#is there a difference between watching and seeing?

[hrrtshape]

　 　reasons why you're waking up in your cr ,

if it's not happening, it's because you’re still treating the 3d like it's anything but your own assumption reflecting back to you. still assuming lack while saying abundance. still looking for signs instead of stepping into the thing as if it's already yours.

nothing external needs to change. your state does. and that can happen in one second, in one thought.

　　you keep checking . . . ౨ৎ　 the second you look over your shoulder to see if it worked, you're signalling it hasn't. assumption doesn't need confirmation. assumption doesn't peek.　 ꒰  what to do , stop asking. stop waiting. decide it's done and get on with your life. keep walking.　

　　subconscious doubts . . . ౨ৎ　　 somewhere deep, under the clean sentences you say out loud, there's a voice. 'what if it's not real?' 'what if i'm not good enough?' it camps out in the marrow, slowing you down before you ever start.　 ꒰  what to do , rewire yourself. not once, not wistfully. daily, methodically. affirm it until it's more instinct than wish.　

　　overthinking the methods . . . ౨ৎ　 you're not assembling a bomb. you're not cracking the human genome. shifting isn't method worship. it's assumption.　 ꒰  what to do , pick what feels natural. raven, lullaby, drift, whatever stops the noise. trust the simplicity. complexity is a coffin.　

　　intellectualising it to death . . . ౨ৎ　 you read every shifting post, watched every youtube guide, diagrammed every method.　 ꒰  what to do , get out of your head and into your body. shifting is sensation before it's strategy.　

　　fear of success or change . . . ౨ৎ　 self-sabotage wears a hundred faces. sometimes it's something that says you're safer in longing than in arrival. the mind clings to its ruins because they are familiar. ꒰  what to do , dig out the rot. write out your fears like you're testifying. remind yourself that change is not exile. you're allowed to cross thresholds.　

　　you want it to feel like magic . . . ౨ৎ　 you expect fireworks. epiphanies. sensations. if it doesn't sparkle, you think it didn't happen.　 ꒰  what to do , stop chasing signs. reality shifts quiet. like changing the channel. no drama, just difference.　

　　impatience . . . ౨ৎ　 you feel ready. you want it yesterday. but checking the oven every two minutes doesn't bake the cake faster. it breaks the heat.　 ꒰  what to do , behave as if it's already yours. embody the arrival. impatience is a leak, seal it.　

　　you think there's a gap . . . ౨ৎ　 a gap between you and your desire. between thought and result. between you and your dr.　 ꒰  what to do , there is no gap. the second you decided, it existed. the delay's a hallucination.　

　　comparing yourself to others . . . ౨ৎ　 watching other shifters score touchdowns doesn't mean you're fumbling. you're running a different play entirely.　 ꒰  what to do , stay on your field. trust your timeline. celebrate every inch forward like you invented it.　

[bjlipss]

— 12:37, family dinner .

nanami’s been adjusting his tie for the better part of ten minutes.

first in the mirror. then in his reflection in the microwave door. now he’s using his phone’s selfie camera like it personally offended him and he’s considering cutting ties.

“kento,�� you say gently from the doorway, arms crossed, amusement in your voice, “if you keep strangling yourself like that, we’re going to have to call it a night before we even leave.”

he pauses. looks down at the neat, sharp knot he’s tied, and sighs. lowers the phone. but the way he smooths his palm down his front, tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves, tells you the tension hasn’t left his body. it’s coiled tight under his skin, humming low and constant.

“they’re not cruel,” he says after a beat, like he’s had this line rehearsed. “just… very particular.”

you hum. “you’ve mentioned.”

he doesn’t answer. just gives a humorless little breath through his nose, and turns to check the coat rack.

“and my mother’s the kind of woman who’ll tell you your shirt is lovely and also that it would look better in a different color, because ‘not everyone can wear that shade of navy, dear.’”

you walk slowly toward him. he’s doing that thing where he pretends not to watch you approach, but you can see the way his shoulders shift, just slightly, when you’re close.

“i like navy,” you say, reaching up to fix the tiniest wrinkle in his lapel.

he doesn’t laugh. just gives you a look—something wary and a little pained, like he’s caught between reason and instinct. you reach up, cup his cheek.

“kento,” you murmur. “are you embarrassed to bring me?”

his eyes fly open wider. “no. no, of course not.” he catches you around the waist like it’s involuntary. “that’s not what this is. it’s not about you.”

he pauses. swallows hard.

“they’re just a lot sometimes. and i don’t want them to make you uncomfortable. or say something that makes you feel… unwelcome.”

your voice softens. “and if they do?”

he frowns. like the very idea twists something in his chest.

you lean up, brush your lips against the corner of his mouth—barely a kiss. just warmth, just the weight of a promise.

“i’ll win them over,” you whisper, smiling. “just you watch.”

—

he watches you the entire train ride.

not like he’s trying to memorize you, not exactly. like he already has—but he’s checking over the lines again, like a man reading his favorite book for the thousandth time.

your hand rests on your lap, fingers curling lightly around his. you tap his pinky with yours once. he taps back twice.

when you point out a corgi in a baby stroller, laughing softly, he just stares at you. lets the sound settle under his ribs like sunlight.

he doesn’t speak. but when the train doors open, he shifts to stand in front of you, gently shielding your body from the push of the crowd.

always.

—

his mother opens the door wearing a floral silk blouse and that vague look women get when they’re already cataloging everything about you.

but the second you smile and say, “your earrings are beautiful,” her whole face lifts. the suspicion drains out of her eyes like she’s been holding her breath and just remembered how to breathe.

“oh, these?” she says, a little flustered. “my husband always said they were too flashy.”

you grin. “he was wrong.”

she laughs. actually laughs. “you’re trouble, aren’t you?”

you just shrug, all sweetness. “depends who you ask.”

you slip off your coat. compliment the smell of roasted soy and simmering ginger that’s wafting in from the kitchen. she practically beams.

nanami stands behind you like a shadow—silent, steady, his hand brushing yours. not grabbing. not clutching. just there. like a lifeline.

you glance at him. he doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are warm. when your fingers curl slightly, he hooks his pinky around yours without hesitation.

—

the table is long and cluttered with food, wine, delicate dishes stacked too high. cousins and uncles and an aunt with sharp eyes and louder opinions gather one by one.

there’s laughter. overlapping voices. the kind of comfortable chaos nanami never quite fits into, even though he grew up in it. but you—you slide in like you’ve always belonged there.

“so what do you do?” someone asks, and you explain your work clearly, simply, without the need to impress.

“oh, you’d love my friend yumi,” his aunt says suddenly, nodding. “you’d get along like a house on fire. she’s got the same sparkle.”

“sparkle?” you echo, laughing.

“you’ve got kind eyes,” she says matter-of-factly, like that explains everything.

across the table, nanami nearly chokes on his drink.

a cousin retells the time kento got stuck at the top of a rollercoaster when he was fifteen and didn’t speak to anyone for two hours afterward. you giggle into your hand. nanami sighs, dragging a palm down his face.

someone’s uncle asks if nanami’s finally going to settle down, and his aunt jokes, “if she’ll have him.”

you glance at nanami across the table, and he’s watching you again. quietly. like he’s never seen you more clearly.

he barely touches his food.

—

you’re halfway through a slice of orange chiffon cake—soft, airy, citrus-sweet—when his mother reaches out and gently touches your wrist.

“he seems lighter with you,” she says.

you blink. “sorry?”

“kento.” she folds her napkin neatly. “he’s always been so serious. since he was a boy. but tonight—he’s different. smiling more. more relaxed.”

she looks at you with a softness you didn’t expect. something grateful in the lines of her face.

“you’re good for him.”

you nod slowly. “he’s good for me too.”

—

the apartment is quiet when you get back. the click of the lock echoes in the stillness. you start to take off your shoes—

and then his hands are on you.

not rough. not rushed. just sure. like a man who’s been holding himself back all night and suddenly can’t anymore.

his lips find yours in the hallway, then again against the door, then again against your cheekbone like he’s making up for every minute he didn’t get to touch you. one hand cups your jaw. the other is splayed warm and wide across your back, keeping you steady as he kisses you like you’re air, like he needs you to breathe.

you let yourself melt into him. let your fingers twist in his collar, tug him closer.

he breaks only when your breath hitches. your lips part, dazed and pink, and you whisper, “kento…”

he rests his forehead against yours. exhales hard.

“you were incredible tonight,” he murmurs. “i knew you would be. i knew. but…”

his voice cracks a little. his hand moves to your waist.

“…i didn’t expect them to fall for you like that.”

your smile is slow. teasing. “jealous?”

he laughs softly. “grateful,” he says. “so fucking grateful.”

your fingers brush through the back of his hair. he leans into it.

“for what?” you whisper.

he looks at you like you’re everything.

“for you,” he says. “for saying yes to coming. for being exactly who you are. for fitting into a piece of my life i didn’t think would ever make sense.”

he presses a kiss to your temple, to your cheek, to the corner of your mouth.

then, quietly:

“i love you,” he breathes. “so much. i think i’ve been in love with you since the moment you told me off in that grocery store.”

you blink. “you mean the time you took the last basket and didn’t offer to share?”

“yes,” he says, unashamed. “you were so—” he kisses you again, “—angry,” another kiss, “—and beautiful.”

you laugh into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i know.” he presses his forehead to yours. “but i’m yours. if you’ll have me.”

you answer him without words. just kiss him again. kiss him like you already do. like you always will.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which this is the before of how the rest of our lives came to be

The job offer came in the middle of a thunderstorm.

You were sitting cross-legged on your apartment floor, your camera bag half-zipped and a box of leftover takeout balanced on your lap. The email lit up your phone like a beacon:

“Official Photographer – UConn Women’s Basketball”

You stared at it, reread it three times, then blinked slowly as realization hit. It was a season-long contract. Full-time. Steady.

And a complete godsend.

By the end of the week, you were on campus, badge clipped to your jacket, nervous and clutching your DSLR like a lifeline.

You weren’t a stranger to sports photography, but UConn was different. Bigger. Brighter. More intense. More… watched.

Especially with a superstar like Paige Bueckers on the team.

You’d seen her in highlight reels, on magazine covers. She had a presence, even from a distance. But meeting her in person?

That was something else.

The gym buzzed with activity as the team stretched across the hardwood, sneakers squeaking and basketballs thudding against polished floors. You weaved between benches and chairs, raising your camera, finding angles.

And then she ran through your frame — tall, blonde, a wide grin on her face as she crashed into a layup line and completely ruined your perfect shot.

“Seriously?” you muttered, dropping your camera with an exasperated huff.

The blonde jogged over with a sheepish smile. “My bad! Totally didn’t see you there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m wearing a neon orange vest.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, not even pretending to be innocent. “Definitely saw you and still ran through anyway.”

You laughed, despite yourself. “So you’re just causing chaos on purpose?”

“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.” She extended her hand. “Paige.”

You shook it. “I know.”

Something passed between you — something warm, unspoken.

“I’m Y/N,” you added.

She grinned. “Welcome to the team.”

You decided to go out with your friends one night to celebrate your new job and one thing led to another, you wake up in a random dorm, naked under the sheets.

The nausea started subtly. A twist in your gut here, a weird aversion to coffee there. You thought it was stress. Or nerves. Maybe both.

Until one night, after a long day of shooting edits, you came home, sat down on your couch… and couldn’t stop crying.

No reason. Just waves of emotion crashing over you like a flood.

You chalked it up to burnout.

Until you missed your period.

Twice.

Panic settled into your bones like a chill. A drugstore pregnancy test confirmed what you already feared — two pink lines, bright and clear.

You were pregnant.

And completely, utterly alone.

You didn’t tell anyone. Not yet.

You threw yourself into work instead. Shooting every practice, every media day. Keeping your head down. Ignoring the fatigue, the nausea, the way your jeans started fitting just a little tighter.

But it caught up to you.

It was during a particularly brutal practice. You crouched near the sideline, camera in hand, already feeling queasy. The sound of sneakers and whistles surrounded you in a haze.

Then everything tilted. Your stomach churned.

You barely made it to a trash can before vomiting.

Everything stopped. Voices faded. And then a gentle hand settled on your back.

“Hey. Hey, you okay?”

You looked up, flushed and humiliated, only to see Paige crouched beside you, concern etched into every line of her face.

“I—yeah. I’m fine. Probably just something I ate.”

She didn’t move. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You were. You hated that she could see that.

“Come on,” she murmured, slipping an arm under yours. “Let’s get you to the bench.”

You let her help you sit, and she knelt in front of you, bottle of water in hand.

“Want me to call someone?” she asked.

You shook your head quickly. “No. Please, don’t. I’m okay.”

She watched you for a long moment before sighing. “Alright. But I’m staying here. Just in case.”

She sat beside you for the rest of practice. Quiet. Steady. A warm presence.

You didn’t realize how much you needed that.

A few weeks later, you’re sitting on your bed, unable to fall asleep. You called the hospital two days ago to schedule an ultrasound and now you’re nervous, scared and alone.

Well… not really alone. Paige has somewhat been a constant in your life since you got sick that one time during practice.

So, you called her in the middle of the night, knowing she was most likely asleep, but two rings later, the phone picks up.

“Hello?” A sleepy voice answers.

You hesitate. “Hey, Paige.”

“Y/N?” Paige its up from her bed, a bit more awake now. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Uh, well, remember when you told me that I could call you up for anything?”

“Yeah, of course. You good ma?”

“Can you come over?”

“Already on my way.”

Ten minutes later, you hear a knock on your door. Opening it to reveal a tired looking Paige in pajama pants, hoodie, and glasses.

“You doing okay?” she asks, stepping into your apartment and settling herself on your couch.

“Not really.” 

She could tell you were nervous so she gestures for you to sit next to her.

“What’s wrong?”

You can’t bring yourself to say it, so you take the stick out of your jacket pocket and silently hand it to her. 

“Is this…” you mindlessly nod, tears forming in your eyes.

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

She instantly brings you into her arms, making your break down.

“It’s alright mama. I got you. I always got you.”

The day of your appointment, Paige picked you up bright and early. The car was filled with comfortable silence from the two of you, music playing low in the background.

“You nervous?” she asked as you sat in the waiting room.

“Terrified,” you admitted.

She didn’t say anything. Just reached over and took your hand.

When the screen lit up in the dark exam room, and the faint flicker of a heartbeat appeared, something inside you cracked wide open.

You looked over to find Paige staring at the monitor with wide eyes, her lips parted, something reverent on her face.

“You’re not alone in this,” she whispered.

You didn’t let go of her hand the rest of the day.

After that, she barely left your side.

Weeks turned into months.

Paige started walking you home when you were too tired to drive. She kept saltines in her bag just in case. If you were working late in the photo lab, she’d show up with food..

Pregnancy cravings were no joke.

One night at 11:46 PM, you texted her. You: “I NEED pickles and a Frosty. If I don’t have them, I might cry.”

Fourteen minutes later, your door buzzed.

She stood there in pajama pants and a hoodie, holding a Wendy’s bag in one hand and a jar of pickles in the other.

“You’re insane,” you told her, laughing through your tears.

She winked. “No, I’m just really invested in this whole co-pilot role.”

You ate together on the couch, TV playing some old rom-com neither of you paid attention to.

As you entered your second trimester, your body grew heavier, slower. Everything ached.

Paige never complained.

She adjusted her class schedule to walk you home. Slept over more often. Always on the couch, though… until the night you fell asleep with your head on her shoulder, and neither of you moved.

That was the night it shifted.

It wasn’t said. Just… understood.

The space between you? It was gone.

She became your person — quietly, without fanfare.

One evening, you found her sitting in the nursery, folding onesies and humming.

She looked up. “You’re not scared, are you?”

You sat beside her. “Terrified.”

She reached for your hand. “Me too. But we’re doing this together.”

The UConn team threw you the most wonderfully chaotic baby shower imaginable.

There were balloons in every corner, streamers tangled in door frames, and a massive cake that read “Welcome, Mini Huskie!” Nika brought five tubs of different ice creams like it was a taste-test competition. Azzi cried during her speech, her voice cracking halfway through as she tried to talk about how loved this baby already was.

But the biggest moment of the day was still to come.

A week earlier, after the ultrasound appointment, you and Paige had been handed an envelope with the gender inside. Instead of opening it yourselves, Paige had smiled at you, then turned to Azzi and handed it over.

“Don’t open it yet,” Paige warned with a playful but serious look. “You get to plan something. Just make it special.”

Azzi grinned like she’d just been handed the keys to a kingdom.

And now, at the shower—turned gender reveal—everyone gathered around in the backyard as Azzi stood next to a giant balloon, a pin in her hand and a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You ready?” she asked, looking at both you and Paige.

You clutched Paige’s hand tighter, your heart racing. She gave your hand a squeeze back, her thumb gently stroking over your knuckles.

“Go for it,” you breathed.

Azzi popped the balloon—and a shower of pink confetti exploded into the air.

You froze. So did Paige.

Then you both looked at each other at the same time.

“A girl,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

Paige blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold it together, but her smile was wide and trembling. She reached out and wrapped both arms around you, burying her face into the side of your neck.

“A daughter,” she whispered. “We’re having a daughter.”

Your eyes welled up, and you couldn’t even pretend to hold back the tears. Around you, the team was cheering, confetti still drifting down, but it all faded into the background. All you could feel was Paige’s arms, her breath against your skin, the quiet way she held you like everything in her world had just found its place.

And later, when the chaos had mellowed and it was time for toasts, Paige stood up and the room quieted immediately.

“I know she isn’t biologically mine,” she said gently. “And I wasn’t there at the very beginning. But I’ve been here—and I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart clenched.

“She’s ours,” Paige continued, eyes finding yours. “She belongs to Y/N, but she’s mine too. I’ll be there for every sleepless night, every first step, every scraped knee and birthday candle.”

You cried.

And when Paige leaned in and kissed your cheek, you held onto her like letting go might somehow break the spell.

The next weekend, your living room was a maze of cardboard boxes, rogue screws, and one very determined Paige Bueckers sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a tiny Allen wrench like it was a weapon of war.

“This can’t be legal,” she muttered, eyeing the thick instruction manual like it had personally offended her. “There’s... forty-seven steps. Who designs a crib with forty-seven steps?”

You watched from the couch, hand resting over your bump, trying not to laugh too hard because it made your back hurt. Paige had her hair tied back in a little bun and was wearing an old UConn hoodie already stained with sweat and smudged wood glue. One of the side panels was leaning awkwardly against the wall, while the rest of the crib parts looked like they’d been laid out by someone with no grasp of logic or gravity.

“Need help?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, lifting a board and promptly dropping one of the screws under the couch. “I’ve got this. I’m not just a basketball player. I am a builder of dreams.”

You snorted. “You’re not even a builder of IKEA furniture.”

“That’s rude,” she muttered. “And also fair.”

You smiled as you watched her work. It was clumsy, awkward, and completely endearing. She squinted at the pieces, sometimes holding two up together and whispering, “Are you guys soulmates or just coworkers?” At one point she called Nika for backup, but hung up after two minutes when Nika started laughing too hard to give any actual advice.

Eventually, Paige managed to attach three pieces together in what might have been the base of the crib. She sat back with a proud little grin, wiping sweat from her forehead and breathing like she’d just played four quarters and an overtime.

“Look at that,” she said. “Our baby’s gonna sleep right here.”

She leaned forward then, pressing her palm against the growing curve of your belly. Her voice dropped to a quiet murmur.

“You hear that, little one? I’m building this with my own two hands. Well... mostly. Your mom’s laughing at me, but she knows I’m trying.”

You felt it immediately—how soft her voice had gotten, how her eyes never left your belly as she spoke again.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” Paige whispered. “You’re not even here yet, and I already love you so much. I hope you like basketball. But if not, that’s cool too. We’ll figure it out together.”

She smiled, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your belly.

Your throat tightened. Completely out of nowhere, the emotion hit you like a wave. Tears welled up as you stared at her—this girl who had stumbled her way into your life and your heart, and now, somehow, was falling just as in love with your daughter as you were.

“You okay?” she asked, noticing your face.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yeah. Just... you’re gonna be such a good mom.”

Paige blinked, like she was trying not to cry now. She crawled over to you, cradling your face in both hands before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“We’re gonna be good moms,” she said. “All three of us—we’re already a team.”

It was late. The moon hung low outside your apartment window. Your swollen ankles were propped on a pillow. Paige was sitting on the floor, organizing diapers by size.

She looked up suddenly.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

You blinked.

“Wait—no. I know I’m in love with you. I don’t know when it happened,” she continued. “Somewhere between the first ultrasound and the Frosty at midnight. But I am. And I don’t want to pretend I’m not.”

Your breath caught.

You moved to sit up, heart racing.

“And I know it’s messy,” she added. “That this isn’t the way people usually fall in love. But I’m not people. I’m me. And you’re you. And I love you.”

You smiled softly, eyes welling.

“I love you too, Paige.”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded.

She stood, crossed to the couch, and cupped your face gently.

And when she kissed you, everything fell into place.

You didn’t think labor would start while watching The Princess Diaries.

But, as Julie Andrews was mid-speech about Genovia, a sharp pain gripped your abdomen, and your half-eaten bowl of popcorn slipped from your lap to the floor.

“Paige…” you whispered.

She was already up from the couch, rushing to your side, eyes wide. “What? What’s wrong?”

You grabbed her hand. “I think… I think it’s time.”

The calm, collected version of Paige you’d grown to love completely dissolved into a whirlwind of nervous scrambling — tripping over her own shoes, grabbing the hospital bag and phone, calling the Uber and trying to put your slippers on at the same time.

But the entire ride, she held your hand. Her thumb ran over your knuckles in a rhythm as steady as her breathing — not for herself, but for you.

And even through the pain, even through the panic, you felt safe.

It had been nearly fourteen hours of labor. Pain, sweat, tears, and a depth of exhaustion you didn’t know a body could feel. But when the final push came and you heard that first cry — that sweet, powerful cry — everything else faded to silence.

Your chest heaved. Your hands shook. Your heart was somewhere between your ribs and the ceiling.

Then they laid her on your chest.

Small. Warm. Red-cheeked and crying.

You stared at her, stunned by how something so little could take up every corner of your soul at once.

And beside you, Paige was crying just as hard — her hand clutching yours, her forehead pressed to your temple as she whispered, “You did it. You did so good, baby. She’s here. She’s really here.”

You looked down at the perfect little face pressed against your skin. The tiny lashes. The way her mouth curled like she was trying to figure the world out already.

“She’s… she’s everything,” you breathed.

“She’s ours,” Paige whispered, brushing a kiss across your temple.

The nurse came by to clean and weigh her, and even for the minute she was gone from your arms, it felt like a piece of your chest went with her. Paige didn’t take her eyes off the bassinet, standing at your side, hand still wrapped around yours.

When she was swaddled and returned to you, Paige sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out with the gentlest touch.

Her finger brushed your daughter's cheek.

“I still can’t believe she’s real.”

“She feels like a dream,” you whispered.

There was a long pause, the kind that settled deep into the air around you. Paige’s eyes didn’t move from your daughter.

“So, I’ve been thinking… Emma.”

You turned your head to her.

“Emma?” you repeated.

She smiled, slow and sure. “Yeah. Emma Bueckers.”

Your heart caught in your throat.

Your gaze dropped to the baby again. Emma. It fit her. Strong, soft, quietly powerful.

“She looks like an Emma,” you murmured, then smiled. “Emma Bueckers. Yeah… I like that.”

Paige reached up to push your hair from your face, thumb gently brushing along your cheekbone. 

Her voice came even softer this time, “Hopefully… that could be your name too. One day?”

You blinked, heart skipping as you looked up at her.

She was serious.

The warmth in her eyes, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her fingers lingered just below your jaw — it was all there, raw and open.

“What are you saying, Paige?”

She exhaled, then let out the smallest laugh — nervous, but full of love. “I’m saying… I want this forever. You. Her. All of it. I want to be the one who holds you at the end of every day. The one who changes diapers with you, and buys too many matching baby socks, and brings you snacks during every late-night feeding.”

You let out a breathy laugh, heart thudding.

“I know we didn’t plan this,” she continued, eyes shining. “But this feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ve known since that night I built the crib — when you were sitting on the floor with one hand on your belly and a screwdriver in the other, trying to take over building for me — that I was already yours.”

You stared at her for a long moment. This woman who had gone from your friend to your safe place. The one who carried you through every bout of morning sickness, who whispered to your belly every night, who held you like you were something precious.

Now she was holding your baby, and asking to hold your heart, too.

Tears welled in your eyes. “I want that too. I want all of it. You, me, Emma… forever.”

Paige leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow and full of everything that words couldn’t say.

“I don’t have a ring yet,” she whispered against your lips. “I want to do it right. But I couldn’t leave that room without telling you. Without… hoping.”

“You didn’t need a ring,” you whispered. “You already gave me everything.”

Emma stirred in your arms, letting out the tiniest sigh — like she could sense the weight of the moment.

You both looked down at her, your foreheads touching.

“So… Emma Bueckers,” you said softly. “And maybe soon… we’ll all have the same name.”

Paige’s smile broke open with emotion, tears falling freely now. “God, I love you.”

You kissed her again, arms curled around your daughter, and for a moment the entire world fit into one small hospital room.

Azzi was the first to show up.

She brought a huge pink balloon bouquet and teared up the second she saw the baby in your arms.

“Okay, I didn’t think I’d cry this fast,” she sniffled, laughing through the tears. “She’s… she’s beautiful.”

“She’s perfect,” Paige whispered proudly, standing behind you with her hands on your shoulders.

Nika barged in ten minutes later with a camera and matching mother-daughter socks. “This baby’s gonna be dripped out before she even walks!”

Aubrey came with homemade muffins. Geno brought a stuffed Husky and gave you both a rare but heartfelt hug.

And in the quiet lull between visitors, Paige reached into the bassinet and gently scooped Emma into her arms. You watched her cradle her like she’d done it for years, her voice soft.

“You’ve got so many people who love you, little one,” she whispered. “But I’m your number one. Always.”

You smiled through the haze of sleep deprivation and aching muscles.

“You mean we’re her number ones.”

Paige grinned. “Right. Sorry. She’s got two MVPs.”

Then she kissed Emma’s tiny forehead, and softly murmured, “Can’t wait to marry your mom someday.”

“You’ve got a good team here,” Geno said softly, patting Paige on the back and giving your shoulder a squeeze. “And now you’ve got one more.”

But it was Azzi who lingered after the others had left. She rocked Emma slowly, humming to her in the late afternoon light filtering through the window.

You exchanged a glance with Paige, and without speaking, you both knew it was the right moment.

“Azzi,” you said gently.

She looked up.

“We want you to be her godmother,” Paige said, voice a little thick.

Azzi blinked, visibly stunned. “Wait—me?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “You’ve always been family.”

Azzi’s eyes welled up again. “I’d be honored.”

Emma cooed softly in her arms.

“Guess that’s a yes from her too,” Paige smiled.

It was a strange thing — leaving the hospital.

You expected a bigger moment, maybe. Something cinematic. But in reality, it was a flurry of paperwork, soft murmurs from nurses, and Paige fumbling with the car seat like it was made of quantum physics. She finally got Emma clicked in, though not without wiping her eyes first.

“I just… can’t believe they’re letting us take her home,” she whispered as she looked at your daughter. “Like… we’re trusted with this tiny person?”

You laughed softly from the passenger seat. “Paige, you built an entire crib from scratch and kept me upright through eight months of pregnancy. I think we’re good.”

She reached over to squeeze your hand, eyes warm. “I still don’t believe this is real.”

The apartment looked the same. It smelled faintly of the lavender candle Paige had insisted on lighting before heading to the hospital. But something had shifted. Everything felt quieter. More fragile. More sacred.

Emma’s first night home was soft and slow.

You held her against your chest as Paige fussed with the temperature of the room, checking the baby monitor for the fifth time.

“She’s not even in the crib yet,” you teased, watching her.

“Doesn’t matter,” Paige muttered. “I just want everything perfect.”

“You already are.”

She turned and gave you the softest look. “You’re tired. You sleep. I’ll stay up with her.”

And she did.

You woke up hours later and found Paige asleep in the rocking chair, Emma on her chest, both of them out cold. The moonlight spilling through the window made the whole scene glow.

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the doorframe and let the image burn into your memory.

The first bath happened days later, and it was… chaotic.

Paige read the instructions on the baby bath three times. You were in charge of the temperature, towel, and Emma’s post-bath outfit, which Paige insisted be the “bunny one with the ears.”

Emma screamed the whole time.

“She hates this,” Paige said in a mild panic, cradling your slippery, red-faced daughter like she was made of glass.

“She doesn’t hate it,” you laughed. “She just doesn’t know what’s happening.”

“But her face—!”

“She’s fine. You’re doing great.”

Paige looked up at you, wet curls falling into her eyes. “I’ve played in front of thousands of people. Won important games. But nothing has ever been this stressful.”

“Welcome to parenthood,” you said, grinning.

Later, Emma finally calmed down in Paige’s arms, wrapped in her bunny towel, little fists curled against her chest. You both sat on the couch in silence, breathing her in.

“I never thought this would be my life,” Paige whispered, brushing her thumb along Emma’s cheek. “And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Nights became a rhythm.

2 a.m. was Emma’s favorite time to wake.

You’d hear the soft cries before your eyes were even open, and somehow Paige was always up before you, already halfway to the bassinet.

She’d come back with the baby cradled against her chest, humming under her breath. Sometimes she’d hand her to you, sometimes she’d just sit on the bed, legs crossed, whispering sweet nothings to Emma’s tiny face.

“You don’t even flinch anymore,” you said one night as she handed Emma over for her feeding.

“I think I just listen for her even in my dreams,” Paige replied, settling beside you. “She’s in my bones now.”

You looked at her over your daughter’s head, completely and utterly in awe.

“God, I love you,” you whispered.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I’m gonna marry you, you know.”

“You already said that.”

“I meant it.”

Two weeks in, Paige started making notes.

They were small things — scribbled phrases in a notebook she kept beside the couch. You caught glimpses sometimes when you walked by: ring ideas, favorite moments, speech draft?

You never asked. She never said. But you knew.

She was planning.

One afternoon, as Emma napped in the bassinet and sunlight pooled across the living room rug, Paige curled up beside you on the couch. You had your head on her shoulder, her arm around your waist, her other hand resting lightly on your thigh.

“I think she’s going to have your smile,” you whispered.

Paige hummed. “I think she already has your attitude.”

You chuckled softly. “We’re doomed.”

“She’s perfect.”

A pause.

“You both are.”

You turned your head, brushing your nose against her jaw.

“You okay?”

She nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I just… I’ve never had something so good before. So real. It’s terrifying.”

You reached for her hand. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“I know.” She paused, then leaned in and pressed her lips to your temple. “And I’m not wasting any time pretending I don’t want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

The day that everything was going to change for the better started with a video call.

Paige was bouncing Emma in one arm, pacing the living room in worn sweats and a messy bun, while your soft humming filtered in from the kitchen. She had that look in her eyes — distant, thoughtful — like her brain was running miles faster than her feet.

She’d been thinking about it for days.

Then she opened her contacts and hit Azzi’s name.

It rang once. Twice.

“Yo,” Azzi’s voice came through, grinning immediately when she saw Emma. “There’s my goddaughter! Look at her chubby cheeks — hey, mama!”

Emma blinked sleepily at the screen, half-interested, half-dozing.

Paige smiled, kissed the top of her head, and shifted to cradle her against her chest. “She just ate. She’s in a milk coma.”

Azzi laughed. “What’s up? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“I haven’t,” Paige admitted. “But that’s not why I called.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Everything okay?”

Paige hesitated. Then exhaled and moved to sit on the edge of the couch. Emma stayed snuggled to her chest, her tiny hand gripping Paige’s shirt.

“I need your help with something.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Basketball-related?”

“No. Bigger.”

Azzi sat up straighter. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m gonna propose.”

Azzi blinked. “To—wait, to—to her?”

Paige just smiled.

A slow, soft grin spread across Azzi’s face, full of warmth and surprise. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Paige whispered. “I���m in love with her. I’ve been in love with her. She gave me this family. I’ve never felt more like myself than I do when I’m with her. When I’m with them.”

Azzi let out a breath, visibly moved. “Paige, that’s… God. That’s everything.”

“I want it to be perfect,” Paige said, her voice quiet. “I want her to know — without a doubt — that this isn’t just something I fell into. That I chose her. I chose Emma. And I’ll choose them both for the rest of my life.”

Azzi was quiet for a beat.

“Okay, well now I’m crying at eight a.m., thanks.”

Paige laughed. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s beautiful,” Azzi said, swiping under her eyes. “She’s gonna say yes. You know that, right?”

“I think so.”

Azzi gave her a look. “Paige.”

“I hope so.”

“She looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Paige smiled down at Emma. “I think Emma’s got her wrapped around her finger more than I do.”

“Both of you do.”

There was a long pause. Azzi leaned forward on her screen.

“Alright. So what’s the vibe? Big romantic gesture? Quiet and intimate? Flash mob with the team dressed as roses?”

Paige snorted. “Absolutely not that last one.”

“Fine, party pooper.”

“I want something that feels like us.” Paige looked up again. “You’ve known me longer than anyone. Help me think.”

Azzi grinned. “Okay. What’s your shortlist?”

“I’ve got… a few ideas.”

She pulled out her phone and opened a note she’d been working on secretly. Azzi watched as Paige scrolled.

Recreate the night we built the crib — but actually finish it this time, then propose in the nursery.

Take her back to UConn, rent the gym, propose where we first met.

Picnic at the lake by our place. Emma in a little onesie. Paige gives her the ring to hand over.

Quiet night at home. Candlelight. Just us. Nothing else needed.

Azzi read the list quietly.

“They’re all good,” she said. “But number three? That one’s got me.”

Paige looked up. “You think so?”

“You’ve always been your softest when you’re with her and Emma outside. When it’s just you two in your bubble. I’ve seen it.” Azzi smiled. “And can you imagine the look on her face when Emma toddles over with the ring box? She’ll melt.”

Paige sighed, smiling like she could already see it.

“She’s gonna lose it.”

“She’s gonna sob, and then say yes, and then probably tackle you,” Azzi said. “And I’m gonna cry again, even if it’s on FaceTime.”

“You'll be the first to know,” Paige promised.

Azzi laughed. “Damn right I will.”

Later that night, Paige lay beside you in bed, watching as you fed Emma under the soft glow of the nightlight. Your robe was slipping off one shoulder, your hair a little messy, and your smile was so full of love it made her heart ache.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

Paige reached over, brushing a thumb against your wrist.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You tilted your head. “What brought that on?”

She leaned in, kissed your shoulder, and whispered, “You’ll see.”

It took Paige weeks to find the right ring.

Azzi had come through with the jeweler recommendation — a Black-owned custom shop in Dallas that specialized in timeless, understated pieces. Paige didn’t want flash. She didn’t want anything over-the-top. She wanted you.

Simple. Elegant. Something that would glint under sunlight when you held Emma. Something that would feel like her heart had been shaped into metal and slipped onto your finger.

It was a gold band, warm and soft, with a single diamond in the center and two tiny emeralds on either side — one for you, one for Emma.

When she picked it up, she couldn’t stop staring at it. The box sat in her hoodie pocket every day after that. Just… waiting.

At the time of the big day, Paige woke up early.

The light in the bedroom was pale, barely brushing the sheets. You were still asleep, hair fanned across the pillow, lips parted softly. Emma was in the bassinet nearby, snuggled up with her favorite plush bunny.

Paige slipped out of bed like it was a sacred act, careful not to wake either of you. She kissed both foreheads on her way out of the room and tiptoed to the nursery.

That’s where the onesie was hidden.

It was custom, of course. She’d had it made after talking to Azzi. Cream-colored cotton, soft as clouds, with little gold script across the front.

Paige changed Emma into it slowly, whispering to her the whole time. “You ready to help me do something big, baby girl? You’re gonna be part of something so special today.”

Emma giggled, like she understood. Paige pressed her forehead to her daughter’s and exhaled.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

It was the same lake you’d picnicked at when Emma was just a few weeks old — the one where you’d laid in Paige’s lap, watching the ripples move across the water while she fed you strawberries and rubbed your back.

This time, Paige set up early.

A soft checkered blanket. A woven basket full of your favorites — pastries from your favorite coffee spot, the baby’s bottles, little pink tulips tucked into a mason jar. A speaker sat tucked into the grass, set to a playlist Paige had made for this exact moment.

It was perfect.

Then Paige sent you a text.

hey baby. bring emma and come meet me by the lake? we’re having breakfast together. dress comfy <3

You read it in the kitchen, sipping your tea, and smiled. “She’s up to something,” you mumbled.

Emma blinked up at you from her stroller.

You didn’t realize until you pushed her toward the lake, walking down the grassy hill and saw Paige standing near the edge of the blanket, heart in her throat — that something was different.

Paige took Emma from the stroller, holding her in a way so she’s facing you. That’s when you saw the onesie.

“Marry Mama?”

You stopped mid-step.

And then your eyes lifted to Paige.

She was smiling, but her lips were trembling. Her hands were already reaching for the small velvet box in her pocket. “Surprise,” she said softly.

You stared at Emma. Then back at Paige. “Oh my God.”

Paige stepped forward slowly. “I wanted to do this right. I wanted you to remember this moment for the rest of your life. Because I will.”

You blinked fast, tears rushing up before you could stop them.

“I know this hasn’t been a typical love story. I know we weren’t expecting any of this — but you,” she said, voice catching, “you gave me everything I never knew I needed.”

