, giggling when your jaw drops. There’s more counter space than you ever thought possible in a New York apartment. A kid, maybe a few years younger than you, is taking pizza out of the oven. “And that, my dear and new friend, is Dustin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dustin sets the pizza down before giving you a thumbs up. “Pizza?”

Jonathan and his brother Will are already grabbing plates and cutting into the still hot food before you can even say yes. Jonathan hands a slice to Nancy while Will passes a plate to you. You thank him kindly, recognizing him from Jonathan’s senior thesis photos.

The moment you have your food, Robin yanks you away again.

“This is the living room.” Giant floor to ceiling windows that you definitely can’t afford replace the walls that should be in their place. The entire skyline of lower Manhattan winks back at you. 

“No fucking way…” 

A scrawny kid, maybe Dustin’s age, who looks a lot like Nancy snorts from the sage green couch that wraps around the area. “Isn’t it obnoxiously nice? I hate it.”

Robin flicks his head. “Ignore him. He isn’t relevant to our tour.”

“I take it he’s Mike?” You ask, again being at the will of Robin’s strong grip as she parades you through the apartment. 

The decorations, though minimal, make the place feel like a home. There’s art hanging on the walls. Photographs of faces you recognize, though most are people you don’t. Belongings strewn throughout the space that tell you there’s stories and love within these walls. 

“Unfortunately,” Robin stops in front of a set of doors. “We only keep him around because we like Nancy. Anyways, here’s the bathroom.”

Though small, it’s nice, and you nod appreciatively. Satisfied with your response, Robin flings open another door. Inside are piles of screws and wires belonging to various unfinished technical exploits and it takes you a moment to realize that there’s even a bed in this room. 

“Dustin’s room?” You guess, remembering the City College of Technology logo that was on his hat. 

“Correct,” Robin then opens another door, this time revealing a room full of rosie pinks and deep purples and blues. A keyboard rests on a bed. There are vinyls everywhere and pink hair dye spilled on the small desk. “My room. Admire her while you can. I deeply hate people in my space.”

You laugh. “Noted.”

Robin slams the door and turns to the next one, though she hesitates. “Technically, Steve also really hates people in his room, but the douchebag is late even though he promised he’d be here on time so,” she opens the door. “Voila.”

While you want to respect the wishes of the roommate you still have yet to meet, curiosity wins. You peek inside. The room is a mess of guitar picks littering the floor. You see a dark blue acoustic guitar in the corner, its edges almost midnight black, and an unmade bed full of vinyls. On the walls are photos. Some are of bands that you’re familiar with. Most aren’t. In between it all, however, are photos who you can only assume are Robin and his other friends. 

There’s a desk shoved to a corner that has pen marks and papers with messy writing scrawled on them. Everything inside the room is used, worn, though somehow there’s still a sense of calm within the chaos of it all. 

“None of you are neat freaks, huh?” 

Robin winces. “No, but I promise we’re clean. Scout’s honor. Please just ignore the blatant oxymoron of our rooms.”

You laugh and shake your head, telling her it’s fine. Robin beams once again and takes your hand one last time to guide you back to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the counter, pizza in their hands as lazy conversation fills the room. 

And even though an hour prior you were afraid that you were in way over your head, you fall into conversation easily with everyone else. Dustin is charismatic and asks for your thoughts on the apartment. Will’s soft spoken nature is comforting. Mike is witty and enjoys that you play into his jokes. A little later a young girl named Max appears and she’s just as enigmatic as her red hair and asks you a million questions about photography.

Robin doesn’t stop poking your skin and clothes and fretting over you the entire time. You adore her within minutes. 

“Alright,” you say after finishing the last of the pizza. “Tell me. Who’s in this alleged band I’m putting all my blind faith in?”

Dustin throws his head back and groans. “God, don’t get them started.”

Mike hits his shoulder. “Dude, shut up.”

“We call ourselves the Februarys.” Jonathan ignores the boys bickering. 

“The Februarys?”

“Guess which rocket scientist thought of it.” Dustin snarks. 

Mike hits him again and you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, I like it. It’s a bit odd, but interesting. Unique.”

“You’re perfect. Have I ever told you how perfect you are?” Robin throws her arm over your shoulders. “Anyways, I play the keyboard. I’m good with my fingers,” she wiggles them at you with a sly wink, “and sometimes lend my voice to songs if Steve allows it.”

“He’s the lead vocalist,” Jonathan explains. “He also plays the guitar, but he mostly just likes how cool it makes him look.”

“It doesn’t, by the way.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Not unless it’s an electric guitar, which I do play.”

You raise your eyebrows in shock. “Aren’t you a little… young to be in a band?”

Loud cackles tumble out of Dustin and Robin while Jonathan tries to hide his own snickers behind Nancy’s amused smile and Will’s soft laughs. You look around with wide eyes, terrified you’ve said the wrong thing, when Max crosses her arms at you. 

“Find someone who can play the bass as well as I can. I dare you.”

Her unwavering confidence in her ability leaves you breathless. Your uncertainty crumbles the moment her knowing smirk spreads across her face. She knows she’s good. She doesn’t need your approval.

“My apologies, Mayfield.” You nudge your shoulder against hers. 

Mike scowls. “Do I get an apology, too?”

“No,” you and Max say at the same time. 

This time everyone laughs and you’re amazed by how easy this is. Talking to them, laughing and teasing them with the shared understanding of respect. You’ve been welcomed into something warm and precious, friends who seem to have years stretching between them. 

A series of clicks and the scraping of metal before the front door swings open. A man stumbles inside, cursing and swearing under his breath when his foot catches on a stray shoe and he nearly falls. It’s a cacophony of sound and discarded energy and Robin watches it all with a bored frown.

“You’re late.” She greets the intruder.

He hunches over, hands on his knees. “Give me a second,” his breaths are heavy and brown hair falls in his face. He brushes it aside haphazardly with a practiced habitual ease. “Christ, I ran ten blocks to make it here on time.”

“And yet you’re still late.” Robin turns to you, frown etching her soft features. “I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

Hearing your name, the guy’s body suddenly snaps up from its prior hunched posture. Brown eyes land on you. Curious, excited, and then slowly interested. They travel up your body once, twice, then a third time. He fixes his hair again and smiles at you. “Is this our new roommate?”

“Possible roommate.” You correct him, a hint of a smile back at him. “You must be Steve.”

His smile widens. “The one and only.”

Strong jawline, doe eyes that are soft enough to be vulnerable, yet teasing. Hair that’s just long enough to curl over the nape of his neck. Classically handsome, Steve’s delicate features are juxtaposed by the silver nose ring that catches the light, by the matching latch earrings that parallel the moles that line his neck and jaw. 

Steve knows he’s beautiful. And he knows how to use it to his advantage as he drapes an arm over you, grabs a piece of pizza from your plate, and sits in your chair that is already too small for one person. It forces him to be pressed tightly against you. His jeans dig into your waist, his thick silver bracelet on his wrist cools your heated skin. 

“Hi, beautiful,” he winks at you, taking a bite of the food he’s stolen. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Robin gags and everyone else rolls their eyes at Steve’s exaggerated charm. They’ve seen this before. They’re used to his theatrics and need to be the center of attention for every girl he meets.

“Steve’s a bit of a flirt, if you couldn’t tell.” Jonathan shoves his friend away from you with a slight eye roll. “If he gets too much, just spray him like a cat.”

You watch Steve, studying him. He’s charming and beautiful, putting on a show for you, and underneath the performance is a shallow surface. He’s exalted by the attention. It’s not that his actions aren’t genuine, but they border on fictitious. 

The fictitiousness is intriguing. 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” to everyone’s surprise, you pull Steve back into the chair. He makes a startled sound, caught off guard by your forceful hands, and completely infatuated with them already. Pleased, you pinch Steve’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, handsome?”

You feel him lean into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s studying you the same way you’ve been studying him. A pause, your fingers linger on his cheek. Just before you exhale, Steve grabs the hand that strokes his face. His grip is loose on your wrist. He kisses the inside skin that’s the thinnest, veins beating. 

“You’ll move in tomorrow.” He murmurs against your skin. “And your first gig with us is Friday.”

It isn’t a question, and you don’t correct him. 

Already it’s been decided. 

– 

The heater in your apartment broke a year after you moved in. Your landlord promised she would fix it come winter, but as pockets of snow fill the window’s ledge, your hands are numb from the brisk air and lack of heat. 

Packing is easy enough, though seeing your small assortment of belongings piled into boxes causes a tug of longing in your stomach. The brick walls of your apartment are worn and scuffed from previous tenants and the floorboards creak with every breath you take. It’s an awful, old and frigid apartment, but it was also the first place you ever called home in New York.

“This really all you have?” Steve looks at the handful of boxes with skepticism. Being the only one who doesn’t have classes or a day job, he happily volunteered to help you move your things to the new apartment. 

You tape the final box shut. “For the most part, but there’s a box or two in the bedroom.”

“I get to see your bedroom?” He wiggles his eyebrows and you throw a balled up wad of tape at him. He dodges easily, laughing. “Want me to go get them?”

“Yes, please.”

“Be right back, gorgeous.”

Gorgeous. Beautiful. Babe. All compliments Steve has showered you in since meeting him fifteen hours prior. They fall from his lips without any hesitation, always accompanied by a charming smile or sly wink. 

If it were anyone else, you would’ve told them to fuck off by now. But with Steve there’s no weight behind his praise. No expectation of you to return them. He praises you because he wants to, compliments you because he likes the way you blush afterwards. 

You’ve only known Steve for fifteen hours, and yet you’ve never felt this comfortable alone with anyone else. 

“I know this may sound like I’m sucking up considering I’m trusting you to make my band look cool, but,” Steve carries two boxes, arms straining under the weight and you watch as his biceps ripple under his tanned skin. He sets them down, opens the top one, and then pulls out a collection of your photographs from within it. “You’re insanely talented, Y/N.”

“I sent you to get my boxes, not go through them.” You try to take the photos away, but Steve is fast and holds them out of your reach. 

“No, I’m serious. I mean, Jonathan is cool and all and we all cried seeing his thesis show, but you?” He holds up one of your favorite photographs. He huffs in disbelief, eyes roaming over the image with a hunger of amazement and awe. “I almost feel bad that we can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

The photo is one you took when you first moved to Manhattan. Eighteen and naive, you viewed the city through your lens greedily. Your first few months in the city all you did was carry your camera around with you and use up canister after canister of film. The images were fine, nothing monumental, until one day, somehow, they were. 

An older woman sitting on a park bench. There is no one sitting next to her. Her head is down, hands clasped in her lap. There is a bird mimicking her downward posture beside her. Almost out of view, almost a shadow, and there’s something tender in the image that you’ve never quite managed to capture again. 

“The apartment makes up for it. I mean, floor to ceiling windows? Fucking insane.”

Steve chuckles, agreeing silently. “How’d you get into photography, anyways?” He picks through some more of your pictures, uncaring of the fact that you’re shy of your work.

“My mom was a photographer and gave me my first film camera when I was nine.” You shrug, a nostalgic smile on your face. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

“I get it,” Steve hums, still admiring every image of yours that he finds. “That’s how music was for me. I was eleven and my parents weren’t home so I snuck into their room. They had this giant record player. I remember being so amazed by it, but God forbid I touch it.”

Steve looks down at his hands, tight smile and narrowed eyes. “Anyways, one day they weren’t home, so I ran right up to their room, laid my head right next to the record player, and played the first record I found.” 

“What was it?” You ask softly, curious. 

“The Velvet Underground. I inherited a lot of things from my father, but thank god he gave me my music taste. The moment I heard Sterling Morrison’s guitar strings in Heroin, I was a goner. Begged the old man for my own guitar the very next day.”

“And did you get it?” The question is more to keep the delicate look on Steve’s face. He unravels when he talks about music, almost softens at its melodies. He’s beautiful, he always is, but music only makes him glow. 

“I did,” Steve nods, proud. He walks up behind you, arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you in, his chest solid and warm. He kisses your hairline, smiling into your skin. “Want to know a secret?”

“Tell me,” your body leans closer to his.

“I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.”

Steve’s childish declaration mirrors every other young boy’s dream. Every artist’s dream since they were a child. Dreams of grandeur, recognition, of creation and passion and freedom. You twist your head around, wanting to look at the man holding you. His face is calm, open and unapologetic. He believes what he’s said. There isn’t a hint of uncertainty or hesitancy within the lines of his cheeks. 

And you believe him, too. Steve has the charisma to set the city on fire, an ease to his movements and beauty that’s addicting. Devastatingly handsome. It’s inevitable that the world falls to its knees before him one day. 

“Think you’ll ever write a song about me?” It’s meant to be a joke, a tease, but when you turn to face him your nose brushes his cheek. This close, you can count his freckles. The proximity catches your breath. 

Steve wraps his entire body around you. The kiss he places at the base of your neck burns. “I think all my songs will be about you, angelface.”

And yet another name, this time accompanied by his fingers digging into your ribcage to get you to squeal out laughter. You twist in his grasp, shrieking at Steve to stop, but he has you right where he wants you.

“Ow!” Steve rips his body away from yours after you land a particularly hard pinch to his arm. He rubs the forming bruise, glaring at you. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re the one who started it!”

He sticks his tongue out and all you can do is roll your eyes at him. Catching your breath, you remember where you are. There are still boxes everywhere. You sigh, bend down, and start sliding them against the wall.

“What are you doing? Don’t do that.” Steve swats you away, offended you’ve even considered moving the boxes yourself. 

You blink at him. “Did you just hit me?”

Steve ignores you, focusing on the boxes instead. He stacks them one by one in front of the door. Hair falls in his face and you have to remind yourself to look away. After he’s done, Steve studies the boxes before him, their appearance deceptively multiplied when piled all together. 

Dropping his head, he groans, “This is going to suck.” 

The two of you will have to carry all the boxes down five flights of stairs and into a taxi that will almost definitely be too small to sit in. In the February snow and midday commute. 

“Yup,” you pat Steve’s chest. “It’s a good thing you’re so strong, right?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that how you’re supposed to talk to your subordinate? I mean, I am working for you now, right?”

“Please pick up a box and shut up.”

– 

Robin helps you unpack everything in your room. The space itself is beautiful, arguably the biggest room in the apartment. Wood flooring, cream walls, and even a window that overlooks the park. You ask her who died for you to be able to live here, and she confesses that the only reason she and the others didn’t claim your room when their old roommate moved out is because they didn’t feel like keeping the large space clean. 

Who knew laziness could get you a giant room with a view?

Except Steve’s room is next to yours, and after a few days of sharing a wall, you quickly realize that one: he brings a new girl over every night, and two: Robin is a liar. Her and Dustin weren’t lazy, they just didn’t want to share a wall with Steve.

And you can’t blame them. The first night it’s jarring hearing the subtle thuds and moans that leak through the thin plaster. The second night, you roll over, hit the wall once to signal to Steve to keep it down, before grabbing your walkman and slipping on headphones.

Soon you learn the signs. The slam of a door, feminine giggles, his breathy voice as he guides them past your room to his. After the second night and your annoyed thud, Steve starts playing music to drown out the unwanted sounds. 

The third night, you’re in the kitchen working on some film when the front door slams. You look up at the clock, cursing the late hour. You’d been so engrossed in your work that you forgot that any minute Steve would be home with yet another girl.

They don’t see you at first. Her face is buried in Steve’s neck and he’s caressing her bare skin that her small top doesn’t cover. They’re laughing, slightly intoxicated as they stumble through the living room. 

“Wore this just for you,” the girl murmurs against his lips. Her hands yank her top down, to bring his attention to it. “I remember you said you liked green.”

Maybe they aren’t new girls every night, you think. Then, promptly remembering that you aren’t supposed to be here right now you then think, oh God, do I need to duck behind the counter?

Steve doesn’t bother looking down at her top. “Cute,” he says simply. Nothing more. Like he doesn’t care to say anything further.

He tries to kiss her instead, impatient and done with the attempt at conversation. It’s odd seeing him like this. Displaced, almost cold in a calculated way that you suppose can come off as charming. 

Only the girl pulls away, obviously displeased with the throwaway comment. Her eyes squint at him, but before she can either tell him to fuck off or to keep kissing her, her unhappy gaze lands on you. 

“Who the hell are you?”

You should’ve ducked behind the counter. “I-uh. Live here.”

“I was here last week. You weren’t.”

“Quick turnaround period?” You’re awful with confrontation and Steve isn’t helping, arms crossed and smiling like a goddamn saint while you’re drowning. You glare at him. “A little help would be nice.”

Steve grabs the girl and spins her once, twice, before pulling her into a kiss. Not at all caring that you’re watching, he slips his tongue into her wanting mouth and moans. She clutches his chest, and the second he has her pleading, he pulls away.

“Go wait in my room, I’ll be right there.” He tells her, kissing her again before she can argue. “Promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t I always?”

The girl sighs, as if he’s taken her ability to say anything else away. She nods at him, starts walking to his room, and she’s gone without another word.

“Charming,” you shake your head at Steve, who now leans against the counter and looks at the film developing. “Not the way I would’ve handled the situation, though.”

“So I wanna get off, doesn’t everyone?” He’s coy, peering over your shoulder and his hair tickles your skin. “New project?”

“Testing aperture settings for Friday.” You point at a grainy photo, ignoring his previous words about getting off. “Too dark. I need to figure out how to get the best lighting out of a dim venue.”

“You’re cute when you try to impress me.” 

You pinch his side. “Don’t you have a girl waiting for you?”

“Do I sense jealousy, Y/N?” Steve bites the inside of his cheek, looking you up and down.

“Not in the slightest.” 

And there really isn’t any jealousy. You don’t mind that Steve has a different girl in his bed each night; you knew that he was this way before Robin even had to warn you. You saw through him the moment you met him. 

You’ve known men like Steve. Their wanting ways and sugar coated praise; he isn’t any different. 

The outline of Steve’s figure becomes blurry when he’s with these girls. A thin layer of film over how he normally is, like his words and actions aren’t quite real. Superficial, putting on a show for them that you somehow know he only reserves for the stage. 

“Anyways, I’m exhausted.” You rub your eyes, vision blurred from staring at images for hours. You ruffle Steve’s hair fondly. “Try not to keep me up tonight, please.”

He catches your hand that falls and kisses the same spot on your wrist that he’s come to inhabit. Soft eyes and honest lips, he promises you, “whatever you ask, angelface.”

Soft. Steve is always soft with you, genuine to the raw way in which he looks at you. For some reason he’s different this way with you.

“Goodnight, Steve.” Though you linger for just a second. He sees it.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Tomorrow you’ll inevitably find him in the kitchen making breakfast for the apartment. He’ll be shirtless because he gets hot when he cooks. You’ll see the scratches down his back and the hickeys on his neck and the physical reminder of the marks on Steve’s body will be a reminder to step away. 

The flirting is fine. You enjoy being adored by him and making him laugh at your quick responses. Even if the adoration is fake, even if sometimes Steve’s eyes make you wonder how you can capture them with your lens, he’s quickly becoming your best friend. Robin, too. And Dustin and Jonathan and everyone else entangled in your life now because of Steve. 

You don’t want to jeopardize this, even if you still aren’t really sure what this is. The Februarys, the apartment, the people within it. 

But whatever this is, something tells you that Steve doesn’t want to jeopardize it either. 

– 

The heat of the apartment coats the loud buzz of the people in the crowded space talking over one another the next night. It’s full capacity in the apartment. Voices mix together and there’s hardly any room to breathe. 

Steve had warned you it’d be like this. The night before a performance is always this way: bodies crammed into the apartment, all intoxicated on the rush of figuring out a setlist and chords. 