You covered your mouth, breath shaky.

“You let me love you through all of it — through the fear and the unknown, through swollen feet and late-night cravings and sleep-deprived chaos — and every single day I’ve spent with you, I’ve only wanted one thing... more.”

She dropped to one knee, Em laying against her chest, holding the ring box open in her shaking hands.

“I want to be your wife. I want to be Emma’s mom forever. I want to spend every boring Tuesday and messy Sunday morning beside you. I want all of it. You. Her. Us.”

You sobbed, stepping forward, completely overwhelmed.

“Will you marry me?”

You nodded before you could even speak.

Then you dropped to your knees in front of her and cupped her face between your hands, laughing through the tears.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yes, yes. God, Paige, of course I’ll marry you.”

She kissed you before she even got the ring on.

It was messy and salty and perfect. Emma babbled at you both, kicking her feet in her little onesie like she’d planned it herself.

When Paige finally slipped the ring onto your finger, your hands were still trembling. “It’s so beautiful,” you whispered, staring at it.

“So are you,” she said, voice full of awe.

That night, back home, you lay on the couch with your head in Paige’s lap, Emma asleep on your chest, and the ring glinting in the soft golden light of the TV.

“You know,” you whispered, “I think Emma might be magic.”

Paige smiled. “She made a lot of things possible.”

You turned your hand, admiring the ring again. “Did Azzi help you plan this?”

“She’s the one who made me realize how sure I was.”

“I’m glad she did.”

Paige leaned down and kissed your temple.

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

“You already feel like home.”

[mywritersmind]

IN THE WAY - KA12

summary : You and a specific curly haired f1 driver may or may not be sneaking around. You think you’re a distraction. He calls you good luck. Relentlessly teased by other drivers and preoccupied by a certain young girl, you both sneak around the bahrain GP in a mess of laughter, kisses, and compliments.

listen up : one of my fav kimi fics ever!! kissing! insinuating sexual acts! lando, george, alex, and max being funny as hell and way too nosy!! no actual p in v but pretty hot and heavy! dual pov! hickeys!

words : 6003

⋆｡‧˚⋆

you

I shouldn’t be here. I know it. He knows it. But how could I say no? Kimi’s mother is fantastic and kind and invited my family to watch her beloved son do what he loves.

What she doesn’t know is she just brought a certified distraction for Kimi.

My mom always says I should support Kimi as much as possible, reminding me of how close we used to be and making it sound like her biggest regret in life was moving into the town over.

I support Kimi more than she knows. And not with homemade posters I would bring to his karting races.

“Fuck.” Kimi mumbles against my lips, pressed against me in his race suit while I'm sitting on his driver's room table. “Need ya.”

“No…” I groan into him, the feeling of rushed kisses and his hand hiking up my skirt too familiar. We both know we should stop. And then his lips find my neck and with ease, my head lols back, making me lose all memory of why the fuck I would say no.

“We have time.” He’s a liar and I know it.

Pulling away for real this time, I push him back. His face is flushed and his curls all messy from my grip. He looks drunk on me.

“You have got to focus.” I hop off the table, smoothing down my skirt, ignoring the pulsing between my thighs, and fixing my hair in his mirror. “And I've got to go.”

Kimi grabs my wrist, pulling me back with a pitiful look on his gorgeous face. “Just stay for a bit longer… we don’t have to do anything.”

I try to not look at his lips which are pulled into a frown and looking extremely kissable. “That’s the thing, Kimi. We will.”

He shakes his head, “No no. I won’t do anything. I’ll stay all the way across the room and do my warm ups while you take selfies or whatever.”

I cross my arms, “You’re looking at me as if you want to eat me.”

“Looking is different than doing… I'm a very patient man.” I don’t miss the way he tugs me closer, his grip soft and his eyes full.

I laugh, “Kimi!” He tries to kiss me again.

“Y/n.” He groans when I dodge him, pulling my hand away and grabbing the door handle, “Fine, leave me then! All alone…”

“You have Quali in thirty minutes!” I twist the handle, shaking my head, “Good luck, Kimi.”

“No good luck kiss?” I keep the door shut as he walks closer, rolling my eyes, I kiss his cheek.

“You got enough good luck five minutes ago.”

He smiles in that cheeky way he does whenever he reminisces. “Want me to walk you out?”

I scoff, walking out the door backwards, “I know the way-” What I don’t realize is how small the hallway is and when I don’t look before leaving the room, I slam the door into someone.

“Shit!” The British man says, making my eyes go wide along with Kimi’s. We hurry out of the room to see George Russell rubbing his head.

My hand slaps over my mouth as the idiot beside me, laughs! “Are you okay!?” I say quickly, punching Kimi in the stomach to shut him up.

“Yeah-” George looks up and registers the situation, “Yeah i’m fine.” He looks at me, then Kimi, then me again. I feel like I'm about to get scolded by my mother.

My phone rings in my pocket, I pull it out to see my actual mother calling me, “I really have to go now! Good luck, both of you!”

⋆༺

kimi

Qualifying goes well and just as I'm about to make it into the media pen, George whistles me over. He’s standing with Lando and Max, all looking at me as if they know something I don’t.

“Little Antonelli…” Lando grins, “I’m impressed.”

“Sorry…?”

Max claps me on my shoulder, laughing, “So, she your girlfriend or what?”

“I mean- she better be.” George pipes up, “Have you seen the way he looks at her?”

“Excuse me!?” I push Max’s hand off me, “What the fuck are you guys talking about?”

“The girl, the one who slammed the door in my face when sneaking out of your room. She’s pretty.” George grins at me as I narrow my eyes. What the hell is happening right now?

I scoff, “She was not sneaking out-”

“You work fast, kid.” Lando nods, “At eighteen I couldn’t even imagine a girl in my driver's room.”

“Probably because you didn’t have a girl or driver's room.” Max shoots back, Lando flipping him off and pushing his arm. Max looks at me again, “So, answer my question.”

“What q-”

“Is she your girlfriend?” George answers for him.

I blink. They’re asking if Y/n is my girlfriend right now? Seriously!? “I- uh… No.”

“More of a sneaky link then?” Max asks and gets punched in the arm by Lando promptly after. I’m too caught up on the fact that Max said ‘Sneaky Link’.

“You can’t ask that!” The man in orange says.

Max scoffs, “Why the hell not!?”

“That’s a child!”

George mumbles, “Didn’t seem very childlike when he was leaving his locked room with swollen lips and a hard o-” Lando hits George this time.

“Can you all shut up!?” I look around us, people milling about and starting to pay attention to the three men hounding me, “Why do you even care?”

“We’re just curious.” George shrugs, bringing his water to his lips.

“And nosy.” Lando adds.

“Nosy about what?” Alex walks up to us, dapping up George and nodding at the rest.

“Kimi’s got a girlfriend.” Max explains.

“I do not!” I groan again.

Alex raises a brow at the group. “How do you know?”

“Saw him sneaking her out before quali.” my teammate passes along his gossip.

“Seriously?” Alex crosses his arms, “I didn’t even risk Lily in my room until a year after we started dating.”

“Well we’re not dating!” This shuts the group up, as if they all are just hearing me for the first time.

“Well…” Max smirks, “What are you doing then?”

“She’s my friend, okay!?” I shake my head, wishing I was with her instead of these idiots, “Just my friend.”

Lando nods past me, “Just a friend who’s getting flirted with by Franco right now?”

I swear, if looks could kill, Franco Colapinto would be dead right now. Y/n is listening to him talk animatedly, nodding along politely. I refuse to believe she’s actually intrigued by the argentinian.

I turn back to the drivers who are all staring at me, “You okay…?” Alex asks.

“Yes! Why wouldn’t I be? She can talk to whoever she wants.”

“Even ‘Flirty Franco’?” Lando teases the nickname, something I don’t find funny.

“So tell me more about this little room rendezvous…” Alex asks George.

“Yeah!” Max agrees, “She hit you with a door?” Alex laughs at this piece of information he didn’t know.

George tells the story, I don’t expect it to be so embarrassing until he mentions her LIP GLOSS ON ME. I facepalm myself, “I gotta go-”

“Oh no you don’t Serena Vanderwoodsen.” Alex grabs my sleeve, pulling me back with ease, “I want to know more about this girl. Did you just meet her?”

“No! You really think i’d hookup with some random girl in my driver room?” They all just stare at me, “Have you!?” I get no response, telling me that they definitely have.

“So you admit you hooked up!” Lando points out, clearly not caring that i’m a ‘child’ anymore.

“Not today! I mean, shut up! This is not your business.”

“But she’s not some random girl?” George asks.

“I told you! We’re friends. Her family knows mine.” I cross my arms, watching George who nods suspiciously as if he doesn’t believe me.

They all go suspiciously quiet and I get the same feeling as before, like they know something I don’t. “She’s coming over here.” Max says, making my eyes go wide and answering my question-

“Hey.” I’d know that voice anywhere. I turn to face her, smiling because I simply can’t not when she’s around, “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Please, Don’t be!” I hear Lando say as she looks around at the group politely.

“I just-” her eyes flick from the guys to me, “Kimi, your mom wants to know when you’ll be at dinner…” She looks almost uncomfortable to say it and it makes me mad because I know exactly why. The four drivers are staring at her as if they’ve never seen a teenage girl in their life.

I’m about to answer her but am soon cut off by Max, “Kimi! You’re a horrible host. Introduce us.”

“Host…?” I look at him confused, then back to Y/n who I shoot a reassuring smile. “This is Y/n.”

“Friend, girlfriend…?” Lando adds teasingly. This makes Y/n laugh, I mean, actually laugh. It surprises me most out of the group.

“Friend.” She answers for me. “Kimi isn’t that lucky.” My jaw drops at this, the guys cracking up at my utter humiliation. She smiles at me and to the naked eye, one would think it’s innocent. But I know her, I know that wicked glint in her eye and the second her genuine smile turns into a mischievous smirk.

“I like her.” George says, bumping into Alex as they laugh harder.

“What were you saying about my Mom-” I turn back to Y/n, looking even more stunning then when I last saw her. If that’s even possible.

“Oh yeah! She wants to talk to you.” She points to where my Mom and dad are, they wave me over and when I look back to see if Y/n is following me, I realize she’s staying and already laughing with the drivers.

“Don’t worry, Kimi.” Max grins, “Go talk to mommy and daddy.” Lando is laughing even harder now, trying to say something but failing through choked laughs.

I hurry over to my parents and rush through the conversation, looking back frequently to make sure they’re not laughing with Y/n too hard…

“Just be at the hotel tonight at…” My mom finishes saying.

“Yeah, yeah, I'll be there!” I practically run back to Y/n, my hand drifting across her elbow as I smile. “Wanna grab a snack?”

She turns to me, “Why don’t I remember you crashing George’s car last year?” I glare at George who looks far too proud of himself.

“Maybe because you barely listen when I talk-”

“Oh don’t blame this on the poor girl!” Lando cuts in, “It’s okay to admit you were too embarrassed.”

“Okay!” I say quickly, turning back to Y/n and surprising the urge to take her hand. I know my parents are nearby and I'm not even sure how she would react if I did. “Come grab a bite with me.”

“Ordering the lady around now?” Alex raises a brow, “Y/n you better stand up for yourself.”

She just smiles, “Don’t worry, Kimi knows his place. I’m pretty sure he just wants me away from you lot.”

“Absolutely correct!”

Max leans in, “Before you go, what did Franco say to have you laughing so much-”

“Okay bye!” I do grab her hand now, pulling her away from the older drivers as she laughs.

⋆༺

I’m sitting across from her and trying to pretend her heeled foot isn’t tapping against my leg. My dad is telling a story and Y/n is laughing and listening along but I can’t do anything but watch her.

Maggie is next to her, smiling at the girl I know she looks up to. “Can we have a movie night?” my sister asks.

My mom shakes her head, “Not tonight love, everyone’s tired.”

“That’s alright!” Y/n says quickly, “I’d love to! I mean, if it’s okay. She can sleep in my room too!”

My mom adores Y/n, she’s always going on and on about how we should be closer and that Y/n’s mum wants the same. I don’t know how they haven’t noticed that we are close.

“Am I invited?” I ask, not even allowing myself to think before I speak.

Maggie grins, “Yes! Yes!”

“I don’t know…” Y/n eyes me, “Are you going to buy us snacks before?” Maggie gasps at this, giggling along with my friend.

I sigh, “One each and only from the vending machine-” Maggie jumps out of her seat at this, Y/n pushing back her chair as well.

“Wait, wait!” my dad says, wiggling his finger as he beckons me over. I lean into his ear, “Maggie stays with you two the whole time. No funny business.” I nod, slightly embarrassed even though no one else heard.

“Get a good rest too, Kimi!” Y/n’s mom says to me sweetly, “And Y/n, don’t keep Mag up too late.”

She smiles, her arm around my sister, “Yes ma’am!” The two hold hands and skip to the elevator, I get held back by a few people asking for photos but make it just before the doors close.

They sing Taylor Swift the whole way upstairs and Maggie bolts down the hall when she sees the vending machine. “So, when you imagined your big fabulous Formula one life, did you imagine getting ready for a race with a movie night?”

I smile softly, walking slower so we have more quiet time together, “Maybe not. But I'm glad it turned out this way.” I glance at my shoes, somewhat intimated by her, “You look really pretty tonight.”

She laughs as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, “I’ve been wearing the same thing all day and sweated all my makeup off.”

I shrug, not taking back a single thing. “My compliment still stands.”

My slow steps don’t matter because Maggie squeals at the end of the hall, rushing both of us.

I buy Maggie a candy bar and Y/n a bag of sour strips. “Nothing for you?” She asks, ripping open her package as we make our way to her room.

“Kimi is all healthy now.” Maggie pretends to gag as we walk in, making Y/n laugh and me roll my eyes.

Maggie decides that rapunzel is the correct choice for this magical Bahrain night. She plops herself in between us, candy in hand as her eyes grow big at the cartoon.

Maggie leans her head against my shoulder at some point, singing quietly with the songs.

I’ve never prepared for a race like this. Snuggling up with my little sister and my gorgeous friend, watching a childhood movie as they both sing and snack. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

At some point, Maggie falls asleep between us, slouching into the pillows and blanket. “You’re really sweet.” Y/n says out of nowhere. “With your sister, it’s cute.”

“Thanks?” I lean my head against my pillow, watching her watch me in the dim light of her hotel room.

“I really like that about you.” Her eyes leave mine, “Not just with Maggie- like with me too.”

“What do you mean?”

She blushes a bit, something I don’t often see from her, “Like, I know we just mess around and stuff. But you’re really nice about it. You’re nice to me.”

“I’m… I'm glad you think that.You deserve it.” She smiles softly, the faint sound of rapunzel and her lantern song in the background, “So uh… I saw you talking to Franco today.”

She laughs out loud, “Yeah?”

“Did he say anything interesting…?”

“Kimi.” she blinks, “He’s twenty one.”

“I know!” I say in a quiet tone, “I’m just wondering.”

“He’s funny.”

I bite my tongue, “That’s good.”

She tilts her head against the wall, “He’s way too old for me.”

I smile, wide. “That’s even better.”

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, “Jealous.”

I scoff, “What about the other drivers, what’d they say to you? Besides mentioning my crash.”

“They asked me about my intentions.” This piqued my interest, “with you.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm… George seemed to know something.”

“He wouldn’t shut up after he saw you leave my room.”

She hums, “That explains it.”

“They didn’t give you too much trouble, yeah?”

“No.” She laughs, “They’re funny. Big brother like.”

“They do give that vibe.” I say, “How was your view of quali?”

“Great. I saw this really hot guy in black and teal take off his helmet on TV. A highlight for me.“

I grin, “Curls and all?”

“No actually he was really tall and almost villain-esc.” I throw a pillow at her. She laughs so hard that Maggie wakes up, sad that she missed her favorite scene but fully awake once that horse is back on.

We stay quiet for the rest of the movie, sparing glances and small smiles over my sister's head. She falls asleep again, this time against Y/n’s shoulder. “I should go.” I whisper as the credits roll.

Y/n nods as I stand slowly. She replaces her shoulder with a pillow for Maggie, standing up with me and walking over to the door.

I don’t open it, I don’t really want to.

She looks tired, crossing her arms over her hoodie and leaning against the wall. “Night, Antonelli.”

I take a step, “You sure you don’t want to come to my room?” She smiles sleepily, her hand dropping to my pocket and tugging me closer.

“Your sister is staying in my room.”

“Yeah and she could literally sleep through an apocalypse- come on…” I beg, leaning in with a smirk. She shakes her head before she kisses me. Her lips are soft, slow… stable.

I don’t care about sleep or my sister or what my dad said. I care about how perfectly she fits against me and the feel of her hand slipping under my shirt.

We stay like that for a while. Kissing gently in the dark. I don’t want to leave. But I know I have to.

She pulls away first. Her face is only lit by the light that sneaks in through the hallway, just barely letting me make out how she’s biting her lip. Fuck it makes me want to kiss her again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Night…” Is all I can choke out, opening the door and letting my hand drift off her. She waves slightly, her cheeks rosy and her eyes tired.

I force myself to walk away, force myself to not look back even though I know she’s watching me walk down the hall. I like this. I like us. I really fucking like her.

⋆༺

you

I’m wearing a teal dress. My mom said I look like a fish but Maggie said I look beautiful so I smile as I walk into the paddock. I’m wearing sneakers, for once, with my hair down and my dress flowing around my thighs.

My phone rings just when I walk into the Mercedes hospitality. KIMI🧐🏎️🥵🍝😘 is calling me.

I roll my eyes at the contact name, something he did for himself when I left my phone in his room, and pick it up. “Don’t roll your eyes.” He says immediately, making me a bit freaked out.

“You usually like it. Stalker.” I say, hearing him chuckle and having to turn in a full circle to finally spotting him next door, looking at me through the glass.

In baggy jeans and a very cute sweater I've borrowed multiple times, he looks really good. Especially when one hand goes to his pocket and the other to his hair. “C’mon those are different circumstances.”

“Why’d you call?”

“Come to my room?”

I frown, even though my stomach does a little flip when reminded of what happened yesterday in that same room. “Now?”

“Just to hangout…” He smiles at someone passing him before looking back at me, “Promise.”

“I wouldn’t be mad if you broke that promise…” He lets down a slow groan, tilting his head against the glass and looking away from me. I can’t help but smile when I see his curls pressed up against it.

“We can’t. I can’t- Fuck Y/n why did you have to say that?” He stands up straight, a hand over his face as he responds, “Just come. I mean- don’t! But wait. Shit.” I laugh at the accidental dirty joke and nod.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

He sticks up his thumb, now fully facing away from me, and hangs up.

I’m with him fifteen minutes later, getting caught up by George who introduces me to Carmen as ‘Kimi’s friend’, very suspiciously.

Kimi and I sit on his table-like bed, except I'm the one who’s sitting and he’s laying on his back with his head in my lap.

“Are you always this nervous before a race?”

He opens his eyes instantly, “I am not nervous.”

I push his hair back just like I've been doing for the past five minutes, “Kimi, your hands are shaking.” I take one of his hands in mine, his eyes following the movement.

“Maybe you just make me nervous.” He says quietly.

I smile softly, “It’s not the fact that your whole family is showing you off to mine?”

He sits up at this, keeping my hand in his, “Maybe it’s a bit of that too.”

“My family loves you.” I reassure him, scooting closer, “And they watch all your races anyway. This time it’s just… a bigger screen.”

He nods slowly, leaning in and saying my name the sweetest I've ever heard it. “Can I break my promise now…?”

I’m reminded of last night now, his soft voice in the darkness of my room. I swear I slept like a baby because of how gentle he was. How he always is.

I nod but he doesn’t like it when I don’t use my voice, “Words?” His lips are an inch away from mine as they curve into a smirk.

“Yeah, Kimi. You can do anything you want.” And then his lips crash into mine. It’s more hungry than last night, one hand on my waist and the other bracing himself on the bed.

“I like this dress.” Is all he mumbles before sliding a hand under the fabric and moving up the side of my leg. I get goosebumps immediately, his big hands warm against my skin.

He cups my boob, something that, might I add, looks excellent in the dress he likes so much. In fact, I get the sneaking suspicion that it’s the reason why he likes it. His lips trail down my throat, to my chest.

“You leave a mark and I'll kill you.” I moan halfway through my sentence and all he does is shoot me a hot little smirk.

“I’ll just make it hidden.” And then he grabs my waist and physically pulls me over to him, sitting me down on his lap.

“Didn’t know you had a marking kink.” I say as he carefully slips the shoulders off my dress, pulling it so carefully down as if it could rip at any moment.

Kimi eyes me, then he dips his head down to my stomach. “I don’t.” He mumbles against my skin as I purposefully grind into him. His hands grip my waist tighter when I do, kissing up my skin and shifting my lace bra just enough so he can get his lips just below my boob.

“So you’re not drooling at the idea of your marks on me?” He responds through movement, using his other hand to drift over my nipple and make me grind into him even more. “Shit, Kimi.”

“Say my name again.” I swear I've never heard anything so hot. He leaves my skin, I can’t tell if there’s a hickey or not because his lips are on mine again.

My bra is out of place, now covered by his hands. I grip the back of his neck and rub against him, wanting to go farther but knowing my limit.

“Kimi.” I whine as he grabs my ass. I don’t even know if the door is locked and honestly- I don’t care.

I can feel him under me, the hardness growing at every move I make. I kiss his jaw, his neck, tug at the fabric covering him.

I bite his lip, “I like this sweater.”

“Yeah?” He says against me, tugging at the hem already.

“Yeah.” I pull it off for him, uncovering his body. God I love his body. Saying Kimi is fit would be an understatement, I take in every hard line of him before kissing him again, running a hand down his bicep.

My hand goes to his chest, down his abs and teasing the waist of his jeans. His cheeks are red, his eyes wide with lust as he stares up at me. I smirk and just as I unclasp the button, an alarm blares.

“No!” Kimi groans in frustration, grabbing his phone and turning it off immediately, “Fuck.” He leans his head back so hard that he knocks it on the wall.

I frown, knowing what it means.

I go to get off of him but he holds me firmly in place, “No.” He looks genuinely so defeated that it’s hard not to laugh.

“Kimi.” I slowly climb off of him, smiling at the boy who’s now cupping his hands over his dick print. “Kimi!” I laugh, adjusting my dress as he groans again.

“You’re so fucking hot…” He says, his eyes closed and sounding as pained as he looks.

I smile at his words, How could I not be flattered?

“And I really wanted you to give me a hickey.” He tugs my dress back down like it’s nothing, “Look how good mine looks.” Now he’s smiling and the second I follow his instructions, I understand.

There’s a bruise on my rib, still a bit shiny and aching. It does look really good. “I wish we were in my car again.” I laugh at his sudden words.

His car, as in, the first time we had sex.

I remember the whole thing so well that it makes me bite my lip just at the memory. He was just gifted his mercedes and wanted to give it a test drive, no one else wanted to go so Kimi and I hopped in the car, ditching our families and dinner, blasted music, and drove to the beach.

There was no one around because of how far up this hill we went. And for some reason, Kimi made a joke about getting in the backseat. And then we did.

Our parents asked what took us so long and when Kimi went red, I just shrugged and said he lost his keys for a moment. Lost his mind more like, but we won’t dwell on the details.

“I can’t give you a hickey now.” I pull out my lipstick, swiping it on in his mirror, “But I can still leave my mark.” He’s moved to be laying down now, his hands over his face and his boner painfully obvious.

I kiss him right in the middle of his chest, my lipstick rubbing off and leaving a perfect mark. He opens his eyes, smiling at it and then promptly frowning.

“That won’t stay.”

I shake my head, grabbing my setting spray from my purse and spraying it. He yelps slightly at the cold feeling, Sitting up and tilting his head at it. “Have I ever told you how hot you are?”

I kiss Kimi’s cheek, smearing some red on the area by accident this time. “Good luck today.”

“Good luck!?” He sits up, “You’re gonna leave me with this!?” He motions down to his dick which makes me laugh.

“You’ll be okay.” I pat his shoulder but he holds my hand there with his, shaking his head.

“I will not. I will not be okay!”

“Just don’t think too much about the mark on me.” I say, “The one only you can see…”

“You're evil!” He says as I back up, “Absolutely evil.”

“I’ll be screaming your name.” I wiggle my fingers at him, “Have fun.”

“I hate you.” He lies right to my face and we both know it.

⋆༺

kimi

The race went okay, besides almost fainting when I got out of the car, it was boring from my side.

I almost pass out again when my family corners me after I finally get out of media. All I want to do is go to the hotel and fall asleep, even if I know I won’t be able to.

They talk to me all the way to the hotel, Y/n sitting in the front seat quietly on her phone. I wonder if I did anything wrong, especially when she doesn’t say anything after my family gets out of the elevator on their floor.

Our rooms are on the same floor, something I was looking forward to. “Are you okay?” Is the first thing she asks me, “You looked really bad getting out of the car.”

I blink, “Jeez, thanks.”

She shoves my shoulder and just like that, we’re back. “I was worried, idiot!”

I smile tiredly at her, watching her lips pull together in a line, “Wanna come to my room tonight?”

She sighs dramatically, “I guess I can spare a few hours.” I roll my eyes as we step out of the elevator. “You did good today. I like coming to your races.”

I love hearing her talk like that. I slip my hand into her back pocket, her dress replaced with jeans. “Thanks for coming. I like having you here.” I don’t mean to make it sound so… domestic? But the way she looks at me after, I swear I feel my heart grow.

She’s about to say something but shakes her head and kisses me instead. I kiss her back, in the middle of the hallway, my hand still on her denim.

And then… a little gasp interrupts us.

I swing my head back to see what could possibly get in our way now. The answer?

My little sister.

“Holy shit.” My jaw drops at her use of swear words. Holy shit is right though.

“Maggie!” Y/n practically tears away from me, her eye wide and refusing to look at me. “Hi.”

“Uhm…” Maggie steps closer, still looking shocked, “Kimi, you forgot this.” She hands me my phone. My fucking phone!? Why do I have to be such an idiot.

“Thanks.” I don’t even want to look at her i'm so embarrassed. I grab my phone and pocket it quickly, “Uh Mags?”

“Hm?”

“Could you not tell mom and dad about this…?” I look at Y/n who’s nodding along enthusiastically,

“Or anyone, for that matter.” Y/n adds on.

“Sure.” She blinks before turning around, “One more thing. Are you dating?” I swallow.

“No.” Y/n says right as I nod, “Yes!”

Oh just kill me now.

I close my eyes, wondering how my life has led to this moment.

“We uh…” Y/n gives me a look, “It’s new.”

Maggie nods slowly, “Okay! Well, never kiss in front of me again.” And then she turns around, skips away, and the second she turns the corner to where I know the elevators are, Y/n hits my arm.

“Hey!”

“You need to be more careful.”

“Me!?” I scoff, swiping my key against the door, “You kissed me!”

She shakes her head, dropping her bag on the table and walking in. “Your hand was on my ass.”

“I didn’t expect her to be there!” I lay flat on my bed, shaking my head in mortification still, “Do you think she’ll tell?”

“Maggie?” She asks, “Honestly, no. She’d do anything you ask.”

I roll over, shoving my face into my pillow, “I can’t believe I told her we’re dating.” I say muffled by the soft fabric.

“Neither can I.” I feel her hop onto the bed next to me.

“I didn’t mean to.” I sit up quickly, realizing she’s now changed into one of my hoodies, “Honestly I just panicked and didn’t really feel like explaining… us.”

She’s smiling. “That’s okay.”

She said no. Maggie asked if we were dating and she said no. Of course she said no! We’re not dating. So why the hell would I say yes!?

“If she tells our parents, we’re screwed.” I blink, not sure if she’s understanding what I might have just gotten us into.

“Kimi.”

“No- Like actually we’re gonna have to pretend to date and act all lovey dovey because if our moms finds out I swear they’ll send out the wedding invites.” She laughs at this, “I can’t believe you’re laughing! We’re going to fake date and you’re laughing!”

“Or… you could just ask me out for real.” My eyes go wide. Sorry? What!?

“Come again?” my brows furrow as she laughs harder.

“I mean…” She fiddles with the sleeves of my jacket, “If you don’t want to, that's fine.”

“No!” I shoot up to my knees, looking at her and probably looking crazy, “I absolutely do! I thought… I thought you didn’t.”

“Why would I not want to? Kimi. I’m in your bed right now.”

“Cause I thought you wanted to hook up-”

“I’m wearing your hoodie.” She deadpans.

“Ever heard of aftercare?”

“Kimi!” She groans in frustration, pulling up my shirt and reminding me of the kiss mark she left there. It’s a bit smudged now, but definitely still visible. “I really want to go out with you. For real.”

“Oh.” I breathe out, “Okay.”

“Okay!?” She slaps my arm, “Kimi!”

I laugh, pulling her in again, “I really want to go out with you too.” Kissing her cheek, I smile. “For real.”

A moment passes between us, quiet and completely comfortable. And then I laugh, “You like me.” She hits me with a pillow- hard.

“Shut up!”

⋆༺

you

Kimi holds my hand as we walk into the elevator. I rest my head against his shoulder as we start moving. I’m in shorts and his Mercedes jacket, we’re both holding our luggage and ready to leave the hot country.

The elevator stops at one floor, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen walk in. “Morning.” Lando says to both of us, squeezing into the metal box.

Kimi sends me an apologetic look. He’s already embarrassed, his cheek go red easily and this morning is no exception.

“Fun night?” Max asks, clearly trying to get a rise out of the curly haired boy.

“Fuck off.” He mumbles.

The elevator stops again and Alexander albon walks in. His eyes go wide for a moment before nodding at the lot and entering.

Kimi squeezes my hand even harder as I bite back a laugh, the group all eyeing each other with tension thick in the air.

Just as I think we’re almost done, the elevator stops one more time. George Russell stands outside of it.

George eyes me, then Kimi. He says nothing, walking in with a bag slung over his shoulder. And then, Lando coughs.

For some reason, this is what makes Kimi break.

“Alright, let it out!” They erupt in laughter, shoving and talking to each other loudly as we finally descend to the lowest level.

“This is the best morning of my life!” George claps Kimi on the shoulder as Lando literally holds himself up by Max.

“This made my weekend, mate, really.” the brit nods.

“I get five bucks!” Alex yells out, grabbing the bill out of Lando’s hands.

“Oh my god.” I actually laugh at this. As if they forgot that I was there, the group of older drivers stared at me! “You’re all rich, five bucks is all you could spare!?”

The doors open and Kimi physically pushes past the group, all of them staring at us as we leave. I snatch the bill from Alex’s hand and smile. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

[mattrempeswife]

EVEN WHEN YOU THINK I’M SLEEPING

requested: yes | req: whispering gentle reassurances to lukey after he has a bad day while you think he’s sleeping but he’s awake and all he can think of is how incredibly lucky he is, you don’t even realise he’s awake till a tear slips out the corner of his eye.

pair: luke hughes x f!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, slice of life, established relationship.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, one curse word, reader comfort and caretaking, soft crying, mention of sports-related stress.

summary: after a long, rough day on the ice and the weight of expectations heavy on his shoulders, luke comes home feeling like he’s failing his team, his family, and himself. but in the quiet of the night, your soft whispers and gentle reassurances wrap around him like the warmest hug, even when you think he’s asleep.

The door clicks shut with that defeated sound, you pause the show you weren’t really watching, setting the remote down. The apartment is dim except for the soft kitchen light you left on for him. Always. Just in case he needed the feeling of home when he walked through the door.

Luke doesn’t say anything. Just drops his bag by the front door and shrugs out of his jacket like it weighs twice what it should.

No greetings.

No kiss hello. That’s when you know it’s bad.

You let him go. He walks straight to the bedroom and disappears behind the door.

You sit still for a minute, then slowly rise from the couch. You give him time, Luke needs that sometimes. Space to be quiet. He’s not one to explode or rant. He just folds inward, like a paper crane tucked too tightly.

After a few minutes, you follow him.

When you enter the bedroom, he’s lying on his side, hoodie still on, the blankets only half-heartedly pulled up over him. One arm is bent under his pillow, the other resting across his chest, hand curled like it forgot what it was reaching for.

You climb into bed gently, careful not to shift the mattress too much. Facing him, you tuck your arm under the pillow and let your fingers brush the back of his hand.

He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t move either.

You whisper into the space between you.

“Rough day?”

No answer. You don’t really expect one.

You scoot a little closer, closing the gap until your knees are touching. Still, nothing. His breathing is slow, even. But it’s not sleep. You know the difference.

You let the silence stretch a little longer before you start again, softer this time.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

His chest rises, then falls. Controlled.

You keep going, voice barely above a breath.

“I know it probably felt like everything was on you tonight. And maybe it didn’t go how you wanted. But that doesn’t mean you’re not still everything good.”

You shift your hand up to his forearm, your thumb tracing soft patterns over the fabric of his hoodie.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, Luke. The way your teammates see you. Your family. You’re not just this game, or this moment, or the mistakes you think you made.”

Still no movement.

But the air around him has changed, more fragile, like glass held at the wrong angle.

You lean closer, whispering into the space behind his ear.

“You’re the same guy who cuts strawberries into heart shapes for my breakfast. Who sends me memes in the middle of practice just to make me laugh. The one who puts his hand on my lower back everytime we cross the street, like you’re afraid the world might take me away from you if you don’t.”

You smile to yourself, lips brushing his temple as you continue.

“You’re the only person who makes me feel like home isn’t a place, it’s you. Just you.”

You feel a tremble. The smallest shudder in his body.

And then, quietly, a soft sniff. And the tear that slips down the side of his face, pooling against the edge of the pillow.

You freeze. Your fingers tighten on his arm.

“Luke?”

A beat. Then he shifts slowly turning toward you, the tear shining like silver under the dim light.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he says, voice raw.

You lift your hand to wipe the tear away, thumb gentle.

“I know.”

His eyes flicker over your face, taking you in like he hasn’t seen you in days. Like he’s remembering something essential.

“I tried so hard today,” he whispers.

“And it just wasn’t enough.”

Your heart cracks. You slide your hand to his cheek, cradling him.

“You were enough the second you walked through that door.”

His throat bobs as he swallows.

“You make it too easy to fall apart.”

You laugh softly, tucking your forehead against his.

“Maybe falling apart isn’t the problem. Maybe the trick is finding someone who’ll help you gather the pieces.”

He exhales shakily, eyes closing for a second as your hand moves to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair.

“Don’t ever leave me,”

He says suddenly, like it spills out before he can catch it.

You freeze, then whisper fiercely,

“Never. I’m not going anywhere, Luke.”

“I think I’d lose my mind if I didn’t have you to come home to.”

“Good,”

You tease softly, brushing your nose against his.

“Then it’s mutual.”

He finally laughs, just barely a broken little sound that still feels like a sunrise. Then, slowly, he presses his lips to yours.

It’s not urgent. Not hungry.

It’s slow and soft and sure. A kiss that says thank you. A kiss that says I’m here. A kiss that says I hear every word you whisper when you think I’m sleeping.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lucky,” he murmurs.

You smile, brushing a kiss to his cheek.

“Then I’ll have to remind you more often.”

Luke moves again, pulling you into his chest this time. You settle there, cheek pressed to his sternum, listening to the thud of his heart as it starts to calm.

His voice rumbles above you.

“You’d make a really great captain.”

You blink up at him.

“What?”

“Just… you know what to say. And when to say it. You lead with your heart.”

Your lips part in surprise.

“That’s… really sweet.”

He shrugs, looking sheepish now.

“It’s true. I think you’d be the kind of captain that makes everyone feel like they belong.”

You blink back the emotion suddenly blooming in your chest.

“Well, if I’m the captain… you’re my favorite line mate.”

He grins. The first real smile you’ve seen from him all day.

You burrow into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, and he holds you like he’s memorizing the feel of your entire body in his arms. Like the ache in his chest has finally, finally started to ease.

After a while, just as you’re about to drift off, he speaks again.

“I was serious, you know. About marrying you.”

You hum sleepily.

“I know.”

“Not just someday. Soon.”

You peek up at him, heart thudding.

“You’re not allowed to propose while we’re both half-asleep.”

He chuckles, then presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Fine. But just know… I’m already planning it.”

And when he finally falls asleep this time with his breathing even, his body relaxed, and his hand tightly gripping yours, you stay awake just a little longer.

Watching him. Listening to the soft exhale from his lips. Pressing tiny kisses to his knuckles.

Because he may think he’s the lucky one.

But the truth is… you’re both just exactly where you’re meant to be.

[lvl1l1]

hii, im really a sucker for arguments/angst imagine HAHA can I please have a request for LaDS guys where they made you flinch in an argument (^_^;)

LaDS men when you flinch during an argument

pairings: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader

content: arguments, hurt/comfort, misunderstandings if you squint

a/n: small break from the silly

Xavier

Xavier usually didn’t get worked up during arguments, he’d just observe.

He’d listen to everything you had to say, taking the words to heart but trying not to engage too much, especially when he noticed you were starting to get more animated.

This time, however, was different.

He was upset and he wanted you to know.

He wasn’t raising his voice, he wasn’t being mean or mocking but his face gave his inner conflict away.

You weren’t backing down and neither was he.

“I can hold my own and you know that Xavier, you’ve seen me in action.”

His sharp inhale didn’t go unnoticed by you,

“I’m not doubting that, not doubting you, I just need to know that you won’t get hurt.”

It’s like you two were talking right past each other,

“I won’t, we don’t need to be attached at the hip for you to know that!”