The intoxication leaks into your blood, too. Cheeks aching, you can’t stop smiling. The excitement, the giddy curiosity, now fulfilled as you finally get to see the band in action.

Steve’s curled around you on the couch, his body heat only overheating you more, but his insistence of crawling into every seat you inhabit is easier to let happen than fight. He’s talking animatedly with Robin and Jonathan as they agonize over a list of songs while you and Nancy watch, silent.

“We could play Clear and Void?” Robin suggests to the boys, pencil in her mouth with her eyebrows knit together. “Or maybe Happening New?”

Neither songs are songs you’re familiar with, though you remember Jonathan telling you that the Februarys had a working collection of four of their own songs. The problem is that most venues require a minimum of six for a gig. 

“We played both of those last week.” Steve shakes his head. “Isn’t Higgy’s more of a cover venue, anyways? Shouldn’t we just pull from our covers set?”

Jonathan bites his cheek. “I say we do Clear and Void, Happening New, and then mix in a few covers before closing with Limerick. Three of our most popular songs and three covers. Balance it out.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but a shout from the corner of the room pulls your attention. 

“I’m not crawling through a goddamn cellar to get to our gig!” Max scoffs at Mike, both of them hunched over the kitchen counter with a paper between them.

“Got any other brilliant ideas, then?” 

A girl, who you’ve been introduced to as El, places a hand on Mike’s shoulder in what you can only assume is a feeble attempt at calming him down. He tries to say more, but El shakes her head softly, so he curses again and messily erases whatever he’d been writing on the paper.

“This is stupid.” Mike spits out. “Why the hell is twenty-one the deemed age to get shitfaced?”

“Prohibition,” Dustin says, as if it’s obvious. He swings an arm around Will and grins. “What are the odds they make it in?”

“Pretty terrible.”

Lucas, who you've also met tonight, looks wearily at Max and Mike, scared they’ll overhear the taunts. He lowers his voice and turns to his other friends. “Can we not piss them off more? You’re not the ones who have to go home with them.”

Max, however, does hear this. “Insinuate I’m a pain in the ass when I’m angry again, Sinclair. Go on.”

Lucas shuts his mouth and the boys all snicker at his misfortune. Max and Mike go back to their metaphorical drawing board of figuring out how to sneak into a twenty-one and up venue. Their situation is amusing, even if you do feel slightly bad that they have to jump legal hurdles to perform. 

“What if we just get Dustin to print us fake IDs?” Mike proposes, a glint in his eyes.

“No!” Steve, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all shout at once.

Mike lets out an obnoxiously loud groan and Max flips off the older adults, though none of them pay them any attention. Instead, they go back to their list of songs and resume their own argument from earlier. 

“What do you think, Y/N?” 

Steve’s question surprises you. He’s turned to you and he’s expecting a response, wanting your input on a matter that you have no knowledge in. He knows you’re more interested in photography than music, he knows you’re still figuring out the music scene with the Februarys.

Yet Steve still wants to consider your input.

All eyes on you, your dry mouth swallows sticky saliva. The only thing you can think of is the length of Steve’s neck when he recounted a childhood memory to you in your snowy apartment.

“I guess, uh. Cool It Down?” You stumble slightly, worried you’ll embarrass yourself and suggest a song everyone hates.

Steve, however, is so in love with the idea that he practically crawls into your lap to take your face into his hands and kiss your cheek, loud, wet, dramatic and infatuated. “God, I’m in love with that angelface of yours.”

Robin and Nancy look at each other in disgust. 

Jonathan doesn’t share this disgust. His eyebrow jumps in interest, watching the two of you. “The Velvet Underground?”

He doesn’t ask as a way to clarify who sings the song. He asks because he knows that the band isn’t the usual music you listen to. He’s had their albums playing before and not once have you ever showed any interest. 

“Higgy's once had them play a gig there.” It could be a lie. You aren’t really sure. All you know is that Jonathan seems far too interested in your sudden change in music taste. “That’s why I suggested it.”

“I didn’t know they played there.”

Steve’s nose presses into your neck. “Leave her alone, Byers. She’s a born and bred musical genius. Don’t be jealous.”

Jonathan ducks his head, surrendering, and you exhale a shaky breath. In being a photographer, Jonathan has learned to see the smallest details that often go overlooked. It’s a quality you both share, but now, with his knowing eyes on you, you’re really pissed off he graduated top of your class. 

“How should we arrange the chords?” Robin breaks the remaining tension between you and Jonathan. You don’t think she’s even noticed it, but you’re grateful for her nonetheless. 

“Chords?” Mike’s head pops up from the crowd of his friends. “Did we get a setlist arranged?” 

Robin holds up the list. “Read it and weep, Wheeler. Help us figure out tuning.”

Mike runs over and Max isn’t far behind him. Soon they’re all talking over one another again. You’ve lost the Februarys to the lyrics and chords that swarm around them. They all come alive when they talk about their music. They’re beautiful when they talk about their music. 

Nancy catches your eye, thinking what you are. She smiles. You smile back. 

A little while later the apartment’s buzz dies down. Mike and the young teens all crowd themselves in Dustin’s room. Robin tells you that they all grew up together in Indiana. Inseparable then, inseparable now.

Steve is with her in the kitchen. She had a craving for ice cream and he had a craving for caramel. Naturally, they’re now rifling through the pantry for sundae ingredients at nearly midnight. 

You’re sorting through film cartridges on the couch with Nancy and Jonathan sitting beside you. They’re whispering to themselves, lost in their own world, and you almost forget they’re there until Jonathan’s voice reminds you. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he shifts a bit closer to you so that he can look over your camera set up. “What’s your plan for tomorrow? Do you need to borrow any of my equipment?”

You shake your head. “No, I did some test trials a few nights ago and I think I’ve finally figured out the right aperture for the venue. The photos came out pretty good, actually.”

“They were amazing!” Steve butts in, voice carrying from across the room.

Jonathan and Nancy snort and you pretend you didn’t hear him. “As for the plan, I was thinking some behind the scenes photos, you know? Take some of the band while you’re getting ready before the show and then once you’re up I just, I don’t know. Glue myself to the barricade and pray?”

Jonathan hums, pleased with what you’ve come up with, though Nancy pokes your knee. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time, so don’t worry about getting lost in the crowd.”

“Thank god.” Then an idea comes to you. “Oh, what about taking pictures of the crowd, too?”

When Jonathan and Nancy tilt their heads at you, not quite following, you’re quick to explain. “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool to have documentation of a growing crowd? Compare your earlier gigs with hopefully bigger and better ones in the future.”

“I’d kiss your face, but I’m afraid Steve might throw a spoon at me.” Nancy says, voice purposefully loud so that the intended audience will hear.

“I’m armed, Wheeler.” Steve holds a spoon up and glares at her. 

You all laugh and she reaches over to squeeze your hands excitedly. “I think documenting the crowd is a brilliant idea.”

Jonathan kisses his thumb, presses the finger to your nose as you giggle, and ruffles your hair. “A stupidly brilliant idea.”

You bat his hand away as Nancy laughs at the two of you. From the kitchen, in between your laughter, you hear Steve’s disgruntled, “What did I say about being armed, Byers?”

– 

Higgy's is a shitty venue in an even shittier location with a history so rich and complex that you can’t help but admire its delicate and stained walls as you walk around the dressing room. Signatures from artists like Hendrix and Joplin line the walls. Someone has signed the mirror in thick ink with the words, know your history and then tear it apart.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Nancy murmurs, standing next to you as you both admire the walls.

“It is,” you softly agree. Raising your camera, you take a picture of the mirror. “I can’t believe your boyfriend is performing here.”

“Neither can my boyfriend.”

A pounding noise can be heard from beneath you. You look at Nancy, silently asking her what the hell the sound could be, but she shrugs at you, also confused. The pounding happens again, this time forceful enough to rattle the floor, and you jump back and find that you’d been standing on top of a hidden hatch beneath the purple carpeting. 

The hatch’s door swings open, revealing a very angry Mike and Max.

Guess they found a way into the venue, then.

“Did you really have to stand on our escape plan?” The boy sneers, his glare deepening when he sees you and Nancy holding back laughs. “This isn’t at all funny.”

Only he looks so small down below the hidden cellar routes that remain from the prohibition days, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing excessively. 

“Just help us up.” Max pleads, annoyed and sweaty and covered in god knows what. 

Taking pity on them, Nancy offers her hand and helps them crawl out from the hatch of death. “If mom ever asks,” she says to Mike. “Tell her I’m taking really good care of you here in New York.”

“Ha, ha.” He responds drily, though he shrieks in upset when a flash goes off and he realizes you’re taking pictures of his and Max’s situation. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“Well, children.” You take another photo. “I’m capturing behind the scenes content.”

Max scoffs and steps past you, her shoulder clipping against yours, leaving Nancy to deal with her brother’s outrage so that she can help him get ready. You wish her luck and she waves you off, focusing on Mike now. 

Camera in hand, you take pictures of anything that your gaze lingers on. More signatures on the wall. The bands only sign that hangs above the door frame. Robin’s platform sneakers that lay abandoned next to her chair. Steve’s guitar next to the sneakers.

And even though there is so much history within these walls, so many intimate details that you know you want to capture forever, your lens draws you to Steve. Body turned to his, you find him through your viewfinder. 

Robin sits at the vanity. Her eyes are smudged with dark mascara and eyeliner and the blue of them shine. Steve stands next to her, styling his hair with sticky pomade and hopeless fingers. A silver chain hangs from Steve’s neck, his white t-shirt strains against his back, muscles outline faintly in the dim lighting as he bends towards Robin to tangle his fingers in her hair, too, styling it as she wants. 

They don’t see you at first. It isn’t until you’ve brought the camera back up to your face, eye squinting in the viewfinder to focus on the expanse of Steve’s taut back, do they see you. Robin winks into the mirror and Steve tips his head back, smiling lazily at you. 

Something tight grips your throat, but you swallow it down. 

In the corner Nancy is fixing Jonathan’s jacket and you take a picture of her tender hands around his waist. You photograph Mike and Max tuning their instruments; the girl’s red hair almost glows besides the boy’s fluorescent skin. As Robin and Jonathan go over the setlist for any last minute changes, you take a picture of their downcast heads, their similarly colored hair blurring into one body. 

The excitement in the room is tinged with tension, with apprehension, but still there is a breathlessness to it. 

Steve watches your every move as you walk around the room. His eyes are a pleasant warmth that simmers on your skin. You take a photo of his hands wrapped around his blue guitar neck. His fingers picking at the strings. His lips humming a song. 

He lets you. 

“Five more minutes.” A man, tall and large, knocks on the dressing room door. “Get ready.”

The static in the air multiplies at the announcement. Steve jumps up from his seat, clapping his hands. “Alright, everyone. You know the drill.”

They fall into formation. Jonathan, Mike, Max, and Robin all in a circle facing Steve. 

He brings his arms around them, forcing them into a huddle. Their eyes are bright and smiles wide and you take one final photo of them, just like this, just like little kids, grinning mischievously at one another and flushed faces. 

“It’s just us.” Steve tells them. “Just us up there on stage. No one else. Not one fucking any person but us.”

They repeat him. Just us. Just us just us just us.

Steve licks his lips at the sound, coating the cheshire smile on his face. He leans closer, impossibly closer to his bandmates, words edging his lips as they wait, dangling before them, desperate, waiting, before finally, finally–

“Showtime.”

– 

The cold metal of the barrier digs into your stomach. Nancy stands next to you, her own body flush against the railing that separates the barricade from the main stage. The small section is reserved only for you and Nancy, separate from the rest of the crowd, yet hardly big enough for the two of you to stand comfortably. 

Loud, disorienting noise surrounds you. Higgy's is one of those smaller venues that insists on cramming as many people as possible inside. Your heartbeat pounds along to the sound of drunken conversation and Nancy’s reassuring glances. 

“You ready?” She shouts into your ear, barely heard above the crowd.

“Not at all,” you admit to her. Your camera is poised in your hands. You’re anxious to see the Februarys perform, to see who exactly you’ve chanced your career on. “I swear to god, if Steve can’t sing I’m making him pay me double what he’s already–”

Your words get drowned out by a deafening wave of cheers and screams. The sound vibrates your skin, rattles your bones, and when you look up, all you see is the stage flooding with color as Steve and the others fill it. 

Jonathan sits at his drum set, its white reflecting the stage’s fluorescent purple lighting. Max plugs her bass to an amp and its deep maroon hue ignites the dark around her. Next to her Mike’s sage green electric guitar makes a small click sound as he connects it to its own powersource. Robin places herself behind her keyboard, its effervescent multitude of colors that she’s painted onto its body a commotion of everything that exudes who she is. 

And then there’s Steve, standing front and center on the stage, holding the same acoustic guitar you saw in his room the day you met him. Dark blue, its edges black, the fingers wrapped around it tanned and rough. 

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Steve grabs the mic, still engulfed in the colors. You think you see him smile at the crowd’s excited response. The flash of his white teeth vivid against his pink mouth. 

Steve extends his arms out towards the band. “Over here we have Robin Buckley on keyboard,” she playfully bows. “Jonathan Byers on drums,” deft fingers twirl drumsticks before colliding them onto cymbals. “Playing bass we have Max Mayfield,” the girl smiles coolly at the crowd, completely at ease. “And Mike Wheeler on electric guitar,” he twists the instrument and releases a cacophony of sound and the venue explodes into howls.

“And finally,” Steve presses his mouth against the mic again, eyes only on the crowd. He lets his words hang, the cheers become feminine, the howls become wanting. He laughs at the reaction. The sound is infectious. The flex of his arms ripples in the lighting. The beauty of his features only melts into the air, cages your lungs, and you see, in the end, just what every girl he takes to bed sees. 

Only when he has the crowd in the palm of his hand does he finally introduce himself, “I’m Steve Harrington.”

Your voice joins the screaming chorus and Steve grabs the mic with both hands and shouts, “We’re the Februarys, let’s go!”

No buildup, no anticipation, the band dives right into their first song. 

And they’re fucking incredible. They flow together well, losing themselves in the songs and chords they’ve created, and it isn’t their talent that makes you believe they’ll be a sensation one day. It’s the genuine compassion they have for one another on stage. 

Steve and Robin trade off on vocals easily, without any mixed cues or forgotten lyrics. Steve never strays away from her during the entire performance, always right next to her, always sharing his mic with her just because he can, because he enjoys her presence. 

Mike and Max harmonize and their voices mix so well together that you’re momentarily stunned. During every song Mike plays his chords to Jonathan, always looking to the older boy for a reaction, always eager to please, and Jonathan plays right back to him.

Max and Robin do an intricate handshake between the songs. The quick movement of their hands are a blur on stage but their smiles are vibrant and saturated in clarity. 

The Februarys are addicting to watch, they’re indescribable, even, but Steve is too unspoken to even capture on camera.

His body sways with the beat, singing in a whiskey colored tone that hits you like a sucker punch to the heart. The dip of his nose runs against the mic’s edge. The veins in his hands contrasted by the flash of lights. 

You take what feels like endless pictures. 

Your film roll becomes overwhelmed with images of the crowd, alive and swarming to get closer to the stage. With images of Steve, beautiful and raw. Nancy and her fondness and pride watching Jonathan. Max’s hands interlaced with Robin’s during their handshakes. Robin’s pink streaks in her hair and their vibrancy in the purple light.

More, your body screams at you, humming with the images that you’re aching to capture. More, more, more.

The lights shine down and you crawl over the security barrier, the tug in your chest pulling harder and harder. Nancy doesn’t realize what you’re doing until your body is already over the railing. You think she calls out to you, but you’re gone before you can question what the hell you’re doing.

A security guard steps towards you but you quickly flash him the flimsy VIP badge you and Nancy were given when you were placed into the security area. 

You press against the edge of the stage with your camera angled up and as close as physically possible to the music. 

Steve finds you immediately.

He bends down, peers over the edge of the stage as he continues to sing. He’s dripping in sweat and his t-shirt clings to his wet skin. His chest heaves every lyric and his voice, this close, this full, makes you bite your lip to steady your shaking hands. 

“Don’t you know, honey, you can get it so fast?” He sings into the camera, silver chain dangling in front of the lens. He’s close enough for you to smell, to feel the heat of his body as he performs. “But of course, you know it makes no difference to me.” 

Steve sings into the camera, looks right through its lens, finds your eyes through its viewfinder.

He’s performing for you. 

Only for you. 

– 

In the dim, cramped hallway that connects the dressing rooms to the main stage, you wait with Nancy after the show. You’re both exhilarated and still riding the post concert high and you’re showing her all your pictures and she’s breathless and her hair is wild and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this type of adrenaline. 

A mixture of cheers and celebratory shouts echo down the hall and you hear, before you see, the Februarys returning. They’re equally drunk on the adrenaline that courses through your veins. 

“Did you see that?” Mike flies straight to Nancy, a little kid in his older sister’s arms. “I swear, the crowd was a fucking monster.”

Jonathan is by Nancy’s side in an instant, throwing his arms around her and joining Mike’s excited ramblings.

“They were singing our songs!” Robin screeches at the top of her lungs as she runs straight towards you, Max not far behind. “Y/N, did you hear them? God, please tell me you took a picture of the crowd–”

Suddenly you’re weightless, feet lifting from the ground as your body spins recklessly around. You scream, hands clutching your camera in alarm, until a rough and familiar voice kisses into your ear, “Angelface.”

“Steve!” You hit his arms playfully, belly full of laughter. “Put me down!”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night,” his hands slide down your waist and your feet touch the ground once more. “Christ, you look fucking amazing in the purple lights.”

Standing on the tips of your toes, you fix the messy pieces of Steve’s hair. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the entire night, I mean, look,” giddy, you shove a small camera in his face. “I shot some digital, I knew you’d be too impatient for the film to develop. And as much as I hate to admit it, the stage loves you.”

Steve’s mouth parts, momentarily surprised you’ve done this small, unnecessary thing for him. You only agreed to shoot the band in film, that was all they could afford to pay you for, and yet here you are, once again surprising him.

“God, you’re my favorite fucking person ever.” Steve hungrily grabs the device, licking his lips. He flicks through the images in a maddening frenzy and his heartbeat almost deafens his ears. “Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.”

He says it as if to gloat, to exude your talent once more, but deep down, Steve’s stomach twists a feeling he’s never felt before. Screaming crowds and late night lyrics felt cliche, ingenuine, but now looking at the pictures you’ve provided solely for him, this is the first time he’s ever truly felt like a rockstar. 

Your perfume invades Steve’s senses. Your cheek presses against his bicep and he can feel your grin. You point to his face in one of the pictures. “You get really red when you perform.”

“I’m going to pretend that’s your poor attempt at flirting with me.”

You laugh. “No, it wasn’t. You get all rosie,” you look up at him and your smile softens slightly, more tender, delicate. “I think it’s cute.”

“Rosie, huh?” Steve’s heartbeat spikes again. The haze your perfume has left him in threatens to overspill into his wandering hands. His eyes wander to your lips; you see it.

“Share with the class, Harrington,” Robin snatches the camera from him. “Quit hogging Y/N’s talent.”

Steve immediately tries to grab the camera, but Robin is fast. She runs to the others, ducks behind Jonathan, and Steve glares at her. “Buckley, I wasn’t done–”

“Let them look, Steve.” Your fingers wrap around his wrist, gently pulling him back. “You’re not the only one paying me, you know.”

Steve wants to roll his eyes, to say that actually your pay comes out of his bank account, but then he sees the pure joy in your eyes as you watch the Februarys pour over the photos. You try to suppress your obvious pride by biting your lip and all arguments die in his throat.

There aren't a lot of pictures, not nearly as many as you’re sure you took on your film camera, but watching the band’s eyes light up as they see your work is like molten chocolate coating your stomach. Syrupy and indulgent and lovely.