He turned around quickly,

“Yes but I want to be able to reach you quickly, to get to you in time-“

He took a fast, heavy step towards you, wanting you to see the sincerity and genuine concern on his face, what he didn’t anticipate was for you to flinch at his sudden approach.

He stopped, his words catching in his throat as he just… looked at you.

You stared up at him, hands balled up in front of you and he felt immense regret wash over him.

“You…”

He started but couldn’t finish the sentence, being at a loss for words.

You lowered your hands, trying to adapt a more relaxed stance,

“Xavier, I didn’t mean to…”

His head hung low now, his eyes covered by his bangs.

You could see his shoulders rise and fall with uneven breaths.

Silence stretched between the two of you.

“Xavier…”

You tried again, softer this time.

He didn’t respond, he was standing there, the internal conflict in his mind clear.

When his gaze finally met yours again, his expression left you breathless.

It wasn’t what you had expected, it wasn’t anger, not disappointed but aching.

“I would never…”

The words left him quietly, not able to voice out what exactly had gone down just now.

“I need you to believe that.”

“I do,”

You blurted out,

“It’s not your fault. You just surprised me and I-“

“I scared you.”

He finished for you.

“Even if I didn’t do it on purpose, I can’t just say that, that’s okay with me.”

You took a careful step closer, tension between the two of you starting to ease.

Xavier didn’t move, he just watched.

“I know you’re not trying to control me,”

You said.

“But I need you to trust the decisions I make. And that I can take care of myself and still come back to you.”

“I trust you.”

He murmured,

“But what if something happens and I’m not there? What if I won’t be able to reach you in time-“

He swallowed the “again” that was about to slip him,

He took a small breath and then looked down at his hands.

“…can I touch you?”

He asked, hesitantly.

“Just- your hand. If it’s okay.”

You immediately softened at that.

You nodded, yes.

“Of course.”

He inched closer, steps slow, making sure you took in every one of his movements.

His hand reached for yours, getting a hold of it as if it were something fragile.

He brushed the back of your hand with his thumb in an attempt to ground himself.

“I’m sorry.”

You held onto his hand tightly, squeezing.

“I’m glad you’re being open about your concern but don’t try and decide for me. You want to protect me and I want to protect you.”

The ghost of a smile showed on his lips.

He leaned closer, close enough for your breaths to mingle.

He whispered,

“I want to figure this out with you.”

And this time, when his hand lifted to touch your cheek, you leaned into it without hesitation.

Zayne

The silence between you and Zayne hung heavy in the hospital room, occasionally interrupted by the soft hums of the equipment around the room.

Your boyfriend had been trying, trying to get through to you.

Telling you to stop pushing your limits, to stop taking unnecessary risks.

Yet you brushed him off everytime.

And now the consequences sat between the two of you.

“You could’ve gotten seriously injured.”

His voice was laced with restrained emotion.

Your eyes were looking at everything but him, hands clenched into fists at your sides.

“I know. I just didn’t think-“

“Exactly. You didn’t think.”

He interrupted you, voice sharper than what you were used to.

His eyes were cold behind his glasses,

“I kept trying to tell you-“

He went to adjust his glasses, hand raising.

But out of instinct, you flinched at the sudden movement.

It wasn’t a big reaction, barely a twitch but it was enough to gain Zayne’s attention.

He froze.

His face fell and any trace of anger and disappointment gone.

Instead, it was replaced by hurt.

He started,

“I wasn’t going to-“

A shaky exhale left him,

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Zayne stood awkwardly, his shoulders were tense, guilt reflecting in his eyes.

You looked up at him.

“It’s okay.”

Your eyes met, relief finally easing onto his face.

Still, he didn’t dare to move.

“…are you sure?”

You nodded, a small smile gracing your lips.

That’s when he stepped forward.

This time, not to lecture and to fight but just to be there.

Rafayel

A storm cloud was starting to form in the room.

The tension thick because of something more akin to a misunderstanding than an argument. At least that’s how Rafayel saw it.

He was gesturing animatedly, his voice was getting a little more heated than intended as he tried to explain himself, it was unusual for him to get so worked up over something he himself considered trivial.

Your arms were crossed, your brows were furrowed, frustration written on your face.

With one especially sudden swing of his arm, you flinched.

You stepped back a bit and Rafayel felt himself freeze as his words were caught in his throat.

He was staring at you, confusion and concern displayed on his face.

“Why?”

His voice had quieted down, soft.

“What… why did you react like that?”

You couldn’t immediately answer.

You were standing still, feeling guilty at that urge that had overcome you.

It was an instinctive reaction, not something you had realised in time to stop.

Rafayel hesitated, he could feel his hands twitch with the urge to reach out to you, wanting to comfort you but doubt filled his mind.

He was torn between wanting to pull you close and giving you the space you might’ve needed.

“Have I ever made you feel unsafe?”

His question wasn’t meant to make you feel guilty, it was sincere, making your heartbreak even more.

The raw vulnerability in his tone simply had your heart aching.

His question hung between you two, it was his way of asking for reassurance.

You shook your head, whispering,

“No,”

You put your hand over your heart,

“No, Rafayel. Never. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t mean to react like that.”

You could see some of the tension leave him.

The next time his eyes found yours, they were filled with the light echo of relief but also a hint of regret.

“I shouldn’t have gotten carried away like that.”

He stepped closer, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist, an attempt to test the waters.

“Can I… hold you? Or do you want some space?”

You offered him a small, comforting smile,

“Come here, you big baby.”

A sigh of relief left him and he stepped closer to pull you into an embrace.

His hand brushed through your hair, as if attempting to make all your pain and sorrows go away.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispered against your ear, his voice low and sincere.

Sylus

Sylus and you stood opposite of each other, his face was devoid of any emotion but you could see his eyes, dark with frustration, showing his true feelings.

You went on a mission he warned you about, recklessly pushing ahead without considering any risks.

And lo and behold, it had gone sideways.

His arms were crossed over his chest and his breath came in sharp, controlled bursts.

“Do you think this is a game?”

His voice was firm, his words sharp.

“I told you not to go, not alone, and what do you do?”

“I could handle it.”

Cutting him off, you tried to stand your ground, though you could feel the anger radiating off of him.

As he let out a frustrated exhale, he threw his hand up, running it through his hair.

His movement was so fast and controlled, that you couldn’t help but flinch back, instinctively shrinking away.

The man facing you froze.

For a moment that felt far longer than it actually was, the room felt suffocating.

He stared at you with wide eyes, caught between something you couldn’t quite make out and something softer, something making his chest ache.

He felt overwhelmed by guilt.

“You know, Id never hurt you, right?”

His question was barely above a whisper.

His gaze softened, frustration replaced by something more vulnerable.

Your answer was caught in your throat.

You felt his gaze on you, watching you carefully, analysing your every move like you were something fragile, small.

Something to protect.

After a second, Sylus took a step back, creating some space between the two of you, giving you room to breathe.

He felt the weight of his actions making his shoulders sag.

He wanted to reach out, make sure you were okay but something in the back of his mind told him not, to not scare you further.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The regret in his voice shining through,

“I was worried. And I often don’t know how to get that through to you without pushing.”

You lowered your head, letting his words settle, understanding him.

“I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t taking it seriously. I was just-“

You stopped yourself, inhaling, to collect your thoughts,

“I guess I just didn’t want to feel like I couldn’t handle it.”

Sylus watched you, his features softening.

He quietly said,

“You’re strong.”

A slow exhale,

“But you should know you have nothing to prove to me. All I ask for is to know that you’re safe.”

You searched for his eyes, finding worry and care still there.

They were always there.

Under all of it, even on the rare occasions that his frustrations got the better of him.

He muttered an apology, slowly closing the space between you.

“This won’t happen again.”

He kept up the eye contact as his hand reached out.

You didn’t flinch this time.

It came to rest on your shoulder, the slight pressure from his heavy hand grounding you.

It felt like an unspoken promise between the two of you.

He’d be by your side no matter what.

Caleb

Caleb’s voice was thick with concern, frustration and something he tried not to reveal to you often: fear.

He wasn’t one to argue, never one to raise his voice or escalate things, not when it came to you.

But this, this was about your safety and he couldn’t just stand to the side and not do anything.

“You’re not listening to me.”

His voice was steady, yet the edges let his worry show.

“You could’ve been hurt and you don’t even seem to care.”

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, brows furrowed.

You didn’t want to back down, wanting to stand your ground but you knew he was only acting like this because he cared.

Yet the ache of knowing he still doubted your capabilities pushed you to keep going.

“I can take care of myself.”

You said, frustration overtaking your voice,

“You’ve seen me in action before.”

In a moment of bad judgment, he thrust his arm out to emphasise his point, the movement swift.

Before he could even finish speaking, you flinched.

Caleb halted at that, words dying in his throat, eyes widening in realisation.

He felt his chest constrict slightly, breath hitching.

No, I-“

His voice cracked as he took a step back, face twisted in a display of guilt.

“I’m so sorry.”

He murmured, struggling to look you in the eyes.

Before you knew it, he dropped to his knees in front of you, face pale.

The slight tremble in his hands didn’t escape you, as he reached for you, not wanting to overstep but trying to lay his heart bare to you.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I would never-“

He stopped mid sentence, shaking his head,

“I should’ve thought before… moving like that, acting like that.”

Your heart was pounding as you watched him bow his head in front of you, remorse clear on his face.

“I’m sorry.”

He said again, voice desperate.

“Please, just… tell me you’re okay. I didn’t mean to hurt you...”

He trailed off, wide eyes looking up at you, searching for a sign, any sign that you didn’t fear him, didn’t hate him.

He had to know that he didn’t destroy something he held so dear.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you reached out, patting his head.

He stiffened at first, he was hesitant, but your warm touch seemed to reel him in.

“I’m okay.”

You reassured,

“It wasn’t your fault. It was just a reflex.”

Unbeknownst to you, Caleb wasn’t looking for reassurance, he was looking for forgiveness.

“Forgive me? Please?”

His voice was low, unsure, letting his insecurities and vulnerability show.

You knelt beside him, meeting his gaze with softness.

Cupping his face, you felt the warmth coming off him.

His breath was starting to steady slightly.

“Nothing to forgive you for…”

Your quiet voice reached his ears,

“I know you’d never hurt me, Caleb.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, resembling a puppy.

You closed the last of the space between you two, resting your forehead against his.

You and Caleb didn’t need words to understand one another.

[ricksaid]

A tire shop of turquoise and fair? Nah, this is no YA series. This is just life at the moment. Let me set the scene. It smells of oils and chems. There's a young fellow pacing around me like a caged animal with an occasional sigh or growl as he misses work. Knowing the difference between part prices and what the place quotes, nothing here is fair. The only turquoise is the box of cinnamon roll coffee cups across from me. There's been far too much hassle with this vehicle to know if things are going well, but the whispering of the mechanic and the counter guy has me concerned. My steed sits before me, hood up, midnight blue paint gleaming in the sunlight. I watch the fellow head back and take a lap around it, closing the hood, putting my differential oil back in the passenger side. I feel all the nerves in my body come alive as hope and doubt fight. My muscles are sore from my fortnight-long battle with siezed nuts and stuck bolts, editing my language for the sake of the young neighbor children. Swallowed pain and bruised knuckles led me here, where they judge my work and will plunge me into debt further, undoubtedly. The young man was told a rock was stuck in his brakes, fear spread across his face, and he ducks into the bathroom. The car goes back up on the lift, and I watch as a second vehicle is also lifted into the air, a white truck, blocking all but a tiny view of the trim. Anxious kid is back to pacing, trying to see his vehicle past the others. It's fruitless. We are all stuck in a limbo of stress with a tinny tv speaker blasting tunes that haven't been new since the 1960s, 60 years ago. It oscillates between those old tunes and ads, where my attention tunes out. They are everywhere and a great annoyance, especially when the commoner such as myself has no money to buy said products, as we fix our cars that have been damaged by the roads that our taxes should have been used on to repair. Instead, the politicians use the taxes to fund their benefactors, who make more money than any person should ever need in multiple lifetimes. This money then gets invested in warfare, where poor sods like my brothers go get scarred or perish. The mechanic takes the young guy out to see the car, his demeanor changes. He gets to leave, no costs incurred, but assured that future costs are looming. My mechanic is next to my vehicle, dipping it on the lift, configuring things. I've been here for hours and wish only for this saga to end, so I can pay my proper taxes on the car (you know, for the repair of the roads). Then, I can obtain renewed registration. This paperwork can only be gained from a passed inspection due at the end of the month, which hovers a mere week away. My body and mind brace for the cost of the new debt, which I hope to pay by selling my labor for an extra five dollars than I currently make. I'd been underpaid, and none of my licenses were taken under consideration for too long. The car will help me travel the distance to the next county where the job is located, over bumpy roads if I wish to avoid the summer traffic, but at least some of my licenses will be taken into consideration. There are no jobs that have considered my education. Trades are king here, I come from nobody and do not know anyone who comes from wealth, just pretenders. The men at the desk chat about cutting throats at their jobs to survive. I am not in the business of cutting throats. My new position will be caring for the children whose fathers have had their throats cut, whose mothers have been denied work due to the social stigma that men who cut throats imposed upon women to subjugate them. The children are troubled, but so was I. Undoubtedly, they will take out their frustrations on my body, perhaps my mind. But what a small price to pay if I make a difference and free myaelf from these debts.

The bill arrives and I am fetched. I offer my throat to the man at the counter and he takes 53 hours of my future away in the blink of an eye.

Bank of Sapphire Cold?

[venusmotel]

personal trainer!toji x fem!reader « mirror, mirror.🎀 »

୨୧ you were in a relationship with a man who made you feel like nothing. who liked pictures of perfect girls online, and looked at you like a disappointment. you thought maybe if you went to the gym, he’d see you differently. you weren’t ready for toji, your new trainer to see you the way he did.

_____________________ ୨୧ ___________________

cw: NSFW+18 toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse from a boyfriend, body image issues, insecurity, instagram comparison culture, soft body praise, gym setting, mirror sex, dirty talk, degradation of ex-boyfriend, possessive praise, cum inside, rough sex, face grabbing, overstimulation, crying during sex, toji worships every inch of reader body, verbal praise & filth, slight manipulation, very explicit smut, brief mention of aftercare

_____________________ ୨୧ ___________________

“you know, maybe if you worked out like her, you wouldn’t look like this.”

your boyfriend voice wasn’t even angry. it was worse—flat. dismissive. the kind of tone people used when talking about a dish they didn’t like at a restaurant. impersonal. cruel in how casual it was.

you stood in the doorway holding the plate of food you’d just made him, steam still rising from the rice, the smell of garlic and butter clinging to your shirt. you hadn’t eaten yet—you were waiting to eat with him. like you always did. stupid.

but he hadn’t even looked up from his phone.

you watched his thumb flick mindlessly across the screen, scrolling through reels, muted videos of women dancing, posing, stretching. your eyes landed on one of them—a girl in a gym bathroom mirror, flexing her abs in a bright green matching set, fake lashes fluttering as she did a full spin to show off her backside. thousands of likes.

your heart twisted.

“i made you dinner,” you said after a long silence, voice soft and tight.

he blinked. didn’t even glance at the plate.

“wasn’t hungry.”

your hands tightened around the dish.

he sighed like you were the problem.

you stepped forward, carefully placing the plate on the table between you. his beer bottle sat next to it, nearly empty. you picked it up and carried it to the sink, just to keep yourself from snapping.

“you haven’t eaten all day,” you said quietly, back turned to him. “you’ll get a headache.”

you heard the smirk in his voice. “don’t worry, you eat enough for both of us.”

your spine stiffened.

he laughed. like it was funny. like he hadn’t just hit every nerve you’d tried to bury all week.

your chest tightened, shame blooming hot across your skin. you looked down at yourself—old t-shirt, your favorite one. soft. comforting. you could feel how it clung to your body. the swell of your stomach where it curved out just slightly. the way your thighs brushed together when you shifted.

too soft. too much. always too much.

you turned around, eyes burning. “you don’t have to say things like that.”

he finally looked up.

“like what? i’m just being honest.” he nodded at the phone screen, showing it to you. another girl. this one bent over in leggings so tight they looked airbrushed on. “look at her. she probably eats clean, lifts heavy. maybe you could take notes.”

your lips parted. the sting of humiliation mixed with a thick, hot ache in your chest.

“that’s what you want, right?” you asked. “someone who looks like that?”

he rolled his eyes, tossing the phone onto the couch. “what i want is for you to stop being so sensitive. jesus. maybe if you actually tried—signed up for a gym or something—you wouldn’t be so fucking insecure all the time.”

you didn’t respond.

but that night, after he fell asleep, you curled up in the bathroom with your phone and signed up for a free trial at the closest gym.

the gym was too bright. too open. mirrors everywhere, glass walls, windows that let in too much light. you could see your reflection in at least five different angles and you hated all of them.

girls passed you in groups or alone, sleek and tight in matching sets. flawless ponytails, winged eyeliner, flat stomachs. bodies that belonged here. they moved like they knew how to use every machine, like they didn’t flinch when someone looked at them. they didn’t tug at their tops or pull their shirts down. they didn’t care who was watching.

your beige leggings clung too tightly around your thighs. you’d bought them months ago but barely worn them. you could feel the soft bulge of your stomach pressing over the waistband, your bra digging into your ribs. everything about you felt wrong.

you pulled your oversized hoodie down to cover as much as you could. your palms were already sweaty.

you just wanted to do a few machines. nothing serious. just… move. be away from him. pretend you weren’t made of all the things he hated.

you were halfway toward the back treadmills when a deep voice stopped you.

“first time?”

you startled.

turned.

and nearly forgot how to speak.

he was… tall. too tall. towering. broad-shouldered and solid. dressed in black gym gear that stretched over thick muscle, his biceps wrapped in veiny cords and a towel draped casually around his neck. his hair was a little messy, like he’d just finished a set and didn’t care to fix it. a scar cut across his lip. dark eyes, sharp and steady, locked on you.

your heart jumped.

you nodded slowly. “uh—yeah. that obvious, huh?”

he gave a one-sided smile. more amused than mocking.

“not really. just recognized the look. lotta people walk in here like the floor’s gonna eat them.”

you gave a breathy laugh. awkward. unsure. his eyes lit up just a little at the sound.

“i’m toji,” he said, offering a hand. “trainer here.”

you took it. his hand was warm, dry, firm. yours felt small and clammy inside it.

“you got a schedule? anyone show you around yet?”

“no, i—I was just gonna… figure it out on my own.”

he cocked his head. “gonna start with squats?”

you blinked. “i—I guess?”

he nodded, already walking toward the racks. you followed like you didn’t have a choice.

“if you don’t start right, you’ll mess up your form for months,” he said, not unkindly. “i’ll show you.”

you nodded, biting your lip.

at the rack, he adjusted the bar for your height, then stepped behind you.

really behind you.

you could feel his presence at your back. taller than you. broader. heat radiating off him in waves.

“feet shoulder-width apart,” he murmured. “good. now, hips back, chest forward. relax your core.”

your stomach tensed automatically.

“nope. don’t suck it in. breathe normal. let your body do the work.”

you exhaled shakily and let go. your hoodie had ridden up an inch, exposing the plush curve of your stomach.

you felt disgusting. exposed. why did i wear these leggings?

and then—his hand.

big. steady. resting just above your waist.

you froze.

“don’t worry,” he said softly, adjusting your posture. “just guiding you.”

he felt it.

the softness. the gentle give of your skin beneath his palm. the way your hips curved into his grip. how your stomach moved when you breathed.

she’s so fucking soft, he thought. not squishy in a bad way. in a real way. warm. perfect. fuck, i haven’t felt this in—

he caught himself.

you were still holding your breath.

“you alright?” he asked, voice lower.

you nodded too fast. “yeah. just… nervous.”

he leaned down a little. his breath brushed your ear.

“you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

you didn’t know why, but the way he said it made you want to cry.

you sat alone on the small bench near the dumbbell racks, hoodie bunched up around your waist, cheeks flushed, thighs still trembling slightly from the sets. your water bottle was empty. your back was damp with sweat.

and still, you felt ugly.

your eyes drifted to the girls across the gym. a trio of them by the squat machines—matching outfits, perfect nails, waist trainers cinched so tight they looked like hourglasses sculpted by hand. one was taking a selfie. the others posed behind her, laughing like they hadn’t even worked out. not a single line on their foreheads. their makeup hadn’t moved.

you pulled your hoodie down again.

your phone buzzed beside you. a message from your boyfriend.

don’t overdo it lol. i don’t like when you get all red and sweaty. not cute.

your throat tightened.

what the fuck am i even doing here.

“you’re still thinkin’ too much.”

you jumped.

toji was leaning against the wall beside you, arms crossed over his chest, towel draped around his neck. he must’ve been watching you—maybe this whole time. he didn’t look away when you turned to him. just raised a brow.

“you’re staring at them like you’re not supposed to exist in the same room.”

you looked down. “i wasn’t—”

“you were.”

heat bloomed up your chest.

you let out a breath, small and bitter. “they just look like they belong here.”

“how many of ‘em you think paid to look like that?”

you blinked. looked back at him.

his gaze was hard. unbothered. like he didn’t care if you got offended.

“waist snatched. ass perfectly round. hips tight. you think that shit comes from a dumbbell? nah. that’s surgery.” he uncrossed his arms. “genetics if you’re lucky. but most of it’s fake. i’ve trained a lot of girls. i’ve seen the receipts.”

you swallowed.

“that doesn’t mean they’re not—”

“pretty?” he cut in. “yeah, sure. but they’re not you.”

your breath caught. you didn’t know what to say.

his eyes flicked down your frame. quick, but thorough. you could feel it.

“i’ve seen what fake looks like,” he muttered, almost like to himself. “you got something better.”

your throat went dry.

he straightened, rolling his shoulders. “don’t let that clown you’re dating make you forget that.”

your head whipped up. “how—”

he smirked. “your phone’s not exactly private when your face changes every time it buzzes.”

you froze. cheeks burning. “he’s just—he didn’t mean it like that.”

toji stared at you like you just told him water wasn’t wet.

then, quietly—“yeah. he did.”

he didn’t say it cruelly. he didn’t say anything else.

he just turned and walked away, towel slung back over his neck, veins shifting under his arms as he made his way toward the machines again. like he hadn’t just peeled you open and told you the truth no one else dared to say.

you sat there, heart pounding, hands clutching your bottle.

you could feel his eyes on you before you even reached the squat rack.

your legging clung to your thighs with every step, the soft cotton riding up no matter how many times you tugged them down. your hoodie was too warm, clinging to your damp skin. you were already flushed. already doubting your decision to try and look cute.

and toji had barely said a word since you walked in.

he just looked.

like he was trying to decide something.

his gaze had lingered too long at your waist. then your thighs. then your chest—how the white sports bra hugged and lifted just enough to show the curve of your cleavage when you leaned forward to stretch.

you caught him staring in the mirror.

he didn’t look away.

“ready?” he finally said, voice lower than usual.

you nodded, throat dry. “yeah.”

he followed you to the rack, watching your hips move, your ass sway slightly with each step. he wanted to grip it. press into it. bite it. fuck.

but he kept his hands to himself—for now.

“same stance,” he muttered behind you, already stepping in close. “feet apart. point your toes out a little. yep.”

you adjusted. heart racing.

his hand landed on your hip.

you flinched.

he didn’t move it.

“relax,” he said, voice softer now. more… coaxing.

you swallowed hard.

his palm was wide. warm. calloused. fingers spread over the round curve of your waist like it was his. thumb brushing against the softness above your shorts, resting right where your hoodie had lifted just enough to expose skin.

“tuck your hips under. breathe in. good—now down slow. real slow.”

you bent at the knees. thighs trembling.

the stretch pulled your stomach in, then let it fall again as you sank. your ass curved outward. soft. full. your thighs spread. the motion made your body press back into him. not all the way—but enough.

and he didn’t move.

you whimpered softly. barely audible. but toji heard it.

his breath hitched.

his hand squeezed your hip.

“don’t hold your breath,” he said roughly. “breathe through it.”

you nodded, too dizzy to answer.

you pushed back up.

and this time—you pressed against him fully.

his hips met yours.

hard.

the front of his sweatpants ground into the swell of your ass for just a second. enough to feel the heat. the shape. how solid he was. how hard he was getting.

you let out a tiny, involuntary sound—barely a breath.

“again,” he muttered, voice like gravel now.

you dropped down again. slower.

this time, his hand moved. slid from your waist to your lower stomach. fingers grazing the curve of it. he didn’t grab—not yet—but he traced along it like he needed to feel the way it softened under his touch. his other hand found your inner thigh. adjusted it slightly. skin on skin.

you whimpered again, this time louder.

he leaned down, lips near your ear.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “just like that. you feel that stretch, sweetheart?”

you nodded shakily. couldn’t speak.

his hand lingered on your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles against the curve you always tried to hide. your breath came out in shudders. your thighs trembled.

“you’re stronger than you think,” he muttered.

god, you were soaked with sweat. not just from the squats. but from the heat of him. the way he was touching you—like no one had ever touched you before. like he saw you. like he wanted you.

“tired?” he asked, a little too close to your neck.

“mm—nnh…” you tried to answer but your voice came out broken. weak.

he smirked.

you pushed back up—one last time.

your ass pressed flush against him again, the soft curve jiggling slightly as your muscles gave out. your legs wobbled, body collapsing forward with a gasp. and that’s when both his hands caught you—one on your belly, one gripping your thigh.

you whimpered again, lower now, more desperate.

“easy,” he muttered, lips near your jaw. “don’t push past your limit.”

you nodded, dizzy.

you could feel his breath against your cheek.

feel the way his thumb still rubbed circles into your stomach like he couldn’t stop.

feel how his hand dipped too low on your thigh. how your shorts rode up higher.

he stayed there. pressed behind you. breathing deep.

you smelled like shampoo, sweat, and something sweeter underneath. even your sweat made his eyes roll back for a second. he didn’t know why. didn’t care.

she’s so soft. so fuckin’ soft.

he had to pull away.

he had to.

but he didn’t. not yet.

he whispered into your ear—

“you did good today.”

and this time, you believed it.

not because you felt strong. but because the way he touched you made you feel like maybe you were worth holding. maybe even craved.

the gym was nearly empty by the time you finished.

you liked it that way—quiet. no more eyes. no more perfect bodies in matching sets. just the hum of machines winding down and the sound of your own breath echoing through the space.

you stood in the locker room, towel wrapped tightly around your body, damp hair clinging to your neck. water still beading down your skin from the quick shower you’d taken—just enough to rinse off the sweat, not long enough to enjoy it.

not freezing. not unbearable. but cold in the way gym tile always was—clinical. empty. distant. every sound echoed. your wet feet made faint slaps on the floor as you walked toward the row of benches, towel wrapped tight around your body. hair still damp. the scent of soap clinging to your skin. your body felt too bare, too exposed, even though you were technically covered.

you dropped your phone on the bench beside you and sat down with a quiet exhale.

you didn’t check your reflection. you didn’t want to see what your body looked like in fluorescent light.

you just wanted a second to breathe.

but your phone buzzed. twice. three times.

you glanced down. saw the notification.

it was your boyfriend.

another comment under another girl’s reel—some fitness influencer with a surgically perfect waist, performing a deadlift in seamless leggings and a sculpted sports bra. she looked like she belonged in a commercial. face made-up, lip gloss catching the gym lights. captioned with some quote about hard work.

he’d commented fire emojis. a drooling face. “jesus.”

you stared at the screen.

something in your chest folded in on itself.

you weren’t surprised. not really. he’d done it before—liked, commented, saved. but this felt different. more obvious. more… mocking.

your towel clung to your thighs, the fabric damp where it touched your skin. your body felt heavier now. all the softness you carried felt like weight someone else had thrown onto you and walked away from. like dead mass. like something he’d never wanted.

you looked down. you could see the edge of your stomach pressing into the towel. you could feel your thighs spreading slightly against the bench.

you felt disgusting.

the first sob came sharp. out of nowhere.

you buried your face in your hands.

and then you heard it.

weights clanking faintly. a low voice muttering under breath. the sound of someone still working out, somewhere just outside the locker room. someone who hadn’t left yet.

you tried to stay quiet. breathed through your nose, rubbed your eyes fast, tried to wipe the shame off your face.

but a second sob broke through. softer. cracked in the middle.

and then—footsteps.

a pause.

a knock.

you didn’t answer.

you weren’t decent. you weren’t presentable. you weren’t okay.

“you alright?”

his voice was quiet. rough.

you swallowed. cleared your throat.

“yeah,” you managed. “fine.”

a pause.

“can i come in?”

you froze.

your heart jumped. your hand gripped the towel tighter.

but before you could say yes—or no—the door creaked open. slow. careful.

you didn’t look up. you stared at your knees, water dripping from your hair onto your collarbone.

he stepped in. the door shut behind him. and then silence again.

until he moved closer.

toji.

his shoes squeaked slightly on the tile. he stopped a few feet away, then sat down beside you on the bench. not too close. not touching. but near enough that you could smell the remnants of sweat on his skin, the faint trace of cologne, the clean cotton of his shirt.

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t ask again.

he just sat. breathing like he’d run a set before coming in. steady. solid.

you stared ahead.

“i know it’s not my business,” he said finally, “but… you sounded like you were breaking.”

your throat tightened.

you wiped your face again.

then you whispered, “i just saw something.”

he didn’t push.

you didn’t stop.

“my boyfriend,” you said quietly. “he commented on this girl’s post. the kind he always watches. flat stomach. tight ass. fake tan. you know the type. she was showing off her body. and he…”

you paused.

“he never comments on mine. never looks at me like that. and i’ve been trying. i come here. i sweat. i push myself. and still—”

your voice cracked. your hand shook where it clutched the towel.

“he still looks at them. like they’re worth something.”

toji didn’t move. didn’t interrupt. just listened. watched your profile out the corner of his eye.

you felt his gaze before he spoke.

“they’re curated,” he said finally. “airbrushed. made for people like him. people who don’t know how to touch something real without breaking it.”

your lips parted slightly.

you felt the weight of his words, but couldn’t look at him yet.

he shifted. closer now.

his hand rested on the bench. between you. his fingers brushed the side of your thigh. not intentional—but not avoided either.

your breath caught.

he noticed.

“can i show you something?” he asked, voice low.

you hesitated.

then nodded.

his hand moved. up—slow. cautious. to the curve of your waist, where the towel had slipped just slightly. he stopped there. didn’t grope. didn’t pull. just pressed his palm against the softness. his thumb dragged along the flesh like he was mapping it.

you flinched slightly.

he paused.

“i’m not gonna touch you if you don’t want it.”

you closed your eyes.

“it’s not that,” you whispered. “i just… i hate how it feels.”

he exhaled. through his nose. controlled.

“i don’t.”

you opened your eyes.

his face was close now. closer than before. his eyes fixed on you—not just your body. your mouth. your expression. your pulse fluttering under your throat.

his hand moved again. higher. over your ribs, the soft swell above your belly button. his palm covered the area like it belonged there.

and then he leaned in.

not to kiss you.

not yet.

just to press his forehead to yours, so lightly you barely felt it.

“you think this is something to be ashamed of?” he whispered.

you didn’t answer.

his hand slid back down—over your belly, your hip, your thigh. slow. reverent.

“this,” he murmured, “is what real feels like. not carved. not starved. not filtered.”

his other hand reached up. thumb wiped another tear from your cheek.

then he kissed you.

not your lips. not yet.

your cheek. once. then lower. under your jaw. near your ear. his breath hit your neck, warm and trembling slightly now. his body was tense. like he was holding back something stronger.

you felt the heat of him between your legs, not even touching yet. just near. his knees spread slightly as he sat beside you, his body leaning in until your shoulder brushed his chest.

and his hand—still on your stomach—was rubbing slow, subtle circles now. not for you. for himself. like he couldn’t stop.

“you’re not too soft,” he whispered, almost angrily. “you’re not too much.”

you trembled.

your towel slipped another inch.

his eyes dropped.

and he groaned softly under his breath.

it wasn’t loud. it wasn’t dirty. not yet. but it was raw—just a sharp pull of air through his teeth, like he’d been punched in the gut with want.

his gaze was locked on the space where your towel had loosened across your thighs. where it dipped low, barely clinging to the swell of your hip. your legs were parted slightly now from the way you’d been sitting. instinct, maybe. exhaustion. defeat. but it made the gap between your thighs more visible. made the soft skin of your upper legs crease and curve naturally, plush and warm-looking under the fluorescent lights.

his hand moved again.

slow.

down your side, from the soft fullness just beneath your chest, tracing that warm belly you hated—so gently you almost didn’t feel it until he grazed the edge of the towel, his knuckles brushing your skin.

you inhaled sharply.

not fear.

but not readiness either.

your breath shuddered.

his hand stilled.

you could feel the heat of his palm against your bare side. warm and rough. not groping, not clutching—just holding. anchoring. like he wanted you to feel that someone was there. someone who wasn’t disgusted by the softness. someone who didn’t recoil from it. someone who craved it.

you glanced up at him.

his expression had changed.

it wasn’t flirty. it wasn’t even lustful in the way you’d feared—it was reverent. like he was looking at something sacred. something he hadn’t touched in a long time.

his thumb traced a path across your hipbone, slow enough to draw goosebumps.

“can i take this off?” he asked, voice low—like it cost him something to say it out loud.

you hesitated. your fingers twitched where they held the towel against your chest.

you were still damp from the shower. still swollen from crying. your face was blotchy. your thighs sticky. your stomach full and soft. your body was in every state you’d been taught was unattractive.

but he hadn’t stopped looking at you like he wanted to worship the parts you always hid.

you nodded.

just once.

his hand moved slowly to the top of the towel. his fingers brushed yours, easing the grip loose. not ripping. not yanking. just… waiting.

and when you let go—he took over.

he peeled it down carefully.

inch by inch.

the cotton slipped over your breasts, baring them to the cold air, then slid lower, over your ribs, your stomach, your hips. he didn’t rush. he didn’t let the fabric fall. he held it—cradled it—as it passed over your body, like he was unwrapping something fragile.

your arms twitched to cover yourself on instinct.

he stopped you—lightly—hands catching your wrists, guiding them down.

“don’t hide,” he said, quiet, almost hoarse. “not from me.”

and when the towel dropped to the bench beside you, he didn’t say anything else.

he just stared.

his eyes moved slowly down your figure, like he couldn’t decide where to look first. your thighs—sprawled slightly, heavy and trembling from the strain of the day. your stomach—soft, warm, rising and falling fast beneath his breath. your chest—bare and vulnerable, nipples hard from the chill, your skin flushed from embarrassment.

he reached out again.

his fingers touched the center of your stomach. not with pressure. just presence.

then they spread. his whole hand flattened across your belly—fingertips stretching over the curve you hated, palm fitting against your skin like it belonged there.

you flinched.

but his other hand found your jaw. guided your face toward his.

“look at me.”

you did.

his fingers traced your ribs, circled your navel, moved downward—slowly—until his hand settled low on your stomach, right where the flesh dipped into the crease above your pelvis.

he exhaled through his nose, thick and shaky.

“you’re fucking perfect like this.”

you blinked hard. “you’re just saying that to make me feel better..”

“no.”

his voice sharpened just enough to silence you.

“you don’t get to argue with me about this. not when you’re sitting here crying, not when your skin’s still damp and warm from the shower, not when you smell like fuckin’ heaven.”

he moved closer. his thigh brushed yours now. his arm curled around your back.

“you don’t get to tell me your body isn’t good enough when it’s the only thing i’ve thought about since the first time you walked in this place.”

you made a small, broken sound in your throat.

his hand moved again—sliding down to your inner thigh, fingers grazing the crease between your legs, right where the skin was softest.

you spread your legs just slightly. barely enough for him to notice. but he noticed.

he leaned in.

his lips brushed your jaw first. then lower. down your neck. not kissing yet—just breathing you in. letting his mouth hover close enough to warm your skin.

his other hand moved again, fingers finding the underside of your breast. lifting it slightly. brushing his knuckles beneath it like he wanted to memorize how it fit in his palm.

you whimpered.

he kissed your shoulder. slow. reverent. then kissed it again, lower this time, near your collarbone.

“tell me to stop,” he whispered.

you didn’t.

his lips grazed your nipple next, tongue flicking against it softly—testing, tasting, not rushing.

you gasped. your back arched slightly.

his arms caught you.

“just let me touch you.”

his voice was deeper now. breathless.

“let me show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

his thigh slid between yours, spreading your legs wider.

you rolled your hips forward without thinking—just chasing pressure, contact, anything.

his hand caught your ass, squeezed. his lips found your throat again.

your body, the body you’d hated in silence, was pressed against his—raw and bare and trembling.

and he was holding it like it was something holy.

the air shifted.

your skin was burning.

he was looking at you like no one ever had, like he wanted to eat you alive and worship every inch at the same time, and for a second you let yourself believe it.

until your own mind caught up.

you flinched—again.

and this time, you reached for the towel.

toji froze.

your hand grasped the damp cotton and dragged it back over your chest, across your stomach, down your thighs, fumbling, not even securing it properly—just needing something between your body and his eyes.

“i can’t,” you said, voice breaking. “please, i—I can’t.”

his brows knit, breath still heavy. his arms pulled back just enough to give you space, but not enough to leave.