“I’m framing this one,” Robin announces, holding the camera up. “Because holy fuck do my tits look great from this angle.”

“Wasn’t my artistic intent, but please feel free to frame your tits.”

Max points to an image of her with her eyes closed, fingers soft and poised over the bass strings. “I look so… holy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way, right?”

“I think so.”

“Good enough for me.”

Mike smacks Jonathan’s shoulder, not even bothering to look up from the camera. “Why the hell did you hide Y/N from us for so long?”

Nancy pinches her brother and Jonathan rubs his sore skin, and while he tries to explain that no, he hadn’t been hiding you this whole time, Steve’s lips graze your head and he wraps himself around you, steadying your body that sways with amused and childish laughter. 

– 

Life becomes a blur of venues and gigs and flashing lights and developing film and Steve and his lips and soft voice humming to himself most mornings.

He’s always awake before the others. Your habit of working on your film late into the night leaves you the only one up when he rises.

It’s become a sort of tradition, spending quiet mornings together. Steve makes you coffee and goes over the film with you from the night before. When he’s done admiring your work, he prepares a lazy breakfast and you sit at the counter and listen to his soft hums.

“What do you think of the lyric, ‘left for want and wanting’?” Steve asks you one morning, the sizzle of eggs on the greased pan threatening to burn his exposed chest.

“Is it a play on ‘left for want and nothing?’” He nods and you tilt your head. “I think I like it, though Robin might say it’s redundant.” 

Steve sighs. “Every time I show her what I’ve written it’s like sophomore English all over again.”

His annoyance makes you laugh, though you do pity him. Following the gig at Higgy's, Steve and the others decided that they needed more than their four original songs. The crowds are getting bigger, demanding more than just covers and a handful of songs. 

With this demand came late night bickering between Steve and Robin over lyrics and chord progressions and, more often than not, Mike frantically running down to the apartment at odd times with a line he’s thought of to insist they write it down.

“If it’s any consolation, I like the stuff you guys are coming up with.” Steve and Robin are a good team and Mike’s sudden strikes of inspiration only add to their music. From the little you’ve heard, the new songs are already more mature, even better, than their old ones. 

“You’re biased,” Steve sets a plate down in front of you and kisses your cheek. “You’re supposed to like everything I do.”

“The only thing I like about you is your face, rosie.”

Steve snorts, going back to the stove so that Dustin and Robin have their own meals to wake up to, and a comfortable silence falls over the two of you once more. 

In the blur of gigs and venues and music comes another blur of barely legal teens and their symphony of adolescence. 

Max and Lucas stop by the apartment often with El in tow. Somehow Will and Mike are never far behind despite having their own apartment upstairs. 

“Why do you guys always take over my apartment? Why can’t you go upstairs?” You ask the teens, eyeing your kitchen counter that has been buried underneath mounds of school assignments. 

“We like it here better.” Will shrugs. “Plus, you and Dustin help us with our work.”

You and Dustin do, unfortunately, enjoy helping them figure out math problems and essays, so you can’t really argue with that logic. 

Dustin becomes your accomplice in more than just assignments, though. Being the only one not in the Februarys, he’s your solace when the apartment fills with Mike and Steve arguing with Robin over a chorus or bridge or whatever else they’re stuck on that night.

“If I didn’t enjoy the idea of knowing rockstars, I would’ve moved out by now.” Dustin pounds on his bedroom wall, connected to Robin’s, where yet another argument floods the silence, and shouts, “Knock it off!”

A thud, then a door slams, before Steve comes barreling into the room and collapses at your side. “Robin said I’m trying too hard with my lyrics.”

“Oh, sure, come right in.”

Steve ignores Dustin’s sarcasm and pouts at you. “I mean, can you believe her? Me? Trying too hard?”

Then Robin launches into the room, nearly trips on the wires that litter the floor. “He’s too in his head right now! The songs all sound like slimy poetry!”

You frown. “Isn’t that what songs are–”

“You guys got rid of my seafoam gloom line?” Mike’s agitated voice is the only warning the precedes his stumbling presence into the already overflowing bedroom and yet another argument rises between the three band members.

Dustin is pinching the bridge of his nose and you’re sympathetic to his lost cause of a room. Standing up, you grab his hand. “C’mon, let’s hide out in my room. My door at least has a lock.”

“You’re leaving me?” Steve cries out, betrayed, but his voice is muffled by the door’s closing.

A lot of nights follow a pattern like this, bickering between friends, torn scraps of paper left throughout the apartment, slamming doors and laughter that follows. Sometimes the monotony is broken by Jonathan’s comforting presence helping you develop the film as Nancy brews tea. 

Tonight is like any other night. Robin has gone to bed, Mike left with his sister and Jonathan a while ago, Dustin is in his room hunched over a project for school, and Steve is in your bed, tired fingers plucking over guitar strings as you go over your photos from a gig the night before. 

Along the walls of your room are a series of photos, some film, some digital, varying in size and shape. Though some of the images are from recent performances, most aren’t even of the Februarys themselves. 

One photo is of Dustin laughing about something with Will. There’s a few of Max, one with her hand shyly clasped in Lucas’ as they watch a movie. Multiple images are of Robin and Steve, always eager to pose for you whenever your camera is near. Nancy, her beautiful side profile admiring Jonathan. 

Your room has become a collection of images of everyone you love, and slowly, it becomes Steve’s room, too.

He tells you he prefers your room over his because it’s cleaner, though really you know it’s because he also enjoys being surrounded by everyone he loves. 

Soft acoustic notes float through the room. The silence is comfortable, as it always is with Steve. His eyes are closed and he simply plays whatever comes to mind. He’s the most at ease when he’s playing music, and truthfully, tucked in your bed with his hair framing his face, you think he’s the most beautiful this way. 

“I have a question.” Steve rolls his head to look at you. The song he’s playing doesn’t waver and this act of talent, albeit small, still amazes you. 

“When don’t you have a question?” 

He pokes your thigh. “Be nice, it’s a serious question.”

Placing your film down, you give him your attention. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s up?”

Steve places his guitar down and rolls onto his side. He stares up with tired eyes and he hesitates for a moment. Opens his mouth, closes it, looks away.

“Steve?” You don’t like the uncharacteristic hesitancy. 

Sighing, he faces you again. “Why did you take this job?” 

Your confusion must spill over your face because Steve inhales and tries again, tries to articulate something that you can tell has been bothering him for a while. “What I mean is, why did you decide to put your faith in the band? Work for shit pay, live with complete strangers? Aren’t you, I don’t know, worried that we’ve somehow jeopardized your career by making you stay?”

A part of you wants to deflect, to make a joke about how you never really had a career anyways. Except Steve is looking up at you and you see a flicker of insecurity in his eyes, doubt that has never been there before. 

“Because,” you tell him, easily and without any doubt yourself. “One day everyone will know your name. You’ll be known as Steve Harrington, lead member of the Februarys, a band that will be remembered for generations to come.”

You reach out, tuck Steve’s hair behind his ear. “And, selfishly, I want to be a part of the history you make. Even if only as the photographer.”

“You really believe that?” His golden smile is bashful. 

“I do,” your lips fall to his cheek, a fluttering reassurance. “The Februarys, you guys are special. There’s something in your band. Something good. I can feel it.”

Steve grabs your ankle, skims the flesh there with the pad of his thumb. He watches himself trace your skin, smiling still golden and youthful. “I can feel it, too,” he admits to you as if it’s a secret. “Thank you, you know. For believing in us.”

Removing your ankle from his grasp, you curl your body into itself, falling against his chest, forgetting about the photos and guitar and simply laying on him. Listening to his heartbeat. Music somehow innate within him. 

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.”

Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm. 

“I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it.

But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well. 

– 

After a month of multiple arguments, insults, tears, midnight snack runs, and emotional outbursts, the Februarys’ EP, creatively titled The Februarys, is finished. 

“You agonize over these songs for weeks on end and then you name the EP The Februarys?” Dustin makes a face. “Were you too burnt out to think of anything better?”

Robin throws a pillow at him and Steve has to leave the room before he screams. 

“Is now a bad time to ask how you guys plan on recording an EP without, you know, a studio or any connections to a studio?” The death glare Robin sends you immediately shuts you up. “Yeah, okay. Bad time.”

The dilemma of not having a studio or even a record label to help produce the EP is quickly solved by the grace of one Jonathan Byers. 

“Okay, I have a plan.” He sits everyone down a few nights later, looking like King Arthur at the head of the round table. “I can get us into a studio.”

Max tips her chair back and crosses her arms. “If it involves anything illegal, I’m out. My mom said I can’t keep abusing the family lawyer.”

“You have a family lawyer?”

“Focus, Y/N.” A pen gets thrown at you and Jonathan sets his gaze on Max. “And no, it isn’t illegal. Technically.”

“I’m listening.” Mike leans forward in his seat.

Nancy frowns. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

You nod in agreement, eyeing her brother, to which he scoffs at you both. 

Jonathan either doesn’t see this or he simply doesn’t care. “Do you guys remember my old coworker Argyle? It was back when I worked at that deli on fifth.”

Everyone nods, you included. You vaguely remember the stories Jonathan told you about his time at the deli. It was run by an old man who didn’t care about labor rights but in a way that only benefited the employees. Unlimited breaks, a disregard for public health codes, and free food if you worked overtime. 

You never set foot in that deli for obvious reasons, though Jonathan loved every second of it. 

“Well, turns out he managed to bypass mandatory state drug tests and got a job working security at Major Tom’s.”

A lot of things happen at once. 

Robin, who had taken a poorly timed sip of her water, spits it out all over Steve. Cringing at the attack, his knee hits the table, eliciting a pathetic yelp from him. Mike slams his hand on the table and screams something about fate, and Max, who had been tempting the limits of how far her chair could tip back, is so surprised by the news that she leans too far and ends up on the floor. 

“Oh, Jesus.” In dire need of damage control, you quickly stand up and help Max off the ground. On your way you toss a roll of paper towels to Steve and tell him to clean himself up. 

“Major Tom’s?” He screeches, a wet paper towel hanging from his face. 

Jonathan gulps, nods. “Yeah.”

Robin’s rapid breathing borders on hyperventilating and Mike and Max are in stunned awe. Meanwhile, you’re getting ice from the freezer to ease the sting of the girl’s fall, completely caught off guard by everyone’s startled reactions. 

“In fear of looking like a moron,” you hand the ice to Max. “What the hell is Major Tom’s?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal, just the most culturally significant recording studio in the world.” Steve sputters a laugh. “It’s where every fucking rock band who’s recorded there becomes a household legend.”

You sit back down. “Oh, so this is like. A pretty big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal!” Robin exclaims. She clasps her hands in front of Jonathan, goes flying to her knees before him. “Byers, light of my life, love of my beloved Nancy Wheeler, apple of my sour eye, please, for the love of god, talk to Argyle.”

He gently grabs her arm and forces her back into her seat. “I thought I told you to stop begging for things like that. It creeps me out.”

“That’s why I do it.”

“Nancy said I need to work on expressing how I’m feeling, and I really dislike that you continue to do something that makes me feel–”

Now it’s Max’s hand that slams down on the table. “Hey! Assholes! Can we go back to Argyle finally being useful?”

“I’ve always thought he was useful.”

“You’re about to be banned from this conversation, Y/N.”

Steve, who has been shockingly quiet throughout all of this, calmly says, “Byers, you need to talk to Argyle.”

“That’s the thing.” Jonathan leans his weight against the table, crosses his arms in a smug manner. He looks around at everyone and shrugs. “I already did. He agreed to sneak us into the studio for three days. For free.”

This time there’s an even bigger reaction and it isn’t until hours later, deep into night with Steve staring up at your bedroom ceiling, does the adrenaline finally die down. 

Argyle’s deal with Jonathan is simple. The Februarys get three straight days of studio time. That’s all he can afford to give them before he risks his own job. All they have to do is record, edit, and mix eight songs in three days. 

All for the price of Jonathan’s film canister so that he can sneak weed to work.

And while the three day limit seems impossible, it’s more than enough for the band. This is too big of an opportunity to fuck up. They’ll stay up those entire three days, work themselves to the brink of death, if it means that they finally have a chance.

Which is ultimately what ends up happening.

A maddening rush settles into the band’s veins and they spend the rest of the night drawing up a plan.

Day one will be recording all eight songs. Steve won’t say a single word unless needed so that he can preserve his voice. Extra guitar strings will be stashed in Robin’s bag. Bandaids. Aspirin, whatever they can possibly need. No one leaves the studio until the final lyric has been sung and the final chord has faded. 

Day two will be the production day. With Mike and Steve mixing the songs, they’ll be at the mercy of Robin, Max, and Jonathan. Everyone gets a say in what happens. Every soundbite, every amplification of bass or keyboard gets approved by everyone. If they don’t agree with each other, they get one veto each. That’s it. There won’t be any time for arguing or stale compromises. 

Day three, the final day, will be the last minute edits. They’ll re-record if needed. Change a progression or note. It has to be perfect; it has to feel perfect. There is no other option. 

“We’ll see you and Dustin in a few days.” Steve throws a few more things into his bag. He’s called a taxi that will be at the apartment any minute. “I’ll leave some cash so you guys can order out. Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

Dustin looks offended. “Why are you making it sound like Y/N is my babysitter?”

“Because technically she is.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Which puts the ‘baby’ in ‘babysitter’.”

“Not to interrupt this groundbreaking conversation but,” your bag, which you’d been hiding behind your back since coming into Steve’s room, lands on the bed beside his. “I’m coming with you, Harrington.”

Both Steve and Dustin look at you as if you’re insane.

“You’re leaving me all alone for three days?”

“Thought you didn’t need a babysitter, Henderson?” Dustin closes his mouth and glares at you. Meanwhile, you flash Steve a wide smile. “Any complaints from you?”

“No,” there’s still an odd look on his face. “I mean, definitely not. I get you for three straight days? Heaven. I just… we can’t pay you for whatever pictures you take. It isn’t in our budget. You know that, right?”

“Keep your money,” Steve’s concern of valuing your work melts your skin. “I meant what I told you. I want to be a part of your history. And your first recording session at Major Tom’s? That’s history, rosie.”

Early morning sunlight streaks the hardwood floor of Steve’s room. His guitar is packed away in its case. His bag overflows with more than he probably needs. He’s kneeling on his bed, one leg in front of you, body angled towards yours, and the raw and vulnerable way his eyes soften when he looks at you, it’s worth more than anything he could ever pay you. 

“Taxi’s here!” Robin bangs on the doorframe. “Let’s go, wombats.”

Steve tosses your bag and grabs your hand, spinning you as he tugs you out the door. You’re used to his boyish antics by now, but still you laugh like a schoolgirl and follow him wherever. 

“So I’m really gonna be alone for three days?” Dustin calls out, following right behind. 

“I’ll call Luas and have him stay with you.” You placate. “And Steve will leave even more money for food.”

“No I won’t–”

“Bye, Dustin!” You kiss his head, ruffle his hair, and then extend your arm out towards Steve, palm facing up, expectant. “Cough it up.”

His amused smile betrays his downturned eyebrows. “Why do you treat me like the bank?” “You grew up rich. This is financial compensation for everyone who is poor.”

 Dustin nods. “Yeah. It’s economics.”

Steve sighs, knowing he won’t win this fight, and hands the kid an extra five dollars on top of the twenty he’s already left on the counter. “I hate you both.”

“Guys!” Robin’s scream can be heard from the street below. She’s outside the taxi now and her glare can be felt from six stories up. “Let’s. Go.”

“That’s our cue.” Steve grabs your hand, cocks his head at you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

– 

Major Tom’s recording studio is deep in the West Village. A few blocks away resides the Hudson. The building itself is small, no more than five floors, yet it’s a maze within its lush walls. Deep red lines the velvet walls. Amber wood flooring, gold plated chandeliers, and records spanning decades. 

Similar to Higgy's, so much history can be felt within the walls. Icons from eras passed, their music transcending their vitality.

No one has time to admire the studio’s beauty, though. The second Argyle sneaks everyone inside, they scatter like bugs. Steve runs straight to the first recording booth he finds. Jonathan grabs a drum set base, Max digs through drawers for music stands, and Mike and Robin pick at a locked door to see what’s inside, hoping for at least a few mics. 

Knowing better than to get in their way, you stay back. Keep to the shadows in their chaos. All you do is silently take pictures, documenting it all. 

Before you know it the band has managed to cram their way into the booth and they’re performing the first song in minutes. Seeing them working together so fluidly is beautiful. Argyle, with limited knowledge of how music production works, monitors the soundboard. 

Despite the time constraints and the pressure to get everything right in just one take, Steve performs every song as if he has all the time in the world.

His smooth voice and dropped vowels coat the soft hums of Robin. He moves slowly, his eyes closed for every song. He gets lost in the music and you get lost watching him. 

The Februarys finish recording all their songs right as the sun starts to set. By this point, Steve’s voice is raw and the flesh of Max’s fingertips and Mike’s palms are cut up and bleeding. Jonathan has splinters from his drumsticks. Robin’s feet ache from standing.

But they’ve never been more alive.

They talk over each other and surround the soundboard, itching to hear what’s been captured and even more anxious to pick it apart and stitch it back together again. 

Throughout the night they tear over melodies and chords. They work until they can hardly keep their eyes open, and still they insist on listening over and over again to the songs. Late into night they take turns sleeping, never allowing for more than two of them to sleep at the same time in fear of losing daylight. 

The second day follows this pattern. By the end of the night, they can feel the exhaustion in their bones. And yet, despite this, there has never been more laughter, more quips and tears and sentimental smiles, between them. 

The third day is slower, easier. The final stretch. Somehow they manage to stay on track and with only a few more songs to finalize, the energy in the room shifts. The once manic, frenzied static that coated the room becomes mellow, calm, like quiet acceptance. 

“We’re really good.” Steve murmurs to you, resting his head beside yours against the wall. He was forced to take a break a while ago and sits down next to you on the ground. 

“You are.” Though you’re not sure if you’re affirming a belief of doubt or a belief of quality. “Everything you’ve done is incredible.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice thick with tears. “We’re really good.”

In his brown eyes you see a dream being fulfilled. A realization that more will come from this. That years of sleepless nights and strained vocal cords has amended him this: a quiet moment between childhood friends getting everything they’ve ever wanted.

The final song plays over the speakers. There isn’t a breath released during its entirety. Robin's keynote fades. The key evokes an image of goodbye. The clapping that follows from behind you evokes terror. 

Everyone turns around. The room stills. 

Leonard Branham, manager and producer of Major Tom’s, stands in the doorway. 

He’s a short man, more belly than body. His white hair is almost translucent against his pale skin. Large sunglasses rest on his veiny head. A cigarette dangles from his wrinkled mouth and when he smiles, his teeth are yellowed, aged. 

“Well, what do we have here?” 

Steve is the first to react, scrambling to his feet. “Mr. Branham, sir, I–”

“Do not.” 

The silence turns into terror. For three days the Februarys have been using the studio without explicit permission. They snuck in through the backdoor and illegally used equipment worth thousands. 

And now, just as they’ve completed their mad dash to the finish line, the owner of Major Tom’s has caught them, quite literally, red handed. 

Maybe Max’s family lawyers will be useful. 

“Mr. Leonard, uh. Branham. Sir. Sorry, do I call you sir?” Robin’s squeaky voice of fear rings in your ears. “I-okay. Not important. Can I just ask you not to arrest us–”

“Please don’t arrest us. My sister will kill me and she’s really annoying–”

“I know a good lawyer.”

“God, my dad is an asshole and I know I’m twenty-four but he’s fucking terrifying and–”

“My step dad is a cop, I know my rights–”

Leonard hands up his hands and his loud voice booms, “Enough!”

Silence. Pure, utter silence. 

“Jesus H. Christ,” the man puffs out smoke. Flicks the ash onto the expensive carpet like it’s nothing. “You’re not getting arrested, alright? I’ve known you were using my studio since the first day your asses got here. Your little friend over here,” he waves his cigarette at Argyle. “Can’t keep a secret to save his chubby little life.”

“It’s true, dudes.”

Steve’s mouth tightens. “So we’re… fine?”

“Fine?” Leonard cackles. “I don’t know, boy. You tell me!”

“Full transparency, sir, I think I’m about to have a heart attack.”

Leonard exhales more smoke. “Now that, my boy, better be the nerves talking. I don’t sign druggies to the label. It’s a bad image when they kneel over and I’m the one managing them.”

Steve pales and for a split second you really do think he’s having a heart attack. “I-I’m sorry. Did you say sign?”

“Told you. I’ve known you were here the entire time. I have cameras. This equipment cost more than my third fucking divorce.” Leonard kicks at a speaker and huffs. “But that’s besides the point. I’m here because I like you guys. Your songs sound like the colors blue and yellow and I fucking love that they make green. You understand?”

Robin laughs nervously. “Can’t really say I do. Personally.”

“Christ, doesn’t anyone listen these days?” Leonard flicks ash off his cigarette and stares at the group. “I’m giving you guys a chance. I want you to join my label. Is that English enough for you?”

Mike screams. Full on, knees to the ground, screams. Max isn’t any better, joining him immediately and grabbing onto his body to try and support her own failing one. 

Robin’s eyes roll back and she nearly faints. Jonathan has to be the one to catch her, because Steve just stands there, eyes wide, shell shocked and unmoving. His entire body tenses up and you wouldn’t be surprised if ends up fainting as well. 

In the midst of everyone’s overwhelmed reactions, you’re the only one coherent enough to step forward and shake Leonard’s extended hand. 

“I hear you loud and clear, Lenny.” He smiles, impressed with the confidence to call him by his name. “The Februarys will happily sign with you.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Leonard clasps his hand over your intertwined ones, shaking it aggressively. 

A weight gets thrown upon you and Steve’s arms tear you from Leonard. He clings onto you from behind, nearly sending you to the floor, as he laughs and cries and screams. He’s in your arms and around your waist and in your neck and your stomach and he’s swallowed entirely by the bliss that erupts in the room. 

The beginning of it all.

-

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[sturnsstars]

a little longer - gdragon

authors note: first time writing for gd, i hope its okay. ngl this thought randomly popped into my head yesterday so i have to write it… also i feel like jiyong is super whimpery in bed when he’s being topped?

tags: smut no plot, men whimpering, blowjob, head pushing, slight throat fucking, cum eating

I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MEDIA YOU CONSUME.

your cheeks were starting to get sore from sucking them in, your lower jaw having a sting to it. you kept your hands steady on ji-yongs thighs that were spread to let you sit in between them, fingertips gently pressing into the skin that had ink under the layers, making slight indents into the plush muscle.

“jagiya- oh god…” ji-yong whispered through an exhale, his chest jerking up every so often whenever he inhaled with a stutter, unable to help himself from the subtle twitches and squirms his body made.

your mouth left a quarter of room to fit your hand around the base of his cock, occasionally tightening your hand around him, just to hear him squeal out a noise that could be considered pathetic.

“slow down- slow…” ji-yong was practically begging you, but you couldnt help it. he just looked so good in that recent photoshoot, you needed to show him how it made you feel. the way his tattoos were peaking out through the mesh shirt, the leather pants, his hair messy. all of it.

while he was begging you to slow down, his hips were rutting upward into your mouth and casing the feeling, making you squeeze your eyes shut tighter when you felt his hot and aching tip kissing the back of your throat, focusing on your breathing while ji-yong was focusing on trying not to come too early from the way your tongue felt on the underside of his dick.

you just barely calmed your actions, loosening your grip around his girthy base, easing the suction in your cheeks, a small and shaky sigh of relief leaving ji-yong. ji-yongs hand gently rested on the back of your head that was raising and lowering in a medium and rhythmic pace, his thumb caressing it for a second before his body tensed up slightly.

“dont stop… m’so- oh…” you casually glanced up at ji-yong when he informed you that he was close to coming, his head leaned back against the almost comically large and expensive bed frame he had, his adam’s apple raising every time he managed to squeeze out a mewl of some sort; high pitched, low pitched, breathy.

you took in a deep breath through your nose, almost like you were preparing yourself for his release, the ticklish feeling of his cum shooting down the warm and gummy walls of your throat, when he pushed down on the back of your head, your lips bumping into your fingers that were still enclosing his cock. what you got in return, was his tip stretching the space, making you choke and hum in shock, the feeling of it making ji-yong teeter on the edge of his orgasm.

“oh fuck- hm-mm… m’sorry aegiya-ah.. a-a little longer…” ji-yong’s head fell forward, his face scrunched up, just as much as his body tensed, keeping your head down on his cock as you sucked, his abdomen flexing as you felt the almost unnoticeable twitch of his dick, your throat feeling sticky as his cum shot into your mouth, a long string of pants and whines and moans in your ears, sounds you would never get tired of.

when ji-yongs body finally relaxed and he was stuck on a panting spree, you slowly lifted your head, making sure to keep your lips around him until you reached the end of his tip, pulling off with a loud and wet ‘pop’ that broke the heavy and thick atmosphere in the bedroom.

you took a deep swallow, his cum coating your throat as it went down, your hand gently releasing its grip on his cock to gently stroke it up and down, your fingertips coated with the saliva-cum mixture that veiled over him. you sat upright on your knees, your eyes stuck on his face; how relieved he looked. little did he know, you were sliding your panties to the side to get ready to ride him until your legs gave out.

[kiszjuli]

𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 ──── [𝐋.𝐃𝐇] 𓈒  𓈒  𓈒 

( 이동혁 ) ; 𝐟𝐞𝗺!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐝𝗼𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐜𝐤

──in which your parents had always told you to stay away from boys like haechan. boys with cocky smirks, black eye liner, bruised knuckles, and a reputation that came with warning labels. you never had a reason to listen until you were assigned to tutor him after school. it should have been simple. help him pass, get it over with. but there’s something about him that drew you in, and you didn’t want to pull away.

✦ drama, fluff/angst, slow burn(ish). forbidden love? ; tags. goodgirl!reader x badboy!haechan, suggestive, your parents are literal jerks, swearing, mentions of fighting, kissing !!, protective!haechan, corruption? but not really , lmk if i missed any !

𓂃 w.c [ 7.4k / 22.7k ]

!! not proofread !!

▸ j.note ; woahh i didn’t expect you guys to like this gif so much but im glad you did! i hope this lives up to the rest of the strontium happy reading !! also pls pls give feedback i want to improve my writings in the best way possible and i know my writing needs a lot of work, so constructive criticism is encouraged.

▸ this is part two of two and part one can be found here .ᐟ (please read it first)

© kiszjuli 2025 ⟳ likes & reblogs are appreciated

your heart in your throat, your breath shallow as your mom stands in front of the both of you in the living room. ironically, the first time haechan was on there. she was watching you and haechan like she's just discovered the most unforgivable thing. the two of you are frozen, your lips still tingling from the kiss that was abruptly interrupted.

"what the hell was going on here?" your mom's voice cuts through the stillness, and you can see the flicker of shock and anger in her eyes. her gaze darts between you and haechan, her lips pressed into a thin line. the tension in the air is suffocating.

haechan steps back, but his eyes don't leave you. he looks like he's about to speak but holds back, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

your mom's gaze flicks from him to you. "this is what i've been worried about," she says, her voice sharp. "you're not a child anymore, but you're making reckless decisions. boys like him-they don't care about you."

your chest tightens. "you don't even know him," you reply, though your voice trembles slightly.

she shakes her head, disbelief written across her face. "i know enough." she takes a step into the room, her eyes narrowing. "you can't see it now, but you will. he's trouble, and if you keep going down this path-"

"mom, stop," you cut in, your voice rising before you can stop it. "this is my choice."

the room is thick with tension. haechan stands silently off to the side, still processing what's happening, his hands balled into fists at his sides. he's been silent, waiting for your mom to finish, but you can see the frustration on his face as she continues.

"you need to leave," your mom commands, her voice icy, cutting through the air like a knife.

haechan takes a breath, his chest rising and falling sharply. he's about to turn away, about to leave, when you step forward.

"wait," you whisper, a sharp sting of regret flooding through you. you didn't want this. you didn't want him to leave-not like this.

haechan stops, turning slowly back toward you, confusion written across his face. he doesn't speak, but the look in his eyes is soft, almost too soft for a situation like this. you take a step closer to him, your heart racing, and in a moment of vulnerability, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

"i'm sorry," you whisper, your voice barely audible, feeling the heat of his skin against your cheek. the words feel heavier than you expected, like a weight you didn't know you'd been carrying.

for a moment, neither of you moves, just standing there in the fragile silence of your embrace. then, he leans in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, "i'm not going anywhere, you know."

his voice is quiet, but there's a certain determination in it that makes your heart skip a beat. you want to say something, anything, but before you can, your mom interrupts.

"you need to go," she insists, her voice breaking through the moment.

reluctantly, you pull away from haechan, your hands lingering on his shoulders for just a second longer than necessary. you glance at your mom, who's watching you with a look of disappointment, and then back at haechan.

he takes a deep breath, eyes meeting yours one last time. "i’m sorry too," he says softly, his lips curving into a small, wistful smile that only you see.

without another word, he turns toward the door. you watch him leave, the weight of your mom's disapproval heavy in the air. but just before he steps out, he pauses and looks back at you once more, his gaze full of quiet determination. it's a look that says, i'm not giving up on us, even if everything else feels like it's falling apart.

the door clicks softly behind him, and you're left standing there, your heart racing, the silence in the room almost deafening. your mom's disappointment lingers, but you can't shake the feeling that whatever this is with haechan is far from over. "what did i tell you?" your mom's voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and furious. "how did he even get in here? you are grounded for... until i say so! now go to bed. your father and i will deal with you in the morning."

well, fuck.

—

after your mother’s furious words, the weight of reality settles over you. your heart is still racing, your skin still tingling from the way haechan had touched you, but now it’s mixed with something colder. hame, fear, the undeniable knowledge that you’ve been caught.

without another word, you turn on your heel and head to your room, shutting the door a little too forcefully behind you. you lean against it, exhaling shakily, trying to process everything. grounded indefinitely. your parents furious. and yet, all you can think about is the look in haechan’s eyes before he left—the quiet promise, the way he lingered just a second longer, like he didn’t want to leave you behind.

you pace the room, hands running through your hair, restless. you’re supposed to feel regret, supposed to feel ashamed, but instead, something else burns in your chest. defiance. yearning. maybe even something close to a thrill. because for the first time in your life, you aren’t just following the rules. you’re chasing something you actually want.

climbing into bed, you grab your phone from under your pillow, half-expecting a message from haechan. nothing. you sigh, staring at the dark ceiling, but just as you’re about to put your phone away, it vibrates in your palm.

[1:42 am] haechan: you still awake sunshine?

despite everything, a small smile tugs at your lips. you hesitate, but only for a second before replying.

[1:43 am] you: i hate you.

[1:43 am] haechan: no, you don’t.

[1:44 am] you: i’m grounded until further notice.

[1:44 am] haechan: damn. worth it though, right?

[1:45 am] you: go to sleep.

[1:45 am] haechan: not until you do.

you roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the way your lips curve up, no denying the warmth spreading through your chest. you sigh, setting your phone on your chest, staring at the ceiling. you should be panicking about what’s to come, but instead, all you feel is him.

and maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all.

—

you wake to the sound of voices just outside your door—your parents, low but firm, clearly waiting for you to come out and face them. sunlight spills through the blinds, too bright, making your room feel smaller than usual. for a moment, you consider staying in bed, pretending to still be asleep, but you know that won’t work. you’re trapped, and you might as well get it over with.

dragging yourself out of bed, you pull on a hoodie over your sleep shirt and take a deep breath before opening the door. your parents are already at the kitchen table, your mom with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, your dad with a weary look, like he’s already disappointed before you’ve even said a word.

“sit.” your mom’s voice is clipped, no room for argument.

you sit.

the silence is heavy, thick with tension. then she takes a deep breath

“what were you thinking?” your mom demands, shaking her head. “letting that boy into your room, sneaking around behind our backs—do you have any idea how reckless that is?”

you bite the inside of your cheek, gripping the hem of your hoodie. “nothing happened.”

your dad exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “nothing happened this time, because i walked in. but what about next time? do you even know what kind of trouble you’re getting yourself into?”

trouble. the word lingers in the air like smoke. you’ve heard it before, always in the same breath as haechan’s name. boys like him were nothing but trouble. you know that’s what they think. maybe it should be what you think too.

“we’ve warned you about him,” your mom continues, voice softer now, but no less serious. “he’s not—he’s not the kind of boy you should be involved with.”

you flinch, something defensive curling in your chest. “you don’t even know him.”

“we don’t need to know him,” your dad says, exasperated. “his reputation speaks for itself.”

you shake your head, frustration bubbling up. they don’t understand. they never have. if they knew the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel alive in a way nothing else ever had, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to judge.

but they won’t listen. they never do.

your mom’s words settle like a weight on your chest. “you’re grounded. no phone, no going out. and we don’t want to hear another word about him.”

you stare at the table, jaw tight. the sessions were already over, but that wasn’t really the point. they wanted him out of your life completely. like he was some kind of bad habit you just needed to quit. like he wasn’t already tangled up in your thoughts, in your pulse, in the way your skin still burned from where he touched you.

“do you understand?” your dad asks, voice even but firm.

you swallow hard and nod, because it’s easier than fighting. because you know they won’t listen.

but as you sit there, hands clenched in your lap, you realize something.

they can take away your phone. they can take away your freedom. they can make rules and set curfews and keep a close eye on you.

but they can’t change what’s already happened.

they can’t change you.

—

monday feels different.

the hallways are the same, the usual chaos of students dragging themselves through the first day back after break, but you feel off. like you’re walking through a version of your life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

it’s the lack of your phone, mostly. no morning texts, no unread messages waiting for you, no way to check if he even tried to reach out again. your parents had taken it first thing saturday morning, and the silence had settled in fast.

you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that a few missed texts aren’t the end of the world. but as you step into the building, scanning the crowd without meaning to, you already know who you’re looking for.

and then—there he is.

leaning against the lockers like he always does, dressed in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he listens to something one of his friends is saying. but his eyes aren’t on them.

they’re on you.

your breath catches, your steps faltering just slightly before you force yourself to keep moving. to act like everything is fine, like your parents didn’t just rip away the one thing tethering you to him over break.

but then he pushes off the lockers, shoving his hands into his pockets as he starts toward you, gaze dark and unreadable.

you barely make it to your locker before he’s there, sliding in beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“so,” he drawls, leaning in slightly, voice low enough that only you can hear. “thought you were dead for a second.”

you sigh, spinning your lock with unnecessary force. “my parents took my phone.”

he hums, like that explains everything.

“figured they’d do something like that,” he says, and when you glance at him, there’s something knowing in his expression, something frustrated. “so what, they think ignoring me is gonna make me disappear?”

you exhale sharply, finally yanking your locker open. “i don’t know what they think.”

he watches you for a second, then suddenly reaches out, fingers brushing against your wrist before you can move away. it’s quick, barely even a touch, but it’s enough to make you freeze.

“meet me after school,” he murmurs. it’s not a question.

you hesitate. it’s stupid, reckless. risky. and you should probably say no.

but you don’t.

you just nod.

—

the rest of the day crawls by, every second stretching longer than it should. you go through the motions—taking notes, nodding at the right times, pretending to listen—but your mind is elsewhere. stuck on him. on what you agreed to. on the way his fingers skimmed your wrist like he knew you wouldn’t pull away.

when the final bell rings, your heart stutters.

you could go home. act like today was normal, like nothing is pulling you in the opposite direction. but your feet have already made the choice for you, carrying you through the crowded halls, out the side doors where the air is crisp with early spring.

he’s there, waiting. leaning against the brick wall, one foot propped up behind him, hoodie pulled over his head. but the second you step outside, he straightens, dark eyes locking onto yours.

“thought you might chicken out,” he muses, lips curling at the corners.

you cross your arms, tilting your head. “thought you might get bored and leave.”

he grins, slow and lazy, but there’s something sharper beneath it. “not a chance.”

you exhale, glancing around. “so? where are we going?”

he nods toward the parking lot. “just walk with me.”

you hesitate. not because you don’t want to—because you do, more than you should. but this is dangerous, walking this line when you know exactly where it leads.

then his fingers brush yours again, like earlier, but this time he doesn’t pull away. just hooks his pinky around yours, barely holding on, like he’s leaving the choice up to you.

“come on, sunshine,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, rough at the edges. “just for a little.”

and that’s all it takes.

you don’t say anything, just step forward, closing that last bit of space between you. letting him lead you somewhere you probably shouldn’t go.

—

he leads you deeper into the park, past the usual paths and toward a hidden trail. the air shifts around you, growing quieter as the city noises fade into the distance. soon, you find yourself surrounded by towering trees, their branches swaying gently, the leaves rustling softly as though the earth itself is breathing with you.

you stop at the edge of a small pond, its still surface reflecting the warm, amber glow of the early afternoon sun. everything around it seems to settle into a peaceful hush, as if the world outside this moment has no place here.

he turns to you, and for a second, you’re not sure whether he’s showing you the pond for your sake or his. “this is where i come when i need to clear my head,” he says, his voice lower now, almost reverent. he gestures toward the water, his gaze lingering on the surface. “it’s quiet. no one bothers me here. i can just think.”

you take a deep breath, inhaling the earthy, fresh air. it’s hard to reconcile this calm, serene version of him with the boy who’s been impulsive, reckless, and unpredictable. yet, somehow, it feels right. this side of him, this peace.

“i didn’t think you’d have a place like this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

he glances at you, a small, almost sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “no one ever does,” he says, a glint of something dark flickering behind his eyes. “that’s kinda the point.”

the way he says it makes your stomach flip, and you can’t quite put your finger on why. maybe it’s the vulnerability that tugs at the edges of his words or the way he’s letting you see a part of him no one else does.

for a moment, you think he might say something more, but he simply steps a little closer, his hand brushing yours. the touch is casual, but it sends a spark of warmth shooting through you, a connection that seems to hum between you both.

“do you wanna see something else?” he asks, his voice dropping even lower, and there’s a soft challenge in his tone that makes you want to lean in, to see more, to feel more.

you nod, unable to resist. you find yourself drawn to him in ways you can’t explain, your breath catching when he doesn’t pull back. instead, he closes the gap between you, moving closer until the air between you thickens, charged with something unspoken.

his eyes lock with yours, and there’s something about the way he looks at you that sends your heart into a wild, erratic beat. he tilts his head slightly, and before you can think twice, his lips are on yours.

the kiss is soft at first, like he’s hesitant. but it doesn’t stay that way for long. as his hands find your waist, pulling you closer, the kiss deepens, the heat between you both growing with every brush of lips, every soft gasp that escapes. his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you nearer, and your hands instinctively clutch at his hoodie, feeling the warmth of his chest against yours.

your heart races, the world around you nothing but the press of his lips, the warmth of his touch. you break away for a moment, gasping for air, but his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in uneven bursts.

and then, he speaks, his voice low and rough. “i shouldn’t want this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks. “but i do. i want you.”

his words make your stomach flip, the intensity of them washing over you in waves. something about the rawness in his voice, the honesty, catches you off guard.

you swallow, trying to steady yourself. “i want this too,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the moment will shatter if you speak too loudly.

there’s a quiet beat, just the two of you, caught in this fragile space between wanting and hesitation. but then, he presses another kiss to your lips, and you forget everything except the feel of him, the way his touch makes everything else fall away.

when you finally pull apart, breathless, he smiles—a small, almost wistful thing. “i think this place is special for more than one reason now,” he says, voice laced with an emotion you can’t quite place.

you smile back, though your heart is still racing. “yeah,” you whisper. “it is.”