“what happened?”

you looked away, face flushing. you couldn’t look at his body—not like this. not with yours exposed, messy, ruined. his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, damp with sweat, veins prominent beneath tanned skin. broad pecs. thick biceps, still swollen from his last set. narrow waist. thighs thick and solid, resting open, bulge still outlined under his gym pants.

he looked like a man carved out of instinct. out of use. out of need.

and you—were everything he wasn’t.

your voice cracked again. “you’re so—fuck, you’re so attractive. i mean, look at you.”

your eyes moved to his arms, his shoulders. “you’re perfect. your so handsome and every girl in this place would kill to get fucked by you. and me? i’m sitting here crying with stretch marks and thick thighs and a stomach that rolls when i bend over—”

your chest clenched. “you’re probably just fucking with me. or pitying me.”

he didn’t move.

didn’t even blink.

his jaw clenched, that scar above his lip pulling slightly.

“you think i’d waste my time pitying someone i can’t stop staring at?” he said, low. steady. “you think i’d touch you like that if it didn’t mean anything?”

you didn’t answer.

his voice dropped.

“you think i don’t see you? every time you walk into the gym, wearing that hoodie like it’s armor, hiding under layers, tugging your shirt down when you think no one’s watching—”

he leaned in again.

“i see all of it. and it drives me fucking insane.”

your breath stuttered.

“you want to talk about stretch marks?” he said, hand sliding under the towel again, finding your waist, your hip. he dragged his fingers over the lines there. “these? these aren’t flaws. they’re just… fucking real. proof you exist. proof you live in that body, not some rented one off a screen.”

he moved closer. his breath hit your face.

“i’d rather fuck a real woman than jerk off to a filter.”

your heart kicked.

his hand found the edge of the towel again. this time he didn’t rip it off—he just let it open slightly under his palm, fingers pressing against your belly. the contrast was too much—his hand hard and dry, your skin soft and warm.

his voice cracked just slightly.

“you think this doesn’t affect me?” he said, glancing down at the bulge straining in his pants. “i’ve been hard since i felt that softness into the squat rack this morning.”

you blinked.

he leaned in. close enough for your lips to brush.

“you don’t know what it’s doing to me… how soft you are… how you feel against me. fuck—”

you whimpered.

and then you kissed him.

hard.

not gentle. not pretty.

you were still crying. your cheeks were wet. your hands shook.

but your lips crashed into his with a desperation that made him growl low in his throat. his mouth opened against yours, tongue meeting yours, deep and messy, not searching—taking.

he kissed like he was starving.

his hands gripped your sides now, rougher, dragging you closer. your chest pressed into his, soft curves smashing against solid muscle. you felt the sweat still clinging to his shirt, to his neck. you smelled it—salt and musk and something earthy beneath. he hadn’t cleaned up yet. he hadn’t wiped himself down. and it made you dizzy.

you moaned into his mouth. helpless. shocked by how good it tasted.

he groaned back. grabbed your thighs.

his bulge ground against your hip now, slow and firm, impossible to ignore.

you gasped.

his voice broke against your lips. “feel that?”

you nodded.

“that’s what you do to me.”

his teeth grazed your bottom lip. his hands were everywhere now—cupping your ass through the towel, gripping your waist, fingers digging into the back of your thigh to pull you across his lap. and when you straddled him fully, thighs spreading across his thick legs, towel slipping from your body again—

his cock twitched underneath you. thick. hot. trapped beneath layers of fabric and pulsing like it hurt.

you rolled your hips once—just once—and the growl he let out made you clench around nothing.

your bodies didn’t match in shape, in tone, in anything. but pressed together like this, it didn’t matter. his was hard. yours was soft. and the combination felt like friction—like balance. like tension and collapse all at once.

your breath hitched.

his mouth found your throat again.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he whispered, teeth grazing skin.

and this time, you believed it.

his hands were on your ass.

gripping. kneading. pulling you tighter against his lap like you belonged there. like he was trying to fuse your softness into the solid heat of his cock still straining under his sweats.

you were straddling him fully now—towel forgotten on the floor, your thighs slick with sweat and heat, your body trembling every time you rocked your hips down. the thick shape of his cock pressed perfectly between your folds, the pressure obscene even through the layers of fabric.

you could feel every ridge.

every pulse.

he was so hard it hurt to grind.

and still—you couldn’t stop.

“fuck,” he groaned into your shoulder, voice ragged, hands gripping tighter as you moved again. “you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

you whimpered against his neck, nails digging into his biceps.

your body—soft, flushed, soaked—rubbed against his with every movement. your stomach against his abs. your tits against his chest. your thighs spreading further as he adjusted his legs beneath you.

you felt his teeth drag against your skin. not biting—just marking. like he needed a reminder that you were real. that this was happening.

and then—he stood.

just stood up with you still wrapped around his waist, your legs locking instinctively around him, your arms around his neck.

you gasped.

he carried you two steps across the locker room—toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall near the lockers. harsh gym lighting still flickering overhead, sweat still clinging to both of you.

“look.”

his voice snapped.

you opened your eyes.

he was holding you in front of the mirror. one arm under your thighs. the other gripping your lower back. your body on full display—hair messy, skin flushed, nipples hard, stretch marks glowing like ribbons across your hips and ass.

he looked massive behind you. towering. his shirt soaked through with sweat. chest heaving. jaw clenched. cock still caged behind his waistband—but twitching now. ready. angry.

he growled into your ear.

“look what he’s missing.”

your throat tightened. your breath broke in your chest.

“this is what he gave up? this?” he shoved his hips up into yours, grinding his bulge against your cunt with slow, punishing pressure. “this body? this heat?”

you moaned—choked and soft and real.

“he treated you like trash,” toji spat, voice trembling with heat. “like you weren’t worth touching. worth fucking.”

you whined, burying your face in his neck.

he gripped your hair. pulled your face back toward the mirror.

“don’t hide. look at yourself. look at what i’m about to fuck.”

you stared.

your reflection was unrecognizable. desperate. undone. lips swollen, eyes glassy, thighs trembling from being held like this. your body clung to him like gravity.

and his expression—god.

his mouth was parted. his teeth clenched. his eyes locked on the way your thighs spread around his hips.

“you see that?” he whispered. “how soft you are? how good you look against me?”

his cock twitched again.

and then he finally yanked his sweats down—one rough pull, fabric hitting the floor.

his cock slapped against his abdomen. thick. veiny. flushed. already dripping precum. you could feel the heat of it before he even touched you with it.

he spit in his hand. stroked his cock once, twice, then lined it up under you.

your breath stopped.

“toji—”

“nah. not running now.”

and then he thrust up.

hard.

you cried out—full-body, involuntary. his cock stretched you wide, deeper than you thought possible, the first push already too much.

your hands clawed at his shoulders. your forehead dropped against his.

“fuck, toji—i can’t—! it’s so big.”

“yes you can,” he growled, teeth gritted. “you’re fuckin’ taking it.”

he slid in again. deeper. harder. your cunt sucked him in, clenching from the pressure. your walls fluttered, your thighs shaking.

“look how tight you are,” he hissed, hips dragging back before slamming up again. “like you’ve never been fucked right before.”

you sobbed.

your body trembled from the force of every thrust. his hands gripped your waist like a man possessed, his abs flexing, sweat slick between your bodies.

“you feel that?” he panted, breath hot against your neck. “this cock was made for you. made for this body.”

you were already shaking.

your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips struggling to keep up with the force of each thrust. you were perched on his lap, thighs spread wide, legs dangling just barely past the edge of the bench, and he was deep inside you—buried to the base, stretching you around a cock that felt too thick, too hot, too much.

your body had stopped trying to fight it. now, it just clung to him.

but your mind—

“i’m not—i’m not even pretty—”

the words slipped out before you could stop them.

and then he slammed into you.

so hard your body bounced. so deep you choked on a sob.

“say that shit again,” he snarled through gritted teeth, voice rough and ragged. “say it again and i’ll fuck you harder. say it while your pussy’s clenching for me like it can’t stand the thought of being empty.”

your breath caught. your head dropped against his shoulder.

“toji—i’m gonna—i can’t—fuck—”

he groaned, deep and guttural, when he felt it—your cunt choking him, fluttering around his cock as your orgasm overtook you. not a neat little finish. no. it ripped through you like your body was cracking open from the inside.

you sobbed.

loud. broken.

your nails raked down his back. your thighs locked up. your entire body jerked forward, curling into him, needing to hide—but he wouldn’t let you. his hand was in your hair, his other around your waist, keeping your body pinned to his cock as you spasmed.

“that’s it,” he hissed into your skin, still thrusting up into you like he was losing his mind. “cum on it. soak it. make it yours.”

you moaned through the aftershocks, breath catching every time he slammed up again. your thighs trembled around his waist, sweat dripping between your bodies. your whole body burned. overstimulated. stretched. used.

and he still wasn’t done.

he was fucking you through it—through the trembling, the sensitivity, the moans that turned to hiccupped gasps.

he adjusted his grip. angled his hips deeper. your eyes rolled back.

“you’re so deep, fuck,” you cried, barely able to speak. “i can’t—I can’t—”

“yes you fuckin’ can,” he growled, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest. “this pussy was made to take it.”

he thrust again. rougher. more desperate.

the sounds in the room were obscene—wet, slick, filthy, the bench creaking under the weight of your bodies. your slick dripped down his cock, pooling at the base, coating his thighs and his abs and everything between.

his voice dipped, darker now. “that piece of shit ever make you cum like this?”

you shook your head frantically, too overwhelmed to lie.

he grabbed your jaw.

hard.

forced your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

“say it.”

“no—he never—!”

“damn right he didn’t,” he spat. “he didn’t even deserve to look at you.”

he shifted again, angled upward—his cock dragging perfectly against that spot inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream.

his thrusts got shorter. sharper. his chest pressing to yours, abs flexing every time he ground into you.

“you’re not too much,” he whispered, almost angrily.

his breath was loud in your ear. ragged. falling apart.

“you’re exactly how i like it.” he muttered, voice low, guttural.

his palm moved lower—across your belly, down to the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. he groaned when you clenched around him.

“feels so fuckin’ good around my muscles,” he breathed. “you’re like a soft pillow against all this hard tension. makes me wanna stay buried in you for hours.”

he squeezed your thigh, pressed it higher against his hip, and gave one slow, deliberate thrust so deep your breath caught.

“you fit me too good. it’s not just sex—it’s like your body’s made to give me relief.”

“you belong right here. on me,” he said, voice tight. “fuckin’ made for me.”

“toji—please—fuck—”

“you want it?”

“yes—god, yes—”

he groaned, loud now. feral.

and then he slammed into you one last time—bottoming out, cock buried to the hilt, the head punching so deep it knocked the air from your lungs.

you cried out. mouth open. arms clinging to him like you’d fall apart if he let go.

his cock twitched inside you.

and then—you felt it.

thick, hot pulses. his release. deep, raw, possessive.

you could feel his cum fill you. every pulse marked you. every throb claimed you. his body didn’t move. he just held you there, shoved onto his cock like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else.

he stayed buried as you spasmed again, another wave rippling through you from the sheer heat and stretch of it.

he groaned into your neck. thrust again. shallow. slow. dragging his cock through the mess inside you like he wanted to paint your walls with it.

you collapsed forward, trembling in his arms. face pressed to his neck.

he was drenched. his body soaked. he smelled like sex and sweat and something animal.

his arms wrapped around you, tight.

one hand rubbed your back. the other cupped your ass, pulling your thighs wider, still seated on his cock.

you whimpered.

his palm found your stomach again. the soft part. the part you always covered.

he squeezed it. kissed your temple.

“this is mine now,” he whispered.

you nodded. dazed. silent.

he kissed your shoulder. then your jaw.

his mouth brushed your ear.

and he whispered, low and dangerous—

“next time, i’m fucking you in front of him.”

_____________________ ୨୧ ___________________

thank you for reading this. i hope you enjoy it💌

venusmotel💌

[vunblr]

Tangled (#9)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: 8.7k

note: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event Kinky Bingo. The Prompt is Monster Fucking. Card number KB-014.

Previous Chapter

In the days that followed their kiss on the beach, something shifted. She kept returning to her usual spot near the rocks, sitting with her yarn and humming as if nothing had changed, but the air between them was different. Bucky lingered now. At first, he hovered at a distance, half-submerged, watching with those sharp, unreadable eyes. But as the hours passed, he grew bolder. Every time.

Sometimes he’d curl a single limb around her ankle as she worked, or stroke the back of her hand when she reached for something. Other times, he'd join fully beside her on the rocks, glistening in the sun, with his tattooed arm propping him up behind her like he’d always belonged there. The conversation flowed naturally between them, hesitant at first, then deeper. She asked questions about his kind. He listened to her stories about life before the coast. They learned from each other in fragments.

But it was mating season. And he was trying -really trying- not to crowd her, not to rush. Still, when she leaned back into him, when her thigh brushed his hip, his tentacles would stir without permission. At first, they only wrapped loosely around her waist or leg, but soon they started to roam, mapping the shape of her calves, her arms, the line of her back. He was always watching her face, always waiting to see if she'd pull away. She never did.

She let him explore. She started to touch him back, too. Tentative at first, but curious. They were becoming a slow, simmering thing. It wasn’t just instinct or heat. It was her choosing him, again and again.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and cast long golden streaks across the shore, something shifted again. They were lounging in their usual place, with her back to his chest, and his limbs lazily cradling her body like he couldn't help but touch her, because he couldn’t. They’d been speaking in soft tones, his voice low and gravelly near her ear, threading sweet nothings into her skin between slow kisses to her shoulder and jaw.

But then, one venturing limb strayed. A slow, absent-minded movement at first, but it grazed the damp fabric of her underwear, an area he’d deliberately avoided. He’d known touching her there would be different. Too much. He could already smell her arousal when she was near, taste it in the air. But direct contact? It sent a violent rush of sensations through his body, like being plunged into a current he couldn’t fight. Her warmth soaked into his cups, and he froze against her, with his lips parted, and his breath suddenly shallow.

He stopped mid-whisper, clenching his fingers on her waist as his whole body tensed behind her. Her scent and taste, so much stronger now, filled his head like salt and honey and heat. And then she moved. Just a little. A subtle shift. Her thighs parted ever so slightly, angling her hips toward the limb still resting where it shouldn't be.

The invitation was quiet and devastating.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His body moved before he had the chance to reason with it. His limbs tightened around her like a trap of velvet and steel, pulling her flush against him. Another tendril snaked low, slipping beneath the edge of her damp underwear with unerring precision, seeking the heat of her skin. The contact was electric. Her breath hitched, and she curled her fingers around the limb at her waist, not to push him away, not guiding him either. But her thighs stayed parted, and her body pliant in his hold.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest as his lips found the side of her neck, open-mouthed and burning. He didn’t kiss so much as taste, drag his teeth along her pulse like a warning. His cups latched on tender skin, drawing slow, coaxing pulls, tasting her salt, her sun-warmed scent, the spike in her heartbeat that was desire, not fear.

He was unraveling.

His kind didn’t go slow. Didn’t take care. Not like this. And yet here he was, trembling with restraint and still failing, still losing control.

He pinned her. One arm around her middle, another limb curling over her thigh to hold her open, his slick skin pulsing against her core. The tip of a tentacle pressed forward again, slow and reverent. Her breath came out ragged. One more second and-

No.

With a strained, frustrated hiss, he tore himself away. Every limb uncoiled at once, releasing her like she burned him. He dropped low, twisting to the surf with a wild motion, and was gone, vanishing into the sea like a dark shape slipping between waves.

She sat up slowly, dazed, with her skin marked with the memory of his touch, and her chest rising and falling in a shaky rhythm. The place where he had held her felt suddenly empty, and her body was left thrumming with unfinished need.

She stayed there on the rocks long after he vanished into the sea. Her skin still tingled where he’d held her, where his cups had tasted, where his breath had scorched the base of her neck. It hadn’t frightened her, his strength, the way his instincts had flared. If anything, it had stirred something deep and primal, a mirrored longing in her own blood. But he had pulled back. For her. For his word. And though her body ached with the echo of what almost was, her chest ached more with understanding. He feared what he could do to her. And yet… she wasn’t afraid.

----

The next day, she finished up orders. Packed, labeled, and stacked the boxes that had to go out before the week was over. Her fingers worked purposefully, but her mind wandered to the shore. To him. To the way he almost lost control, to the moment they said “another day” they would speak.

Today was another day. And frankly, she was tired of circling the edges of something that had already been decided.

So when the tide began its slow afternoon retreat, and the sky shifted to the soft golds of the early evening, she made a decision. She grabbed a snack, tucked a bottle of water into her pack -and, why pretend?- stuffed a small blanket inside too. Just in case.

She changed into a dress that hit just above the knees, a breezy thing that left her legs free and bare to the touch of the wind… or curious tendrils. Her cheeks warmed just at the thought.

Then, before heading out, she paused by the shelf near the window and picked up the bracelet she’d made months ago. A simple band, crocheted leather strips, with one of the flat, spiraled conches he had gifted her woven into the center. She hadn’t worn it before. Not yet.

She tied it around her wrist and stared at her reflection for a moment. Then she smiled -a little foolish, a little excited- and stepped out into the sea breeze.

----

She didn’t even bother to sit in her usual spot by the rocks. Her mind was too loud, and her body too restless. The moment she arrived, she walked straight to the mouth of the cave with a hammering heart, and her eyes adjusting to the softened light streaming down from the stone chimneys above the place.

“Bucky?” she called, once. Then again.

His voice came from behind her, low and calm. “Didn’t expect you. You weren’t on your rock earlier.”

She spun with a startled yelp, clutching her chest. “You almost killed me.”

He only snorted, and his eyes glinted with mild amusement as he rolled them at her. He leaned back against the damp rock wall, resting his arms behind him, with his body half-floating in the pool. Tendrils swayed lazily with the motion of the water, catching the scattered light like ribbons of ink.

“Had things to do,” she said, trying to slow her heartbeat. “I don’t hunt my food, remember? I have to work to go buy it.”

He quirked a brow, with something unreadable flickering in his gaze as he watched her approach. She moved toward him slowly and sat on one of the dryer rocks near the pool’s edge, tucking her legs beside her.

“I came to talk,” she announced.

“You always talk,” he deadpanned.

“Ha ha. Very funny,” she rolled her eyes, but smiled. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded, slowly, with a guarded expression. “Yeah. I do.” He was about to bring up what happened the day before, but his eyes flicked to her wrist and lingered there. His gaze locked on the bracelet, on the spiral of the conch he'd given her long ago. Woven now with care into leather and worn like something meant to stay.

He didn’t say anything at first, but she watched how the tension subtly shifted across his chest. One of his tendrils stilled mid-motion in the water, then curled inward, like it was thinking.

“You made that,” he finally said, quiet and almost disbelieving.

“Yeah,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Months ago, actually. I just… didn’t wear it until now.”

His gaze dragged back up to hers, slower this time. There was something raw in the look he gave her, like that simple gesture had undone some tightly wound thing inside him.

“I noticed,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “It suits you.”

And then, a little quieter, like it escaped before he could stop it: “You kept it.”

“How couldn’t I?” she said, almost like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her fingers grazed the bracelet. “You gifted it to me.”

Something shifted in him. She saw it. His chest expanded with a silent inhale, and a swirl of pride flickered behind his gaze. Subtle, but unmistakable. That she’d kept it. That she wore it, out in the open, where others could see. She hadn’t just accepted the token; she’d chosen to display it, to carry him with her.

He wetted his lips unconsciously, and without a word, began gliding toward her. The water cradled his body in flowing movements, as his limbs trailed behind like dark ribbons. When he reached the edge of the rock she sat on, he braced himself against it, folding his arms along the rim and resting his weight there. Close, but not quite touching.

His tendrils twitched beneath the surface, brushing the stone, aching to reach for her. But he held back.

“So… yesterday,” she began, her voice was a bit tentative as she smoothed her hands over the front of her dress. “We- well, you know.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You yielded to me.”

She huffed a laugh. “Is that what you call it? I wasn’t exactly resisting, you know.”

“It is what it’s called,” he replied with a hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Even when the female is willing and courts us first, she resists before the final moment. It’s… instinct.”

She blinked. “Why resist?”

“Because,” he said simply, “even if we carry the mark of aptitude, they still need to test our strength. To see for themselves what we’re capable of. Whether we’re worthy of strong offspring.”

There was no shame in his tone. No pride either, just fact.

She frowned as she tried to imagine it. “So there’s violence involved?”

“Some,” he admitted. “Until they yield. Until they accept.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, shaking her head. “No offense, but that doesn’t sound very… nice.”

He shrugged one shoulder, water rippling with the motion. “Nature isn’t always nice.”

She blinked, processing that with wide eyes. “That’s… intense.”

His eyes didn’t leave her face. “It’s instinct. But we’re not only instinct.” His voice dropped a little. “Not always.”

Her hand found the edge of her dress again, smoothing the fabric over her thigh. “So… when I accepted, it wasn’t the same. I didn’t resist. I didn’t fight you.”

“No,” he said, with a slowness that bordered on reverent. “You considered me apt.”

He didn’t say what that meant to him, but she could see it. In the way his pupils dilated, in the subtle way his shoulders dropped, in tension bleeding out of his body, in the small movement of a tendril that came close to her foot, hovering there, trembling slightly, before withdrawing again.

“You’re not… disappointed by that?” she asked, quieter now.

He leaned in closer, resting his chin on his crossed arms, as the water lapped softly against the stone between them. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you’d fought me,” he said, honest and firm. “I wouldn’t have wanted to. You’re human, not like the females of my kind. If you’d resisted… it would be because you weren’t interested. And that you chose me…” He exhaled through his nose. “It means more.”

There was a moment of silence between them, charged and delicate. Then she smiled softly, leaning a little closer, just enough that her knee brushed his arm.

“Good,” she said in barely above a whisper. “Because I meant it.”

He sighed deeply, and the sound echoed faintly off the damp stone walls of the cave. One hand raked through his hair, slicking his damp strands back as he gathered himself. The water beaded along his skin, catching the fading light in the cave.

“I…” he started in a low voice. “I’ve been drawn to you since the autumn days. Since you first started coming here. It has nothing to do with what’s happening to me now.”

Her chest felt lighter with something close to relief. Without thinking, she reached out to take his hand, but he shook his head gently, stopping her.

“Please don’t touch me. Not until we talk.” His voice cracked just a little, betraying the strain. “It’s not easy for me.”

She curled her fingers back into her lap, nodding slowly. “Alright.”

His shoulders relaxed just barely at her understanding.

“I want to try what you do. What your kind does for bonding, to last, to share things. It’s not something purely sexual.” His gaze lifted to hers, raw and hungry and full of intent. “Still, I desire you. I want to mate with you. To make you mine, and no one else’s.”

Of all the confessions she might’ve expected, it wasn’t that, at least not said like that. With that kind of depth. Warmth bloomed in her chest, fierce and radiant, and she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.

But then, his expression shifted.

“But…” he looked away. “I won’t trick you. You deserve to know what I am. What I’ve done.”

She nodded slowly, leaning forward without thinking, as if her body was reaching to understand before her mind could catch up.

“About... eighty winters ago,” he began, in a low voice, almost guttural, “far away from here, I was captured. Tricked by a human man who pretended to be my friend.”

His expression went somber, and he pressed his lips into a thin line. Her breath stilled.

“I was... naïve back then. Trusting. I thought the stories they told us -to stay away from the land, from humans- were exaggerations. I believed we somehow could coexist.” He paused and clenched his jaw. “Until we couldn’t.”

His eyes darkened with memory. “One night, I came to see him... and what I found was a group of men waiting for me. They overwhelmed me. Weakened me with harpoons and bound me. Then they dragged me into a ship like some cursed trophy.”

She drew in a sharp breath, horrified, but she didn’t interrupt, pressing her fingers hard into the stone beneath her instead.

“I was probed. Studied like a thing. And I was awake for it.” His voice cracked there, but he pushed on. “They... broke me. Rearranged me. Then... they used magic -something ancient, dark- to twist my mind. To bend my will.”

His voice was hollow now, haunted.

It was the first time she’d heard of magic being real. But she couldn’t question it, not when he sat there before her, a real and breathing myth, scarred from things she couldn't even begin to imagine.

“That’s... terribly painful and hard-”

“I’ve killed people.” His voice snapped through the air like a whip, silencing her.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Countless men,” he went on, looking not at her, but through her. “And... my kind too. I was made to fight. To hunt. To destroy. And I did.”

He swallowed, and the motion looked thick and pained. “That is why I was attacked. Because of what I did, because I was one of them for too long.” He didn’t move. Didn’t look at her. Just waited. Braced himself.

And she -heart pounding, emotions torn between anguish, fury, and an ache she couldn’t name- still didn’t back away.

"How... how did you get free?" she murmured, her voice barely more than breath.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the silence stretched before he answered. “Spent twenty winters under their control. Until a friend man-hunted me and cut me loose.”

Her brows furrowed. “A friend?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, and his fingers clenched slightly on the edge of the rock. “I told you that my kind doesn’t bond. We’re proud, isolated. Weakness is despised. But... Steve and I were together since we were pups.”

He finally looked at her. “He was so small. So weak. Couldn’t have survived those first independent years on his own. And I... I don’t know. I couldn’t just leave him. It felt wrong. So I stayed with him.”

Her chest clenched at the image of a young Bucky, already protective, already different.

“We stuck together most of the time. He got stronger. Better. There was a witch involved in that,” he added with a flicker of disdain, “but it wasn’t my business. He didn’t ask for my opinion anyway, hot-headed as he was.”

She gave him a soft, understanding smile. “And... where is this friend now?”

He hesitated. The word friend seemed to sting.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “He mated a human woman. Chose to live among them.”

Something brittle and old bled into his tone.

“I was hurt. Felt betrayed. After what they did to me, what they made me become... he chose to be with a landwalker. Right after freeing me.”

His jaw tensed, and his lips curled slightly in frustration. “I was thankful. But angry, too. So angry.” he admitted. "I distanced myself from him, the only one who gave a shit to bring me back and not just put me down. But the feeling of betrayal was stronger. I was... broken. In more than one sense."

Her heart twisted at his confession. So much pain, layered over time like the rings of a wounded tree. She knelt down at the edge of the pool, and reached out without hesitation. Screw the warning from earlier.

"Who could blame you for that?” she murmured, folding her arms around his damp shoulders. “You suffered too much. You can rationalize it now, but at the time... you were raw.”

He stiffened under her touch, and every muscle in his back went tense. But he didn’t pull away.

She pressed her cheek to the crown of his head, and his breath hitched once against his crossed arms, his face still hidden from her. He stayed like that, tense, quiet.

Then slowly, as if it took a great effort, as if some part of him was still waiting to be punished for being vulnerable, his other limbs responded. Tentacles slithered up around her waist and lower back, coiling loosely, cautiously. Not to hold her in place, not to restrain, but to seek. To self-soothe.

He didn’t speak again. Just let himself be enveloped by her arms. Let himself rest, for a moment, in the warmth of someone who didn’t flinch.

Eventually, he found his voice. “Now you know what I did. You can turn back. Leave. Despise me, if you want. It wasn’t fair to let you be with me without the truth.”

She didn’t flinch or loosen her arms from around him.

“Why would I despise you?” she asked softly, pulling back just enough to see him. “Look at me. Hey,” her hand brushed the damp strands of hair from his temple, coaxing him gently, “let me see your pretty eyes.”

He scoffed -more out of habit than defiance- but he lifted his head anyway, meeting her gaze with a reluctant flicker. There was a storm behind his irises, old and violent, but he let her see it.

She cradled his face, grazing his cheeks with her thumbs.

“You were a victim,” she said firmly. “They made you do things you wouldn’t have done if you’d had a choice. I do not think less of you because of what you told me.”

Her voice wavered, but her eyes didn’t. “If anything… it takes courage. To carry it. To speak it. And to tell me, give me the choice to know something you could’ve easily hidden forever? That’s not something a coward does. That’s someone who respects me. Someone I… care about.”

His breath caught, and his tentacles shifted slightly around her, like they were trying to pull back, but couldn’t quite let go.

“I know you think you’re too broken to be wanted,” she murmured. “But you’re not. Not to me. I don’t see a monster when I look at you, Bucky. I see someone who survived. Someone who protects. Someone who still knows how to care.”

He blinked slowly, as if her words took a second longer to reach his mind through all the layers of shame and pain. The weight behind his gaze didn’t lift, but it softened.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against his. “I still want you. That hasn’t changed.”

His arms didn’t move, still crossed tightly over the edge of the rock, but one of his tendrils coiled slowly up her spine, tentative in its touch. “…You’re not scared of me,” he said at last, barely more than a whisper.

“I’m not,” she answered. “I trust you.”

He closed his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders bled out by degrees. Then, in a voice edged with something old and bitter, he said, “There were moments I thought I’d never speak again. Never be seen again. But then you came here… and sat on that rock every day like I was just an equal in a cave and not a thing swimming in shadows.”

His lashes lifted, and his eyes searched her face. Then, with a slow breath, he pushed himself upright.

Water slid down from his torso in long, smooth rivulets, and his damp hair clung to his temples and neck as he turned and eased himself onto the flat rock beside her. He moved slowly, like he didn’t want to spook her, though his limbs remained loosely coiled around her hips and lower back, more by instinct than intent now. A tactile confirmation she was still close, and still his, even if only in this fragile, flickering moment.

Before he could speak -before he could thank her or tell her what she’d just given him- she leaned back slightly.

Just enough.

Her teeth caught her lower lip, and holding his gaze with purpose, she tilted her head, baring her throat in invitation.

A heartbeat passed.

His pupils dilated instantly, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply, sharply, drawn forward by the sudden clarity of her scent, wanting, open.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“…You’re doing that on purpose,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint.

She didn’t look away. “Yes.”

His tendrils twitched, curling tighter for a breath before easing again, their grips were gentle but possessive.

“I said I wouldn’t rush you,” he murmured, with his eyes locked on her exposed neck “but… you're making it very hard.”

His hand finally reached for her, slowly, brushing the hair from her shoulder as he leaned in -not to touch with his mouth, not yet- but to breathe her in again, filling himself with her essence.

Bucky inhaled again, and his eyes fluttered half-closed as her scent bloomed around him. Then came his teeth' soft, sharp click, an unconscious sound of instinct and want.

He drew back just enough to meet her gaze with a hooded and serious expression.

And then -slowly- he turned his head and lifted his chin, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat to her. The tendons shifted beneath his damp skin, and the pulse was faintly visible just beneath the surface. She moved without hesitation.

Leaning in, she mirrored his gesture, lifting her chin and echoing what he'd just done. Her lips hovered near his jaw, not quite touching, but her intention was unmistakable. Her acceptance was not passive.

Bucky’s eyes burned with heat, his entire body was tense with desire and control, the coils of his limbs flexing around her waist, her thighs.

And then, her hand rose.

She didn’t go for his face or chest. She reached instead for his arm, brushing her fingertips over the intricate tattoos swirling across it. The marks were dark and sinuous, almost alive under the dim light, telling a story she had yet to learn. Her touch was reverent, following the curves and lines with slow, deliberate pressure, circling her thumb over a spiraled sigil inked with a star in its center.

Bucky stiffened, and a tremor coursed through his limbs.

“You know what you’re doing,” he wanted to confirm, his voice thick and low.

“I do,” she whispered, eyes never leaving his. Her touch slid further over his marked skin, splaying her fingers over the spiraling designs, warmly and sure.

He pressed closer, clenching his arms around her, with his chest nearly brushing hers now. One of his tendrils curled behind her knee, not yet demanding, just present.

“Then you know what comes next,” he murmured.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she breathed. “And I want this. I want you.”

He groaned low in his throat, and the sound vibrated against her cheek, as his mouth found hers in the next breath with no hesitation, no tentative brush of lips. And his limbs -no longer restrained- finally explored her as they had longed to. Tendrils slid beneath the hem of her dress, curling around her thighs with reverent pressure, mapping every inch of skin.

She gasped into the kiss, gripping his shoulders as his touch coaxed a tremble from her legs.

Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to speak against her mouth, his breath hot and uneven. “This attire is... conveniently made,” he muttered, brushing the edge of the fabric with a smirk in his tone.

She huffed a soft laugh. “How perceptive of you,” she teased, grazing his lips as she spoke.

His grin was a flash of white teeth, brief and crooked, before he captured her mouth again, rougher now, more claiming.

The tendrils on her thighs caressed with unhurried confidence, coaxing her knees further apart as one traced the sensitive inside of her leg. Another curled around her waist, pulling her flush against the firm plane of his body.

Everything about him enveloped her: his heat, his scent, his voice, low and gruff in the moments their lips parted for air. One of his hands braced against the stone, the other cradled the back of her head, and still, his limbs kept moving, pulling reactions from her that made his pupils blow wide with hunger.

“Say it again,” he breathed into the curve of her neck. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” she repeated, without a shred of doubt.

His limbs moved with growing confidence now, sure in their purpose. Two of them slid higher underneath her dress, teasing along the hem of her undergarments, while others coiled around her waist and shoulders, holding her gently but firmly in place.

She shivered against him, not from fear, but anticipation.

Another tendril, slick and warm, brushed up her spine beneath the dress, making her arch with a gasp. He used the movement to pull the fabric upward. The dress peeled away, gathered slowly above her hips, then over her head as one limb coaxed her arms up while another tugged the garment free.

He pulled back just far enough to look at her bare before him with nothing but the bracelet on her wrist and a flimsy cloth over her sex. His pupils were blown wide, and his chest rose in shallow pants as he took her in.

“I dreamed of this,” he confessed, in a hoarse voice, “Of you. Like this.”

She touched the edge of his jaw, brushing the corner of his mouth with her thumb. “Then don’t wait. I’m right here.”

That undid him.

Tendrils slid down her sides, curving to trace the lines of her waist and her thighs. One hooked beneath the last scrap of fabric between them and tugged slowly -teasingly- down, baring her completely to him, and for a beat, he just looked. She was breathing heavily beneath the curl of his limbs, and when his gaze fell to her chest, he stilled completely.

Slowly, as though touching something sacred, one of his limbs rose and coiled gently beneath her breast, lifting the soft weight into his grasp. It filled his grip in a way that made his throat tighten, and awe and hunger tangled inside his chest. His other limb followed, mirroring the shape, reverently wrapping around it, cups pulsing softly against her skin as they explored the warmth and texture.

She gasped when he touched her nipples -sensitive, already peaked- and his entire body responded to the sound. One of the cups latched gently, suckling with a subtle, exploratory pull.

Her eyes flew open. “It feels like you’re… like your mouth is sucking on it,” she moaned, breath catching on the words.

He plucked at the stiffened peak again with more intention this time, watching, feeling her react, seeing how her body arched into his grasp, how her scent sharpened with each motion. His pulse thudded in his ears, and his limbs were trembling with restraint as her thighs shifted and parted beneath him.

When he slid a limb down to test between them, it came away wet, soaked in her desire. Her taste, carried in the fluid that filled his cups, made him reel. He groaned low in his throat, a raw, unguarded sound.

Then, bolder, he plucked the other nipple between his cups as her moans spilled freely.

Her lips parted on a sigh, and her eyelids fluttered low when his tentacle returned to that place between her legs, rubbing with slow, deliberate pressure against the sensitive folds. The slick heat, and when his cups grazed a small, firm nub tucked just above her entrance, her body jolted like he’d struck lightning beneath her skin.

She wanted to touch him back, show him what she felt, drag her fingers down his body, trace the hard line of his jaw, kiss the shell of his ear, but she couldn’t. He was everywhere. Beneath her, around her, holding her firm with strength that somehow managed to be gentle. Each movement, each probing touch, each curious flick of his suckers pulled another soft moan from her lips.

The cups latched on instinct, closing over that pearl-like flesh, tugging gently, then more insistently with each pass. Her reaction nearly unraveled him. She arched, shuddered in his grasp, her thighs trembled around his limbs. She grabbed his forearms with a desperate grip, as if she might fall apart without him holding her, though he never would’ve let her.

Hard, quick gasps poured from her lips with every pull of his cups. Her hips twitched before she could stop them, trying to follow the source of that delicious tugging pressure, and he felt it all, through the taste in his mouth, the grip of her fingers, the slickness against his limbs.

He tilted his head, puzzled, fascinated. “What is that?” he asked, lifting her slightly with his limbs to get a clearer look at the glistening bundle of nerves nestled between the soft folds of her sex.

She groaned, covering her face with both hands. It was far too late to be shy, but the gesture was instinctive. “That’s… that’s my clit,” she mumbled from behind her fingers.

He blinked. “What is its purpose?” His voice was curious, gentle even, as his fingers replaced the cups and stroked it carefully.

She flinched,  “Um- it’s… it’s for pleasure. Just pleasure,” she managed to say, as her hips chase the contact without her control.

His breath hitched. That concept -just pleasure- made him freeze in awe. “We… don’t have anything like this,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Everything we have… it serves a function. This… this is only for you?”

She nodded, slowly lowering her hands from her face to meet his gaze. “Yeah. It’s sensitive. It… feels good when touched.”

His pupils were wide, blown with wonder and something much darker. “Then I want to learn everything about it.”

Before she could answer, he eased her back onto the mossy, softened stone beside the water. The cool air kissed her bare skin, and he was right there, around her again, his limbs braced to either side, one still coiled beneath her back, another curling around her calf. The others, she couldn’t keep track anymore. One was wrapped gently around her breast, another smoothing over her waist, her hip, her belly, and lower.

He kissed her thigh without warning.

"Just like a clam", he commented as he spread her lower lips with his thumbs, "a clam and its precious pearl."

"Never thought about it like that" she chuckled, but was interrupted by a moan when he circled her clit with his lips and sucked, tracing his tongue along her slit after satisfying his curiousness.