—

that night, when the house is dark and quiet, you barely hear the sound of him climbing up the tree until there’s a soft thud against your window. your heart stutters in your chest as you rush over, pushing it open just in time to see him balance himself on the ledge.

the moment haechan lands in your room with a quiet thump, you glare at him, arms crossed. “you’re unbelievable,” you whisper harshly. “do you have any idea how much trouble i’d be in if we got caught?”

he grins, completely unfazed. “but we did get caught.”

you smack his arm, making him flinch. “not the point.”

he raises his hands in surrender, but the smirk stays. “yes, ma’am.”

you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your stomach flips at his teasing tone. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet, you still let me in.”

you don’t have a response to that, so you just sigh, motioning toward your bed. “sit down before you break something.”

he flops onto the mattress with a little too much enthusiasm, making you shake your head as you sit beside him. the room is quiet except for the hum of the night outside, the occasional rustle of leaves from the tree he just climbed. neither of you say anything for a moment, but you can feel the shift in his energy—less playful, more… tired.

“so,” you say softly, “what are you really doing here?”

he exhales, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “couldn’t sleep.”

you glance at him, catching the way his jaw tightens before he looks away. “bad night?”

“something like that.”

his voice is quieter now, stripped of its usual bravado, and it makes your chest ache. you hesitate for a second before shifting slightly closer, your fingers barely grazing his on the comforter.

he notices. you feel it in the way his hand twitches, in the way he inhales just a little sharper. but he doesn’t pull away. instead, his pinky moves just the slightest bit, brushing against yours again.

“you ever feel like you’re running full speed toward a cliff,” he murmurs, “and you can’t stop?”

you swallow. “yeah.”

he huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“there’s nothing wrong with you.”

he lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “you’re the only person who thinks that.”

you turn to look at him, really look at him, and for once, he doesn’t hide. his guard is down, his eyes raw with something you can’t quite name. and in that moment, he’s not the reckless boy who teases you endlessly, who smirks like he owns the world. he’s just a boy who’s trying to keep himself together.

you shift your pinky again, letting it hook around his for the briefest second before pulling away. his fingers twitch, like he wants to chase the touch, but he stays still.

“you’re not running off that cliff alone,” you murmur.

his throat bobs as he swallows, eyes flickering to your face. “you make it really hard to stay away, sunshine.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all. you just sit there in the dim glow of your room, fingers barely brushing, hearts quietly syncing to the same rhythm.

—

the next school morning felt different.

it’s been just a few nights since you let haechan in through your window, since he talked to you so deeply; revealing himself to you in a way you never thought he would. you felt something deeper than just adrenaline when you whispered that you wanted him there. and now, stepping into school, that night feels fragile, like something you shouldn’t have touched, something that shouldn’t have followed you into the daylight.

because now the whispers have grown louder.

“did you hear? they were together again over the weekend.”

“she sneaks out with him. she’s not as innocent as she acts.”

“it’s cute how she thinks she’s different.”

you keep your head down, fingers curled tightly around the strap of your bag, trying to push past it. but it’s everywhere. in the halls, in the classroom, even when you sit down with your friends at lunch—where, for the first time, the usual chatter dies down when you approach.

“so,” giselle starts carefully, “is it true?”

“what?” your voice comes out sharper than intended.

“you and haechan.”

your stomach twists. you already know there’s no right answer. deny it, and you sound guilty. confirm it, and they’ll pick it apart.

“we just study together, karina, you know that,” you say evenly. “that’s it.”

a look is exchanged, one that makes your skin prickle.

“you don’t have to lie,” winter says. “we’re just… looking out for you.”

“looking out for me?” you let out a sharp laugh. “for what?”

“we’re just saying,” giselle chimes back in, quieter, hesitant. “he has a… reputation. you know that.”

“i know him,” you counter.

“do you?”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the air shifts awkwardly, and lunch carries on, but the words stick.

by the time the final bell rings, you feel raw, rubbed down by a day of passing glances and quiet judgments. you don’t know what’s worse—the people who whisper like you can’t hear them, or the ones who make sure you do.

you’re halfway to the front doors when someone else’s words catch your ear.

“he’s just playing with her. like he does with everyone.”

your breath stumbles.

“he gets bored fast. wonder how long she’ll last.”

yourchest tightens. you know you shouldn’t care. you know it’s just talk. but it digs in anyway, settling like lead in your stomach.

then a voice pulls you out of it.

“sunshine.”

you turn. haechan’s waiting near the steps, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking over you like he can tell something’s off.

“hey,” he says, stepping closer. “you good?”

“fine.” it’s automatic, too quick. his brows pinch slightly, but he doesn’t push.

“come with me,” he says instead, nudging his head toward the doors. “let’s get out of here for a bit.”

you hesitate. for the first time, you aren’t sure if you want to go. because you can still hear their words. and worse—you can’t shake the fear that maybe they’re right.

but then you meet his eyes, warm and steady despite everything, and that fear doesn’t seem so loud anymore.

“okay,” you say.

and just like that, you follow him out.

—

he takes you somewhere quiet. away from the school, away from the weight of a thousand glances and whispers pressing down on you.

it’s a small clearing just past the neighborhood, tucked behind a line of trees, where the ground slopes gently toward a creek. the sky is wide here, open, stretching endless above you in soft hues of late afternoon.

“is this where you spend some of your time too?” you ask, looking around.

“one of the places.” haechan drops down onto the grass, leaning back on his palms. “not a bad spot, huh?”

“no,” you admit, sitting beside him. “it’s pretty.”

he grins. “figured you’d like it. you have that whole… poetic, pretty-things type of vibe.”

“oh, do i?” you glance at him.

“mhm.” he shifts closer, voice dropping slightly. “that’s why you like me, right?”

your stomach flips. you don’t answer, but the way you go quiet gives you away. his grin widens.

“i knew it.”

“shut up,” you mutter, shoving his shoulder lightly.

he laughs, but the teasing fades after a moment, leaving something quieter in its place.

“you don’t have to listen to them, you know.”

you tense. you don’t ask who he means—you both know.

“they don’t know me,” he says, eyes still on the sky. “not really. but you do.”

“do i?” the words slip out before you can stop them, laced with something you don’t quite recognize.

it makes him pause.

“do you think they’re right?” he asks after a moment, voice unreadable. “that i’m just messing around?”

you turn toward him. his expression is calm, but there’s something underneath it, something waiting.

you should say no. you should tell him that you trust him, that you don’t care what anyone else says.

but the doubt is still there, tangled up in everything else you feel for him.

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

his jaw tightens. he looks away.

the silence stretches, thick and heavy. your heart pounds.

and then, before you can stop yourself, the question leaves your lips.

“what are we, haechan?”

he stills.

for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face like he’s searching for something.

then, slowly, he exhales.

“we’re whatever you want us to be.”

you blink. “what?”

he shifts closer, so close that you feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “if you want this to be nothing, i’ll leave it alone. if you want me to be just some guy you tutored, i’ll deal with it.”

his fingers reach for yours, tentative, brushing against your knuckles.

“but if you want more…” he trails off, voice low, gaze flickering down to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

your heart is a drum against your ribs.

“what if i don’t know what i want?” you whisper.

he lets out a quiet laugh, almost breathless. “then tell me what you do know.”

you swallow, pulse thrumming as you feel his fingers slowly interlace with yours.

“i know i don’t want you to be just some guy i tutored.”

his grip on your hand tightens.

“then you’ve already answered your own question, sunshine.”

the nickname is soft, almost reverent. and before you can second-guess it, before you can let the fear creep in, you squeeze his hand back.

he smiles—one of those small, secret ones, like you’ve just given him something he thought he’d never have.

and for now, that’s enough.

—

the evening was calm, the sun dipping lower in the sky as you walk with haechan beside you. the two of you had just finished the day at school, chatting and laughing, not realizing how close you were to your house until you were almost at the front steps. everything felt normal, easy, the way it had been recently, and you couldn’t have imagined what was about to happen.

you notice them—your mom and dad—standing in the doorway, watching. your stomach drops and you instinctively grip haechan’s hand tighter. his smile fades when he feels the change in you, his attention shifting to what you’re looking at.

“shit,” you mutter, but keep walking, praying they won’t notice you until you get inside. but just as you reach the steps, your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet air. “what did i tell you?” it’s sharp and furious, each word heavy with the threat of anger. “what is he doing here?”

you freeze. your dad steps into view beside her, arms crossed. his posture alone is enough to make your heart race.

“mom, i…” you start, but you’re immediately cut off.

“no excuses,” she snaps, voice dripping with disdain. “you think i don’t know what you’ve been doing? sneaking around with him? what do you think you’re doing?”

“mom, i—” you try again, but her dad’s icy glare silences you.

“you’re still grounded,” he says in a low, dangerous tone. “go inside. now.”

you glance at haechan. he’s standing beside you, quiet, his hands shoved into his pockets. he doesn’t know what to do. he probably doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to say anything.

your mom turns to him, her face contorting with barely-contained fury. “you. what are you doing here? you have no business with my daughter.”

“i’m not causing any trouble,” he says quietly, but his words hang in the air, useless against the tension.

“no,” your mother snaps, “you’re not just causing trouble, you’re ruining everything. you don’t belong here.”

you can feel the heat rising inside you, the pressure of everything that’s been building in the last few days, and you can’t hold it in anymore. “stop,” you say, your voice trembling but strong. “i—”

and then, before you can stop it, the words slip out, raw and unfiltered. “i love him.”

the air around you freezes. your mom’s eyes widen, her mouth parting slightly in shock. she takes a step back, clearly not understanding what she’s hearing. it was the first time you ever said it, hell even thought it. but it felt right.

“what did you just say?” her voice is cold now, sharp as a knife.

“i said it,” you repeat, but your voice is barely above a whisper. “i love him.”

her mother stares at you, disbelief and disgust flashing across her face. “you don’t know what you’re talking about. you’re just a kid, and you think you love him?” she sneers, voice full of derision. “you don’t know anything about love. this… this is just a phase. and he—he is not good for you.”

your dad doesn’t speak. he just stands there, arms crossed, his silence just as loud as your mom’s words. you feel yourself shrinking under their gaze, as if everything inside you is getting smaller, more insignificant.

“you will not see him again. do you understand me?” your mother’s voice rises now, almost breaking with fury. “you are grounded, and this… whatever you think this is, it ends now.”

“i love him,” you whisper again, more firmly this time, trying to hold onto something—anything—before everything falls apart. “i love him.”

“no,” your mother spits, “you don’t. and you will forget him. you will go to your room. and you will stay there. i won’t have this in my house.”

haechan looks at you, his face unreadable. the words you shared earlier seem to echo in his eyes, but something changes in him. he takes a small step back, like he’s retreating from something, unsure how to fix this.

“i think it’s better if i go,” he mutters, his voice tight, as he begins to pull away. “i don’t want to make things worse for you.”

before you can stop him, he’s turning, walking away. you reach out, your hand grasping for his wrist, but he pulls away gently, avoiding your gaze. “no..haechan,” you say, your voice shaking. “please. don’t leave.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, just looks at you for a long, agonizing moment. then he lets out a shaky sigh and turns to leave, his footsteps growing fainter as he walks away from you.

you stand frozen on the front steps, your heart racing. your mom’s voice cuts through the silence again. “you’ll go to your room. and you’ll stay there. you will not see him again. do you understand me?”

you can’t even answer, your throat tight, your mind spiraling. without saying another word, you walk silently into the house, up to your room, and shut the door behind you. hard

you sit there, the weight of your mother’s words crushing you. her disapproval and disappointment are suffocating, and you can feel the space between you and haechan growing larger with every passing second.

but the hardest part? the hardest part is knowing that you love him, and yet, here you are, too afraid to reach for him because of everything that’s standing in the way.

—

it’s been a few days since the argument with your parents. the silence between you and haechan feels heavy, almost suffocating. you can’t stop thinking about him, but you haven’t been able to reach him either. you’re grounded, no phone, and it’s like a piece of you is missing.

you’re sitting in your room, staring at the wall in front of your bed, when you hear a light tap. your heart races. you hurry over, parting the curtains to find haechan standing there, looking just as conflicted as you feel. he looks tired—like he hasn’t been able to sleep—but his eyes light up when they meet yours.

you open the window quickly, and without a word, he climbs inside. it’s the same familiar move, but there’s something different now. there’s an unspoken tension between you both, a hesitation in the way he moves toward you.

he steps closer but stops when he sees you retreat a little, like you’re unsure whether to welcome him or pull away. there’s a beat of silence before he speaks, his voice softer than usual.

“i couldn’t stay away,” he admits, running a hand through his messy hair. “but i didn’t want to make things worse. i thought… maybe i was doing the right thing.”

you meet his gaze, and for a moment, you both just look at each other. there’s no need for more words. you can tell he’s been thinking about this as much as you have. but there’s still the weight of your parents’ words, their expectations, hanging in the air. and you know they would never approve. you’re supposed to stay away from him.

“i don’t know why i’m even here,” he murmurs, eyes flickering down for a moment. “i knew things were gonna get messy.”

you step forward then, frustration and confusion bubbling inside you. “you left me hanging, haechan. i didn’t hear from you, i didn’t—”

“i know,” he interrupts, his voice laced with guilt. “but i thought maybe you’d be better off without me. i didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”

you don’t know how to respond to that. you want to be angry, but the truth is, you feel the same confusion. you wanted to hear from him. you missed him. but it’s hard to ignore the fact that your parents would never understand this. would never approve.

he takes a deep breath and steps closer again, almost as if he’s bracing himself. his fingers twitch at his sides, unsure of whether to reach out or not. you know the pull between you is undeniable, but there’s still a wall between you, the one built by fear and responsibility.

“i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “i thought i could, but i can’t.”

you swallow hard, your chest tightening. “i can’t ignore everything, haechan. my parents—they won’t let this happen.”

he looks down, disappointment flickering in his eyes. then, slowly, he lifts his gaze to yours again. “i didn’t want to make things harder for you. i didn’t want to be the one who messed up your life.”

you feel a knot in your stomach. his words sting, but it’s clear that he’s not giving up. and neither are you.

“then why are you here?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

his answer isn’t one you expect. he steps forward and brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, almost reverent. “because even if i shouldn’t, i can’t stay away. i don’t know how to.”

the words hang between you, unsaid but understood. your heart beats faster in your chest, and for the first time since the argument, you feel something other than confusion or anger.

“i can’t either,” you admit, your voice low.

before you can say anything else, haechan closes the distance, pressing his lips gently to yours. it’s tentative, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away at any moment. but you don’t. you kiss him back, softly at first, savoring the moment, the closeness. and for a brief moment, the world outside seems to disappear.

when you pull away, you both stand there, breaths mingling. he looks at you, searching your face, as if trying to make sure he hasn’t crossed a line.

“i’ll make things right,” he says quietly, his voice filled with resolve. “somehow. i don’t want to lose you.”

you take a deep breath, the weight of the situation sinking in. your parents’ disapproval, the complications, the risks—it’s all still there, but in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

“i don’t know what’s going to happen,” you murmur, your hand brushing lightly against his. “but i can’t stop wanting this. wanting you.”

he gives a small, bittersweet smile. “then we’ll figure it out together. i promise.”

and just like that, you feel the tension between you ease, even if only for a moment. the future is uncertain, but right now, all that matters is the warmth of his touch, the closeness you feel, and the quiet promise of something more between you two.

—

the tension in the living room is suffocating. it’s been a week since the small talk with haechan in your room. you two had been interacting a lot less at school, yet here you both were. your parents sit stiffly on the couch, their eyes locked onto haechan as if he’s something they need to purge from your life. he stands in front of them, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides, but he doesn’t lash out. doesn’t scoff or roll his eyes like they expect him to.

his usual confidence is still there, but tonight, there’s something else underneath it. something raw, something desperate. because this isn’t just about proving himself to your parents. it’s about proving himself to you, too. proving that he’s worth fighting for.

“this needs to stop,” your father says, his voice firm. “you sneaking around with him. whatever this is. it’s done.”

your mother shakes her head, exhaling sharply. “you don’t see it now, but this isn’t love. boys like him don’t stick around.”

boys like him.

haechan’s jaw clenches. he’s heard those words before, from teachers, from people in town, from kids at school who assumed they knew everything about him. reckless. dangerous. a mistake waiting to happen. but it’s different coming from your parents, because this time, it actually matters.

“you don’t know me,” he says, voice steady but edged with frustration. “you only see what you want to see.”

your mom crosses her arms. “oh, so tell us, then. tell us why we should believe you’re any different.” you eye her as she speaks so sharply to him.

please just give him a chance.

haechan hesitates for just a second, and your heart clenches. because you know he hates doing this. hates explaining himself to people who have already made up their minds. but he does it anyway. for you.

“i know i don’t look like the kind of guy you want your daughter with,” he says, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “i know i don’t come from some perfect family, and i know i’ve made mistakes. but i swear to you, i—i’m trying.” he swallows hard, his gaze flicking to you before going back to them. “i’m trying to be better. for her.”

your mother’s lips press into a thin line. “people don’t change overnight.”

“i’m not asking you to believe me overnight,” haechan says, his voice stronger now. “i’m just asking you to see me the way she does. not as some lost cause, but as someone who cares about her more than you could ever understand.”

silence stretches between all of you. your father looks away, exhaling through his nose. your mother’s expression is unreadable. you know they don’t fully accept him—not yet. maybe they never will. but there’s something in their faces that wasn’t there before. doubt. hesitation. a crack in the walls they’ve built around the idea of who he is.

your mother sighs, rubbing her temples. “this… this is a lot. i don’t know what to do with this right now.”

your father doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t push the conversation further either.

it’s not approval. not even close. but it’s not outright rejection either.

haechan shifts beside you, his fingers brushing against yours—not holding, just there. grounding.

“can i…talk to her alone?” he asks.

your parents exchange a glance, and for a moment, you think they’ll say no. but then your mom sighs again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “five minutes.”

you don’t wait for them to change their minds, grabbing haechan’s wrist and tugging him down the hall to the guest bedroom. the moment the door clicks shut, you turn to him, taking him in—his disheveled hair, the way his rings catch the dim light, the way his shoulders are still tense.

—

the tension lingers even after your parents leave the room, their quiet murmurs fading down the hall. you stand there with haechan, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours, the weight of everything pressing down on you both.

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before letting out a soft chuckle. “well… that went great, huh?”

you give him a look, half-exasperated, half-affectionate. “you really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

he grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “nah, guess not.”

you squeeze his hand, grounding him. “thank you. for standing up for yourself. for… for me.”

his expression shifts, something softer taking over. his thumb brushes over the back of your hand. “i meant everything i said,” he murmurs. “every damn word.”

there’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken things. then, without thinking, you step forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders , pressing your face into his neck. he hesitates for half a second before melting into you, his arms coming up to hold you like he’s afraid to let go.

“i don’t know how this is gonna end,” you whisper.

haechan swallows hard, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns on your back. “me neither,” he admits. “but i know one thing.”

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “what?”

“that i love you,” his lips quirk into a small, lopsided smile—one that still holds a trace of mischief, but there’s something deeper beneath it. something real. “and i’m not letting you go that easily.”

your heart stumbles over itself, and before you can second-guess it, you surge forward, kissing him with every ounce of feeling you can’t put into words.

he responds instantly, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. the kiss is slow, lingering, like a promise neither of you are willing to break.

when you finally pull away, your forehead resting against his, you whisper, “we’re kind of doomed, aren’t we?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “probably. but at least we’re doomed together.”

and somehow, despite everything, that feels like enough.

—

▸ taggies ; @ikykyuno @ashopatata @tynivr @ilujkm @maiyhw @413cl @flaminghotyourmom @yunjinsart @theandypark @nae-vm @czennilove — i hope this was everyone <3

▸ big thank you to everyone who left feedback on the first part ily guys :(

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

Ok but like… the way that Cregan Stark is such a wife-guy

Like he’d be the man who’d have his arm wrapped around his wife when shit would be going down during court. Both for his wife’s protection and for her comfort (his too)

He’d absolutely SWOON if he saw his wife and Rickon playing and enjoying their time together. He’d just admire her every time she spent time with their children, no one can convince me otherwise. He’s a tough northerner, but he’s a family man down to his CORE

He would SO encourage and support his wife in anything she wanted to do. Archery? You go hit a bullseye for me. Sword fighting? Any particular sword you want made for you, he’ll have it ready. A diplomat? Good, the north needs more of those, go get em tiger. Anything his wife does is automatically perfect in his eyes

Don’t even get me started on how he’d always want to have a hand on his wife. (A personal headcanon of mine, is that he’s touched starved). Now hear me out! The man was orphaned as a child, anyone who loved him died, and the ones that didn’t love him tried to usurp him. I would assume he didn’t get that many cuddles in that environment

So! As soon as he sees his wife, he wants her touch. He would so wrap his arm around her shoulder or waist (even more so if she was pregnant), he would kiss her forehead, he would hold her, I just feel that being touched means a lot to him. Which is why I also think he would want to be as close as possible, when they’re having sex. Like he would press his chest to hers, wrap his arms around her waist to hold her close, kiss her relentlessly, rest his forehead against her, pound her into the mattress like she wasn’t close enough, just all of it! (I can confirm, I was the bed)

Anyways, touched starved Cregan Stark supremacy! Cregan Stark wife-guy supremacy! Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

YES YES YES

that man is touch-starved to the max so he literally craves domesticity and values family above all.

he is a stark man who takes his marital vows very seriously, meaning, no mistresses or brothels. this man is strictly monogamous!! nobody can come close to the way his wife makes him feel.

and nothing is sexier than a man that thrives in being a husband and a father 😫🦋 after seeing how good his wife is with rickon, it just intensifies these feelings more. his desire to breed and procreate becomes almost animalistic.

seeing his wife pregnant works him up in the best way🔥🤰 he can’t take his eyes off her full form, even when she is doing mundane things like talking with her maid, or petting the horses at the stable with rickon.

not to mention his wife’s sex drive has blasted through the roof since her pregnancy…. so pregnancy sex has happened 🌊 but he’s always so patient and respectful 😭😭💗💗 he waits for his wife to initiate it first because he secretly loves how feral she gets 🤭 when she starts kissing down his jaw and his neck and then whining in his ear and biting down gently on his earlobe…. it takes everything in him not to pound into her ‼️ the pregnancy hormones are radiating off her and he can’t get enough.

(however to his wife’s dismay, he does ban sex in the late 3rd trimester for safety reasons 🥲 with their size difference, he just won’t risk it).

[carnalcrows]

HEAT OF THE MOMENT - CHEONGSAN

pairing: lee cheong-san x ftm reader

synopsis: The real infection here is horniness pt.2

content warnings: 18+, public sex, zombies, very little angst at the start, cheong-san eats reader out.

word count: 1.4k

The rooftop was colder than you expected. Maybe it was the breeze, maybe it was the fear, or maybe it was just the fact that you were watching Lee Cheong-san’s heart get ripped out of his chest without a single zombie in sight.

“I’m sorry, Cheong-san,” On-jo said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t need to hear more. The way his shoulders tensed, the barely-there quiver in his breath—it was obvious.

You weren’t jealous. You had never been jealous. You were just angry. Angry because Cheong-san had spent so much time putting On-jo first, saving her, loving her, and now here he was, getting nothing back.

On-jo turned away like that was the end of it.

Cheong-san didn’t move.

"Cheong-san," you called, just loud enough for him to hear. His head lifted slightly, his expression guarded.

He didn’t need to say anything. You just nodded toward the far side of the rooftop, away from prying eyes. He hesitated before following you.

"You good?" you asked once the two of you were alone.

Cheong-san scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Do I look good?"

You looked him over. He looked wrecked—not just from the apocalypse, but from that rejection. His eyes were unfocused, his jaw clenched tight like he was fighting himself just to keep standing.

"No," you admitted. "You look like shit."

"Great. Thanks."

You shrugged. "I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. But also, On-jo doesn't know what the hell she's missing."

Cheong-san exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t need a pep talk, okay? Just—" He sighed. "I need to get out of my own head."

You knew what he meant.

"You can take it out on me," you murmured.

His gaze snapped to yours.

You took a step closer, testing the waters. "You're all wound up, and it's not like we have much time left anyway." You tilted your head, watching the way his lips parted slightly at your words. "Might as well do something that feels good."

A pause.

Then, something in Cheong-san snapped.

His mouth crashed against yours, all heat and frustration. It was messy, uncoordinated, desperate—like he needed to drown out everything else with you. His hands grabbed at your hoodie, pulling you in until you could feel how fast his heart was beating.

You let him take what he needed, fingers threading through his hair, tugging slightly just to hear him gasp against your lips. He pushed you back until your spine hit the cold rooftop railing, his hands bracing against it on either side of you.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered, his breath hot against your lips.

You grinned, tilting your chin up. "Why would I do that?"

A low curse left his mouth before he kissed you again, deeper this time. It was filthy—the way his tongue slid against yours, the way his hands curled into the fabric of your clothes like he needed to ground himself with you.

Cheong-san’s mouth was hot against your skin, his lips trailing downward with a purpose you didn’t quite understand yet. Your hands stayed tangled in his hair, gripping slightly as he pressed kisses lower, across your stomach, making your breath hitch.

Then he knelt, hands sliding to your thighs, parting them with slow, deliberate pressure. You felt the shift in the air, the way his breath ghosted over you, how focused he was.

Your fingers twitched in his hair. "Cheong-san, what are you—?"

A sharp gasp cut off your words as his mouth met your folds.

It was warm. Soft. His tongue flicked out, slow and testing, like he was figuring out exactly what made you react. And, oh, you reacted. Your hips jerked slightly, unprepared for the sensation, a sharp inhale escaping your lips.

Cheong-san huffed a laugh against you, his grip tightening to hold you still. "Relax," he murmured, voice thick, amused. "Trust me."

Trust? That was hard when your heart was slamming against your ribs, your body alight with something you’d never felt before. You were trying to process—trying to understand—but then he did it again, this time with more pressure, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.

A whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Cheong-san groaned, low and satisfied, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear. He adjusted his grip, fingers digging into your thighs as he really started working—his tongue tracing slow, teasing patterns against your clit, his lips pressing just right. The wet heat of his mouth sent a shock through every inch of you, and you barely managed to stifle the desperate sound bubbling up.

Your head fell back, fingers clenching in his hair, legs threatening to close around his head from the sheer intensity of it. But Cheong-san held you firm, his movements becoming more precise, more deliberate. Like he was discovering a whole new way to ruin you.

"You’re—" Your voice broke off into a breathy gasp as he sucked lightly, sending sparks straight up your spine. "Cheong-san, what—fuck—"

Another low groan from him, this time more needy, like he was getting just as much out of this as you were. The vibrations made your whole body jolt.

Your thighs trembled against his hold, heat coiling tighter and tighter inside you, something building fast. Your breath came in short, shaky gasps, body arching into him despite yourself.

Cheong-san felt it, heard it, and leaned into it—his tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles, mouth dragging across every sensitive inch of you until—

Everything snapped.

Your body tensed, a sharp cry slipping past your lips before you could stop it. The heat, the pressure, and the overwhelming pleasure all crashed over you at once, leaving your mind blank, and your body shaking.

Cheong-san didn’t stop. He eased you through it, his hands steady on your thighs, his tongue still working on your cunt—gentler now, soothing, until the aftershocks had passed and you were nothing but a wrecked mess beneath him.

Only then did he pull back, his lips swollen, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide as he stared up at you with something bordering on starved. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavily.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his voice hoarse, wrecked.

Your chest was still heaving, your limbs feeling boneless as you tried to process what the fuck just happened. You met his gaze, dazed, completely spent.

"...Jesus Christ, Cheong-san."

A slow, cocky grin spread across his face, and before you could fully catch your breath, he was already moving back up, pressing his lips to yours, pulling you back into him like he was far from finished.

You barely registered the sound of something scraping against the building’s edge.

Then, a guttural voice cut through the haze.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

You and Cheong-san jolted apart just in time to see Yoon Gwi-nam’s face—half-bloodied, half-deranged—peeking over the ledge as he scaled the school building.

He stared at you both like he had just walked in on his own parents.

A strangled, horrified noise left his mouth, and in his sheer disgust, he lost his grip.

The last thing you saw was his expression twisting in absolute horror before he plummeted back down.

Silence.

"...Did you just kill him by eating me out?"

He blinked, looking back at you. His lips were swollen, his hair was still a mess from your fingers, and he was clearly still too dazed to function properly. "I—" He exhaled. "I think I did."

That was it. You lost it.

You doubled over, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Holy shit. Holy shit."

Cheong-san ran a hand down his face, half in disbelief, half in secondhand embarrassment. "Goddammit," he muttered. "Gwi-nam of all people had to see that? If he survives this fall, he's gonna be even more insufferable."

You wiped a tear from your eye, finally managing to catch your breath. "If he survives, I feel like he’s gonna need therapy more than revenge."

Cheong-san groaned, leaning back against the railing. "I can't believe my first time got witnessed by that greasy bastard."

You grinned, reaching up to fix his ruffled hair. "Hey, at least it was memorable."

"Too memorable," he muttered.

Before you could respond, a voice rang out from behind you.

"Cheong-san?"

You both froze.

Slowly—painfully slowly—you turned your head.

Standing in the doorway, eyes wide and horrified, were Cheong-san’s best friend, Lee Su-hyeok, and the absolute last person you wanted to be here right now—Nam On-jo.

Your pants were still crumpled around the floor, your lower half free from any cover.

Oh, shit.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Running hot||werewolf!Jenson button x vet!reader

Summary —Veterinarian Y/N is used to helping animals in need, but when a massive, heat-exhausted wolf collapses in her yard, she doesn’t hesitate to help the animal.

Word count—1039

A/n- thank you @andtheytoldustotellyouhello for the idea and @sinofwriting for indulging my werewolf fic writing addiction!

Also should I do a part two?

The wolf collapsed at the edge of the treeline, panting so hard its whole body trembled. Y/N spotted him from the porch, a massive creature with a coat matted in dirt and sweat, sides heaving like a bellows. She’d seen plenty of overheated animals in her time as a vet, but never a wolf this big. And definitely not one that had stumbled into her yard like it was begging for help.

Swearing under her breath, she grabbed her med kit and ran.

The humid summer air pressed heavy against her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat rolling off the wolf’s body when she knelt beside it. Its eyes flickered open—sharp, golden. Unnatural. But she shoved the thought aside, focusing instead on the way its tongue lolled, dry and cracked. Dehydration. Severe heat exhaustion. If she didn’t act fast, it wouldn’t make it.

“You’re lucky I found you,” she muttered, uncapping a bottle of cool water.

The wolf’s ears twitched. It wasn’t fully unconscious, but it didn’t resist as she carefully poured water along its muzzle, letting it lap at the droplets. Then she shifted her focus to checking for injuries. No obvious wounds, no gunshot marks. Just sheer exhaustion. As if it had been running for miles, pushing past the point of survival.

“What the hell happened to you?” she murmured.

The wolf’s breathing slowed. It was still too hot, though—dangerously so. Y/N needed to get it out of the sun. With no other choice, she slipped her arms under its middle, grunting at the sheer size of it. Too big for a normal wolf. Too heavy. But she dragged it toward the shade of her porch, ignoring the voice in her head screaming that something wasn’t right.

She stayed by its side for hours, cooling its body with damp cloths, forcing small sips of water down its throat. The sun dipped low. The wolf twitched in its restless sleep, muscles rippling under its thick fur.

And then it happened.

One second, she was adjusting the cloth on its forehead. The next—

A man.

A full-grown, human man lay where the wolf had been, sprawled in the grass, sweat-slicked and feverish.

Y/N jolted back, heart slamming into her ribs. Her breath hitched in her throat, unable to form a single rational thought.

The man groaned. His skin was as hot as the wolf’s had been, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Dark hair stuck to his forehead, jaw tight with some lingering pain.

No clothes. No explanation.

Just impossible.

Y/N scrambled backward, her mind screaming at her to run, to grab her phone, to do something. But then the man’s eyes flickered open—blue , unlike the wolf’s.

And in that moment, she knew.

She wasn’t dealing with something natural.

She was dealing with something else.

Something dangerous.

And she had just saved its life.

Y/N’s breath came fast and shallow. The world had tilted sideways, reality cracking at the edges.

The wolf—the man—shifted slightly, his brow creasing. He was still weak, still burning up. If she wanted answers, now was the time.

Her hands curled into fists to stop them from shaking. “What the hell are you?”

No response. Just the slow drag of his breath.

Y/N swallowed hard, forcing herself closer. Rationally, she should have been running, but instinct held her there. She had spent years training to heal animals, to stabilize them when they were helpless. Right now, whatever he was—whoever he was—he was still her patient.

She grabbed a fresh cloth, dipping it into the bowl of cool water before pressing it to his forehead. His skin twitched under her touch, like even that small sensation was too much.

Then his hand shot up, gripping her wrist.

Y/N yelped, nearly jerking back, but his hold was weak, barely more than a touch. His fingers were long, rough with callouses. Definitely not some wild, feral creature.

His eyes cracked open, sharp gold slicing through the dimming light.

“Where…?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp.

“You’re at my home,” Y/N lied on instinct. She wasn’t about to tell a stranger—a shapeshifter—that she lived alone in the middle of nowhere. “You passed out from heat exhaustion.”

His gaze flickered, darting to the empty space around them. No clinic. No sterile walls. Just her porch, her house, the trees swaying in the fading light.

His grip tightened just slightly. “You—” He swallowed dryly, his throat working. “You helped me.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet. I still don’t know what I just saved.”

He blinked at her. Something shifted in his expression, something tired, but not surprised. Like he’d had this conversation before. Like he already knew she wouldn’t believe the truth.

“Jenson,” he murmured. “My name is Jenson.”

Y/N hesitated. Not what she’d asked, but still… a name was something.

She pulled her wrist free and grabbed the water bottle she’d used earlier. “Drink.”

Jenson’s fingers curled around the plastic, but his hands were shaking too hard to hold it steady. Y/N huffed and guided it to his lips herself.

The moment the water hit his tongue, he groaned, tilting his head back as he swallowed. Y/N tried not to focus on the sound, on the way exhaustion made him pliant, too human for something that shouldn’t be possible.

She pulled the bottle away before he could choke on it. “You need to cool down. If I had an IV, I’d—” She stopped herself. “Never mind. Just rest.”

Jenson exhaled slowly, head tilting toward her. His eyes dragged over her face like he was committing it to memory.

“…You should be afraid.”

Y/N stiffened. “I am afraid.”

He gave the smallest, ghost of a smirk. “You don’t look it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m good at hiding it.”

Jenson let out a soft, strained breath that might have been a laugh. Then his eyes slipped shut again, his body sinking back into the grass.

Y/N sat there, watching him, pulse still pounding.

Whatever Jenson was, he wasn’t just some lost, exhausted shifter. He was running from something.

And she had a feeling it would come looking.

[thedevilsoftruth]

♡ Bucky Barnes NSFW alphabet ♡

- with a f! reader intended

I've never done one of these before, so here yall go, I guess! Enjoy.

[ My marvel request box is back open. Please check my pinned post for more information regarding my request rules. ]

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

I think it depends on how deep your relationship with Bucky is. I think that if it was a one night stand and/or if you guys aren't that close, he'd probably clean up with you, ask you if you'd want him to stay in bed with you a little longer and then be up and gone afterwards.

But if you're close--like married ( or fiance's ) close I think he'd be all over asking you how you're feeling and offering to massage you if you're hurting. He cleans you off then goes back in bed with you, waiting for you to go to sleep first. And that's basically it; he's just concerned for you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

I think Bucky would be all over his arms. He's learned to love his prosthetic arm a lot over the years of healing and trying to love/forgive himself. But he puts a lot of work into his upper body strength, and hearing how crazy you are over his biceps in particular is what drives his ego even more.

For his favorite part of you, I think it'd be your boobs. He also likes your legs a lot, but there's something about a nice pair of melons that he really likes. I think he'd be all over playing with them when he's in bed with you, in fact I think they'd be the first thing he touches during foreplay.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Goodness gracious 😍

So, basically, I think Bucky would always ask you where you'd want him to cum before he actually did. It's important for him because one: he doesn't want there to be any happy little accidents, and two: he always needs your consent with almost anything he does to you.

I think Bucky would also really like it when you cum on his face. Specifically when he has you sitting on his face; it gets fucking everywhere and he's a real messy eater--so he fucking loves it. He likes it getting on his beard even though it's not the most comfortable sensation. Really likes the way your thighs twitch and clench around his face when you cum.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He's an old man. The invention of cellular phones, tablets and laptops are quite fascinating to him. It's very convenient to him as well because he can look at anything he wants with just the tap of a button. That includes porn.

Now he's not proud of it, but the day he discovered screen sharing was the day his entire life changed. While you were away on a grocery trip, he laid in bed, his phones screen connected to the TV in your room, jacking off while watching the craziest things he could ever imagine.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Did you not watch Captain America: The First Avenger? I think the better question would be when does Bucky Barnes not know what he's doing? Even when he was the winter soldier, he'd still get a little sex in by getting information out of people by getting them out of their pants.

That's almost an entire century of sexual experience under that mans belt. To say he's experienced would be an understatement and a straight up insult to him In general.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Bucky can get into almost anything. Sex is sex. It's mostly about what you want, so sometimes he likes to leave things up to you and let you ride him--just have him for a night. I think he'd personally really love having your knees pressed into your chest while he fucks you, or your legs above his shoulders. It lets him get deeper inside you and he likes the face-to-face action.

And of course, doggy if he's feeling really mean. And he does it on the kitchen table too, so it's even worse.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Once again, depends on the relationship. Absolutely 100% serious if your relationship isn't serious. But if he's been married to you for a long time, I think sometimes he'd get a little bored and whisper an inside joke in your ear while he's going at it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Uh oh. I'm gonna go with pretty average.

He's 107 years old. Do you think he'd really give a shit about shaving down there? He will trim it for you if it bugs you, but that's only if it bugs you. Same thing goes for the pits and chest.

Hairy Bucky my beloved 😍

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Soooo intimate if your relationship is really deep. Bucky loves fooling around with you in bed, but he also really loves making you feel loved and cherished because it matters to him so much.

Especially with his staring issues, he just can't take his eyes off yours. Like he's constantly keeping eye contact with you, and it makes butterflies fill your stomach each time he does. He just can't believe how beautiful you are and how lucky he is.

Because finally for once In his life, he feels loved and he can return that love. Because for once in his life, he's at peace and he's doing something right.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Same thing with the porn mentioned earlier.