Then he had an idea. He leaned back and lifted her, almost sitting her on the cradle of his tentacles, and grasped the back of her neck, tilting her head up to make her look at him. Then, one of his limbs slide back between her legs to nestle on her mound, and used a cup to suckle at her clit intently.

"Oh my god" her voice trembled as her hips ground shamelessly against his appendage.

His gaze was dark, enjoying every shift of her blissful expression for the pleasure he was giving her. He. No other.

"I'm- don't stop" she whined, and he tilted his head again.

"You what, mate?" he asked, still having her by the neck, forcing her to look at him through hooded eyes.

"I'm going to cum" she breathed.

He touched one of his canines with his tongue and then clicked his teeth. The words were foreign to him, but he understood their meaning. "Show me then. Show me what I do to you," he murmured, going further, sliding the tip of his tendril inside her wet heat in tandem as the cups kept suckling on her. Her body tensed, and her lips parted in a silent scream as the orgasm hit her, clenching around his limb, clawing his shoulders, arching her back in an impossible angle as the wave of pleasure made her tremble under his touch.

Her head lolled forward, resting on his shoulder, and her breath came in soft, broken bursts against his damp skin as her body slowly relaxed in his grasp. His tentacles cradled her like something precious, but they were twitching now, with restraint, with want.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, heavy and shaky. He pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a moment as if centering himself.

"I pleased you," he murmured, low and hoarse, his voice vibrating against her skin. “You came apart in my arms. Let me see it, feel it. You gave that to me.”

His hand, large and warm, settled at the small of her back. The limbs encircling her shifted with less grace and more urgency now, tightening slightly, drawing her closer.

"My body…" he started, pausing, jaw clenching as if trying to hold himself back one last time. His gaze flicked down to where their bodies pressed together, then up to meet her eyes, dark and searching. "I need to mate with you, now. I’ve waited, held back, but- It hurts to keep it inside.”

One of his limbs slid slowly along her spine, not to tease but to soothe, to keep her present. “You said yes. You chose me. And now my whole body is calling to answer that choice.”

From the haze of pleasure still coursing through her body, she blinked slowly, registering the slight tremble in his voice, in his hold. She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb across the high arc of his cheekbone.

“It hurts… to keep it inside?” she asked softly, almost wondering.

He nuzzled faintly into her palm, like the simple touch soothed something primal. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he admitted, a little gravel in his voice now. “So I held it in.”

“Oh.” Her brows drew in gently. “Oh, you mean your… okay. So, it’s inside you?”

“Yes,” he nodded slowly, pupils blown wide and locked on her. “It… grows when I’m aroused, like a human male’s. But it’s concealed. Normally, one just…” he hesitated, then made a gesture, vague but suggestive, like something unfurling. “Just let it out. But-”

“You didn’t want to scare me,” she finished for him.

He gave a barely-there nod.

There was a pause.

“Should I?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper now. “Be scared?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “It shouldn’t hurt,” he answered honestly. “I think. But it’s… different. Not like what you’ve known or seen.”

She smiled, small and sure. “You’re not like what I’ve known or seen either,” she said, tracing her fingers along his skin. “But that didn’t stop me from choosing you.”

He made that low sound again, a rumble that seemed to rise from the depths of his chest and echoed softly off the cave walls, vibrating through the water between them. His grip on her softened, but tension still prevailed in his body like a storm barely held back.

And then… something shifted.

Just beneath the sculpted lines of his abdomen, down the center of his Adonis belt, she saw a movement, a hidden seam parting with organic grace. It unfurled with a subtle flex, almost like how some mollusks opened under sunlight. And then, without warning, there it was.

He had wanted to reveal it slowly. To give her time. But his restraint had burned to cinders the moment she told him she trusted him. That she wanted him. The moment she climaxed in his arms. There was no holding back now, not with the fire coursing through his veins and her scent heavy on his skin.

She stared, with her lips slightly parted. It wasn’t grotesque or monstrous. Just… different. The same black and blue patterns of his limbs trailed over the shaft, the surface gleaming faintly like polished shell and velvet. Not exactly human, not exactly beast. Thick and ridged in places, with a subtle pulse that told her he was very much alive with want.

Definitely not in the small category. But it wasn’t disheartening. In fact, it sparked something else entirely.

She bit her lip. “Can I touch it?”

He didn’t speak. Just clenched his jaw, and a muscle twitched near his temple. But he nodded once, deliberately, with his eyes fixed on her every move like a predator.

Her hand reached forward, slow but sure, grazing the ridged surface with her fingertips. It twitched in response, and so did he, every muscle in his body going tense as if her touch sent lightning down his spine.

“God,” she whispered, brushing down its length, marveling at its weight and heat. “You really were holding back.” She stated, looking at him while giving a tentative squeeze.

He didn’t smile. Not this time.

“Is it… of your liking?” The question came low, strained, like it cost him something to ask. He wasn’t just teasing or fishing for praise. He was uncertain, genuinely. And she could tell that wasn’t something that happened often. He’d spent a life being feared or desired, and now… he was asking her, the one person he trusted, if this part of him -this exposed, vulnerable part- was acceptable.

Her eyes dropped again to the hard, pulsing length that stood rigid between them, black and blue like his limbs, ridged in a way no human man could ever be. She could see why he’d worry.

It was definitely different. But it wasn’t frightening. Not to her. She didn’t stop touching him. Her fingers explored gently, tracing the contours, watching the way his breath hitched and his jaw clenched tighter. The ridges, texture, and subtle shift in her palm were unfamiliar, but not frightening. Actually… it reminded her of a night, long ago, giggling tipsy with a friend, scrolling through some ridiculously NSFW novelty site and stopping on a selection of fantasy dildos. Some textured like tentacles, some curved or ridged. Some of them… kind of hot.

And this one? Real. Warm. Alive.

“I think it's beautiful. You are beautiful. I find it-” She hesitated, then bit her lip and met his eyes again, trying -and failing- to wrap her hand gently around him. “I wonder how it would feel inside me.”

His pupils dilated instantly, the ocean-blue swallowed in black. His tentacles shifted around her hips, drawing her in unconsciously, as if her words triggered a primal response in him he could no longer suppress. His throat worked around a groan, and one of his hands came up to cradle her cheek with reverent care.

“You want to find out?” he asked, with a low, wrecked voice, barely holding control.

She didn’t answer, not with words. She leaned into his hand, brushing her lips over the rough pad of his thumb before kissing the center of his palm. That was enough. That was more than enough.

And then he moved.

His limbs shifted, cradling her body, circling her waist and her thighs. She gasped softly, and her hands instinctively flew to his shoulders for balance, but there was no real danger of falling. He was everywhere. Beneath her, around her, holding her like she was already part of him.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, like a vow, even as his pupils stayed blown wide. “Unless you ask me not to.”

He spread her legs farther, and his mating shaft brushed up the soft skin of her inner thigh before guiding himself with his hand, rubbing against her slick and probing at her entrance. She whimpered as he stretched her with his engorged tip, and he froze, staring at her face for a sign that she wanted him to back off. Maybe his limb wasn’t enough to prepare her for what was coming.

Her eyes fluttered open when he stopped moving. “Please, don’t stop.” She pleaded.

So he didn’t, instead pushing all his length inside her, feeling something in the process he had no parallel for. Mating with his kind had been nothing like this, maybe because she was smaller in size. He retreated and pushed again, and again, as her fingers clawed at his arms and her moans and whimpers grew more frantic. This time, he had no doubts about the sounds she was making, especially since she whispered the words deeper, and more as he pushed into her.

Her hips swayed with his thrusts, and she already felt another orgasm building embarrassingly fast. He kept tugging at her clit and nipples like sucking kisses, at compass with his cock that stretched her deliciously with every drag. His limbs clenched around her body, creeping across her skin, and leaving little marks in their wake. It was an indescribable feeling that was so erotic that she couldn’t speak, beyond begging him in barely coherent words not to stop.

He pulled her closer to his body so her chest was against his, so she grasped one of his shoulders more firmly and leaned forward to kiss and lick the strong column of his neck, and he moaned. She decided she wanted to hear that again, so she nipped softly at his pulse point, which resulted in another moan and a harder thrust that made her cry out.

Suction cups kissed her trembling inner thighs, adding to the overwhelming sensations, and more of them stroked over her waist. One wandering limb prodded at the tight hole next to where his mating shaft pumped inside her. She shivered as he explored, not making any move to stop him until he pressed too deeply inside. He stopped as soon as he felt her tense, and moved away to trail light suction kisses up her back instead.

She nipped at his neck again, a teasing bite just below his ear, and the sound he made in response was feral. A low, guttural growl that vibrated through his chest and straight into her pussy. His fingers tangled in her hair in a possessive fist, tugging her head gently but firmly to the side, baring her neck.

Then his mouth was there, hot and open over her pulse, where it thundered beneath the skin. He licked once, slow and deliberate, before closing his teeth over the spot in warning. His breath was ragged, lips brushing her skin as he spoke.

“Want to mark me, mate?” he asked, voice thick and raw.

The way he said mate spiked her desire.

“Because I want to mark you. I’m going to mark you, so everyone knows-” he changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting deeper inside her, making her scream, “that you are taken, and only respond to me.” Her moans and whimpers echoed inside the cave, and the wet sound of her body being obscenely ravaged filled their ears.

Then he bit her.

Not hard. Not cruelly. His canines extended just enough to sink into the flesh where her neck met her shoulder, right at the place where instinct screamed and trust made her melt.

The pain was barely there, more like pressure followed by a dizzying, radiant burst of pleasure that licked through every nerve ending of her body. Her breath caught in her throat. Her thighs clenched instinctively. A moan escaped her lips before she could stop it, digging her fingers into his back as her body tightened hard and rhythmically on his cock. The feeling of her pulsing heat dragging him deeper and deeper like heartbeats, and the taste of her marked flesh against his mouth, was overwhelming. He thrusted one last time inside her and followed her climax, pouring his hot, thick load deep inside her in pulsing waves. The sensation of her inner walls milking him, coaxing out every last drop of his seed, sent him into a frenzy of post-orgasmic bliss.

He stayed there, buried as far as he could go inside her, with his softening cock plugging all his sperm within her body. His mouth kept latched onto her neck like he was branding her with something more than teeth.  

With a gentle lift, he carefully extracted his cock from her still-clenching heat, and a small river of seed followed suit. He watched, captivated, as it copiously dribbled down her thighs. His body still trembled with aftershocks, but his voice was a low, satisfied growl.

“You wear me now,” he mumbled, flicking his tongue out to taste the spot on her neck once more. “No one will come near you. Not with this on you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, resting her cheek against the broad expanse of his chest. “No one, hm?” she murmured, tracing her fingers idly along the edge of his collarbone. “Are you referring to your kind?”

The muscles beneath her shifted. His grip around her waist clenched just enough to make her gasp softly, and a hiss escaped through his teeth, sharp and instinctive.

“No one.” His voice left no room for ambiguity.

She tilted her head to look at him, eyes still heavy-lidded with afterglow, but her tone had a teasing lilt. “So mating season made you more possessive.”

His eyes flicked to hers, and something flashed in them. Acknowledgment, maybe, or the faintest trace of guilt. He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Not when every part of him was still vibrating with the primal satisfaction of claiming her, of feeling her body still warm and pliant against him, filled with him, marked by him.

“But you understand I have to socialize in my world, don’t you?” she added, softer now, one hand reaching up to brush back his damp hair from his brow.

He tensed again. Subtly, but she felt it. Something primal in him bristled at the thought, the very idea of her walking around among others, vulnerable in a place where he couldn’t always be with her.

But he also knew. Knew she wasn’t his to keep in some cave or tidepool. Knew that what they shared only worked because it was chosen, not forced.

He drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, and pressed his forehead to hers. His voice, when it came, was roughened by restraint. “I know. I don’t like it... but I know.”

She smiled then, warm and open, and he focused on that. On her scent clinging to his skin. On the mark, pulsing gently at her neck. On the heat of her body, still pressed to him.

----

He was perched semi-upright against the cave wall, half-sitting, half-reclining with her settled between his limbs. Her back was pressed to his chest, and his arms and tendrils draped around her like he was still afraid she might drift away. The blanket she’d pulled from her backpack was now wrapped loosely around them. His limbs hadn’t ceased their attention; even in the calm, they continued exploring, fondling lazily her thighs, trailing over her hips, giving little affectionate tugs with the suction cups that made her shiver from time to time.

Twilight had crept in almost unnoticed. The deeper parts of the cave were cloaked in shadow now, and the ocean outside was a distant hush of sound against the stone.

“The tide will start rising in a couple of hours,” she murmured, finding his fingers with her own and squeezing gently. “I already can’t see a thing… you’ll probably have to guide me out or I’ll land on my ass four times before reaching the exit.” she tried to joke.

He tensed behind her, and she could feel it, not just in the way his chest rose with a sharp breath, but in the shift of the limbs tensed around her. Her words, so casually spoken, reminded him of something he hadn’t wanted to think about. That eventually… she would leave. That their perfect little moment, suspended in warmth and skin and breath, would end.

A low sigh escaped his lips, and with a subtle flick of his wrist, six soft blue orbs rose into the air, like glowing will-o’-the-wisps. They hovered above and around them, casting a gentle illumination over the cave walls, their skin, and their closeness.

She gasped, and her eyes widened at the soft lights flickering to life. “You didn’t tell me you could do that.”

“You never asked,” he said with dry amusement.

She gave him a look. “You can do more magic, then?”

He shook his head slightly. “No. We all can- more or less. It’s not magic. It’s a hunting trick for the depths. To lure prey.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, still marveling.

“And dangerous,” he countered softly.

She rolled her eyes, then turned her face up slightly to press her cheek to his jaw. “Doesn’t make it less beautiful.”

He hummed, low in his throat. One of his limbs slid lazily along her leg beneath the blanket, his suction cups giving a gentle tug against her skin like he couldn’t bear to let her forget him, not even for a second. “Dangerous things are often the most captivating,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to her shoulder where his mark now pulsed faintly. “You proved that.” She tilted her head back slightly to glance up at him, and despite the low light, she caught the glimmer in his eyes, not just desire this time, but something warmer.

The orbs pulsed softly, casting shadows along the walls, and the tide sang its distant lullaby. The real world was creeping back in, but for a moment longer, they stayed in their own.

Next Chapter

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[uzumaki-rebellion]

Choose One (Chapter 1) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore and Elias "Stack" Moore (characters in the Michael B. Jordan movie "Sinners"). Lena Blackwell (OC).

Warning(s): Adult language, Angst, Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Lena Blackwell works in an illegal after-hours Black & Tan club in Bronzeville where she seduces twin brothers Smoke and Stack. Each brother has qualities she likes and she embarks on an illicit affair with both. All is well until one of the twins starts catching feelings.

Word Count: 3.8K

Masterlist HERE.

"See-line woman (see-line)

Dressed in red (see-line)

Make a man (see-line)

Lose his head (see-line)"

Nina Simone – "See-Line Woman"

She fucked them both.

Smoke and Stack.

Seducing the twin brothers was easy, but confusing at the start.

She met Stack first. The gold in his teeth gleamed in the light of the Sunset Café, one of the most popular Black and Tan clubs in the Bronzeville section of Chicago. Lena Blackwell worked behind the bar instead of the floor, where jam packed circular tables faced an at capacity dance floor moving to the sounds of the latest jazz band snazzed up in tuxedos.

Although the Sunset Café advertised itself as a supper club and a popular music venue, people along the stroll knew it was a higher class speakeasy. Unlike other clandestine establishments with secret code words whispered to get in and concealed entrances to deceive law enforcement and politicians, the Sunset owners paid off low-salaried policeman to look away. Their mob ties kept money in the right pockets to warn of raids and shakedowns from other gangsters. People wanted liquor and any other spirits they could get their hands on in a city that was supposed to be as dry as the Sahara.

Stack slithered over to the far end of the long polished mahogany table with a toothpick wedged between his gums. For over twenty minutes, he rapped to her while she tried to keep the prohibited drinks flowing.

"You should come work for me," he said, sizing her up with blatant lust in his bold brown eyes.

"I'm not a whore for you to put on the stroll, mister. Order another drink or leave me be."

He gave her a crooked grin with his sexy lips, then admired her perfectly coiffed hairdo styled with pin curls and slathered in Sweet Honey Brown pomade. Lena cut him to the quick.

"I know a pimp when I see one," she snapped, mixing drinks for one of the female servers.

"I ain't mean it like that baby. This is a legit business proposition. I'ma go back home and open a juke. I need a talented drink mixer such as yoself."

His delta accent was raspy and thick like overcooked grits. He was one of them sorry souls who migrated from the dirty south. She wondered if his feelings got hurt when he discovered the north was no different than the low down redneck peckerwoods he ran away from.

"Mmm hmm," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I'm serious. Think about it. Lemme have some cold water," he said.

Lena reached down into a false shelf and poured Stack some high grade illegal moonshine. She slid the glass to him and he guzzled it down.

"Stack!"

Lena tilted her head to see the caller.

Well, damn.

The head of the Bronzeville syndicate gestured toward Stack. Ernie Miller, the Black godfather of the south side, was wide in the gut and built low to the ground like a bulldog. A dangerous cat, who carried a switchblade known to cut throats on a whim.

Stack slid a fat wad of cash out of his pocket and laid a crisp twenty on the counter.

"Keep the change for your tip," he said, winking at her.

The change from his tab would cover her rent for two months.

He stuffed the rest of his money in his pocket where a shiny set of brass knuckles dangled, and left the bar to join Ernie. For the first time, Lena took notice of Stack's finely tailored brown suit and the sharp creases in his pants. He had syndicate connections. A gangster. And a good tipper. She watched him enter a secret door in the back and never saw him again that night.

Two days later, as she started work at the bar, she spotted Stack nursing a drink at the far end, listening to an older barfly chat away to him. He drained the last of what was in his glass and Lena offered him some cold water.

Stack looked at her in confusion and shook his head in the negative.

She worked her shift, expecting Stack to hit on her at the bar again, like most men did.

He didn't.

"Cat got your tongue tonight, mister?" she teased, wiping down a spill near his arm from another patron.

He stared at her and then turned away to watch chorus girls tear up the Black Bottom dance in short dresses. Maybe she'd been too curt for him last time, and he took the hint. Ironically, that made her take a sudden interest.

He was tall, fine-looking, and a sharp dresser. She wondered if he smelled as good as he looked. Her eyes stayed on him until he wandered off to take an empty seat next to Ernie in a far left corner with some other broad-shouldered men.

"What was he drinking?" she asked another bartender.

Max, a reed-thin high yella man with a nasally voice, glanced at her.

"A South Side and the last glass was some Smoke."

"Eww, he likes that Smoke shit? That could kill him," she said, crinkling her nose.

"Them ex soldiers like that cloudy fuel alcohol."

"How you know he's an ex soldier?"

Max held out his hand and wiggled it.

"His hands. They shake a little bit. Lotta them war boys came back messed up."

Lena couldn't imagine the jovial man she met the other night acting shell-shocked. She reached under the bar and grabbed some gin. Adding some lime, sugar, and a bit of mint, she made a fresh glass of South Side.

"I'll be right back," she said.

Her heels click-clacked on the floor and she passed several raucous tables enjoying the floor show. Ernie had stepped away to talk to some people two tables over. She placed the South Side in front of the ex soldier.

"Thought you might enjoy this better than that rot gut you were drinking earlier," she said.

He glanced down at the drink and a slow smile raised the corners of his lips. No gold on his teeth. She studied his features, his hair, and the large build of his body. This had to be the same man.

"What they call you around here?" she asked.

"Smoke."

"Not Stack?"

He showed more teeth and some dimples.

"No. Just Smoke."

He had a twinkle in his eye and he chuckled softly.

"Where you from?" she asked.

"Mississippi."

"You really opening a juke down there?"

He squinted at her, but before he could answer, Ernie returned.

"Let's go," Ernie said, grabbing his coat.

The soldier stood and brushed against her. She looked up into his eyes and shivered. He reached down for the drink she prepared for him and sipped it down in front of her.

"Thank you," he said, handing the glass back to her.

She clasped it with both hands, feeling woozy by the scent of his cologne. He grabbed his suit coat, and she glimpsed the gun in a holster strapped to him.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice soft like cotton.

Lena stepped aside and touched her forehead. The man had her breaking out in a sweat.

Two more men caught up to them near the bar and that's when she gasped, seeing double. The man who called himself Smoke greeted his twin brother Stack. Lena returned to her post and Stack peeled back his lips, showing her gold in his mouth. She ended up grinning, and he leaned an elbow on the bar.

"You look even more beautiful when you smile," Stack said.

Staring at them both, she could tell they were physically identical, but the personalities, their auras…so opposite.

One thing was for sure, seeing them together…she was smitten.

And she wanted them both.

Stack usually showed up at the Sunset around nine.

Lena figured out his routine quickly because out of the two twins, Stack liked to party and be around the nightlife the most. He stood out in a crowd of men and the ladies loved him.

The Sunset Café started advertising to lure more women into the place for capitalistic gain. Originally the owners created it as a gentlemen's club, but in order to stay lucrative during prohibition, they had to open up the market to new customers, and women loved to drink.

To hide the odorous stench of bootleg hard liquor that could turn female customers away, new cocktails were created adding syrups and various fruit juices to sweeten the bitter taste. The club manager ordered all bartenders to add more cherries, orange slices, and canned chucks of pineapples in the drinks to appeal to the good-time girls who sought excitement. Especially the white ones.

White women loved the Sunset.

White men loved it too, and the forbidden allure of rubbing shoulders with negroes brought out their lascivious side. Everyone in Chicago knew that colored folks couldn't have their own entertainment spaces without white folks sniffing for some action in the mix. As much as they pretended to hate negro people, they sure couldn't stay away from them. Colored patrons and performers tickled their libidinous fantasies. The best music, the best food, and the best dancing happened on the south side where negroes were crowded together. They didn't call it Bronzeville for nothing.

Lena eyed the entrance. Stack was due to swagger through any minute.

The supper hour kept the bar less hectic as folks ate garnished devilled eggs, green beans, steaks, fried catfish, buttermilk-dipped fried chicken, with the added sides of creamy macaroni and cheese with generous slices of honey cornbread.

Max flipped through his tattered, olive-colored copy of the H.P. Dreambook. A man wearing a turban in front of a crystal ball illustrated the cover. He pestered busboys, servers, and Lena about their dreams so he could search them up in his book and find the corresponding numerical interpretation to play the numbers. Another bartender named Frank polished glasses and worked the other end of the counter.

"C'mon Lena, your turn, what you dream last night?" Max asked.

"I don't really have dreams."

"Everybody dreams. Bernice, what about you?"

Bernice scratched an itch on her prominent nose and thought about her answer while she waited for Lena to pour whiskey into three tumbler glasses.

"The night before, I dreamed about going to Paris and seeing Josephine Baker," Bernice said.

She spun around and shook her hips.

"Y'all think she really dances over there naked wearing bananas?" Bernice asked.

"Lemme see, travel… bananas…dancing…" Max murmured.

He circled numbers in his book with a stubby pencil. Lena placed the drinks on Bernice's tray and tapped her foot waiting for Max. Two other female servers went to Frank to fill their orders.

"Okay…two…twenty-nine…seventeen," Max said.

He reached into his tip pocket and pulled out a coin, handing it to Bernice.

"Give that to Melvin and tell him to combinate my numbers," he said.

"You give your own money to the numbers man," Bernice said.

She flounced away from the bar, and Max sucked his teeth.

Stack strolled in and took off his hat and coat, leaving it with the coat check girl. He surveyed the room and two gleeful white women sauntered over to him.

"Them ofays sure do love them some Big Stack," Max said.

Bernice returned with another drink order. She glanced at Stack, too.

"Can you blame them? Look at him…just a big stiff drink I'd love to pour down my throat."

"Man can't even get into the club without women flocking to him," Max said.

"Those two wait to see him every week. They reserve the table closest to the door to catch him," Bernice added. "I ain't never seen him with anything darker than a paper bag, though."

"That's cuz you and those ladies are at the top of the hierarchy."

"What are you bumping your gums about now, Max?" Bernice sighed.

"Niggas out here go for color first, hair texture second, and shape last. Listen to me…don't roll your eyes…white girls and you lightskins…that would be you Bernice with your mixed ass…are at the top. If a woman ain't that, they'll take a brownskin, like Lena, if they have good hair. But if they can't have number one or two, a woman has to at least have a good shape. See, Bernice here, she only got one and two—"

"I got a cute shape, too! I'm all three!" Bernice protested.

"Not with those knock knees and small tits…anyway, like I was saying…you gotta have what's on that list or you won't get no attention in this club. That's why Lena is behind the bar and not on the floor with you all night getting the fat tips. Facts is facts, and that man over there likes to have all three."

They watched Stack as he charmed the women blocking him from the rest of the club.

"Hmmph. Men are stupid," Bernice huffed. "Miss Two-out-of-three, can I get three shots of rum?"

"Coming right up, Miss Three-out-of-three," Lena said.

Bernice cackled, then took the drinks away.

"I never noticed she had knock knees," Lena whispered to Max.

Stack sauntered over with the women and their loud chatter livened up the counter.

"Hey Max," Stack said.

"Good to see you this evening, Mr. Moore," Max said, taking on his polished bartender voice.

He dropped his dream book under the counter.

"What can I fix for you tonight, sir?"

Max waited for the order. Lena headed over to another patron who wanted hooch.

"Ladies, what would you like to drink?" Stack asked.

The first woman, a shapely red head with narrow features asked for a Sidecar, and the second woman, a wide-eyed brunette, requested a Malört.

"You like that bitter stuff?" Stack asked.

Lena clocked the brunette's curling edges from perspiration, and the slight roundness of her nose. To a regular white person, she could pass as Italian or even a Jewish Russian. However, the hair, the extra curve in her ass, and the nervous fluttery eyes told the truth to Lena. The woman glanced at her; a mutual understanding passed between them that she would be treated as a white woman. Who was she to judge what people had to do to survive a depression?

If Stack knew, he didn't let on. Max gave them their drinks and Stack turned his steady focus on Lena.

"You look real nice tonight, Lena."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," she said.

"When you wear all those curls, it makes your pretty eyes look mysterious—"

"Stack," the redhead interjected.

Her tone came out sharply, saying his name.

"I'm talking, baby, give me a minute," he said.

The bass in his voice caused her lips to bunch up. Her brunette friend sipped the Malört and looked away.

"I didn't come down here to watch you talk to a bartender," the redhead whined.

"Bitch, I don't care what you came here to do."

Max stepped in to de-escalate.

"Mr. Moore, what would you like to have?"

Lena left them to serve other people, and Stack dismissed the two women. He conferred with Max and the floor show began, capturing his attention. Stack loved watching the dancers. He probably ran through most of them based on his reputation. Irritation stretched across his face and Lena served him the moonshine he loved.

"Those girls don't know how to act when you talk to other women," she said.

"I'm tired of them dingy broads anyway. They both have dry coochie and bad attitudes. White bitches love slumming with dark dick, but act all bent outta shape if a colored woman gets a tiny bit of attention."

"You do know one of them is colored, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

He grinned and looked deep into Lena's eyes. She gave him a sly smirk and his eyes drank her in.

"You want some more?" she asked, enunciating each word.

Stack watched her succulent red lips and his gaze dipped to the top of her white blouse, eyeballing the outline of her breasts.

"You undressing me with those eyes, Mr. Moore?"

Dimples.

"I think you're undressing me," he said.

"I been did that," she teased, and sashayed away to serve a counter rush of older men with their mistresses.

She knew he kept his eyes on her ass the way she intended by swinging her hips extra hard.

He loved watching her.

For weeks she acted coquettish and purred his last name any time she served him. Ernie treated him and Smoke as his most trusted muscle men. If he needed an enemy whacked, he sent the Smoke Stack twins with the chopper to deliver a Chicago overcoat first class. Stack strutted around the club with a dominance that aroused her. Most tough guys annoyed her, their performative masculinity a tremendous joke to her.

Not Stack.

He oozed overt power, and she wanted a taste of that in her bed.

"Be careful, Lena, being a gangster's woman ain't the life you want," Max warned on a different night.

He caught her ogling Stack. Lena loved the way his thighs stretched the material of his pants, and she licked her lips at the heavy bulge in the crotch. What she would give to sit on all that hefty weight. She flirted with the gangster using long unblinking stares on him, and lightly touched his hand whenever she served glasses of rum, gin, or the moonshine he liked to call dog soup. Eventually, he would just beeline to the bar to greet her the moment he walked into the club. He only had eyes for her.

Women were easy for Stack to catch because they threw themselves at him. She lured him in night by night, forcing him to chase her, keeping him expectant, and on his toes. The man hadn't chased a woman for a long time and it showed.

Her calculated seduction worked.

He started bringing her things. Diamond earrings. Real ones. Fancy gold hair clips and chocolate candy in heart boxes. He asked around and found out her favorite snack was the roasted peanuts sold a block away on the street from an old German man. He left her small warm bags at the bar before her shift started on Fridays to last her all weekend. She showed up to work one night and Max could barely contain himself. He handed her a large box with a knee-length fur coat inside.

He asked her out a few times, but she played demure, citing the rules of employees not fraternizing with employers.

"Aw Lena. I don't own this place…I work for the man who does. He pays your checks, not me."

"The other girls will be mad if they see me with you."

"Fuck 'em."

"I'll think about it."

He floated for a week after she said that. Like most men, he wanted a slut to fuck in private, but a good girl to woo in public.

A month later, Lena had a rough night with some rowdy patrons. Lower-level men of Ernie's syndicate. Stack had been out of town on business, and she missed interacting with him. His flirty nature kept her work nights fun, and they flew by fast. Without him, they dragged on for hours.

After Lena helped clean the bar area and counted money at closing, the numbers man slid over to Max and handed him a fifteen dollar win.

"Holy shit!" Max shouted.

He turned to Lena, his eyes shiny with joy.

"I'm taking you to Al's Diner for steak and eggs!"

Lena grabbed her coat and purse and walked out of the club with Max. Bernice joined them. They caught a cab to Al's Diner in a seedier area, but the food was delicious. Lena ate her fill and listened to Max make plans to buy his girlfriend new dresses, and a new tailored suit with nice dress shoes to replace the clodhoppers he wore outside of work. Bernice planned a rent party and Lena promised to spread the word and address to their shared apartment building. Max offered to pay for all the food at her party so she could sell dinner plates and keep all the proceeds.

After Max splurged on chocolate malts, she shared another cab ride with Bernice to her second-floor walk-up.

Another week passed, and Stack didn't come to the Sunset. Lena worried that the Italian mafia under Al Capone's orders gunned him down in the windy city or Bugs Moran and the Irish mob caught him slipping and threw him in Lake Michigan. Smoke huddled with Ernie and the other men in their crew, talking animatedly. She made her way around the bar counter. Tensions around the city had been thick among the immigrant groups, but colored folks kept on striving for better. Tempted to ask the other twin about his brother, she felt two muscular arms lift her up when she headed to the secret storage room to retrieve more spirits.

"Stack!"

Her heart triple-thumped in her chest like a train roaring down an uneven track. She turned and threw her arms around his neck instinctively.

"You missed me," he whispered in her ear.

The vibration of his voice along the delicate skin on her neck thrilled her. The breathiness in the shell of her ear heated the blood in her veins.

She kissed him.

Smashed her plump wanton lips across his fuller ones and slipped her tongue past the seam, tasting the strong whiskey on his breath. Their heads slanted for the proper angle to slide warm tongues together. His deep kisses sent love pulses straight down to her toes. Stack tongued her breathless hidden behind an alcove. He cradled her face before pulling away first.

"Damn. I ain't been kissed like that before," he drawled out in his delta accent.

She held his longing gaze in the yellow light of the hanging lamp that dangled above them. As tough as he was, his face looked so gentle and pure up close. Like a big ole puppy that just wanted to play fetch with her heart.

"Go out with me tonight," he asked.

She tickled the facial hair on his chin, then ran a slender finger down the part in his hair.

"How 'bout you go out with me?"

He grinned.

"Where?"

"It won't be nowhere high class like you're used to, but you'll have a good time. Promise."

He lunged for her mouth again, wrapping his beefy arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet.

"Oh, no wonder it's taking you so long to bring those bottles out," her co-worker Frank said.

Lena jerked away from Stack and grabbed the bottles she came for. She rushed past Frank, beaming all the way back to the bar.

Chapter 2 HERE.

A.N.:

Thanks for your patience! It's easier to do little chapters to buy me time to finish it. But y'all read so darn fast though!

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[stevie-petey]

track three: you did me bad

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

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

Rating: mature, lots of swearing and sexual tension

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August, 1989, Mike & Max laugh between rehearsals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They cope with the fear in different ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you fucking high?”

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

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

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

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

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

The tour bus becomes a war zone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And this is where the magic happens.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I try to be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wake!” You hit him again. “Up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

“We have flyers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know who that is?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Who the hell is that?” Max asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know Leonard?” Steve is surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, no shit.”

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

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

The way Gregory talks, with a soft smile around his vowels and genuine interest in what you have to say, you’re struck by how different his charm is from Steve’s. It’s real, delicate, authentic where Steve’s is performative, and there is nothing hidden in the way he looks at you.

“I think dinner sounds great,” you tell him, answering for the band before Steve can shut the idea down. “Don’t you guys agree?”

Max looks around uncertainly, noting Steve’s clenched jaw and your hopeful smile. “I guess I could eat.” 

“Can we order whatever we want?” Mike asks Gregory.

“Within reason, but Leonard did give me his credit card.”

“Then I’m sold.”

Robin forces a smile on her face. “I’ve never said no to free food,” she clears her throat, not so subtly kicking Steve’s shin. “Right, Steve?”

“Whatever.”

You pretend he sounds excited, that his resentful gaze doesn’t brand your skin. “Byers, I take it you’re in?”

“AC sounds nice.” Jonathan grimaces. He’s never been able to hide his discomfort. “I, um. Like AC.”

“Then dinner it is.” Gregory beams at everyone, not at all expecting anyone to return the smile, but smiling anyway because he’s truly happy to be here, to talk to them, to finally meet the Februarys, even if their reception to him is cold.

Your heart flutters again. 

Almost as if he can hear the unusual cadence of your heartbeat, Steve grabs your hand, strokes the underside of your wrist. A silent plea to look at him, but instead you place your hand on Gregory’s arm, walking away.

“So, know any good restaurants around here?” 

– 

Dinner is unbearable.

The restaurant Gregory takes everyone to is a small, local diner that he’s been to a few times during his time as Leonard’s assistant. He promises that the food will be worth the shitty weather, and for a brief second you’re all hopeful that the dinner will go over smoothly.

Then Gregory pulls a chair out for you and helps you sit down before sitting across from you.

Steve bristles immediately, deliberately choosing the seat next to you as retaliation, and the rest of the band has to bite their tongues to keep quiet. 

“So,” Gregory doesn’t wait to explain everything, having already ordered a round of drinks for the table. You wonder if he’s caught on to the group’s tension by now and purposefully selected alcohol as a buffer. “I’m basically here on Leonard’s behalf.”

Steve huffs. “Like his little pet?” 

“If you want to look at it that way, sure.” The laugh that falls from Gregory’s chest only darkens Steve’s already shitty mood. He isn’t reacting how he wants him to. “As I’m sure you all know, there’s three shows left of your tour.”

“We can count.”

You pinch Steve’s side, harsh, and he flinches. “What he means to say is that they’re excited to finally be wrapping up the tour.”

“Well, Leonard’s excited, too.” The waiter comes and sets the drinks down. A simple round of beers, a safe option, and you think Gregory accounted for that as well. “But, Leonard being Leonard, he wants to make sure your final three shows are, well. Uneventful, so to speak.”

Don’t fuck up.

At least Gregory tries to put the threat in a lighter, more optimistic tone. 

“‘Uneventful’ is one way to look at it.” Robin sips her beer, leaning over the table to get a better look at Gregory. “He practically told us not to fuck anything up or else he’ll fuck our lives up.”

The assistant winces. “He… certainly has a way with words.”

“No kidding,” Mike orders two ribeye steaks. “His money doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Wait, you said Leonard sent you to make sure the shows go well?” Max asks Gregory, who nods. “Okay, so what does that mean? Are you our babysitter or something?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no I hope you guys don’t view it as that. Leonard just… really, really needs to make sure there’s nothing that will jeopardize the future of this band. He wants the Februarys to be successful. Believe me. I’m just here as a sort of precaution. All I’m doing is attending the last three shows to tell him what he already knows: you guys are a fucking once-in-a-lifetime band.”

“Or you’ll be an annoying snitch,” Steve spits out. “I mean, how are we supposed to just trust that you won’t go spewing bullshit to him?”

Your face burns in embarrassment at his treatment towards Gregory. “Why are you being such an asshole right now?”

“I’m looking out for my band!” He argues, grabbing a beer and sloshing it around. “I worked too fucking hard to trust some guy named Greg. I mean, who the hell even names their kid that?”

“Your name is Steve.” Gregory points out, though not unkindly, and you’re not sure if you want to kiss him for his unwavering confidence or kick him for antagonizing an already unstable Steve. “But regarding your concern of trusting me, I won’t force you to. That’s entirely your decision. All I can say is that I haven’t heard music like yours since The Velvet Underground. You guys are special. I’m not here to tarnish that.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to say more, but the food arrives and suddenly the tone in the conversation shifts. Gregory eagerly thanks the waiter, charming as ever, and before his eyes Steve watches his band members warm up to the assistant. 