But he also really likes looking at pictures of you whenever he's jacking off; the good, sexy pictures of you. He also likes flipping through texts you've exchanged with him and listened to the voice messages you send to him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Having his hair pulled. He loves it when you tug on his hair whenever he eats you out. And it's never painful for him because of his strong pain tolerance. He also encourages you to tug as hard as you can. Makes him moan, get all hard for you.

Orgasm denial. I think Bucky would be super into asking you if you're going to cum, pretend like he is too, all just to pull out of you before you can. It drives you crazy and he loves seeing you whimper and beg for him to make you cum.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Workplace sex. Fucking in his office and shutting you up with his tie? Yes please.

Temperature play. Loves the way you shiver whenever his metal/vibranium arm touches you. Maybe he likes running ice cubes down your legs, too 🙈

At the start, it's a little hard for him to get used to a bed. Hed only use a bed if he was eating you out it was doing some sort of missionary thing. But even then he'd still have you on the edge of the bed with him standing.

So, he likes doing it in the floor. Yes, the floor. You hate it, but he loves it, especially if he's feeling rough and dominate that night.

He also really likes doing it in the kitchen, against the bar or on the table. Loves the way your moans echo through the house.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Like stated before, the hair tugging.

If you're showing a bunch of cleavage too, he becomes a fucking dog. He'll let things slide until the end of the day. He doesn't let you take a shower until he can get you out of your clothes and show you how fucking gorgeous you are.... And how much he really likes your boobs.

I also think Bucky would really like it whenever you praise him. He spent most of his life abused, neglected and never shown love. So I think telling him that he's doing good would send him off the edge and give him butterflies. Call him a good boy in his ear and he'll fucking die.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

If this is Bucky without the weird hydra shit still in his mind, he will refuse to get super over the top with you when it comes to bdsm. I mean like, as in the slapping and the choking. I think that would be a no go for him. He cannot stand the idea of purposefully hurting you for his own pleasure. It makes all that winter soldier guilt come back to him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS. Oral sex my beloved.

Listen honey, Bucky Barnes is a pussy eating expert. You love it, he fucking loves it, it's perfect, really. He also enjoys receiving it, but he definitely love the award if giving you oral a lot more better.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Okay what year we talking? 1940's? 1991? 2014? 2016? 2018? 2025? It depends on where he is mentally. He can be really slow and sensual if he wants to, but he has to have a mix between being fast and slow. I like to describe it, as Peter Steele of Type O Negative would describe it, slow deep and hard.

If we're talking CATWS or CACW Bucky, I think he'd be an absolute fucking control freak and go absolute ham on that shit like a freight train ( sick ass bucky Barnes reference. ) He's so used to submitting to hydra, and he needs to let out his pain, anger and needs to be in control of something, so he takes control of you. Fast and hard, absolutely no mercy with that shit.

But if we're talking 1940s or Bucky after the events of infinity war, I think he'd definitely still have that rough/mean vibe, but he's just so sweet with you at the same time. He starts off slow, progresses into going fast, then slows back down towards the end. If that makes sense.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

They happen a lot more often than he'd like, and thats mostly just because the both of you are always so busy. He would like them to be longer, but he knows it's the only time he has with you so he cherishes it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Yes. Yes. Yes.

In the workplace, yes.

In the car, yes.

Now if we're talking bdsm stuff, he's always making sure you are 100% into it and is always reminding you that you can always back out if you need to. He rarely takes risks when it comes to bdsm stuff, and he's always making sure he's prepared with the things he needs, but also that you're prepared for it mentally.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He's a fucking super soldier. That man has been in fights longer than all the lord of the rings movies combined. He can go on from 7pm to 6am, the only question is: " can you? " One round feels like, not enough for him. But honestly, it just depends on how intense it is.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I think Bucky would be interested in sex toys. He's more traditional though because that's what he's used to. But maybe he likes watching you use them on yourself?

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Bucky Barnes is the definition of sexually unfair. His foreplay is super long, and he has to make sure your panting, pent up and basically begging for him to fuck you before he actually does. He likes to touch you through your panties. He doesn't let you touch yourself, and when you do, he restricts your hands for a bit. He just really likes to hear you beg.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's is very loud In bed. He encourages you to be loud too. He grunts a lot. Like a lot. Moans whenever you claw at his back or tug on his hair.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character )

I'll give you more than one.

Likes his women older. There aren't exactly a lot of women out there over the age 100.

Also really loves to help you out with random things, even if it's just getting the milk out if the fridge. He's ready to comply.

His flesh hand is really fucked up. There's a lot of really deep cuts on them and callouses. His skin is dry and cracked. But nonetheless, his really good with his hands.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Forearm hair goes crazy. Same thing with his chest. He's an absolute beef cake. Wide waist, big arms, man tits also go crazy.

Now when it comes to his winter solider, I'd say he goes a bit above 6 3/4 inches. So almost 7 but not quite ( when erect. ) Veins go crazy. It's not too dark, in fact, there's a little bit of a pink tint to it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty normal. Maybe when he was younger ( during his Sargeant days ) it was a lot higher than it is now, which makes sense. But he's always busy so he doesn't have time for it.

But that doesn't mean he isn't thinking about it. Wink wonk.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards )

Not quick at all. Bucky is an awful insomniac, so he always ends up in going to sleep hours after you do. In fact, sex does nothing but energize him. He's always asking if he can do this and that for you after sex and you always end up on being so exhausted that you tell him to just sit down.

[t1atam3ra]

needed to say that raph spent hours alone with the kraang

raph was alone

with aliens who wanted to kill him and had a good reason to

for HOURS

they arrived to get the key at night!! Its clearly late out

and its early morning after he got out of the Kraang pod thingy

it seems like a while has passed since he was under the Kraang's control to!! This is probably a minute right after he broke free!

( ALSO LOOK HOW AWESOME THIS FRAME IS THE KRAANG MUST HAVE FELT ANGRY/ BETRAYED BY RAPH HE IS DEFINITELY PISSED)

needed to get this off my chest but re-watching the movie I realized something

In this scene, mikey asked what did you do to my brother and the kraang said improved HIM this was after he was kraangified

While raph was being interrogated the kraang referred to him as an IT

The kraang really thought of other species as an inferior life form but after you are "improved" or "fixed" you get to be granted above pest status

ALSO PLEASE THE SCENE WHERE THE KRAANG LITERALLY SEARCH IN HIS BRAIN FOR INFORMATION?? WHY ISNT ANYONE TALKING ABOUT IT???

heres a storyboard of what couldve happend in that scene <33https://www.tumblr.com/rottmnt-background-screenshots/726418372504469504/httpswwwinstagramcomreelcro9orpxgrd-this-is?source=share

its real in my heart( pretty sure that counts as body horror though)

side note i noticed that raph was tortured for information in the cargo ship but his tracker was moving

this could mean either the Kraang rendered him unconscious and dragged him around the city or he was picked up and carried there by the Kraang

sister Kraang was taking the foot clan to the lair so maybe he was just dragged around watching people run in terror as he could do nothing to help

OR secret thrid option raph was with the kraang a bit tooo long to be a functioning member of society, so as the brainwashed stalk-holme syndromed newest kraang member he willingly went with them ( mwhehe you can see which option I'm going for) ( forgot to say but @somethin-strange-27 quarantine au was a big inspiration for this)

Is this way to long. Yes. do I care? NO THE RAPH ANGST IN MY HEAD NEEDS TO BE LET FREEE

[kisakis-boyfriend]

CONGRATS ON 3000!!!!!!!!!!!! Here’s to the next 77000:3

Can I please have wriothesley with the whole alphabet!!!!!???? I love him so much and your writing is literally so good I need more subby wriothesley in my life:(

Author's Note: asdfghjkl that would be so many people!! O_____O''' But thank you! I think we could all use more subby Wriothesley tbh. I wasn't able to finish this on the first day of his banner rerun, but I am posting it during his rerun. All Wriothesley wanters will be Wriothesley havers!!! 🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

For our 3000 follower celebration!

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

A master when it comes to aftercare, Wriothesley will allow you to smother him with affection a little bit, but he's also going to do the same to you.

He's the kind of person who really shows how much he cares about your well-being — believing that doms deserve the tenderness of aftercare just as much as the subs who get wrecked.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

I think Wriothesley would be rather proud of his chest. He keeps himself fit — you kind of have to if you want to run an underwater prison — and his chest shows that off nicely. And obviously he knows that he has the juiciest, finest ass in all of Teyvat.

Of yours, oddly enough, he finds himself admiring your waist a lot. When he's watching you fuck him, he does end up staring at your waist and hips 😚

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

His cum is more liquidy than thick, and he usually doesn't shoot it very far. His cum tends to run down his shaft or gather on his stomach/whatever surface is under him.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Wriothesley has a reoccurring fantasy where you kidnap him from his office and whisk him away somewhere, tie him up, stuff all of his holes with toys and vibrators, and then leave him for a few days until his brain turns to mush.

Of course, this isn't practical since his job requires his presence at all times, but a man can dream, right? 💔

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Very experienced as a dom/top, but he really didn't have experience as a sub/bottom until he met you. Most of the people Wriothesley had hooked up with wanted him to top, so he did. It was a rare find indeed to meet someone who lusted after him in a different way.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. May include a visual)

Bent over things. Bonus points if you bend him over something in his office. 😌

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

I think he can be a little goofy, and you'll probably hear him nervously giggle quite a bit, but otherwise Wriothesley is somewhere in between.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Listen, it should be no secret that I like body hair, and I will spread my propaganda whenever possible– Wriothesley trims his pubic hair maybe once a month, just because it gets pretty thick and unruly. Otherwise, he allows his natural beauty to flourish~

(Also, Wriothesley has gorgeous dark chest hair. It looks beyond sexy when he's sweaty after an intense workout 🥵)

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

Wriothesley is incredibly romantic during sex, and he would hope that you're the same. You can see how much he loves you by the look in his eyes. Subtle intimate actions also tell you how much he adores you and cherishes you — such as; grasping your arms and hands when you speed up, pounding him even faster.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Wriothesley definitely jerks off every other day. His job is not an easy one, and he can't ask you to constantly visit him to relieve the tension every waking second. So, he takes care of it when he has a spare moment.

Normally, he'll stick to fucking his fist to satisfy himself, but if he really needs that extra push, Wriothesley will insert a finger or two into himself, even though it's never as good as your cock.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Breeding, bondage, some roleplay, exhibitionism, cock worship, body worship, and leashing/puppy play.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

His office for sure. Wriothesley will also sneak away to have sex just about anywhere in the Fortress of Meropide… it's a little concerning 😅

I can also see him having a thing for fucking out on the wild. On one of his rare visits up to the surface world, he'll plan a nice picnic date with you somewhere far away from populated areas, and you two will have rough sex after a romantic lunch~

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Pet names are a great way to subtly turn him on, especially if you use them sparingly but at just the right moments. Whispering in Wriothesley's ears will also do the trick, or getting close enough for him to feel your breath on his skin.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Honestly? The thought of being the dom again has become a turn off.

You opened his mind to the world of bottoming, submitting, and giving control to someone else, and Wriothesley has no intentions of going back to the opposite. Maybe he could see himself being a submissive service top, but never a dom again.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He's fine with either, but Wriothesley has come to enjoy giving you head much more than he ever thought he would 😋

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

It's entirely dependent on his mood, how his day went, what's going on at work, etc. Sometimes, rough sex is great to de-stress, other times, slow and sensual is what your darling needs.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Not the biggest fan actually. An occasional quickie isn't a problem, especially if that's all you two can manage with your schedules, but you shouldn't make it a habit.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

I'd say Wriothesley is a frequent risk-taker. Mostly when it comes to where you have sex though. Trying new positions is also fun for him.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

My god… stamina for days! Wriothesley can go multiple rounds every time you have sex, and he always hopes you can manage at least 2. He can handle long rounds as well.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He has a few that you gave him as presents, and he definitely uses them if he's desperate enough. Usually though, Wriothesley won't use toys unless you're together.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Teasing words are the most common occurrence — Wrio is a little too smooth for his own good. He definitely teases you when it comes to showing off his body too. He's the kind of guy who will undo another button on his shirt to see how you'll react, bend over to purposefully present his perfect round butt, and strike a provocative pose when he's half-naked after a workout. Whatever he can do to make your eyes glaze over with lust, Wriothesley will try out.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He's not super loud, but he's not exactly silent either. You'll hear lots of deep grunts, panting, breathier sounds in general. The loudest noises you can pry from Wriothesley are sharp cries of pleasure when he cums after being particularly pent up.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Wriothesley is too strong for his own good, and he's broken several pieces of furniture before due to his strength. Sometimes he just grips the edge of a desk too tight and it crumbles. He's also ripped many sets of bedsheets before 😔

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

A solid 6 inches. He is cut, unfortunately, but his dick is still rather pretty. It's not quite as veiny as you might expect it to be too.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Pretty damn high, and can you blame him? He literally lives at his workplace, spending his life underground—underwater—and rarely gets more than an hour to himself at a time. Although, even without taking all of that into account, I think he'd still have a naturally high libido. He's just built that way.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He's not one to fall asleep immediately, not unless the sex happens in the middle of the night or something. He's a little more relaxed, yes, but he can stay awake just fine afterwards.

[i-like-loserz]

So yesterday, I read the recent sub!San, gurl I was so tired all day and needed a break, so thank you for another amazing fic. Okay! I had an… interesting dream about San last night, but not San of Ateez. Choi San as the crown prince of South Korea 🙈 I shared a bit of the dream (honestly, I don’t even know why he was the Prince of South Korea, but it sounded okay cuz it's a dream lol). He was the most desirable, handsome, and kindest prince ever. There was a part where I'm his secret girlfriend, and I was like, ‘Oh cool,’ but also like, ‘How long has this been going on? How did we meet? WTF did I do to win the prince’s heart?!’ your gurl here needs more details and information! Hate that you remembering half of the dream!!! 😤)

Okay, back to the dream, we were at an airport… San held my hand as we walked toward the private plane, looking at me with loving eyes, feeling protective over me. (I’m guessing it's because I’m not Korean, and maybe k-netizens wouldn’t approve of their dear beloved Prince being with a non-Korean original girl 😶 It felt like I was walking into a den of lions) To the public, San was a gentleman with a strong aura but in private with me, he was like a little kitten, vulnerable and super clingy, yet possessive. San was feeling the heavy burden of being a prince and said he had to be ‘a man and an adult’ at all times. He was so smitten with me. He asked me to be patient with him, knowing full well the challenges of being with him. He was so grateful to have met me, saying he could be his true self with me. And he never stopped telling me how much he loved me with every beat of his heart. He feels calm and at peace with me like I'm his beautiful calm spring in his dark storm that came to him like a silver lining 😭😭😭 his words in my dream!!! 🫠

Here’s the spicy part! It’s a sub San 🤭 He’s deeply in love, deeper than the mariana trench. A whiny desperate hungry moaning mess man, and I'm his 'empress' 👁️👄👁️ shit what a dream 😶‍🌫️

PRINCE SAN??? pls im so jealous you get dreams like this 😭 this sounds so much like husband!san looking all intimidating and powerful in front of others, then immediately melting when you're together ☺️

also i'm not sure if you're referring to honey, baby!san or the newest ones -- drunk!san or sleepy!san -- but let's be honest, they're all cute and subby for reader so it doesn't matter! -- my response gets kinda steamy at the end...i can't help it

cw: 18+ pls, prince!san x secret gf!reader, sub!san, hickies, dry humping

i could just imagine the way he'd shower you in affection and gifts, then fly you across the world just to be alone with you (no cameras or prying eyes). he so wants to show you off as his and have you live with him, but the pressure is too much and he knows the backlash you'd receive just by being near him.

no one knows that you are the one taking those photos that are going viral because of how handsome he looks. that you convinced him to interact more with his loyal subjects and show them how down to earth he is. and that you are the reason why he feels a lot more secure and confident in public.

there's something about being his secret girlfriend that's kind of hot. kissing in the shadows or behind closed doors, and knowing that you shouldn't be doing it but you both can't help it. and san is particularly needy whenever he sees you because you're rarely able to meet in private, making every meeting desperate and hot.

even though you can't outwardly show it, you still make your mark in his life. of course, there are the literal marks that you suck into his skin -- from his neck, down his chest, and over his thighs (he whines about how risky you're being, but he secretly craves having the tender bruises as they're physical reminders of you) -- but there are other subtle ways you claim him.

to name a few, there are the matching bracelets you both wear, the cologne you chose for him, and the special shirts you buy that show off his chest...he's like your doll, an obedient man to dress up and accessorize as you please. and it pleases him just as much -- if not, more.

he wants to look good for you.

more than that, he wants to please you.

it's a fact that san is a sucker for praise. he'd probably cum in his pants just from humping your leg if you're petting his hair and cooing soft words at him (spoiler alert: he actually already has done that...he just doesn't want to talk about that time bc he's a shy baby).

the prince may receive praise from the whole country, but his eyes are only looking at you.

[concreteangel92]

Hey! I have a request for you :3

I love your writings so much and I thought you'd be the perfect writer for this. I need a wedding fic with Noah so bad!!😭 I've seen so many Dad! Noah but not a single wedding fanfic. And I desperately need a romantic, emotinal one.

(ofc it can end with smut too eheheheh)

Noah Sebastian x female reader

No warnings, just descriptions of spicy polaroid pictures

I do have a couple weddings fics already actually which I will link here and here ☺️

I had a sudden idea for this which is more on the funny/fluffy side of things as one of my wedding works is an emotional one so I thought this would be a nice route to go down so I hope you enjoy, but obviously let me know if you want something different and thank you for the trust in my work haha 🖤

Also if I ever get married, I fully intend on doing this ahaha 🤣

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Let me know if you wish to be added!

Masterlist

Today was your wedding day to your best friend and soul mate.

Noah had made sure that you had everything you wanted, the perfect dress, your favourite flowers, favourite cake, the most beautiful venue. Nothing was too much for your big day.

So you decided to give him a special wedding present as a personal thank you.

You had gone out and brought a brand new black and red lace lingerie set, one you knew that would have his jaw on the floor and you had modelled them with a polaroid camera and had planned with your best and oldest girl friend, who was your maid of honour, to give them to him randomly throughout the day on the quiet.

The photos started out fairly tame. The first was a full body shot showing the set off in all its glory with you smiling at the camera.

The first picture that your friend gave to him you didn’t see as it was before the ceremony, but you’re friend had recorded his reaction however and it was priceless

••••••

Your best friend walked up to Noah as he was stood with Nicholas and the guys as they waited for you to arrive.

She went up and gestured for Noah to come to the side, he had a look of confusion on his face as she handed him a small envelope and said from behind the camera “for you from y/n”

Noah opened the envelope and pulled out the photo, his eyes going slightly wide as a smirk appeared on his face.

“For fucks sake”

He giggled while shaking his head and put the photo in the inside pocket of his jacket, not before having one more glance at it.

“Tell her thank you”

••••••

The ceremony itself was absolutely perfect. You and Noah couldn’t stop smiling at each other and you even caught him wiping away some stray tears as you walked down the aisle.

You had finally married the man you loved surrounded by all your friends and family.

The rest of the day was spent giving Noah the rest of his presents.

The next photo was a particular favourite of yours, you were bent over on the bed, ass high in the air, one of his favourite positions.

You were both sat at the table for the wedding dinner and drinks and you watched as your friend tapped him on the shoulder and his eye brows raised slightly as he took the envelope.

Noah glanced at you as he opened it, once the photo was in his hands, he quickly put it against his chest so no one else could catch a glimpse of it.

“Dear god….you’re killing me here babe”

You giggled and acted like it was the most innocent thing ever.

“I have no idea what you mean baby”

Noah shot you a look before putting that photo in the inside pocket to join the other one.

“You know exactly what you filthy minx”

You smirked and sipped on your drink as you then turned your attention back to the toasts.