“Leonard is really okay with paying for all of this?” Jonathan asks in disbelief, staring at the sheer amount of food that can’t possibly be finished by them. “I-I mean, this has to be at least a couple hundred dollars.”

“Technically, he told me to do whatever to convince you guys I’m not the enemy.” Gregory shrugs, takes a bite of his burger. “So this will probably be a tax write-off for him.”

“Is that… legal?” Max doesn’t know whether to start with the truffle fries or the salad.

Again he shrugs. “You’ve met my boss.”

The stoic, uncharacteristically dry response makes you snort. Embarrassed, you try to hide it behind a laugh, but Gregory catches the reaction and leans in close to you, as if conspiring, “I heard that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you flick your hair over your shoulder, relishing when Gregory’s eyes follow the movement.

“Don’t worry, it was cute.” He steals a fry, winks at you, before sitting back again.

Robin has to take the steak knife out of Steve’s tight fist.

You don’t see the exchange, too focused on the dimple in Gregory’s left cheek and imagining yourself kissing it.

“Besides music, tell me about yourselves.” He turns back to the group now, though his shoulders lean towards yours, an easy intimacy to him that eats away at you.

Robin tilts her head. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” He says. “I’m all ears.”

One by one, the Februarys start to laugh at Gregory’s jokes. They tell him stories from their early years, explaining how the band formed, where their name came from. Robin lets him try her milkshake. Mike splits his second ribeye with him. Max discovers they’ve both read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and talks animidly with him about it. Jonathan shows him a picture of Nancy and smiles when Gregory says she’s beautiful. 

And you latch onto every word. A breath of fresh air, Gregory’s intelligence and honesty pulls you under the tide like the moon controls the current. 

Steve doesn’t think he’s seen you laugh this much since the winter in the apartment together. The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that he washes down with alcohol. 

“You look like you’re trying to kill the guy with your mind.” Robin whispers in his ear halfway through the night. 

“I fucking want to.” Steve watches you reach across the table to fix Gregory’s glasses. “I want him dead.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Can you save the melodrama for later? I actually like the guy. Don’t scare him off, please.” When the tension in Steve’s jaw doesn’t lessen, she sighs. “Steve, I’m serious. Don’t fuck this up for us. Lay off the beer. Plaster a smile on your face. Pretend you want to be here and that you have your shit together.”

He scoffs. “I’m fine.” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrington.” She grabs his arm, tugs him away from you, and whispers venomously. “I know you, okay? I know you and I love you despite that, but if you continue to throw a hissy fit with the guy who reports directly to Leonard Branham, I will castrate you.”

“I–”

“So, Gregory!” Robin throws a smile back on her face, releasing Steve. “You said you’re from Vermont?”

Steve gets the hint. He shuts up. Puts the beer down. He won’t pretend to play nice, but he at least softens his glare to a sneer, and it’s the most he can offer Robin. 

Eventually the bill gets paid and Gregory walks the band outside. He’s perfectly civil, extending his farewells to everyone with his usual kind smile. “It was wonderful getting to know everyone tonight.”

Steve fucking hates that he seems to mean it.

“Thanks for the food, man.” Jonathan claps Gregory’s back. “It was really good.”

“I think Mike might puke.” Max points to the kid, who clutches his stomach with a red face. “How many steaks did you eat?”

“Not enough,” he pants out. “God, Jonathan can you carry me back to the bus?”

“I really don’t want to.”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell Nancy you let me drink beer tonight.”

“I dread the day I marry into your family,” Jonathan bends down, instructs Mike onto his back, and then turns to Gregory again. “Sorry, but we should go.”

He laughs. “I understand. You two have a good night.”

“We won’t.” They both say at the same time, before Jonathan treks home with Mike on his back.

“We should get going, too.” Steve says, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour. He looks directly at you when he says it, though, completely ignoring Max and Robin who remain. “Right, angelface?”

The name is purposeful, a way to mark you as his in front of Gregory, and the shame of it washes over you in sickly thick waves. 

Your mouth opens, closes, no words come out. Steve stares at you, expectant in a way that isn’t demanding or cruel or even as a way to guilt you. No. He stares at you with the same expectant gaze that you frame on him every night he walks away with the girls he hides behind.

“Actually, Y/N needs to talk to Gregory about something, right?” Robin’s mercy saves you, giving you an out.

“Right,” you nod, finding your voice again. “I, uh. Needed to talk to him about some potential projects.”

The expectancy dies in Steve’s eyes the same way yours does every night. “A project?”

“Yeah.” Your throat squeezing at your lies. “I’ll see you guys back on the bus.”

Robin catches Max’s eyes and they exchange a brief look. They nod, grab Steve’s arms, and drag him away before he can say or do anything else, leaving you alone, finally, with Gregory.

Steve’s protests and yells can be heard deep into the distance, and you almost don’t want to turn back to Gregory, too ashamed to face him.

Only he gently grabs your arm, spins you around, and his head hangs low so that he can coax your eyes to his. “Angelface, huh?”

“It’s just a nickname.” The lie comes out fast, easier than you expect it to. You hate that it does.

If Gregory notices the lie, he doesn’t show it. “I think it’s sweet. Fitting.”

“Is it? I’ve always thought it was an exaggeration.” You brush off his compliment, not wanting someone else to agree with the name meant only for a boy with rosie cheeks.

“It’s not an exaggeration,” Gregory tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, stroking your cheek in the process. “You’re beautiful, Y/N, and, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner all night. A real, proper dinner, just you and me and Leonard’s credit card.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then why haven’t you?”

Gregory sighs. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were already spoken for.”

Your heart sinks. "I…”

“I’m still not sure,” he laughs awkwardly, boyish smile strained. “I mean, I saw Robin hide the steak knives from Steve.”

“He’s just an idiot,” this time it isn’t a lie. “I promise you that that’s all it is.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, though he isn’t accusatory. Only curious, empathetic and understanding. “If there’s something more, I’ll happily back down. We can forget that dinner was ever on the table. I don’t want you or anyone else to think I’m here to cause any harm.”

Fear tightens your vocal chords. “No,” your hand falls to Gregory’s. “No, please listen to me. I’m not Steve’s, and he sure as hell isn’t mine. I want to get dinner with you, Gregory.”

He squeezes your hand. “I just don’t want to cause any problems.”

“You won’t,” you promise him. Another lie. “Now, walk me back to the bus, properly ask me to dinner, and maybe I’ll kiss you goodnight.” 

Gregory smiles, and it’s like a thousand soft raindrops on sun-torn skin. 

He holds your hand the entire way back. His grip isn’t as heavy as Steve’s, it’s lighter, easier, less sacred and sacrilegious. He tells you a story from his childhood, more soft spoken now than he’d been at dinner, as if only your presence requires this gentleness overflowing. 

When you get to the bus, Gregory pulls you so that you lean against its side, and he settles both arms against the bus, encasing you, and his height only makes the sensation of the proximity more pleasurable when he looks down at you. 

“Please, will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’d love that,” you whisper up at him, standing on the tips of your toes, anxious to be even closer to him. “Pick me up after the show?”

His nose dips down to yours. “I’d love that.”

A grin eases its way across your lips, and before you can press them to Gregory’s, he cups your face, kisses your cheek once, twice, and then pulls away.

“Save the kiss goodnight for when I’ve earned it,” he tells you, hand trailing down your arm until he reaches your fingers to bring your wrist to his lips. Only he doesn’t kiss the back of it like Steve does. He kisses the front, the strip of flesh just above your watch. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

The words are murmured against your skin. 

“Goodnight, Gregory,” you exhale.

He feels your eyes on him the entire walk back to his car.

– 

When you walk onto the bus, you find the band caught in a landmine.

Robin sits at the kitchenette with a deck of cards in front of her, untouched. Her stiff posture and tired eyes tell you that it’s been a long night without your presence.

Max and Mike sit at their bunks, hunched over together, pretending to busy themselves with songwriting. Only their instruments aren’t with them and Mike’s nervous fidgeting gives away everything. 

Jonathan lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, a book propped against his chest that he doesn’t bother to pretend to read. 

They all greet you with weak voices, afraid that any sudden movement will set off a stray mine. None of them acknowledge Steve in his bed, his knees drawn in tight, his guitar clutched to his chest, aggressive, almost destructive chords plucked from his fingers over and over again as if he can drown his anger in its melody.

The agonizing sound shrieks in your ears. Max flinches, Robin squeezes her eyes shut, and you know that you have to be the to cross the bomb-ridden field to quell its dull roar. It isn’t fair to your friends otherwise.

Steve doesn’t look up from his guitar. He continues to play a song that you think is from their EP, though the angry way he’s playing it almost makes the song sound foreign, unknown.

“I doubt Lenny will like this version of Lower East,” you sit at the edge of the bed like a bird perched in a barbed cage. “Might be a little too aggressive, even for him.”

His lips don’t turn upwards. His fingers don’t relent at the taut strings. 

You try to relax your spine, moving your hands from your lap onto the bed. The blankets are familiar, worn, remnants of Steve’s childhood home in Hawkins. “I think he’ll love what you guys are working on now, though.”

You’ve heard the early stages of their album, catching snippets between rehearsals and late night writing sessions. You aren’t telling Steve this to appease him or placate him. You tell Steve that Leonard will love his music because you truly believe it to be true. 

“Have you guys thought about what you’ll name the album?” You move so that you’re laying beside him, enough room not to make him feel trapped, but close enough so that your body heat kisses his.

Only Steve still pretends that you don’t exist. His white knuckles clutch the frail instrument and he strums so roughly that the bed shakes with every movement. 

Swallowing back your anger, your eyes close. 

“You have slept with every girl in every goddamn state.”

The screech of stopped chords tell you that you finally have his attention.

“You get fucking wasted and sleep with the first warm body you find. And then you crawl into my bed when you’re finished. Every single fucking night.” A cold laugh snags at your clenched teeth. “You don’t get to be a fucking asshole to me just because I smiled at someone who isn’t you.”

The vitriol that laces Steve’s laugh cuts your skin. “What, so you decided to try and make me jealous? Is that it? You think that’ll get you my attention?”

You stumble off the bed, exasperated laughter foaming over your fury. 

“Oh, you think I want your attention? Please, a fucking mannequin with tits is enough to get your limp dick hard.” Steve’s lips part in shock, but you’re furious. “I-I mean, I’m already yours, Steve!”

You’re screaming now, uncaring of the fact that the rest of the band members are only a few feet behind you. Your body shakes, your throat burns, but Steve’s cruel, callous eyes blind you with upset and insecurity. 

“Jesus fuck, I’m yours. All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about!” You’re laughing, only it comes out tight, incredulous. Steve sits in his bed and you bend down, eye to eye; you’ve always known exactly who he was. “But you can’t promise me that, can you?”

Steve doesn’t flinch at your vicious words. He stares straight back into your eyes, skin crawling when he feels everyone else’s gaze on him. He’s hyper aware of their presence. Their bodies are too close, he wishes he hadn’t started this argument with witnesses. He hates that he’s trapped himself on a bus that he can’t escape.

But he had. Now he pays the price for it, biting his tongue, biting back a promise he hates that he can’t give you. Not with them here. Not with anyone else present.

Steve thinks he sees tears rimmed around your eyes when your manic laughter dies and all you can say to him is, “Then it’s your fault if I mess around.”

And then you leave, throwing yourself into Robin’s seat at the kitchenette, as far away from Steve as possible.

He doesn’t talk for the rest of the night.

You end up sleeping in Robin’s bunk. Her body isn’t as warm as Steve’s, but it’s softer, plush, comforting to rest your head on as you cry. She pulls her blankets over the two of you so that no one else will see your tears. She hums random songs to disguise your sniffling. 

“Steve’s a jackass,” Robin whispers into your ear, drying the tears that spill out. “Ignore him, alright? You’re allowed to flirt with cute boys named Gregory who drive hot Camaros.” A wet laugh, though Robin is happy to hear the shadow of your normally bright one. “C’mon,” she pokes your stomach, “tell me all about Greg.”

And you do.

– 

Sometime in the morning, Steve wakes up before everyone else, grabs his guitar, and slips through the doors. He doesn’t leave a note, he doesn’t tell anyone where he’s gone, and though a part of you is worried, you can’t help but be thankful for his absence. 

Robin heats you up some oatmeal and dabs your puffy eyes with a cold cloth. She sets coffee in front of you and kisses your exhausted cheek and sits down at the table next to you as if the weight of Steve’s cruelty doesn’t hang over her as well.

Everyone tries to go about their usual morning routines, though it’s difficult with the ever present worry that Steve has finally slipped through their fingers, gone for good.

You try to distract yourself with film. Claiming the kitchenette as your office, you carefully mix together the chemicals, spread out the rolls of film you’ve combed through a million times now, and get lost in the hypnotic sequence of developing the photos. 

“I don’t think ‘running after a venom kiss’ lands well,” you hear Robin chastise across the bus in Mike’s bed with him next to her. “I get what you’re trying to say, but it sounds like a shitty Spider-Man villain.”

He frowns, furiously erasing what he’s written. “What about ‘fighting though vicious lips’?”

“Too sexual, and that’s not what we’re going for. Not for this song, at least.”

“‘Soothing words on velvet faux lips’?”

“Now you’re just stitching v-words together.”

You set a photo down. “What about ‘chasing vitriol with someone’s lips’?”

Robin doesn’t expect to hear your voice, but when she thinks through what you’ve said, she hums, nods, and quickly writes the lyric down. “Not bad, L/N.”

“Where’d that come from?” Mike raises an eyebrow at you, the closest he’s come all morning to asking about what happened last night.

Except you don’t want any pieces of it to remain. Rather than feed into his question, you simply shrug at him and go back to your work.

About midday, an hour before the bus is set to drive the final few miles to tonight’s venue, Steve slams through the doors, storms past you and everyone else, and locks himself in the bathroom. 

Despite his aggressive return, there’s a collective exhale of relief.

– 

The venue for Kenosha is bigger than Milwaukee's had been. A large lounge area encircles the dressing room, spacious enough to house a small crowd with floor length mirrors built into the walls. The reflective space borders on disorienting, but Gregory looks around in awe and endearing excitement. 

“Oh, this is just fucking cool!” He stands before one of the mirrors, his reflection reflected in the dozens of mirrors behind him. He spins around, looks at himself from the other side, and laughs even harder. “God, this would be terrifying if you were high.”

“Stand still,” you aim your camera at Gregory, giggling when he poses like a comic-hero. In the corner of the frame, you spot Mike’s middle finger sticking up. “You’re in my shot, Wheeler.”

“Considering we’re in a mirror-hell, I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. You can practically see everything in here.”

Steve yanks at his shirt, undoing the first row of buttons with unneeded force. “Fucking tell me about it,” he mumbles, bitter, unable to look away from your eyes shining up at Gregory.

“Tell me, was the keyboard custom made?” The man in question points at Robin’s multicolored keyboard.

“I painted it myself, actually.” She beams in pride.

Gregory whistles, ignoring the steely glares he feels from Steve. “If I gave you my violin, would you paint something on it for me?”

Steve wants to bash his head against the mirrors. Of course he fucking plays the violin. 

Asshole. 

You haven’t looked at Steve since he got back earlier and he really, really misses your voice. This is the longest he’s gone without hearing rosie fall from your lips. Yet here you are, giggling at someone else’s jokes, wasting your film on someone who isn’t him, and Steve thinks that maybe it’ll always be this way.

Gregory’s presence reinvigorates the band, even if it enrages Steve. He’s able to get Max to smile for your pictures again. He poses with Jonathan, holds the drumsticks up like medals. He plays a game of rock-paper-scissors with Mike and the winner’s triumphant smile gets captured by you. Robin throws her legs across Gregory’s when they sit on the couch together and you take a picture of her purple skirt over his denim jeans. 

With the endless mirrors surrounding him, Steve can’t escape any of the images. 

By the time they’re called onto the stage, he’s never been more grateful to perform. 

Gregory stands next to you in the security area. His height makes him impossible to miss in the crowd, and despite Steve’s best efforts, he can’t stop looking at the way your body seems to fit so well beside Gregory’s.

What burns the most, Steve thinks, is that for the first time since yesterday he has all of your attention, your viewfinder always on him, taking only his picture as he performs. The art is meant only for him, yet Steve knows that if you had a choice, you wouldn’t choose him to be your muse.

And what a cruel reminder it is. 

The concert nears its end and you adjust your aperture in preparation of the pinks and purples that cloud Rosie’s stage for the finale. You fiddle with your camera, head down, not paying attention to what’s happening on stage, until you hear the click of a mic and Steve’s introduction of the song. 

“I need to ask you guys something,” he says to the screaming crowd. “It’s a serious question, so bear with me, alright?” A variety of agreements and promises cheer through the audience, and Steve licks his lips. “God, I knew I could rely on you guys. Okay, when you hear the word ‘rosie’, what color do you think of?”

“Pink!” “Red!” 

Back and forth the crowd debates. 

Steve draws the mic up to his lips. “See, when I hear ‘rosie’, I think of red myself. But isn’t it ironic that red also makes me think of anger? I mean, isn’t it supposed to be associated with love or some other shit like that?”

A slight murmur of confusion washes over the audience. Steve’s charismatic performance slips, ever so slightly, and they’ve sensed it.

Max eyes him, unsure what to do, and none of the other band members seem to know what to do with Steve’s odd comments, either. 

A long pause stretches, almost unbearably long, but Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything else. Robin assumes this to be her cue to start Rosie and begins the melodic lullaby keys for it, only for Steve to suddenly grab the mic and surprise everyone with a completely different song.

For the first time since the start of the tour, he doesn’t perform Rosie. 

It takes you a moment to recognize they’re the lyrics to Cool it Down by the Velvet Underground. The song you once suggested the band cover, before a tour was ever on the table, before they even had any other songs to perform, simply because Steve had told you a story from his childhood. 

Robin’s fingers fumble on the keys, creating a disjointed sound that clashes with Steve’s voice. She grimaces at the sound, her face red with embarrassment, and it’s Jonathan who’s the first in the band to recover from Steve’s sudden change to the setlist, following the beat to a song that isn’t theirs, while Robin and the others slowly catch up. 

You better cool it down.

Oh, baby, cool it down.

Steve stares straight at you, never faltering in the song that he knows has just as much meaning to you as it does to him. He leans down, stares past your lens, a pink haze of smoke swirls around his disheveled hair.

Gregory’s hand rests carefully on your waist, blocking you in. 

In this lighting, you wonder if you can hate Steve with the halo that shines down upon him through your camera. 

– 

Gregory doesn’t recognize the wreckage he runs into, face beaming, after the show. He’s ecstatic, running around from member to member, talking a mile a minute. 

“You guys are fucking incredible!” He grabs Jonathan’s shoulders, shaking him, and you have to gently pry him off your friend. 

“Try not to kill your boss’ talent, Gregory.” You tease, smiling.

He steps back sheepishly. “Sorry, I just haven’t seen a show like that since I was a teenager and my dad took me to see Springsteen. I mean, it was an almost perfect performance, just be careful not to play the wrong songs when Leonard gets here.”

The temperature in the room drops at the mention of the setlist change. Gregory doesn’t register it, he doesn’t understand that he’s in a minefield now as well. 

But Steve does. 

He clenches his jaw, hissing through his teeth, “It won’t happen again.”

Gregory’s eyes widen slightly at the unexpected rage. Steve had been cruel to him last night, immature, but he had attributed it to his interest in you and his protectiveness of his band. Now, seeing the deep hatred in Steve’s eyes, Gregory understands that there’s more to his anger than he can ever know. 

“Well,” he coughs awkwardly, knowing he’s overstayed his welcome. “I should get going, but I just wanted to say again that you guys were amazing tonight. Truly. I have no doubt that Leonard has nothing to worry about.”

Robin manages a small smile. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Not a problem at all,” then, salt in the wound, he turns to you, “I’ll wait outside?”

“Yeah,” your head jerks a nod, uncoordinated, aware of Steve’s eyes on you. “I’ll, um, meet you in a couple minutes.”

Gregory squeezes your hand and leaves with even more praise for the band, unyielding in his charm, warming the room before the inevitable storm comes. The second the door closes behind him, Robin rounds on Steve.

“You changed the fucking setlist?” She screams so loud in his face that everyone stumbles back, momentarily blinded by her fury.

“It was just one song,” he tosses his guitar onto the couch and rolls his eyes. “Why the hell does it matter?”

“It matters because you didn’t tell us!” Robin grabs at his shirt, pulling him back so that she can force him to look at her. “I looked like a goddamn idiot on stage!”

“You didn’t look like an idiot, Robin.” Jonathan reassures her, though when he turns to Steve, his patience slips into disappointment. “She’s right, though. You can’t just change the setlist whenever you feel like it.”

Mike flicks a guitar pick, watching it thud off of Steve’s head in pleasure. “Yeah, you’ve been a control freak for weeks, but now when Leonard’s freakishly tall spy joins you’re a selfish asshole?”

“You can act out when we’re alone,” Robin’s grip on Steve’s shirt tightens, they’re nose to nose as she spits in his face. “You can be a malicious bitch when Leonard isn’t watching, but that’s the last goddamn time you pull a stunt like that. Don’t fucking ruin this for me, for us.”

“Ruin it?” He laughs incredulously. “I’m the reason why Jonathan recovered so well from the setlist change!” He stabs at his own chest with every word. “Those were my rehearsals that prepared him for the change. I’ve been the one holding this fucking band together! For years it’s been me keeping us afloat, finding our venues, encouraging Jonathan to join, buying your goddamn keyboard, practically begging Mike’s and Max’s parents to let them live their dreams!”

He sucks in a harsh breath, eyes cold and face broken. “Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.”

“Then where have you been this entire fucking tour?” Max shoves Robin aside, sick of the hypocrisy. “Huh? Where the fuck have you been since we left New York?” She laughs in his face. “What, you don’t remember? Did you forget that every night you get drunk off your ass and fuck every girl you can find? Did you forget that you abandon us the second our shows are done so you can go get shitfaced with complete strangers who don’t care for anything other than your saggy dick? Did you forget all that?”

Something cracks under the surface of Steve’s indifference. A twitch of his mouth, a sting in his eyes, but Max sees it and cuts even deeper, no longer respecting the boy she grew up admiring.

“Did you forget that it’s been Y/N holding us together while you’ve gone and done fuck all else?”

He stumbles back, the lash of Max’s viscous words severing the last of his resolve. His body collides into Robin, only she doesn’t catch him. Not this time. He barely regains his balance, nearly deafened by the silence that follows Max’s death kill. 

The mask falls. His head spins around in a dizzying manner, looking at his childhood friends like a little kid, lost in a grocery store, terrified and alone. His face bears no trace of the anger that marred it only seconds ago.

Steve would do anything for the Februarys. From the very first day you met him he’s made this evident. He’s bled himself dry for them, given everything he can for the chance to make them happy, to hold their hands through the journey, to be a rockstar with his best friends, to be their leader when they call out to him in need.

Somewhere along the way he lost sight of that.

He’s only now realized how far he’s fallen.

“Steve,” your breath comes out more like a plea, a conciliation. You turn to him like a hunter does an injured deer, aching to patch his wounds.

He’s all alone.

And he knows it. Steve pushes past you, pushes past everyone, and the slam of the door echoes the weight of grief that plagues the room.

No one sees him for the rest of the night. 

Steve doesn’t return to the tour bus. In the end, you cancel your date with Gregory. You don’t have it in you to plaster a smile on your face when you’re wracked with guilt over what’s happened tonight. 

You apologize over and over again, but Gregory frustratingly understands it all. He tells you it’s okay, that he doesn’t spite you for caring about your friends.

The hollow cavern in your chest rattles at the thought of Gregory referring to Steve as your friend, but you don’t correct him. It’s easier for you not to. 

– 

You’re up before everyone else in the morning.

The sun rises over the crest of mountains, pinks and oranges glisten in the distance. The stiff, humid air clings to your skin uncomfortably. The rest stop the bus resided in for the night lays deserted. You’re the only ones there.

You find yourself missing Dustin’s endless rambles. He would’ve loved talking with Gregory, both of them fond of mechanics. 

Sitting outside the bus, picking at the dirt underneath, Gregory finds you. He doesn’t say anything. He simply sits down beside you and the sun continues to ascend the sky. He watches your side profile. You watch the skyline for any sign of Steve.

When you see his figure stumbling home, you run straight to him. “Steve!”

He doesn’t react to your presence. His bleary eyes can barely focus on you. The bridge of his nose is sunburned, his hair freckled with dirt and debris, his pants torn at the knee and his shirt reeks of booze. 

“Oh, rosie,” you carefully touch his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

Steve’s cracked lips bleed a smile. “I know.”

You help him into the bus, careful not to move him too fast in fear of overwhelming him. Gregory stands back, aware that his presence will only provoke Steve. Once he’s on the bus, you turn back to the other man and smile apologetically.

“I should get him cleaned up.” A dismissal, one that Gregory nods at.

“Alright,” he turns to go, but hesitates. “You know, there’s almost a two hour drive to Chicago. Are you… sure you want to ride with them?”

Your mouth turns down. “Where else would I go?”

“You could ride with me?” He’s hopeful. Naively so.

“I’m sorry,” all you seem to do lately is apologize for Steve’s behavior. “But it doesn’t feel right leaving the band like this. They need me.”

“Steve needs you.”

Your body tenses. “If you see it that way.”

“I’ll see you at the venue, Y/N.” Gregory still kisses your hand before you leave.

Steve has thrown himself into bed when you finally close its doors. The rest of the band sleeps, the early hour still fresh. You make your way to him, quiet, no wanting to disturb the others. When you reach him, he moves to the side, silently asking you to lay with him.

You do.

He curls around you, a tight ball of shame and loneliness. Holding Steve, you can feel the ridges of his spine through his thin t-shirt. You’re not sure when he falls back asleep, or when you join him, but eventually you’re woken up to Robin’s morning chatter and Jonathan’s tired yawns.

“Good morning,” Robin says politely to you when she sees you awake. “I made you coffee.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, Steve’s soft breaths still asleep. 

She nods, eyes only on the boy in your arms, before going back to her conversation with Jonathan. Mike and Max are in their own world, slowly waking up themselves. The usual morning routine remains undisturbed from last night’s fury.

Soon the bus starts to move and Kenosha fades into the distance. You let Steve sleep for the first hour of the journey. It’s a quiet drive, no one really speaks besides the occasional comment on the scenery. You’re left alone with him, which you’re thankful for.

It doesn’t take much to wake Steve up, and even though you brace for his unrelenting malice, he’s gentle when he awakens. He listens to your soft commands to shower. He doesn’t put up a fight or scream or demand his independence. Instead, he obliges.

He only tries to push you away after he’s showered and you try to soothe his burned face with some cooling lotion you stored in your bag.

“I’m fine,” Steve insists, scrunching his face to ward off your tender care. 

Now it’s your turn to ignore his pleas, resting your entire weight against him on the bed instead. He craves the heat, he misses having you in his arms, and you use this weakness to get what you want. “You’re extra rosie today,” you smear the lotion on his nose, smiling when he shivers. “I’m just trying to help.”

He crumbles immediately, melting into the bed beneath him. He wishes he could melt completely into you. But the physics of it aren’t possible, so he settles for resting his hands on your hips. “Fine.”

You smile, victorious, and Steve doesn’t think he can believe in a heaven when there’s already an angel in his arms. 

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you. In the safety of Steve’s bunk, there are no prying eyes. It’s just you with him and your soft scent of the soap you’ve stolen from him and your gentle, ever present warmth. 

Here, with you on top of him, Steve feels the most human. 

“I shouldn’t have treated you how I did the other night.” He confesses, nose pressed to your neck. Where it belongs. Where he hopes he can always keep it. “I was awful to you then and even worse last night.”

“You were pretty miserable to be around,” you twist his hair in your fingers, staring up at your mattress above. Tucked in the corner is a polaroid of you and Steve, laying in the exact position that you are now. “What you said really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” You feel the graze of his eyelashes against your skin as his eyes close. “I don’t like who I’m becoming.”

Your fingers still in his hair, the strands wrapped around them. He’s offering you a piece of himself as he says this. Vulnerability where he normally exudes bravado. The action makes your chest ache even more. Swallowing, you tell him what you hope he’ll be able to understand one day.

“Then change who you’re becoming.”

He laughs, not cruel, not mean, but tired, exhausted. “It’s that easy, huh?”

“It is,” you flick his ear, turning his broken laugh into a true, Steve Harrington laugh that bellows in his stomach and coats his cheeks pink. “It’s that easy, Steve.”

“Alright!” His laughter turns to giggles when your fingers find his sides and attack him. “I-I’ll be nice to Gregory, stop! I-Christ, I’ll make it up to you once the tour is done!”

I’ve already forgiven you, you think, smiling down at his joyous face.

His laughter fills the cold bus with warmth once again. Jonathan sighs in relief at the sound.

–

Chicago is the biggest venue of the tour. The grand finale, as Leonard would say. With the largest capacity and two completely sold out nights, the Februarys step inside cautiously, staring up in awe at the ribbed ceiling and elaborate furnishings in the dressing room.

A long, white couch lines the stark black wall. On the other side, mirrors sit on top of vanities with every possible accessory needed. Lights shine along the mirrors’ edges, golden and honeyed. Every amp of every kind litter the floors, spare guitars hang above, excess instruments at their disposal in an almost greedy capacity. 

“Holy fuck,” Max places a careful hand on a royal blue guitar. “This is all for us?”

“Leonard wanted you to have the very best for your final two shows.” Gregory sets down a crate of champagne. “This is for you as well, and don’t worry, it’s store bought.”

The smile Steve gives him is tight, strained, but at least he’s trying. He told you he’d be civil with Gregory, and at the very least he can thank him for the generous gift. “Thanks. We, uh. Didn’t necessarily enjoy the homemade stuff he sent us.”

“Jesus, did you drink it?” Gregory gags. “I’m so sorry. He told the NYPD he’d stop sending people his basement liquor.”

“He didn’t.” Jonathan clutches his stomach. The ghost of his pain from the liquor eminent. “He definitely didn’t.”

Mike pats his back sympathetically and Gregory shakes his head. “Well, I guess I have some phone calls to make when I’m back in New York.”

Everyone laughs, though Steve’s smile borders on a grimace. You can practically see him biting his tongue in a desperate attempt to remain polite. He isn’t his charming self, far from it, but his effort to keep his promise to you is more than you ever could’ve hoped for. 

When no one’s looking, you quickly stand on the tips of your toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” you mumble against the skin, lingering for longer than you need, not quite knowing how many more times you’ll be allowed this small privilege of kissing the crest of his cheekbone. 

Instinctively Steve’s hand comes to your waist and he holds you against him. The moment lasts less than a second, yet it feels like a lifetime passes before he finally lets go enough for you to pull away.

And when you do, you laugh at the lipstick stain that paints his face. Steve looks at you, confused, but you simply grab your camera and take a picture of the pink shimmer upon his tanned skin. 

“What was that for?” He asks you, narrowing his eyes in teasing suspicion. 

You wipe the lipstick off, saddened to see it go, but selfishly happy only you got to witness it. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Something akin to intimate worship washes over Steve’s face, melting his hardened features into an oil painting of love and adoration. The painting before you catches your breath. There is no form of art that could ever capture his beauty. 

“Y/N, can you help me with my hair?” Max’s voice breaks the moment.

Steve steps back. Your hand drops. “I’ll be right there,” you tell her, not quite ready to look away from him yet.

“Go,” he tells you. “I’ll see you on stage.”

Reluctantly you step away. 

Max wants her hair in braids, so you help pin the mess of hair up and twist her red curls around your fingers. In the corner of your eye you see Robin and Gregory talking, laughing occasionally, while Jonathan and Steve stand in their own corner, heads low, discussing something you can’t hear.

Mike has a field day with the instruments. He fiddles with a bright gold electric guitar and Steve has to gently chide him that it wouldn’t be the best idea to try out a new instrument during the show. 

A familiar energy returns to the room. Banter between Mike and the older boys. Max’s quick wit joining in. Robin dotting glitter onto Steve’s eyelids, giggling together like school children. The spillover of last night’s argument doesn’t exist at this moment, and you relish in the photos you take of the Februarys, whole again, at least for now.

“Alright, guys.” Steve gathers everyone around, minutes before the show. “It’s just us, okay? I mean it. It’s just the five of us. On and off the stage, we have each other.” 

A deviation from the traditional just us just us just us mantra.

The Februarys look at Steve and he allows them to see his regret. He allows them to see his genuine love for the group and his nail-grip hold of success that he craves. 

“It’s just us on that stage. It’s always been just us. It will always be just us.”

“Just us,” Robin repeats back to him, her smile rivaling the sun. 

“Just us!” The others chant.

Steve’s eyes shine. Whether from tears or from gratitude, you aren’t sure. All you know is that he shakes his head, as if he can’t believe that his band is real, and says the words they’ve all been waiting for. 

“Showtime.”

Despite everything, the Februarys best performance happens on their first night in Chicago. 

Steve infects the lively audience with his endless charm. He leaves them wilted in his hands, leaves them screaming his name and everyone else’s. The roar of their demand for more vibrates the venue’s walls. 

The biggest crowd of their entire career falls to their knees the moment Steve’s pretty mouth sings the songs he’s dreamed of creating since he snuck into his parent’s bedroom one day and listened to a rock album that changed his life forever. 

Fans scream when Max and Robin do their handshake, never once missing a step in their sacred tradition. They scream when Mike’s electric solo comes up between the chorus of a song dedicated to his sister. They scream when Jonathan’s drumsticks break and he pulls new ones out from his jacket and they erupt into a frenzy when Steve’s shirt slips down his shoulder and his collarbones wink at them. 

Each and every moment, your camera documents it all. 

“Lenny’s going to fucking love them!” Gregory shouts in your ear in between songs, tall frame dancing to the beat that has already ended. 

His words make you falter, camera half-raised to your face now dropping back down. It hits you, then, that tomorrow night will be the final performance. The show that will make or break the Februarys’ entire career. 

One more night, and then it’s all over. 

No more shitty roadside restaurants. No more walks through national parks. No more cramped bunk beds and Steve’s hot breath on your skin.

A deep sadness ebbs its way into your chest. You’ll miss the small moments from the tour more than anything else. Homesick for something that isn’t quite gone yet. 

“I know he will,” you shout back to Gregory. It’s your only comfort, knowing that tomorrow night Leonard will see the band performing and finally sign them, finally give them the album they’ve always wanted. “He’ll fall in love with them.”

It’s impossible not to fall in love with the Februarys. 

The sad ache in your chest dissipates when Steve takes center stage and basks in the pinks and purples of the stage light. Rosie is next. He opens his arms to it, he embraces the song, and you’re falling hard and fast. 

“This next song was inspired by lullabies,” he says into the mic, his nose ring catching in the light. “I thought it was a nice contrast. They put you to sleep, but my girl keeps me awake all night long.”

Jonathan slams his drumsticks together and Steve cheers and suddenly the song starts and he smiles sickly sweet at you from the very first note. He sings the song to you like he used to, like the very first night when he ambushed you with such a raw devotion, and for this small fragment of time everything is rosie. 

After the show you’re in Pennsylvania again and it’s the first night of a three month tour that will change your life forever. You’re running through twisted hallways, desperate and weak, searching for a boy that’s made of stars and strings, and when he finally finds you, you’re in his arms again just like that very first night. 

Breathless laughter falls from your chest. Steve spins you around, his tired body alive with yours so close. He whispers angelface angelface angelface into your exhilarated skin and you’re sugarcoated in his love. 

“Did you enjoy the show?” He asks after he’s finally set you down. He yearns for your approval, to hear your praise. 

“You’re a fucking rockstar,” you grip his arms, needing something to steady your vibrating body. His flesh is soft beneath your tight grip and he doesn’t flinch at the way your fingers bruise it. “You’re-you’re incredible, rosie.”

Time is a fickle thing, because when Steve’s bashful smile crosses his face, for a moment you think you’re back in New York, laying in your bed with him promising you that he could never forget you, even when he becomes a rockstar.

But the present tears into you when Gregory’s arm falls over your shoulders. “Y/N’s right, Steve. You have such natural talent on stage.”

“Thanks,” he ducks his head, not uncomfortable, but not at ease, either. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Gregory smiles wide at the small compliment from Steve. He’s been eager to appease him ever since he stepped out of his Camaro at the park a few days earlier. “No problem, man,” then, lost in his small win, he forgets the context behind the former animosity and says to you, “so, ready for our date?”

Without meaning to, your body braces for the impact of Steve’s upset. A wince slips from your lips and you close your eyes, preparing for the worst.

Except Steve surprises you. He claps a hand on Gregory’s shoulder, a jovial smile offered to him as he does so. “Good luck on your date, buddy.” Then he turns to you, endless in his surprises. “Get home safe, okay?” 

You blink. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. “I will,” you finally say, timid smile gracing your own lips. 

Steve nods, winks at Gregory, and then walks back to his bandmates. They wait for him by the stage door. Leonard has bought them hotel rooms to celebrate their final two shows. A luxury that they’ve been afforded. There are no girls who await Steve’s exit. 

He goes with his bandmates, his friends, home.

– 

Gregory walks you to a dive bar not far from the venue. A hole in the wall, the candlelit tables and soft jazz creates a quiet and intimate atmosphere. Lined in brick, the bar reminds you so much of the ones in the East Village that you can almost taste the homesickness on your tongue.

“This place is beautiful,” you say to Gregory as he pulls a chair out for you. “Have you been here before?”

He sits across from you. “A few times. I rarely get to do anything nice while running Leonard’s errands.”

“And am I an errand?”

“If you are, then you’re the best errand I’ve agreed to.”

You snort, grabbing the menu in front of you. Expensive wines and cocktails laced between craft beer and well shots. Something for everyone. “What do you recommend?”

An ease falls between you, then. Gregory recites his favorite drinks to you with detailed notes about each one. He makes you laugh, he shares his white wine with you to offset your red. Several times throughout the night he calls you beautiful. He asks you about your childhood, asks which artists inspired your work, asks whether you think you’ll ever settle down in New York. 

Gregory’s pinky skims your hand when you reach over to fix his glasses, and for a brief second, your skin shivers pleasantly at the contact, delighted at the sensation of something new. 

With his face illuminated in the candlelight, you watch the shadows cast over his delicate features and mourn the reality that you met him too late, under the wrong circumstances, in the wrong context. 

Maybe if you had met Gregory in a coffee shop one day in Manhattan. Maybe if you had crossed paths ducking into the rundown shop to escape the rain. Maybe if your eyes had connected from across the room. Maybe if had introduced himself to you then with the shy smile you’re weak to. Maybe if you had never known Steve Harrington’s lips on your skin. 

Maybe you could’ve fallen in love with Gregory had everything been different. Maybe you could’ve really loved him, been something beautiful together.

But you met him in a park in Wisconsin, far from Manhattan. Steve’s arms had been wrapped around you, his tattoo kisses already engraved under your skin. 

Your heart already knows Steve. It didn’t leave space for anyone else.

And you fucking hate it. 

Gregory tells you about Vermont and its snow. A vivid storyteller, the way he describes his childhood makes you feel as if you’ve grown up with it as well. He follows every anecdote with more drinks and, ashamed, you drink more than you should to mask the gnawing in your chest that Steve still somehow embeds himself in your skin. That he’s ruined something beautiful yet again. 

Time passes. You’re not sure how long or if you’ve contributed anything more than polite hums to Gregory’s night, but he doesn’t seem to mind your unusual silence. 

He pays the tab and walks you back to the hotel. He holds the elevator door open for you. His nails scratch tenderly on your hand, drawing small patterns into the skin while the floors pass by you one by one. 

The elevator stops at the tenth floor. Gregory lets you get off first, ever the gentleman, and even this small act of kindness digs into the cavity that you call a chest. 

He doesn’t deserve this. 

Numb, you lead Gregory to your door. You try not to look at Steve’s door, his room nestled next to yours, as you walk past. The lights are off. You don’t hear anything from the other side. 

“I had a great time tonight,” Gregory risks pulling you by the waist, drawing you closer, as he rests against your doorframe. His addicting height leans down to you. All you see are his green eyes that your mother would’ve loved. “I’m glad we were able to do this. At least once.”

Your head falls back, wondering if you've misheard what he’s said. “Once…?”

“I wasn’t the one floating through your pretty head tonight.” He looks down at you, a confusing mixture of regret and fondness dot along his face, just as his freckles do. 

You hiss in a breath. “Gregory–”

“It’s alright, Y/N.” His lips land on the crown of your head. No one has ever kissed you there, not even the sun on days you’ve drowned in her warm. Soft intimacy that can never be yours. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he wipes the tears that fall. You will never deserve him. “I’m so really sorry.”

Gregory must’ve envisioned meeting you in a coffee shop, too. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

He kisses you. Yet even this isn’t a selfish act. He kisses you because he knows that you would’ve loved being woken up to his lips each day just as much as he would’ve loved waking up next to you. 

The kiss is soft, slow. He kisses you as if he has all the time in the world, and you suppose in this lifetime, he has to make up for the lost time.

Gregory doesn’t say anything when he breaks the kiss. All he does is look down at you one last time, memorizes the face that would’ve been his for a lifetime, before he finally leaves.

His footsteps grow quiet the further he walks. You stand outside your door, unmoving, listening to the sound of the elevator’s bell signaling its arrival, taking him away from you for good. 

The moment Gregory’s gone, your numb body finds its way to a room that isn’t yours. 

White gripped knuckles knock against the doorframe once, twice.

Steve answers. Of course he answers.  

And he doesn’t seem surprised to see you. 

He steps to the side, wordlessly offering you to come in. A moment passes where you hesitate, don’t allow yourself to move. It’s only when he reaches for your hand, bridging the chasm, that you finally give in. 

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.”

A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Steve doesn’t react to what you’ve said. He stands before you and watches as your shaking fingers manage to uncork the bottle and bring it to your greedy mouth. 

“I mean,” the tarte liquid burns. “I’m fucking furious at you. Gregory is a perfectly good guy and we had a perfectly good night where he asked me interesting questions and held my hand and called me beautiful,” you drink again, trying to burn away the guilt that settles in your stomach, “but when he kissed me all I could think about was you.”

You shouldn’t be telling him this. You shouldn’t be twisting the already tangled strings between you, but the wine coats your tongue and Steve’s brown eyes melt your integrity.

He doesn’t give you the reaction that you consciously aren’t even aware that you’re seeking. He simply shrugs at your fury, takes the wine from your hand, and tips it into his own mouth. Long, slow, sips drain from the bottle. 

When he’s done, Steve sets the bottle down, grabs your unsteady hips, and falls against the couch behind him. You land on his chest, unphased by the inevitable fall. You’re used to his insatiable hands and you’re tired and confused and too angry to not fall back into the familiarity of it all. 

The force of the fall brings the tip of his nose to your cheek. You can smell the wine on his breath, see the red that stains his lips. His calm expression admires you, studies the conflict on your face. 

“What did you think about me while he kissed you?” 

His whispered question follows the heavy weight of his hands. They start at the center of your spine, rubbing at the ridges, then down to the small of your back, to the exposed strip of skin that gets revealed to him when your shirt rides up, down the swell of your ass, until they finally hook over your thighs and he forces them open, pulling you so that you straddle him. 

“Tell me,” he’s still so soft with you. Whispering, massaging your stomach with his tender fingers, hesitating just before your ribcage, right under your breasts. “What did you think about?”

All the wine you’ve had tonight settles in your stomach. The flush of the alcohol warms your body, the sensation of his patient hands sobering. Your dilated eyes look down at his chest that rises and falls in uneven patterns.

“Your lips,” your voice comes out wanting, gasping when his hands finally cup your breasts, as if rewarding you for your honesty. Thumb moving over your nipple, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t stop. “All I could think about were your lips.”

He sits up, pulling your hips deeper into his. You gasp out. He strains against his jeans and your thin skirt can feel every ridge. Steve laughs, husky and dark, a sound you’ve only heard through bedroom walls. 

Needing more, you try to move against him, to feel him where you’re aching the most, but Steve’s strong hands prevent anything further. 

A pathetic sound falls from your mouth. “What are you doing?” 

His hands fall back to your hips, squeezing at the flesh that’s finally his. Your eyes fall shut, you try to steady your breathing, but when they open again Steve’s forehead rests against yours. His breaths become yours. 

“Tell me.” He hovers over your lips, drawing a confession from them that he knows hangs on the tip of your tongue. There’s more. He knows there’s more. “Tell me why you’re angry at me.”

Left for want and nothing.

“You did me bad.” It’s all you can say in your guilty lust. It’s the only way you know how to convey how deeply he’s settled into your veins, into the jugular that he’s kissed over and over again. 

There will never be room for anyone other than him. 

In the dim lighting of the room, the moon the only illumination, Steve’s eyes dilate. You watch them fall to your lips, just as they’ve always done, envisioning how you’ll taste. 

“Tell me to stop,” he’s begging you. He doesn’t want you to become another warm body, he doesn’t want you to think that there’s never been more to his fixation on you than only lust. That you haven’t done him bad, either. He begs you to stop him because he knows that eventually this will burn as well. 

“Tell me,” Steve begs again, his lips grazing yours. “Please.”

But you don’t. 

Steve kisses the same way he performs. Needy, wanting, begging for your attention and for your heart to bleed into his. He draws melodies from your mouth, kisses choirs into your chest. His tongue flicks rhythms against your collarbones and his breaths beat symphonies into your lungs. 

Over and over again he begs you to tell him to stop. He pleads when his mouth latches onto your breast. He pleads when your fingers find his belt and he begs again when you fall to your knees.

You answer his pleads with begging moans. You beg him for more, to carry you to his bed, to go faster, to finally ease the ache you’ve felt since his eyes met yours in New York and he called you beautiful. 

Over and over again. 

There is no end.

– 

You wake up to Steve’s nose in your neck.

Loud, early morning traffic draws lazily through Chicago’s streets. His hot breaths fan your skin, mouthing at the dip of your collarbones, slow and sweet, littering love-sick pecks down to your chest, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach. 

“Good morning, angelface.” Steve murmurs, a shy smile on his face. His legs are intertwined with yours. He holds you against his chest, skin to skin, no longer any boundaries between you. He plays with your fingers and paints such domesticity in his fondness. 

The vulnerability in his eyes sends the room spinning.

Your stomach lurches. Tearing yourself out of Steve’s arms, you stumble off the bed as if it’s burned you. Cold air stings your skin and you realize, too late, the state of undress you’re in. Cursing, you fumble for the bedsheets and use them to cover yourself as you desperately search for your clothes and escape the consequences that will inevitably come. 

“Where the fuck is my skirt?” You’re running in circles, looking everywhere while simultaneously trying to assess the damage of the break. You shouldn’t have done this. You’re so incredibly, unbelievably, fucked.

Steve lays naked in the bed. This time it’s him who’s left wanting.

You find the skirt under a pillow that somehow was thrown against the wall. Next to it you find your shirt, then your underwear, and quickly you put the discarded clothing on. “Fuck.”

“What’re doing?” The gentle tone betrays the hurt that resides on Steve’s face. He watches you stumble around, not understanding what he’s done wrong, but when he sees you reach for your shoes, his face hardens. 

He realizes what this is. You’re leaving him. 

“You just can’t bear to be another girl I sleep with.” He hisses out a laugh, slicing into the suffocating consequences. “Guess I still can’t fucking promise you, can I?”

I won’t be just another girl you sleep with.

All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about.

Words and their faulty promises.

“I know you can’t promise me,” you force your shoes on, heart pounding out of your chest. It takes you several attempts before you’re able to tie their laces, hands shaking too violently. “Goddamn it!” 

“What, so you’re just going to leave?” Suddenly he’s next to you, throwing a shirt on and storming through the room that rivals your own anguish. “I mean, fuck, Y/N! You just expect me to be okay with that?”

You stand, finally meeting his eyes for the first time all morning. “I’m doing this to protect myself!” 

I’m doing this to protect the both of us. 

But Steve doesn’t want to hear your explanation, and you don’t want to hear his.

“What the fuck are you protecting yourself from?” 

“This!” Your hands shove Steve’s chest, forcing him to look at the mess you created together. A catalyst that will leave no survivors. You gesture wildly between your bodies. “We should’ve never done this.”

He falls back at your force, dejected and furious. “Are you fucking kidding me? You came to my room–”

You’re not sure who starts yelling first

“I don’t want to do this right now!” You need air. Your pounding head threatens a wave of nausea, and when you try to step past him, Steve blocks your path. 

“Would you just listen to me–”

“Let me go!” The sheer desperation in your scream echoes in the room.

The screaming stops. All that’s left is broken silence. 

Steve searches your face for something that you can’t name. When he finds what he’s looking for, he laughs, laced with ice, “Fine.”

He grabs his keys first. Then his wallet, his shoes, a baseball hat from his father. 

“What are you doing?” You echo his question from earlier, and you hate that you feel a sense of grief watching him flee the room that doesn’t belong to you. “Steve, what are you–”

The only response you get is the slam of the door. 

He’s gone.

The finality of his absence rings in your ears. It’s only after Steve leaves that the tears come. They build in your chest, punch their way into your throat, and spill from your eyes faster than you can control them. You heave at the impact of the despair, the collision of it sinks so deeply into your bones that it brings you to your knees.

Robin’s frantic voice and comforting embrace find you on the floor. 

“Y/N,” she cradles your face, looks for any signs of injury or cruelty. “I-I heard screaming. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.” There isn’t time for you to be consoled by Robin. You grasp at her arms, your force frightening her even more, but you don’t care. In between sobs you tell her, “but you need to find Steve.”

“Find Steve–?”

“He–“ You try to stand, but Robin forces you down. “He can’t be alone right now.”

Her grip tightens around you. She doesn't understand. “You can’t be alone right now, Y/N.”

“We had a fight,” you’re gasping for air. “He-he was so hurt and–”

“Y/N, I need you to breathe, okay?” She demonstrates an inhale, forcing you to breathe air into your lungs as well. Only after you’ve gasped enough air does she ask you what happened. 

Through shaky breaths you tell Robin everything. The almost-kiss in Pennsylvania, how you pulled away, how you told Steve the very first night of their tour that you refused to be another girl he slept with. You tell her about the night Dustin and the others visited, how Steve had almost kissed you under the streetlights.

You tell Robin about the endless touches, stolen kisses to your neck late at night after Steve returns to you, smelling of the girls you try to forget. You tell her about Gregory, the way Steve’s jealousy edged into something more than just lust, into something softer, something akin to love. Your date with Gregory, how it was Steve’s room you ended up in.

Robin doesn’t react when you tell her that you slept with Steve. She doesn’t react when you tell her that he fled the room this morning to escape your dismissive terror. 

And now he’s gone, and it’s all your fault.

“He’ll come back,” she promises you instead, rubbing the grief out of your body. “He’ll be fine, okay?”

You shake your head, more tears spilling over. “But what if he doesn’t–”

“He will.” She sounds more confident than she feels. “He’ll come back. Sure, he’ll be a pain in the ass when he does, but at least he’ll be back. He always comes back.”

Except this time, Steve doesn’t come back.

– 

“Where the fuck is he?” Max barrels through the venue’s door, impulsively checking her watch every thirty seconds. “He should be here by now.”

The clock on the wall reads half past three in the afternoon. It’s been seven hours since Steve stormed out of the hotel. 

No one has seen him since. 

“He’ll be here.” Robin’s newfound mantra since this morning. She looks at her bandmates and tries to pretend that their concern doesn’t leak into hers. “He… he’ll be here, alright?”

Steve has never once been outside of a venue this close to their scheduled soundcheck times. Their last night of tour, their final show, the very show Leonard warned them not to fuck up, starts at nine.

Soundcheck begins at six. 

And yet Steve still isn’t here. His absence alarms everyone. He’s always been obsessive about soundcheck, never running the risk of being late to a performance. He’s bled too much to jeopardize his career over something as trivial as a late arrival. 

The screaming everyone heard from Steve’s room this morning and your bloodshot eyes don’t ease the band’s now frantic concern. You pace the room, unable to do anything other than bite your chapped lips and wring your anxious hands together.

“Robin,” Jonathan picks at his nails. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we go and find him.” She’s already setting her keyboard down, hopping over cables.

Mike scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Wheeler.” She yanks the guitar from his hands and snaps her fingers at Jonathan. “Go with him and look through every hotel and shitty bar you find. Every dive bar, every club, fuck, look through strip clubs. I don’t care. But find him.”

Jonathn doesn’t look convinced. “What about you?”

“Me, Max, and Y/N will take advantage of the fact that Chicago uses a grid system and search every goddamn street we find.”

“But–”

Robin claps, drowning out the protests. “We don’t have time to argue, alright? That asshole needs us right now and unfortunately he sings incredibly well and we have an insane manager who will quite literally take our dreams away like a villain takes candy from a baby if we don’t find Steve.”

“I can go look for him,” you tug at her overalls, pacing even faster to try and swallow down the guilty bile that lingers in your throat. “Alone. You guys stay here. Rehearse. Do whatever you need to prepare for tonight.”

“Not happening.”

You roll your eyes at Robin’s inability to listen. “Look, I’m the asshole who slept with your lead singer the night before the biggest concert of your lives. It’s only fair that I’m the one who looks for him.”

“You slept with Steve?”

“Not now, Mike.” Jonathan covers the kid’s mouth, which he protests at, but his muffled complaints go ignored by everyone. 

“That’s such bullshit,” Robin sneers. “Steve is a grown man who can’t keep running away from his problems or drowning them in booze. And we can’t keep letting him.” She looks at everyone, the silent reprimand of the fact that Steve’s slow spiral went ignored for far too long. “We’re his friends, alright? For better or worse, the fucker needs us right now.”

Jonathan nods. “She’s right.”

Mike and Max murmur their agreements. Neither of them bother to hide their uncertainty and worry. You bite your lip. It bothers you that they take collective responsibility for your actions, but you’re wasting time arguing. Your heartbeat won’t settle until Steve’s voice soothes your skin.

Finding Robin’s eyes, you nod at her, silently backing down. 

“Then it’s settled. We meet back here in two hours.” Her smile mimics a wince; you don’t miss the way her hands shake, the worry for her best friend evident. “We’ll figure the rest out from there.”

Soon your feet bleed into the soles of your shoes as you duck through every street of Chicago. Its layout reflects New York’s, only the black asphalt beats heat from the sun into your skin and you’re sick with exhaustion after the first hour. 

“We’ll find him.” Robin repeats over and over again, but neither you or Max pretend to believe her. 

The second hour draws to a close without any sign of Steve. Chicago’s endless city taunts your shaken body. Your heartbeat slams in your throat. Memories of this morning twist their way inside your guilt. Pieces of Steve’s broken eyes, his hurt expression, how you’d been ready to leave him, only for him to leave you instead. 

This is all your fault. 

With every dead end, Robin’s concern simmers into fury. When the two hours are up, her clenched fists shake with how tightly she presses her nails into her palms. There will be scabs where her skin breaks today.

Inside the venue, Jonathan sits on the couch with his head in his hands. Mike sits next to him. When they notice your arrival, the younger boy jumps up and runs over. Soundcheck starts any minute. “Did you find him?”

Your throat goes dry. “No.” 

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Robin stares at the ground. Her knuckles are white. “We rehearse.”

Max turns to her. “Without Steve?”

“We have to.” A dangerous calm resides in Robin’s words. 

The other band members hear it, too. Jonathan exhales quickly, licks his lips, before taking a tentative step towards her. “Robin,” his softened voice alludes to his fear. “He’s our lead singer. We can’t just perform without him, not when Leonard will be here tonight–”

“He’s not going to fucking ruin this for us!” The dam breaks. “I-I refuse to let Steve ruin the one fucking good thing we’ve done with our lives.” Robin laughs hysterically. “Either he shows up or doesn’t. I don’t give a shit anymore, but if I can’t fucking control his temperamental meltdowns, then I can at least control how I perform tonight and force Leonard to accept that I’m writing a goddamn album whether he likes it or not.”

Her outburst rings throughout the room. 

The silence burns tears into your eyes. This was never supposed to happen. 

“I can sing the chorus for Lower East.” Max reaches for her bass, finding its tuning pegs and cord. “I don’t think my voice fits the rest of it.”

Robin nods. “I can do it.”

“Mike, can you do Back for More?” Jonathan finds his drumsticks. “If we’re doing this, then we can’t only have Robin sing. Not on such short notice, at least. Her voice won’t adjust to it.”

Mike shrugs. “Only if she sings the higher songs.”

“I can harmonize with you,” Max scribbles everything onto their setlist. “I think if we sing together we should be able to match the register it's originally written in.”

There’s a fluidity in the way the Februarys write out Steve’s absence. Within minutes they’ve come up with a new setlist and chord arrangement for their hour and fifteen minute show. They divide the songs into who can sing them best, even stretching the capabilities of Jonathan’s thin and wiry voice. Their options are limited.

As they work, they avoid your eyes. None of them blame you, not really, but there’s an underlying understanding that you’re the reason they’re here in the first place.

–

Leonard Branham has never once been on time in his life. He was late to his son’s birth, his second wedding, and even to his divorce settlement (unrelated to his second wedding, but related to his third).

It only makes sense that he shows up to the venue thirty minutes early, before the Februarys are set to go on stage. 

He slams the stage door open in a grand manner, cackling as he steps inside. “There’s my moneymaker!”

Mike screams, Robin trips over her shoes, Max slams her head against the wall, and Jonathan’s chair flies back in his surprise, sending him to the ground in a pathetic crescendo, cymbals and all. 

Leonard observes their reaction with disinterest. “What? Didn’t George tell you I was coming?”

“It’s Gregory, sir.” The assistant steps from behind him. He gives you a polite smile that you can’t return. “And I did tell them you’d be here.”

“Then where the hell is the kid with the hair?” It’s obvious to everyone that Leonard means Steve. When no one can give him an answer, he narrows his eyes. “Well?”

“He died!” Mike sputters out before anyone can stop him. 

Max slaps the back of his head. “Dude!” 

“I didn’t know what else to say!”

“What the hell is going on?” Leonard stalks towards the band, nicotine following his scent. He looks between them as if Steve is somehow hidden amongst them. “Did the kid O.D. or something?”

“Lenny,” you risk grabbing the man’s blazer, its expensive material soft under your fingers. “Listen, why don’t you and I go talk outside? Better yet, why don’t I show you around the city? Go for a nice, long walk–”

“Cut the bullshit.” The man snatches his sleeve out of your grasp. “Where the hell is your lead singer?”

A loud crash announces Steve’s arrival before the reek of alcohol and sex does.

His timing has always bordered on ironic. 

“‘M here,” Steve stumbles through the door, feet dragging on the ground, hardly able to keep himself up. A melted smile bleeds onto his face when he realizes he has everyone’s attention. “S’it showtime?”

You rush towards Steve, relief flooding through you seeing him alive and safe. “Oh, my god–”

Only Robin’s faster. She gets to him first and punches him before anyone can react. You think you scream. Jonathan’s shoulder collides into yours when he runs over to grab Robin’s violent body.

“Asshole!” Her broken screams spit at Steve’s body, now sprawled on the ground from the force of her fury. She writhes in Jonathan’s tight grasp, kicking and twisting to escape. “Are you fucking wasted?”

Steve’s glossy eyes stare up at her, his half-lidded smile confirms what she already knows. 

“I was worried about you!” Robin scratches at Jonathan’s arms, spits more venom at her best friend. “This band means so fucking much to me, you know that! This is my future too, and you’re fucking wasted and putting everything on the line for some fucking fling?”

Kneeling at Steve’s side, you wince at Robin’s vicious words. She’s right. He’s jeopardized everything for a single night with you.

And you let him. 

“Take her outside,” Max shoves Jonathan towards the door. Leonard watches everything. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Fuck you!” Robin repeatedly screams at Steve. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you–”

Max flings the door open and follows Jonathan outside, helping him contain Robin’s rage. The door slams behind them.

“Get him up.” Leonard commands you and Mike, snapping a finger towards Steve. The man doesn’t flinch at what’s just happened. “He has a performance in twenty minutes.”

Mike makes a confused sound. “Sir, I don’t know how to professionally say this, but Steve’s one drink away from a very expensive hospital bill.”

“He’s awake, isn’t he?” 

Your fingers tangle through Steve’s hair. His forehead is overheated, he barely reacts at your touch. Looking up at Leonard, you don’t give him the satisfaction of obedience. “He isn’t performing tonight.”

Leonard’s mocking laugh infuriates you. “Sweetheart, if he doesn’t sing, there’s not going to be a goddamn show tonight. Do you understand?”

Mike pales. “You wouldn’t–”

“I would.” Leonard’s condescension drips into his laughter. “I told you my end of the deal. Don’t fuck up. It’s as easy as that. Not having a lead singer sounds like a bigger fuck up than my brother.”

Bile rises in your throat.

Gregory coughs, forcing his boss’ attention to him. “Mr. Branham, why don’t we leave them alone to sort everything out? I’m sure they’ll sober Steve up in no time.”

His blinding optimism squeezes at your heartstrings. Leonard squints at him, thinks for a moment, before he shrugs. “Whatever. Twenty minutes. That’s all you get.”

Gregory guides Leonard to the doors that lead out of the dressing room and into the venue. When the man isn’t looking, Gregory mouths a quick good luck to you before he leaves.

The second they’re gone, you and Mike drag Steve’s body up and throw him onto the couch. 

“Get Robin and the others,” you quickly say to the kid, slapping Steve’s face to try and get his eyes to focus on you. You’ve never seen him this gone before. When Mike doesn’t move, you raise your voice, “Go!”

He scrambles to the stage door. You don’t hear what he tells his friends, too busy pinching Steve’s sides and hoping the pain will jumpstart his sobriety. Suddenly water splashes on you, and you spring off the couch. 

“What the fuck?” You find Robin holding a water bottle above Steve’s head. “You could’ve at least warned me!”

“No time.” She dumps even more water on him, and though you know it’s meant to help sober him up, you can’t help but feel that a part of it is meant to punish you as well. 

Meanwhile Jonathan and Mike run around the room to sort through their instruments. They scream at one another to collect certain cables, to find amps and missing drumsticks and where the fuck did the sheet music go?

Max punches Steve’s chest to make him more coherent. “Stop pissing me off!”

“‘M fine,” he slurs, batting her punches away. “Relax.”

Max only punches him harder after that. You don’t blame her.

The first five minutes Max and Robin switch between waterboarding Steve and bruising his chest. You manage to find pizza from a shop next door and shove the greasy food down his throat. 

Jonathan manages to set the stage up, running in and out of the room in a dizzying manner. Mike sprints right behind him. Together, they prepare the stage for either their funeral or their rebirth. No one can say which will come. 

The ten minutes that follow you’re able to coax Steve onto his feet. He can hardly walk, but Robin kicks his shins and forces his legs to remain upright long enough to take off his drenched t-shirt in exchange for a nicer one that Leonard won’t scoff at.

“Did you suck the blood out of him?” Robin cringes when she sees the hickeys that litter his chest.

You throw a shirt at her. “Is now really the time?”

“No, but I deserve to make fun of you right now.”

“Five minutes,” one of the stage crew members knocks on the door, pointing to her watch. “Get ready.”

A mad scramble follows. Max shoves bracelets onto Steve’s wrists, Robin pushes him onto the ground so she can force better shoes on, and you lace them up while Robin yells at Jonathan and Mike to come over. 

“Okay, I’m gonna be honest,” she tells everyone once they’ve gathered around. Steve still lays on the ground. The Februarys have to stand over his desolate body. “Odds of us pulling this off are about twenty/eighty.”

She kicks at Steve. “Probably more like ten/ninety since this motherfucker is Midas with a shit touch.”

“Robin.” Jonathan warns her. 

“Right. Okay. Anyways, the point is that right now I don’t think I can emphasize enough that it’s just us. No one else is on our side. It’s just us and the music, okay? We just need to focus on the music and have each other’s backs. The second things start slipping, we help each other, alright?”

“We’re gonna die.”

Robin’s head drops at Mike’s words. “Yeah. We are.”

The stage crew member returns. Their time is up. One by one the Februarys look at each other, taking in their final moments, and then leave Steve on the ground. They don’t explicitly tell you that he’s your responsibility to get onto the stage.

“C’mon, rosie,” you grab him by his arms. He’s dead weight, still more drunk than sober, and all you want to do is cry. Forcing down the tears, you pry Steve to his feet. “You can’t let them down like this.”

Somewhere in his clouded coherence, Steve nods at what you’ve said. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but he’s able to walk to the door on his own. “Can let ‘em down.”

There’s a pathetic naivety when he says this.

You walk behind Steve the entire way to the stage, terrified he’ll fall and be unable to get back up again. Just before the stage area you meet with Robin, who yanks at Steve’s hand when she sees you and gives you a quick, curt nod.

“Wish us luck?”

“Always,” you tell her. 

The stage lights turn off. Hundreds inside the venue scream. The show is about to begin. 

You run down to the crowd and find Gregory and Leonard quickly. They’re roped off in a separate section from the crowd, an obscene amount of security surrounding them. 

“There are you!” Gregory sighs in relief when he sees you. Looking over at Leonard to make sure he isn’t listening, he ducks his head down and whispers, “should I be worried?”

Your heart beats out of your chest. “Depends. How often does Leonard watch his talent take the stage blackout drunk?”

“Oh fuck.”

Suddenly the crowd’s cheers increase in volume and the stage floods with blues and purples. Robin walks out first, her usual sly and playful manner dimmed. Her too tight smile flinches at the lights and she almost trips over a cable trying to get to her keyboard. She’s nervous. Anyone can see that. 

Max follows, stiffly walking to her bass. She doesn’t smile at the crowd or wave at them. She straps her instrument to her chest and nervously taps her fingers on its neck.

Mike and Jonathan walk out together, each of them laughing too forcefully to be genuine. Jonathan knocks into his drum set and Mike can’t find his guitar for several painful long seconds. 

You hold your breath watching them tear at the seams of the cruel pressure. Next to you Leonard’s mouth pinches into a thin line. 

“Are they always like this?” He asks Gregory.

His eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head. “No, never.”

“It’s been a long tour,” you tell Leonard, careful not to overstep, but anxious to help. “They’re tired. That’s all.”

“And the brewery that was on Steve’s breath?” The man laughs humorlessly. “Let me guess. Daddy’s medicine to help him sleep?”

Gregory shifts from one leg to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and you squeeze a laugh out of your lungs to appease Leonard’s cruelty. He can’t know how terrified you are.

“How’s everyone doing?” Robin shouts into the mic, waving at the crowd. She’s still tense, but behind her keyboard she starts to relax. This, at least, she can control. “Are we ready for tonight?”

The crowd shouts back their responses, the energy infectious in the venue. Everyone smiles and cheers and push towards the stage for a closer look. A sold out show, all for the Februarys. 

Robin’s face breaks into a genuine, excited smile. “Hell yeah, I like what I’m hearing!” She presses on some keys, playing a simple, nonsensical melody as she talks. “Now, I don’t know if you guys know this, but this is our second night in Chicago and our last show of our tour!”

More screams. More than you’ve ever heard before. The size of the crowd overwhelms you, yet Robin finally seems to be at ease. 

“And in case you didn’t already know, we’re–” She’s interrupted by the screech of a mic.

The side stage curtains swing open and Steve fumbles with the stolen microphone. He squints harshly at the light, stumbles back when the spotlight beams down at him. Blind and delirious, he has to grip onto the mic stand to avoid falling over entirely. 

“We’re the Februarys.” He says into the mic, no charm or humor in his voice. He doesn’t greet the audience, he doesn’t allow them to warm up to him, to fall to their knees as he’s always provoked them to do. Instead, all he does is rudely beckon for Jonathan to start their first song. 

Unable to do anything but follow along, Jonathan bites his tongue and hits his drumsticks together. 

“Steve looks awful.” Gregory breathes out next to you. It’s not meant to be mean or cold-hearted, not when you know he’s right.

Thankfully Steve’s voice sounds fine, albeit slightly strained. What worries you is the way his hair hangs in his sickly face. How his sallow eyes are red. The songs continue and Steve’s only able to stumble through jerky movements, half-following the rhythm that Jonathan provides. 

His sloppy performance doesn’t go unnoticed by the audience.

Max and Robin don’t do their handshake between songs. Mike doesn’t go to Jonathan during his electric solo. Steve doesn’t praise his friends or laugh with them after every song. He doesn’t clap for them or share the spotlight with anyone. 

The show passes in a slow, nauseating blur. 

You don’t take any photos the entire night. No one will want to remember the reek of alcohol that can be smelled from the stage during the final night of the Februarys’ career.

Leonard stands next to you, stoic. It’s impossible to read his face and you’re too busy biting your lips raw watching Steve butcher a performance he’s spent weeks agonizing over.

When the only song left is Rosie, Robin finds your eye in the crowd. Her fear-struck expression confirms what you already know. The song will break Steve if he sings it. You mouth at her to stop him, to cut the show short, but somehow in his alcohol haze he finds your lips and reads the words not meant for him.

“I guess the next song is Rosie.” Steve’s teeth clack against the mic in a painful manner. Only the pain doesn’t deter him. His breathing hitches, the lights burn his face and his flushed face worries you. “I-I mean, what kind of shitty name is’that?” 

Robin fumbles to unplug her keyboard and Jonathan throws his drumsticks down and they both lunge towards an incoherent Steve. “How’s it fair that rosie sounds so-so pretty from her lips?”

“Steve, give me the mic,” you hear Robin hiss at him.

Sweat pours from Steve’s face, he fights to keep hold of the mic, but Jonathan wraps both arms around him and forces him off the stage. In the mess of cords and equipment it’s a miracle that he doesn’t fall, but they only make it just past the curtains before the sound of Steve’s vomiting infiltrates the venue.

The crowd isn’t sure how to react.

Robin says something to them, laughing out a joke about food poisoning and how it wasn’t video that killed the radio star, but you don’t stay to hear it. You’re already rushing towards backstage, towards the dressing room that started it all, and Leonard trails right behind you. 

Steve lays face down on the couch when you run into the room. Jonathan paces the floor, mumbling to himself about calling Nancy and telling her to somehow get Mike back into college. You sidestep his manic anxiety and focus only on Steve, completely forgetting that Leonard stands in the middle of the room, watching it all unfold. 

“You’re burning up,” your palm stings at the heat on Steve’s face. His hair clings to his forehead in sweat and you’re terrified that he’s taken something he shouldn’t have. “Steve, rosie, look at me, okay?”

His unfocused eyes squint up at you. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“You left.”

“And then I came back.” You unbutton his shirt, hoping cool air on his chest will lessen his sickly state. Memories from last night flicker in your mind as your fingers trail his buttons, skim the chest your kisses mark. Not now. Not here. Not again. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

Steve makes a panicked sound. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll be right back–”

Robin slams through the dressing room, long past fury. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.” 

“Robin, no–” Jonathan has to jump in front of her to keep her from gouging Steve’s eyes out. Mike’s help is needed to help him hold her back, dodging her violent nails and words with terror in his own eyes. 

“She just scratched me!” Mike hisses in pain, almost letting go of her, and Jonathan hits his head to keep him focused. “Why the fuck is everyone hitting me?”

While they’re distracted with Robin kicking and screaming, Max walks past them with a drumstick in her hand, aimed right at Steve’s crotch, and you quickly jump up from the couch and yank the weapon away from her. 

“Can we not castrate him while he’s incapacitated?” 

“I have a spare drumstick in my pocket.”

You twist to reach behind her, the two of you now grappling at one another in a petty fight, Robin’s own fist fight the backtrack to the argument, and eventually Jonathan has had enough.

He tightens his arms around Robin and finally screams, “Stop.”

You fall limp in Max’s chokehold. She loosens her grip. Mike stops complaining and Robin pauses in her abuse long enough to snarl out, “Let me go, Byers.”

“No.” He squeezes her arms behind her back, dodging yet another fist. “In case you’ve forgotten, our boss is watching you have a fucking meltdown right now trying to kill his lead singer.”

Leonard smiles. 

But the smile only infuriates Robin more. She tries to lunge at Steve again. “I don’t give a shit!”

You attempt to settle her rage. Leonard’s watching. “Robin, this isn’t helping anything–”

“Fuck you!” She screams at you. “Fuck Steve, fuck whatever the hell you guys have been doing for who the fuck cares how long, and fuck Steve for being having dicks for brains and an impulse control weaker than a ninety year old man’s erection!”

She’s always been so lovely with her words. 

Leonard seems to think so, too. He starts to laugh, loud, bellowing in a stoic room that fills with dread at his presence. The laughter cascades throughout the man’s body, disbelief, joy, manic in a way only someone who’s lost their mind can recreate. 

It’s a terrible, horrifying laughter that silences even Robin’s rage. 

Everyone holds their breath.

Steve lays motionless under you, ignorant of his destruction. In the midst of Leonard’s callous laughter Gregory’s nervous gaze meets yours. 

You close your eyes. You wait for the blow to land.

But it never does. 

“Now that’s what I call rock and roll!” Leonard cackles with inappropriate glee. “Sex, drugs, fist fights between band members. Hell, I don’t think the first time I slept with a blonde was as glorious as this moment.”

The man’s ecstasy stuns everyone. He claps Mike’s shoulder like a proud father, pinches Max’s cheek and laughs when she slaps him away. He blows a kiss to Robin and shakes Jonathan’s hand eagerly.

“And him,” Leonard points at Steve repeatedly, shaking his head as if at a loss for words. “He’s a goddamn rockstar, you hear me? A rockstar.”

Steve turns his head, his cheek pressed against the couch beneath him. “‘M a rockstar?”

“You sure as shit are, baby.” Leonard cackles again. His white teeth bite into the air and when he finally notices the rest of the band’s stunned silence, he settles his laughter. Clearing his throat, he straightens his blazer. “You can have your album.”

Robin’s jaw drops. Jonathan almost drops her in his own shock while Mike and Max choke on air. 

“Have the songs ready by the end of this month. Record it at my studio. Get your shining asses ready to tour the album once you’re done. You’re a part of Major Tom’s now.”

Somehow Steve is the only one who can react. 

He sits up, feigning sobriety well enough to fool even you. His tipsy smile shines back at Leonard. “Thank you, sir,” he giggles, his head nods to the side like a child’s. “We-we’re honored, Mr. Branham. Sir. Thank you. Um, again.”

Leonard picks lint off his blazer, turns to him. “Why, it’s my pleasure, Harrington.”

Steve extends his hand, leaning to the side in an obscene manner that Leonard huffs in amusement at. 

“But if you ever, ever, pull a stunt again like the one you did tonight,” Leonard says as he accepts Steve’s handshake. “I will make sure your name dies an insignificant death.”

The room becomes cold. 

“No one will remember who you are thirty years down the line. Your name will be less than worthless.” Leonard’s grip tightens around Steve’s hand. He makes sure he understands the weight of the warning. Just how easily he can ruin their lives. “Remember that.”