Everyone sat at their tables and ate the amazing food that you’d had brought in for the wedding dinner, you watched as people chatted and laughed together with a smile, feeling Noah’s fingers laced with yours.

You gave your friend a wink when you caught her eye to signal the next photo.

By now Noah had fully clocked on that if he saw her coming over then a photo was on its way and you watched as he was chatting to Nicholas and he laughed quietly to himself as another envelope was passed over.

“What’s that dude?”

Noah sat back in his chair with a smile and kept the envelope turned away from Nick.

“Never you mind”

Noah took a breath and pulled out the next polaroid.

He let out another shaky breath as he took in the image of you biting your lip as your hand was pulling the bra down but your nipple was still hidden in a teasing manner.

Noah stared at the photo longer than the others before that too joined the collection.

“How many of these are there?”

You gave him a wink and carried on eating.

The night continued onto your reception where you’d just had your first dance as a married couple.

It had been the most magical moment, you both felt like you were the only two people on earth as you swayed in each other’s arms to your song.

Noah had almost forgotten about the pictures. Until your friend walked up yet again with another envelope and a cheeky laugh as his flushed cheeks.

You couldn’t hold back the giggle as you watched him open this one.

This particular photo saw you now topless and sitting, legs spread wide on the mattress in your shared bedroom.

You heard a low groan coming from Noah’s throat as he stared wide eyed.

“Fuck me…we’re going to have to wrap this up soon”

You could see the hungry look in his eyes as he glance over at you.

“Not long to go baby”

There was only one more photo. The rest of the evening you spent dancing and drinking and loving every second of the night with Noah and your loved ones. As the night started to come to an end, you watched as your friend gave Noah the last envelope.

Noah looked at you and shook his head as he opened it.

This time Noah didn’t even try to hide the low guttural growl that emitted deep from within his chest.

The last and final polaroid showed you completely naked kneeling on the bed with the lace thong stretched out playfully between your fingers as you smiled cheekily.

“That’s it, the wedding is over, we have to leave now”

Noah playfully picked you up, ignoring your scream as he carried you out of the venue.

“Noah we have guests”

You couldn’t stop the laughter as you wrapped your hands around his neck.

“And I really couldn’t give a fuck, I intend to properly make you my wife all night and that set better be ready when we get home”

[corazondebeskar-reads]

we stay silly

Jackson!Joel Miller x gn!reader

note: I made this post and then got dicked down too good for it to be a “tmi with toni.” also @cavillscurls said “more” and while this probably wasn’t what you meant, I am very easily enabled.

words: no clue sorry I literally just wrote this on tumblr mobile in a post-nut haze. it’s not long.

summary: you and joel have a peaceful moment for both silliness and filth.

warnings: pwp, enthusiastic consent, gender neutral language, no description of reader beyond having legs, joel can move reader around but does not lift them, kept it gn on purpose but if you want to imagine this as never stood a chance joel and reader I ain’t stopping you (bcus they live in my head at all times), sweat kink?, armpit sniffing and licking, m!self, use of slut (affectionate), breath play, rack/ssc compliant, Joel has multiple orgasms and we pretend that’s reasonable at his age

“Hey, careful. My glasses are up there somewhere,” he says while you eagerly wiggle your joggers and underwear down and kick them off.

You’ll be cross later when they’re tangled up and inside out on the floor, but his thick cock is bobbing and drooling, so. More important things at hand.

You grope around the already-hopeless sheets—pulled up at three of the four corners from your fists balling and clinging while he finger fucked you open enough for him to fit—and hold up his glasses, victorious.

He reaches for them and you pull your hand back. His brow ticks up.

“Put ‘em on,” you say, then add “pleeeease?” for good measure.

“Put my readers on,” he says flatly. “Why in gods name would I need ‘em t’fuck you? S’there gonna be a test?”

“C’mon,” you whine, lower lip pushed out playfully.

He rolls his eyes. “Why?”

God, he’s such a stubborn ass. He’s gonna make you say it. “Because they’re hot.”

“Yeah? It gets you all hot n’ bothered? You get off to my eyes goin’?”

But there’s a gleam in his eye as he slips them on. He knows. He’s felt your filthy gaze when he’s reading next to you in bed, under the soft quilt and shadows cast from the lamp. He’s just been waitin’ for you to finally do somethin’ about it.

He doesn’t need them to see the way your chest rises and falls, still panting from his relentless attention. He doesn’t need them to see the way you’re covered in a sheen of sweat, a triumphant smirk making its way back onto his face.

He sure as shit doesn’t need them to see the way your eyes go dark and you squirm a little as he peers down the bridge of his nose at you, thin scar catching in his peripherals.

“So what is it?” He says, but it lands a little more husky than gruff. “You hot for teacher or somethin’?”

“Hot for teacher,” you mouth, rolling your eyes. “No, weirdo. It’s just a good look on you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, and grabs you by the knees, yanking you and the poor sheet down to the edge of the bed.

You squeak in surprise even though he’s used this move before. It never fails to fluster you as he pulls and turns and manipulates your body as he wants.

There’s even less warning as the tip of his cock pushes inside, and he doesn’t wait to stuff the rest in. Your snappy retort dies in a shuddering gasp and you have to take a minute to recover.

He doesn’t give it to you, though. Well. He gives it to you, but it is every inch of his cock and not a reprieve.

Your legs are folded between you, calves on his shoulders. He watches the way your body shakes and spreads for him; you watch the way your feet bounce. One smacks lightly against the veiny expanse of his neck.

The giggles come unbidden and he almost stops fucking into you. Almost.

“What now?” He looks like he regrets asking as soon as the words are out.

“My feet. It’s so silly. Sex is silly,” you say with more laughter.

“Yep. Sure is,” he says, though there’s something fond in his gaze as he takes in your smile.

“We stay silly,” you say, one hand celebratorily raising the roof.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says and covers your mouth with his giant hand.

Any response you might have rather given comes out in a moan.

“Yeah, you like that, I know,” he murmurs. He takes it away for a moment to fold your legs up, pressed to your chest. His hand comes back to stifle you as his hips pummel against yours. He’s fucking down into you, groaning and panting.

He’s relentless. A machine. For an old man, as you like to tease, he’s got the stamina of the goddamn energizer bunny. Jackhammers have nothing on your man.

“Come,” he huffs, and slides his hand up to cover your nose, too, smothering you with his sweaty palm. Your eyes roll back as you shake and clench around him.

“Goddamn, that’s it. That’s it, baby. Fuuuuck yeah,” he croons, pulling his hand away before you really run out of air.

His cum splatters across your stomach, having wrenched himself from your tight grasp. “Scoot,” he grunts, smacking at your ass.

You manage, somehow, to pull your body back up toward the headboard, and he sprawls on his back beside you, scooping you close with one arm.

“Take care of my balls, baby,” he coaches, groaning in delight as you cradle them in one hand while he lazily strokes his dick, his own seed as lube.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, and his arm crooks around the back of your neck. It tightens and you gasp, face first into his armpit.

“Such a good little slut,” he moans, holding you with your nose pressed to the damp thicket of hair there. He keeps you there, feeling you groan and shiver, as he brings himself to a second orgasm.

But he doesn’t relent, even then. You’ve gone limp in his grip, but he knows you’re fine. He knows because your tongue is lapping at him lightly. He chuckles.

“Filthy, nasty slut,” he says fondly. “You just can’t help yourself, huh? Gotta have a taste?”

You don’t answer, can’t answer, lost in him. That’s okay. He didn’t expect you to. He yanks on his cock, your hands gently stretching his balls, as he eases you both over the edge once more.

[goldfades]

Heyyy!!!!! I loveeee your Luka series, I literally didn’t know this man before you!! I was wondering if you can write a long fic about the crash out couple getting into a fight!! A lot of angst and then a happy ending.. thank youu!!

ouuu you know i cant resist a good angst-to-fluff!!! i hope you enjoy. also so glad to have put you on this sexy man<3

It had been brewing for days.

Little things—missed calls, clipped tones, the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t easy. The kind that filled the room like static, like something waiting to explode.

You weren’t even sure when it started, not exactly. Maybe it was last week, when Luka was late to dinner. Or maybe it was the other night, when you had a game, and he was supposed to be there, supposed to be courtside like always, but he never showed. He said he was tired, that it had been a long week, but all you could hear was I didn’t feel like coming.

You tried to brush it off at first, to tell yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t needy. You didn’t need Luka at every game. You were used to doing things alone, used to holding your own.

But this was different.

Because Luka was your person. Luka was the one who showed up, no matter what, no matter how tired he was, no matter where he had to be the next morning. Luka was the one who screamed the loudest when you hit a three, the one who talked so much to the refs that you got fined by association. Luka was the one who gave a fuck, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

And lately, it felt like he was slipping.

He was always somewhere else—on his phone, in his head, anywhere but here. He’d come home late, eyes heavy, voice distracted, answering in hmms and yeahs that barely felt real. And when you called him on it, he brushed it off.

"Nothing’s wrong, mačka. I’m just tired."

But that wasn’t enough. Not this time.

So, yeah, maybe that’s where it started. Maybe it was all those little moments, stacking on top of each other like bricks, until the weight of it all became too much.

It starts small.

It always does.

You’re standing in the kitchen, barefoot, arms crossed over your chest, watching Luka move around like he’s trying to avoid looking at you. His shoulders are tense, the set of his jaw rigid, and you can already tell—he’s not in the mood for this.

But neither are you.

The air between you is thick, charged with something unspoken, something sharp.

You should let it go. You should turn around, leave the room, pretend like everything’s fine. That’s what you would’ve done in the past, when you were still figuring each other out, when you weren’t sure how much Luka could take before he shut down completely.

But it’s different now.

Because this isn’t just a bad mood. This isn’t just exhaustion or frustration over a game. This has been building for weeks, creeping into every conversation, every silence, until you can’t ignore it anymore.

Until you don’t want to ignore it anymore.

"Luka." Your voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, something frayed at the seams.

He exhales, slow and heavy, before finally looking up. "What?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "What? That’s all you’ve got?"

He leans against the counter, rubbing a hand down his face like this conversation is already exhausting him. Like he’s already decided how it’s going to go.

"You wanna fight, huh?" His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s no real humor in it. "That why you’ve been looking at me like that all night?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "Looking at you like that? Luka, I’ve barely seen you all week. You come home late, you barely talk to me, and when you do, it’s like—" You cut yourself off, dragging a hand through your hair. "It’s like I’m pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out of you."

Luka huffs a breath, pushing off the counter. "I’ve been busy. You know that."

"Oh, busy—right," you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Too busy to text me back? Too busy to show up to my game? Or what, too busy to give a shit?"

The second the words leave your mouth, you feel them land. Luka flinches—not much, just a flicker of something in his eyes—but it’s enough. Enough to make your chest tighten, to make you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

But you don’t take it back.

Because fuck that.

You’ve been biting your tongue for too long, letting it slide every time he brushed you off, every time he made you feel like an afterthought.

Luka shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "That’s not fair."

"Isn’t it?" You fold your arms tighter, nails digging into your skin. "Because that’s how it feels, Luka."

He exhales sharply, frustration flashing across his face. "I don’t know what you want me to say."

You step closer, forcing him to look at you. "I want you to say something. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with you, because I feel like I’m talking to a ghost."

Luka looks away, jaw clenching. "It’s not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, feel the way your body is coiled tight, ready to snap.

Luka exhales again, but this time, it’s different. Not exasperated. Not dismissive. Just—tired.

"You don’t get it," he mutters.

Your stomach twists. "Then make me get it."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and something in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s not just anger, not just frustration—it’s something deeper. Something that looks an awful lot like doubt.

"You think I don’t care?" His voice is quiet now, but there’s an edge underneath, something sharp. "You really think that?"

You hold your ground. "You’re the one making me feel like that."

Luka scoffs, shaking his head. "You have no idea what it’s like."

"What what’s like?"

"This." He gestures vaguely, his hands moving like he’s trying to grab the right words out of the air. "Playing like I do, being expected to be—" He stops, exhales sharply. "To be everything all the time."

You blink, momentarily thrown off. "Luka, I—"

"You think I don’t show up for you?" His voice rises slightly now, something defensive creeping in. "I always show up for you. Every game, every moment. But do you have any idea what it feels like to be stretched so thin you don’t even feel like a person anymore?"

Your breath catches. "Luka—"

"You get to be pissed at me. You get to yell and fight and say whatever the fuck you want." His voice is raw now, cracking at the edges. "But I don’t get that. Not on the court, not with the team, not with—" He stops, running a hand down his face. "Not with you."

Silence.

Your pulse is hammering. You don’t know what to say.

Because—he’s not wrong.

You do expect him to be there. You do expect him to show up, to fight for you, to be the Luka you’ve always known—loud, passionate, present. But you never stopped to think about what it costs him.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

Maybe you’ve both been keeping score, tallying up moments of disappointment, waiting for the other person to slip first.

You inhale, slow and careful. "Luka—"

But he’s already shaking his head, stepping back like he’s retreating, like this whole conversation is too much. "I don’t wanna fight anymore." His voice is quieter now, tired. "Not with you."

Your chest tightens. "Then talk to me."

Luka sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, finally, he exhales, slow and heavy.

"I don’t know if I can."

And just like that, the ground shifts beneath you.

Because those words? Those words feel a hell of a lot like giving up.

A couple of hours pass.

Luka showers first, steam curling out of the bathroom when he steps into the bedroom with damp hair and a clean t-shirt. He moves through the space quietly, the usual ease of his presence feeling heavier, more careful. He eats in silence, sitting at the counter while you finish up your post-game workout in the home gym. He doesn’t say anything when you pass through the kitchen for a water bottle, and you don’t push him, either.

You know Luka.

You know how he gets when things weigh on him—how he folds into himself, lets things sit heavy on his shoulders before he’s ready to let them out. He doesn’t like to be pushed, doesn’t like to be dragged into a conversation before he’s settled his own thoughts.

So you let him be.

You take your time finishing up, putting your body through the motions, not thinking too hard about the argument still hanging between you. By the time you shower and step into the bedroom, towel-drying your hair, Luka is already sitting on the bed, phone in his hands, but you can tell—he’s not really looking at it.

You pretend not to notice.

Instead, you move to the bathroom, tying your hair back before you start your skincare routine. The mirror is slightly fogged from the heat of your shower, and as you smooth moisturizer over your face, you feel the weight of Luka’s eyes on you.

He hates when you’re mad at him.

You’ve learned that over the years—how he can brush off criticism from fans, the media, even his coaches sometimes, but when it’s you? When he feels like he’s let you down? It sticks with him.

Still, you don’t rush him.

You move through your routine like normal, giving him the space to figure out where to start. It’s only when you cap your moisturizer and reach for your lip balm that he finally exhales, the mattress dipping slightly as he leans forward.

"I hate this."

His voice is quiet, a little rough.

You glance at him in the mirror. "Hate what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely, looking up at you with something raw in his eyes. "Fighting with you. Feeling like this."

Your heart tightens a little, but you keep your face neutral, fingers pausing over the curve of your lip.

"You think I like it?"

Luka shakes his head immediately. "No. I know you don’t."

You cap your lip balm and turn to face him fully, leaning against the sink. "Then what are we doing, Luka?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I don’t know." A pause. "I just—I hate when I can’t make you happy."

You exhale slowly, taking him in—the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, the way his knee bounces just a little, like he’s working off nervous energy.

"You do make me happy," you say, voice softer now. "Luka, you make me so happy."

His brows pull together slightly, like he wants to believe you, but there’s something holding him back.

"But?" he says.

You sigh, stepping forward until you’re in front of him. "But I need you to be happy, too."

His gaze flickers up to yours, something vulnerable in it.

"You've been shutting me out," you continue, keeping your voice steady. "I know you’re stressed, I know it’s a lot, but when you don’t talk to me, I feel like I’m the only one fighting for this."

Luka’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down for a moment, fingers tracing the seam of his shorts. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"I don’t mean to shut you out."

You nod, waiting.

He exhales, eyes flicking to yours again. "I just—I get in my head, you know? And I feel like if I start talking about it, it’s just gonna sound like I’m complaining. And I don’t wanna do that. I don’t wanna bring all that shit home to you."

Your heart squeezes at the honesty in his voice.

"Luka," you say softly, reaching for his hands. He lets you take them, your fingers threading together easily, naturally. "I want you to bring it home to me. That’s what this is. That’s what we are."

His fingers tighten around yours slightly. "I know. I just—sometimes I feel like I gotta be everything for everyone. And when I can’t, when I feel like I’m falling short, it’s—" He exhales sharply. "It’s easier to shut down than admit I can’t do it all."

You nod, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles. "I get that. I really do. But, baby—you don’t have to do it all. Not alone."

Luka exhales again, this time a little shakier. He squeezes your hands, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"I really am sorry."

You feel it in your chest, the way he means it.

"I know," you say.

He looks at you for a moment, searching, like he’s trying to find reassurance that this—you—are still solid beneath him.

Then, finally, he tugs you forward, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face against your stomach. You exhale as your hands slip into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp.

His voice is muffled against you. "Are we okay?"

You sigh, threading your fingers through his damp hair. "Yeah, Luka. We’re okay."

He tightens his hold around you, and for the first time in weeks, you feel him fully there.

Luka stays like that for a while, his arms wrapped around your waist, his face pressed against you like he’s anchoring himself. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the weight of everything he’s been carrying slowly start to lift. His breathing evens out, and when he finally looks up at you, there’s something softer in his eyes, something open.

"You sure we’re okay?" he murmurs, like he just needs to hear it again.

You cup his face, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. "Yeah, baby. We’re okay."

His hands slide up your back, pulling you fully onto his lap like he needs you close. You settle against him easily, arms draped around his shoulders. It feels like the tension from earlier has finally melted away, leaving only the two of you, just you and Luka, in the quiet of your bedroom.

"I really hate when we fight," he admits, voice low.

"I know." You sigh, resting your forehead against his. "But we’re always gonna be okay, Luka. You know that, right?"

He nods, exhaling. "I know. I just—" His hands tighten around your waist. "I don’t ever wanna let you down."

"You don’t."

His lips twitch slightly, like he wants to believe you but still needs convincing.

"Even when I act like an ass?" he asks, tilting his head.

You snort. "Even then."

Luka huffs out a small laugh, his grip around you tightening as he buries his face against your shoulder. "I don’t deserve you."

"That’s true," you tease, running your fingers through his hair again. "But I’m keeping you anyway."

He grins against your skin, pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone before leaning back to look at you fully. His hands skim down your sides, his thumbs rubbing slow, absentminded circles against your skin.

"I love you," he says, quiet but firm. Like a promise.

You smile, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you too."

His arms wrap around you fully, pulling you into a deeper embrace. You can feel the shift in him—the weight he’d been carrying has lifted, his body no longer heavy with stress. He holds you like he knows this, knows that at the end of everything, it’s always going to be you and him, no matter what.

"You wanna sleep?" you murmur, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Luka groans dramatically, flopping back onto the bed and taking you with him. "Not yet."

You laugh as he tightens his grip around you, rolling you both onto your sides. "You’re like a giant teddy bear."

"A very handsome teddy bear," he corrects, smirking.

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away, instead nestling closer against him, your fingers tracing light patterns along his arm. The exhaustion from the day finally starts to settle into your body, but there’s a peace in it now, in the warmth of his hold, in the steadiness of you and him.

"Love you," he murmurs again, his voice already laced with sleep.

"Love you more," you whisper, pressing one last kiss to his jaw before finally letting yourself drift off.

And just like that, the fight from earlier feels like nothing but a distant memory—just another storm weathered together, another testament to the fact that no matter what, you and Luka always find your way back to each other.