Dropping the handshake, Leonard Branham adjusts his blazer one more time and snaps a finger at Gregory. “Take me back to my hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” Gregory can’t look at anyone as they leave.

In the end, it’s just you and the Februarys left alone in a venue in Chicago. Quiet follows the revelation that they’ll be able to record the album they’ve been longing for since they first played together in Steve’s garage. 

There will be no celebration tonight.

Leonard’s words hang in the air long after he’s gone.

It’s only after he leaves that the last of the alcohol in Steve’s system oxidizes, sobering him enough to feel the bands in his chest snap. 

-

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[sweetdispatch]

5 cinnamon buns with raspberry and salted pretzels pls 💕💕💕💕💕

Just friends - Q. Hughes

v' bakery pairing: Quinn Hughes x fem!reader summary: You knew Quinn since you were kids, you tried to be couple but you realised that you work better as friends but everyone around you knew that you're made for each other warning: making out

Between you and Quinn was a complicated relationship. You two had a lot of ups and downs since you were kids. You met him in primary school when he was assigned to do a project with you. At first, you didn’t want him as your partner because you knew that you’ll do the whole project and he will be only watching. To your surprise, he was helping you with everything. 

This project bonded you to him. Quickly you became friends and everything you did together. It wasn’t only school related. Quinn was taking you to the ice rink and he taught you how to skate. Your parents became friends with him and his brothers were treating you like a sister they never had. 

In high school, you and Quinn started dating. At first, everything was looking great between you two but months later, you noticed that you’re working better as friends and you broke up. The feelings you had never disappeared and throughout the whole high school, you were going on and off with the relationship. 

It ended up for good when Quinn went to the university. He stayed in Michigan when you decided to move to England. You were keeping in touch but soon, you moved on with each other’ lifes. He put all his focus on hockey, especially after the draft and you started partying in different pubs and bars in London. 

During summer, you were hanging out like in old times. Maybe you were far away from each other for most of the year but you still had the spark. Two of you were always joking that you barely talk in the academic year to have topics of conversation for summer. 

After your graduation, you returned to Michigan. At that time, Quinn was in Vancouver. You were happy for him that he made it and always tried to go on his game when he was playing in Detroit. The feelings never disappeared and you loved each other but believed that you’re better as friends, especially after this on and off relationship in high school. 

None of you were in a relationship since your break up. You were going on dates with different people but they never were like Quinn. He felt the same when he was seeing other women. You and him were too good match for each other to have partners. 

When Quinn was coming back home, the first thing he was doing was seeing you. He was repeating to his family that you’re just friends but no one believed it. You were acting like a couple and only you two were too blind to try again. 

You were always kissing Quinn’ cheek as a greeting. During nights out in clubs, Quinn was always holding his hand in yours. When you were watching a movie, you were curled up at him. Even when you were staying at his house for the night, you were sleeping in his bed and he was hugging you. 

Jack organised a party in their house and he invited you. Quinn was all the time by your side to make sure you’re safe. You were sitting in the kitchen when the alcohol started talking through both of you. Quinn kissed you and grabbed your ass to squeeze. You were making out in the kitchen not even bothered by people walking in. 

Your hands were running through his hair when his hands were roaming your body. It wasn’t anything new for you to have an intimate moment. Your first time was with Quinn and he knew your body perfectly. You weren’t ashamed of sleeping with him and he wasn’t ashamed to sleep with you. Quinn lifted you up and sat you on the counter. He was kissing you like there was no tomorrow. 

 “Fuck me Quinn. Fuck me like you mean it. I don’t want any sweet love making, I want the dirty and messy sex” You told him and kissed him again trying to get his shirt off. 

“It’s so hot when you talk like that” Quinn told you and bit your bottom lip. “Let’s go to my room so I can fuck you like you want”

Quinn grabbed your hand and led you upstairs. It wasn’t unnoticed by Jack and Luke who shared looks between each other. They saw Quinn’ messy hair and your lipstick all over his lips. 

“Whom do they lie that they are just friends?” Luke asked Jack.

“They’re lying to themselves because for my liking friends are not doing shit like that” Jack told him. 

[raineydays411]

My Fathers daughter pt 14

Summary: A bit of Tonys POV

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Tony Stark loved his daughter.

There was no doubt about it. He would do anything to make sure she was okay. Which included sending her away.

That was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. To see the look on her face when he agreed with Christine that it was safer in Gotham (an oxymoron if he ever heard one). Then the feeling of dread the days leading up to her departure, not even being able to drop her off.

Immediately he felt the emptiness without her there. He secluded himself in his workshop for days, just wasting away searching for the people who intended to harm his little girl. That's all he did, day in and out.It had gotten so bad, that Pepper had to physically force him to eat and shower, and most of all sleep. But when he slept, he had nightmares.

Dreams where you were taken the night those men broke in, he saw the fear in your eyes as he and Pepper helplessly watch these faceless men take their baby from them. He also has dreams where you come to resent him. You hate him for sending you to Wayne manor, and he has to watch you choose to live with Bruce Wayne the same way your mother did.

That one was more of his insecurity when it comes to Bruce Wayne but can you blame him? He already lost one woman he loved to him, and now he felt like he was losing his child to him as well. And deep down he knew it truly wasn't Bruce's fault, but none of this would have happened if he and Christine just stayed out of your and his lives. But again, that was just his insecurity talking.

It hurt Tony that he couldn't reach out to you more frequently. He was in the lab while Bruce Banner spoke to you over FaceTime. His heart hurt at the emotional torment you were facing in that house. He would have given anything to assure to you that you are wanted and loved. That he and your true mother were anxiously awaiting your return. That he was doing whatever he could to make sure you were as safe as you could be.

It bothered him and Pepper so badly that they could not see you. One day it became too much that he reached out to Christine and bruce. They had come to an agreement. Bruce would allow you to use the computer in the batcave to send emails between you and Tony. As the Batcomputer was basically unhackable (besides you), and it would allow you to have contacts with your parents. Well, imagine the disappointment they felt when multiple emails sent to you were left unopened (to their knowledge) and no response.

But that didn't stop them from sending you everything you were missing and updates about your situation. Pepper figured that you would reach out when you were ready to talk. She insisted that you were fine and there was no need to go down to Gotham and retrieve you.

And there wasn't.

Until Peter called.

"Mr. Stark they got her"

That one sentence made Tony want to throw up. His worst fear, his nightmare.

Before Peter even had the chance to give details Tony had already hung up and started gathering everything he needed. He was out of his mind, rushing in and out of rooms yelling at FRIDAY different incomprehensible commands.

He rushed into his bedroom, ruffling through drawers and closets. Pulling out every single weapon he had stashed away, he was frantic. There was a buzzing his his ears, a static that was so terrifyingly familiar. The same static he felt when he went into that worm hole with the nuke. The same static when he was in that cave. Tony felt himself hyperventilating, his throat dry. He stopped packing suddenly and went towards his bar, searching for the few remaining bottles of liquor that you hadn’t thrown out. He searches frantically until a gentle hand stops him.

It was Pepper. A look of concern on her face but a look of knowing in her eyes. “Drinking isn’t going to bring her back.”

Tony takes a deep breath. The static is gone but his eyes burn. He looks at his wife. “I can’t lose my baby”

That’s when Peppers face hardens, “Our baby, and we’re not. Get up.”

And with that she rises, Tony didn’t even realize he had slide down to the floor, and she strides to their shared room.

“I’ve already sent the message out to the rest of the team. Peter called me after you hung up. The jet is waiting.”

Tony stands, his heart beat steadying and smoothes out his clothes. He takes a deep breath regaining his sanity. “Well, there’s no time for drama. Come on Pep, let’s go to Gotham.”

He puts on his nano watch, and follows his wife.

No more time to waste.

[jarofstyles]

Getaway Car

Hi lovebugs! I have a one shot for you. We have a villainous Harry and his assistant turned lover for this one. I hope you guys enjoy this one, I enjoyed writing it! Please make sure to read the warnings

Check out our Patreon for early access and 260+ exclusive writings

WC- 6k

Warnings- organized crime, use of weapons, violence, blood, murder, injury, dom!H, degrading, breeding, kinda primal tbh

Harry leaned against the cold, hard wall of the jail hallway, handcuffs digging into his wrists. The pristine suit he wore was tailored to perfection, crisp and clean against his broad shoulders. His dark hair was combed back neatly, not a strand out of place. The suit jacket hugged his broad shoulders, perhaps a little too tightly, but it emphasized his powerful build. He crossed his ankles, nonchalant, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but his eyes were sharp and focused, watching the door that he knew Y/N would emerge from any moment now.

His tie was loose around his neck, the only sign of him being disheveled. His strong jaw was set, a muscle twitching as he ground his teeth together in irritation. He hated being caged, even if it was just a hallway. The man was used to being in complete control, to having power and calling the shots- and yet here he was, waiting like a restrained animal for her to emerge from the lion's den to break him out of here.

Harry's eyes flashed with a hint of his morbid nature as he thought about how he rarely got caught. How the fuck had it happened? He was slick, careful, calculated. There was no denying he knew what he was doing, and yet he had managed to get in some sort of trouble.. This little misstep was...unusual. His mind raced, trying to figure out how he could have slipped up. Was it arrogance that made him sloppy? Or was it...her? That infuriatingly alluring woman who had somehow managed to ensnare him.

A smirk played on Harry's lips as he thought about their dynamic. He wasn't used to having a partner, let alone one who was so fucking captivating. She was like a breath of fresh air, a challenge he couldn't resist. He had vowed to never take a lover, but Y/N went beyond that. The woman was simply different in every way. The way she handled herself, the fire in her eyes, the curve of her... His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open, and his head snapped towards the sound.

The metal handcuffs clinked softly against the wall as Harry pushed off from his casual lean and straightened to his full height. His dark eyes narrowed as he focused on the door, the intensity of his gaze enough to make even the toughest criminal squirm.

As soon as Y/N emerged, Harry's smirk widened. Oh, she was good. Too good. He could see the fire burning behind her eyes, the exhilaration of the game they were playing. The way her face remained stoic, unreadable, was admirable. He was the experienced one, the one who was supposed to be impossible to read, yet she matched him in that regard. No one else had ever been able to match him in any regard, and Y/N never faltered. "My dear." He drawled, his voice low and smooth.

As Y/N stepped closer, Harry felt his body relax just a tad. She slipped between his handcuffed arms, her chest pressed to his, her waist nipped perfectly by his arms. He could feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her blouse, hear the soft rustle of her skirt. "You took your time." He murmured, his breath tickling her skin. His eyes never left her face, drinking in her expression as she played her part to perfection.

“I had to take care of some things.” She smiled coyly, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Poisoning the coffee isn’t a quick job, but I had to make sure they weren’t responsive. Had to sneak you out of here somehow, didn’t I?” Her nails ran over the back of his neck, rounded eyes laced with something sharp.

Harry's gaze remained locked on hers, his heart rate kicking up at the touch of her nails against his skin. "Impressive." He praised, his eyes glinting with admiration. "I didn't think you had it in you to be so...thorough." He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, his breath mingling with hers. "But then again, I shouldn't be surprised. You're full of delightful little surprises, aren't you?"

“I am.” The girl purred, leaning up on her toes as their noses brushed. “How thankful you must be to have such a cunning partner in crime. Thankful to see me?”

Harry's eyes flickered with a dark hunger as their noses brushed, her warmth and scent enveloping him. Coffee lingered over the natural sweetness. Part of him was still astounded that she’d pulled off a feat like that, but he shouldn’t be. She’d been proving herself quite easily, every step of the way. Y/N was a natural at all the bad things he liked to do. 

"Grateful doesn't begin to cover it." He whispered, his voice husky with desire. "I'm...thirsty, actually." He admitted, his gaze dropping to her lips. "For a kiss, to taste that clever mouth of yours again." His arms, still cuffed, tightened slightly around her waist as he pulled her closer. It was infuriating to not be able to run his hands over her to inspect and roll over her soft hips, but he didn’t mind giving her this moment.

“I’d like a thank you.” Her nose brushed his, taunting him a little. “I’ve got the key to those cuffs and everything, you know. The car outside. The security footage deleted, the cameras are all turned off.” Her nails dug into his skin just ever so slightly, making him hiss. “Say thank you, and then you can kiss me.”

Harry's eyes flashed with irritation at her teasing, his breath catching as her nails dug into his skin. He hated being at her mercy, hated that she had the power to make him beg. But he needed her, needed that kiss, needed to taste her. "Fuck," he spat out, his voice strained. "Thank you, you clever, infuriating little brat."

“Nicer.” She hissed, taking a bit of his hair and tugging roughly. “Be nice to me, or I’m not letting you touch me tonight. And I know just how much you need to let loose after shit like this.” The threat was a valid one, but Y/N knew the moment the cuffs were off he’d be able to take charge again. She was biding her time and power accordingly. “Be nice to me, baby.” The croon was soft, though her grip wasn’t. “M’a good girl for getting you free.”

Harry's eyes narrowed in frustration and a tinge of arousal at her tugging on his hair, his jaw clenched- but he knew she was right. As much as he hated it, he needed to play nice for now. He needed to be grateful, to show her how much he appreciated her efforts. "You are a good girl." he said through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "My very good girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"

“I do.” She purred, reaching up on her toes and smearing their lips together. “Lots of them. A necklace with the money you took, a vacation once this is over, and your face between my thighs when we get back to the house.” Pecking his stubbed cheek, she moved her lips back to his. “Now kiss me. Show me how much you missed me.”

Harry's control snapped at her words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He crashed his lips against hers in a bruising kiss, pouring all his pent-up frustration and desire into it. His tongue delved into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her tongue in the way he always loved to do it. Feeling her body press up against his as she chased his kiss, the soft sound of her hum against his mouth. Y/N was perfect, and he knew it. He nipped at her bottom lip hard enough to sting, soothing it with his tongue. "Fuck," he panted against her lips when they finally broke for air. “Fine. All of it. Just get these fucking cuffs off of me. We need to leave.” They’d been tempting fate just staying here as it was.

“Yes, sir.” She snickered, leaving one last kiss to his lips before pulling his arms back up so she could duck underneath them. The key was hidden in her bra, kept warm from her tits as she giggled from his expression. “What? I needed a hiding place.” Pulling the key out, he lifted his wrists up and began to unlock them.

Harry glared at her, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "In the future, if you're going to hide something important in your tits, at least give me a peek." He growled. "And if you ever call me 'sir' again like that, I'll bend you over my knee and spank you until you beg to be fucked. You know how I feel about that." Y/N knew to save that for the bedroom, but she was a bit of a brat. He knew that much, very well.

“You know I like a good spanking.” She purred, undoing the cuffs and letting them fall off his left wrist, then his right. It wasn’t smart to leave them, so she opened up his suit jacket to tuck the key and cuffs in the internal pocket. “We can play with these another day. Need t’get you out of here.”

Harry flexed his freed hands, relishing the feeling of being unbound. He grabbed Y/N's wrist before she could pull away, pulling her flush against him. "Oh, we will play with these again. Very soon." He promised darkly. "But first, let's get the fuck out of here before your little stunt attracts too much attention." He released her and stepped back, straightening his suit. "Lead the way, my clever little thief."

Y/N turned on her heel, strutting towards the exit with a confident sway to her hips. Harry watched appreciatively, his eyes locked onto her backside. He couldn't help but admire her poise, the way she carried herself like she owned the place. It was something that had drew him to her in the first place. Very few people had been able to make him feel interested in his life, but she’d caught his attention the moment she’d walked in the room. She glanced over her shoulder at him, catching him staring, and smirked knowingly. "Eyes up here, pervert." She teased, tossing her hair back with her nose in the air. Like she didn’t love feeling his eyes on her. She preened every time he looked her over and paid her extra attention.

Harry's gaze slowly lifted to meet hers, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Can't blame a man for looking." He drawled, sauntering after her. "Besides, I think I've earned the right to ogle you after you paraded around half-naked in front of me." He fell into step beside her as they exited the building, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back.

“First of all, you bought this dress for me. Secondly, you’re the one that got caught outside of a casino. Since you like me to be your distraction, I’ve got to look at least a little bit scandalous.” She scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder before reaching into her handbag for the car keys. “Can you handle driving, or do you need me to do it?”

Harry's eyes flashed with annoyance. "I didn't buy that dress for you to be a distraction. I bought it because it looks fucking incredible on you." He grunted. "And I didn't get fully caught. I'm here, aren't I?" He snatched the keys from her hand as they reached the car. "I can handle driving. Get in the passenger seat before I put you there myself."

Y/N rolled her eyes but climbed into the passenger seat, buckling up as Harry got behind the wheel. He started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, weaving through the streets with a skill that spoke to his experience in driving the getaway car. As they drove, the comfortable silence was interrupted when he reached over to rest his hand on her knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You did well back there." he mumbled, his voice softening from the monotone it usually was. "I'm impressed."

Harry’s praise wasn’t something he handed out generously. Sure, she was showered in it in the bedroom, but when it came to things like this? He was a much tougher critic. Harry and business were a serious pair, and he didn’t like mistakes or slacking off. He was harsh and eager to correct to ensure there weren’t any fuck ups.  Considering this was the first time he’d been actually dragged to the station in years she had been worried about his mood, but it wasn’t as bad as she thought. There had been a lot of panic when he had been taken away, but she did her best to handle it as well as she could. 

“Thanks.” She sighed, placing her hand over his. “You taught me well.” Y/N didn’t have a background in this stuff, only what Harry had taught her and she had picked up- but she did have to admit she did a very good job. A natural, really.

Though if she was honest, she had never anticipated that becoming his assistant would end up in her delving head first into the world of crime after catching something she wasn’t supposed to. Even less so, that she would fall for her man. Her boss. A criminal mastermind. “I told Delgado that the meeting to exchange would need to be moved to tomorrow, by the way.”

Harry's hand tightened slightly around hers before he released it, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigated the dark streets. "Good thinking." He murmured. "Delgado can be a bit too eager sometimes. We need to make sure everything is in place before we make the exchange." He glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the road.

"And just to be clear," He continued, his tone sharper. "Tomorrow, during the meeting, you're going to stay in the car. I don't care if Delgado tries to shoot me or if he offers you a million dollars, you do not get out of that vehicle. You understand me?" He asked, his gaze intense on the road ahead. "Your safety is my number one priority, and I won't risk losing you over some stupid deal."

“I know. Stay in the car, aim the gun, shoot only if necessary.” She drawled, rolling her head to look at his side profile. It was almost irritating, how unnaturally beautiful the man was. He was evil in a lot of ways, downright terrifying- but you’d never expect it considering he looked like one of the most beautiful works of art. A face like his belonged in a museum, painted with oils or carved into marble. “I know the drill. The man gives me the creeps anyways. I’ll let you and George deal with him.”

Harry chuckled darkly. "Good girl. Don't worry, George and I will make sure Delgado doesn't try anything stupid- though he isn’t a very smart man." He turned down a familiar street, heading towards their safehouse. "In fact, I think George might be looking forward to this meeting a bit too much. The man's got a real hard-on for scaring the shit out of our past clients."

Harry pulled into the garage of the safehouse, parking the car and turning to Y/N. "Now, come inside. I think we both need to... unwind a bit." He gave her a wolfish grin, his eyes glinting with that familiar predatory look. "And I think I promised you something earlier, didn't I?" He asked, stepping out of the car and rounding to open her door. "Something about my face between your thighs?"

——

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the meeting taking place outside. Harry stood tall, his back straight as he spoke with Delgado. George loomed beside him, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the other man with a cold gaze. Delgado the creep, on the other hand, fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting back and forth between two men.

Something was definitely up. Her eyes could see it but her body could sense it even if he hadn’t pulled anything quite yet. The man had always been creepy, but something else was at play here. She just wasn’t sure what.

Harry had insisted she stay in the car as she usually did, but she had a feeling he would need to get out. one way or another. Her hand flexed on the weapon, watching between the men and the van opposite them.

The meeting seemed to be growing heated. Delgado's gestures became more animated, his face red with either anger or frustration. Harry, however, remained calm, his expression unreadable. Y/N could see the tension in his shoulders, though, the way his hand tightened around the briefcase he was holding. Beside him, George’s hand slowly drifted to the gun at his side, his stance widening slightly. Something was definitely off.

The van's side door slid open, and a man stepped out, his hand resting on the handle of a gun holstered at his hip. Delgado nodded towards him, and the man approached Harry, speaking in a low tone. Harry's expression didn't change, but his gaze flickered to Y/N in the car before returning to the man. George’s hand tightened around his gun, and Y/N could see the muscles in his jaw clenching.

The man from the van handed Harry a small device, which he examined briefly before pocketing it. He turned back to Delgado, his voice low and even. "We've got a problem," he said. Delgado's face paled, and he glanced nervously at the man who had spoken. 

As if sensing the impending danger, Harry's head snapped towards Y/N just as she heard the click of guns being cocked. Without hesitation, she burst out of the car, her own weapon drawn and firing. The first bullet hit the man closest to Harry, and chaos erupted. Harry dove for cover, his own gun now in hand as he returned fire. George spun, taking out two more men with precise shots. They surely didn’t know who they were messing with when they tried to fuck over Harry, but they were finding out very quickly.

Delgado, realizing that the situation had spiraled out of control, turned to run but was cut down by Harry's shot. The man himself rolled, coming up in a crouch to fire at another of Delgado's men. As he straightened, he saw Y/N, her hair billowing around her as she moved like a dancer, each step graceful yet deadly.

In mere moments, it was over. The bodies of Delgado's men littered the ground, and an eerie silence fell. Harry approached Y/N, his eyes dark with a complex mix of emotions - anger, concern, and something almost akin to pride. "What the fuck were you thinking?" He growled, but there was an undercurrent of relief in his voice. "You could have been killed." Reaching out, his hand cupping her face tenderly, a contrast to the stiffness in his body and anger boiling over that she could physically see.

His thumb brushed gently over her shoulder, coming away with a streak of red. He looked at the blood, his eyes flashing with anger. "You're bleeding." He said, his voice low and dangerous. His gaze flicked to her shoulder, where a tear in her dress revealed a graze from a bullet that she hadn’t even felt. The adrenaline hadn’t even made her aware she’d been hit at all, too focused on making sure Harry was okay. "We need to get you cleaned up." He pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her protectively. "But first, let's get out of here. I don’t know if the stupid fuck has anyone to call for backup. We’ve got our money."

—

Harry drove them back to the safehouse, his entire body visibly tense as he gripped the steering wheel, his leather gloves stretched over his clenched knuckles. The silence between them was thick, charged with unspoken words. He was mad at her for getting out of the car. Y/N knew as much, but he wasn’t about to fight him right now. 

 Once they arrived, Harry gave her no choice to walk on her own. Strong arms scooped her up carrying her through the house wordlessly, making his way upstairs to their bedroom. Setting her down gently on the bed, his touch was surprisingly tender given his earlier anger. "Let me get the first aid kit. Stay sitting right here. Do not move." He said gruffly, disappearing into the bathroom.

As Harry returned with the first  kit, Y/N reached out, grabbing his arm and pulling him down onto the bed with her. He landed on top of her, his eyes widening with surprise. "Y/N, you're fuckin’ hurt-" He began, but she cut him off, crushing her lips against his. She kissed him hungrily, her body pressing against his as she wrapped her legs around his waist. "I'm fine. I don’t even feel it. Jus’ want you." She panted against his lips.

Harry hesitated for a moment, his moral compass warring with his desire. He barely had one to begin with, but with her in his life it had shifted to give the shreds of care he had to her and her wellbeing. But when Y/N's hands began to roam over his chest, her touch hot and insistent, he groaned and gave in. As much as he wanted to resist, his little devilish brat was his one and only true weakness. There was nothing else he gave a fuck about, but Y/N had managed to snare and tangle him in her web. Make him things he never felt in his life. It had been thought by everyone, himself included, that he wasn’t capable of love. Or caring. But the girl underneath him had torn down everything he had thought he once knew, making him give into the unfamiliar desires. There was no way he could say no to her. His own hands slid up her thighs, pushing her dress up to her hips. "You're so fucking reckless. Should spank you raw for what you did, but I know why you did." he growled, his fingers finding the edge of her underwear. "But god, I love that you gave the first shot. Love that you’re so needy for me."

He tore her underwear aside, his fingers sinking into her slick heat. Y/N cried out, her back arching off the bed as he plunged two fingers inside her. He wasn’t patient in the slightest with his pace, pumping them in and out, his thumb rubbing rough circles against her clit. "So damn wet," he muttered, adding a third finger and scissoring them inside her. Y/N's hands fisted in his hair, tugging him closer as she rocked her hips against his hand. “Works you up to be bad, hm? Y’like to make me worry about you? Like to ring the first shot out? Trying t’protect me. Silly little fucking brat. Can’t listen t’me ever, but you still manage to make me proud.”

His fingers curled up, finding that sweet spot inside her and stroking it relentlessly. It hadn’t taken him long to memorize her body, make a mental map of where she liked to be touched, the most sensitive areas he used to his advantage. It didn’t take much to get her off, his needy slut. Harry was dedicated to the craft of getting her off and he wasn’t about to stop it now. Y/N's moans filled the room, her body tensing as he drove her closer and closer to the edge just with his hand. He could feel her inner walls clamping down around his fingers, her breathing coming in short, sharp pants. He leaned down, his mouth latching onto her breast, drawing her hardened peak into his mouth through the fabric of her top

“Fuck me.  Fuck me right now.” She hissed, growling up at him as the hunger burned through her. “I need it. Give it to me.” Y/N was beyond reason, her body burning with need. She reached down, fumbling with Harry's belt and zipper. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to free his cock and pushed down his briefs, grabbing it and guiding it to her entrance. She was soaked, her pussy clenching around his thick head as she tried to push him inside herself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She chanted, her nails digging into his bicep as she tried to impale herself on him.

Harry gritted his teeth, his body shaking as he held himself back from slamming into her. "Baby, let me..." He panted, but she was beyond hearing him. Her hips bucked, taking him in another inch. He groaned, his head dropping to her shoulder as he tried to regain control. "You'll hurt yourself. Be careful." He ground out, eyes feeling blurry at the feel of her trying to drag him inside.

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she urged him on. "Y/N..." he warned, his voice low and dangerous. But she ignored him, her hips lifting again, taking more of him inside her. He hissed, his hands gripping her wrists and pinning them above her head. "Alright, you leave me no choice." he growled.

With a swift, powerful thrust, Harry buried himself to the hilt inside her. She let out a loud moan, her head thrown back as he stretched her impossibly full. He set a steady and full pace, fucking into her with deep, hard strokes. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard hitting against the wall with each thrust. Harry's eyes were dark with lust, his face a mask of concentration as he took what she so desperately needed. She had brought him over, made him lose that control he liked to keep wrapped up. He should have known she was going to do it. 

"Harry...please, I want more." Y/N panted, her body writhing beneath his. He growled in response, his hands tightening around her wrists as he increased the tempo. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with their moans and the creaking of the bed. "Harder, Sir. Please, want it harder..." she begged.

Harry's thrusts became rough, his cock slamming into Y/N's soaked pussy with relentless force. Her legs trembled around his waist, her hips bucking to meet each of his powerful strokes. She was a dripping mess, her juices coating his cock and running down her thighs, but she didn’t care. There was nothing she cared more about than getting to cum. The sound of his balls slapping against her ass filled the room, accompanied by the lewd squelching of his dick plunging in and out of her sopping cunt.

"Don't stop...please don't stop..." Y/N whimpered, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. The rush of adrenaline had hit her full force, and she needed this to get it out of her system. The only person who could give it to her the way she needed was the man above her, and she wasn’t above begging. 

Harry snarled, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he doubled his efforts. He could feel her tightening around him, her body tensing as she approached her peak. "That's it, love...cum for me, all over this cock." He snarled, his hand snaking between their sweat-slicked bodies to rub her clit. "Let go..."

He pinched her swollen pearl between his fingers, rolling it roughly as he pounded into her. “There. Give it to me, now.” 

There was no way to disobey. Playing her body like his favorite game, Y/N screamed, her body trembling as she shattered. Her inner walls rippled around him, squeezing him like a vice as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. He felt the gush of her release, her juices coating him as she cried out his name. But he didn't stop, continuing to pound into her through her release. "Oh my god- oh my god, Harry.."

With a powerful arm around her waist, Harry pulled out momentarily to flip Y/N onto her stomach, his hands gripping her hips and pulling her ass up to meet him. She braced herself on her hands and knees, her fingers clawing at the bedspread as he entered her from behind. The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper, and she gasped at the intense sensation. She was still sensitive and shaky, but he gave her no time to recover. Secretly, she didn’t mind. Underneath it all, she liked being used. She loved being fucked by him, feeling his powerful body pin her down and let her be used by him to get him to the place she knew she owned.

Harry's hands tightened on her hips as he began to thrust again, his voice low and growling in her ear. "You love that, don't you? You love the way my cock fills you all the way up." He punctuated each word with a sharp hip thrust, his hips slapping against her backside. "Say it," he commanded, his voice hoarse with desire. "Tell me you love my cock fucking that filthy cunt..."

Y/N moaned, her head dropping forward as he set a relentless pace. "Oh god, yes...I love it...love your cock in my filthy cunt.” There was an attempt to push herself up onto her palms but it failed miserably. “Filling me so perfectly… I love it so much." Her words ended in a cry as he reached around to fondle her breasts, his fingers tweaking her hardened nipple painfully. 

Y/N's body was consumed by lust, her own mix of adrenaline and primal urges taking over. She rocked back against him, meeting each of his powerful thrusts. Her hair was a wild mess, sticking to her sweat-slicked face. She bared her teeth in a feral grin, reveling in the delicious stretch of his cock inside her. "That's it...fuck me like the bitch in heat I am..."

Harry's breath hitched in his throat, his body tensing at her words. His hands gripped her hips painfully tight, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. "Is that what you want? You want me to mount you? Filthy slut." He snarled, slamming into her with such force that she slid forward on the bed. "You want me to breed that needy little hole?"

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, I need it.” She slurred. “I can take it. I want everything, I want you to give me everything.” It was delirium, maybe, but she loved becoming unhinged like this. After a meet, after a robbery, after anything that set her nerves on fire, Harry knew what she needed every damn time. 

"Then take it." He pulled out, spinning Y/N around to face him before slamming back inside her. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the bed as he stood and let her back hit the cool wall, his cock driving into her as he held her up. She screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked her against it the wall, her head rubbing up against the drywall with each thrust.

His eyes locked onto hers, black with lust as he continued to drive into her. The sounds of their bodies meeting filled the room, punctuated by Y/N's breathless moans and his own guttural grunts. His hands squeezed her asss, spreading her cheeks apart to allow him deeper inside. She could feel him so deeply, the pressure bordering on pain, but she never wanted it to end. "Fuck- fuck me.” She whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s so good. Use me. Please, I want t’make you happy.”

"You are, baby. Make me so happy.” As happy as a man like Harry could be. It had been a foreign emotion the first time he felt it, the weird warmth in his chest making him worry he may be having a silent heart attack- but it had been happiness. Butterflies. An odd sensation that he came to look forward to. “You do such a good job every time. Perfect slut, taking every fucking inch..." He panted, his sweat dripping down onto her. He could feel her tightening around him, her body preparing for another orgasm. "Want you t’cum for me again." he demanded, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Know you can do it."

He increased his pace, his cock slamming into her with punishing force. The wall shook with each impact, the painting he had hanging up rattling on the surface. Y/N's mouth fell open in a silent scream, her eyes rolling back as he fucked her with wild abandon. He could feel his own release approaching, his balls drawing up tight. "Fuck, 'm going to fill this cunt up. Breed it like y’want me to." 

The words were a trigger. Y/N's body heated up as she took it, the overwhelming feeling cresting and falling over the edge as her back arched as she came with a guttural moan. Her pussy clenched around him like a vice, rippling along his length as she gushed around his pistoning cock. It was a mess, dribbling down to his balls as more was forced out with each slam inside of her sensitive, quivering pussy.

 The sensation was too much, and with a deep growl that came from the center of his chest, Harry buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he pumped her full of his hot cum. He ground against her, making sure every last drop was inside her. "Take it all..." Y/N whimpered, her oversensitive walls fluttering around him as he filled her to the brim. The feel of the heat inside of her soothed something bone deep, clinging to his body as she felt herself go weak. His hips jerked with each pulse, working his cock deeper, ensuring his seed was planted as far inside her as possible. "There it is, baby. It’s all for you. Shit."

Finally spent, Harry slumped forward, pinning Y/N against the wall with his weight. They were both panting, sticky and exhausted- but happy. He could feel his softening cock still nestled inside her, plugging her up. "Mm. Want t’keep it all inside," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "Let it soak into my greedy cunt..."

Y/N's body went limp in his arms, letting him take over in holding up her body. It was the least he could do, after all. A blissful smile played on her lips as she basked in the afterglow. "You took me so well," Harry praised, his voice a low rumble. "Such a good girl." There was the praise she knew would be coming. He was more generous in these moments, after he’d given her all he had. The selective vulnerability was something she cherished.

Despite her disobedience, Y/N's impulsive actions had ultimately saved him. And as his nature took over, the only way he knew how to express his gratitude was by giving her what she needed. "You were disobedient, but you saved me." His hand slid up to collar her throat, pressing a kiss to her swollen lips. "You deserved to be rewarded..." he murmured. "And oh, how you took it."

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

tws : nsfw/smut, fem!reader, rough sēx, praise kink, size kink, cockwarming, clothing kink, chocking (light), biting, & creampie.

Mydei had always loved spoiling you. Not just with affection or whispered praise, but with clothes—delicate, frilly things that looked like they were made to be ripped off. Dresses with tiny bows and lace-lined hems, silk slips that clung to your body, sheer fabrics that left nothing to the imagination. He’d come home with armfuls of them, tossing the bags onto the bed and watching you with a heat in his eyes that made your knees weak.

“Try this one on,” he’d murmur, already sliding the hanger off the fabric. “Want to see how pretty my bunny looks in it before I fuck that sweet little pussy raw.”

He never asked twice. You knew better. It turned him on too much—watching you twirl in front of the mirror, looking soft and fuckable in something he picked out, something he bought just to ruin you in. It wasn’t about undressing you. No, Mydei wanted you wearing those pretty things when he fucked you. Wanted the skirt bunched up around your waist, the straps falling off your shoulders, the fabric caught between your bodies while his cock filled you over and over.

Tonight was no different. He had you dressed in pale lavender, a tight little thing with frills that barely covered your thighs. You sat on the edge of the bed, legs pressed together, hands gripping the sheets as he knelt in front of you. His fingers trailed up your calf, slow and teasing, lifting the hem as he went.

“Look at this,” he muttered, voice like gravel as he spread your thighs. “So soft… fuck, you’re already wet for me. You knew what I was gonna do to you, didn’t you? You wanted it.”

You whimpered as he leaned in, hot breath against your inner thigh, but he didn’t stop to tease. Mydei was impatient tonight. Obsessed. He pushed you back onto the mattress, climbed over you, and shoved your panties to the side with a grunt. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, thick and hot and aching to be inside.

“You feel that?” he whispered, nuzzling into your neck. “That’s how hard I get just looking at you in these little fucking dresses.”

And then he pushed in.

All at once, all the way, making you cry out as your pussy clenched around him. The stretch was dizzying, the way he filled you so deep and fast, the fabric of your dress scratching softly between you as he started to thrust.

“Fuck—so tight,” he groaned, hips snapping forward again, and again, louder now, rougher. “You look like a doll—my perfect little fucktoy. Made to wear pretty things and take my cock, isn’t that right?”

You nodded, breath caught, fingers clinging to his arms as he fucked you hard into the mattress, the bed creaking under the weight of his need. His hand came up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding—just claiming—while his other hand slipped down to rub your clit.

“Say it,” he snarled into your ear. “Say this pussy’s mine.”

“M-Mydei,” you gasped. “Yours—it’s yours, fuck—please—”

“That’s right,” he growled, biting down on your shoulder. “Mine to dress up, mine to fuck, mine to fill.”

And he did—not stopping until your pussy was raw and messy, until the dress he bought you was wrinkled and soaked, until he buried himself as deep as he could and groaned your name through gritted teeth as he came.

You were a masterpiece to him. A pretty little canvas he loved to paint with his cock.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[emeraldthelynx]

I've actually been thinking about this for a while since I saw this post. So, I have some ideas on how it would work.

The first episode has to be Suguroku getting the Puzzle from Atem's tomb. I know that this flashback takes place way later in the manga, but it has to be at the start in order to string the 'Shadow Games' and the 'Duel Monsters' parts of the series. The tomb would also need pictures of the monsters, as another connection. The first episode could be a longer Special, and continues with Yugi solving the Puzzle. Kaiba would have to be in the background of the classroom scenes. There long enough to know he's important, but not presented as the rival just yet.

I would think the plot beats would be something like, Gramps Mutou finds Puzzle, Yugi completes it, some sort of indication by somebody like an Item Bearer or even an odd conversation between Dark Magician and Kuriboh, but some party sensing that the Millennium Puzzle has finally been completed for the first time in 3000 years. During Season 0/early manga things, Duel Monsters could be hinted at in the background, with things like maybe a televised match of Kaiba becoming the National champion or Gramps Mutou playing a friendly, normal round of it against Yugi. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that Gramps had Dark Magician in his deck, so there could be scenes where the Puzzle gleams in response to Dark Magician being played, which can help connect the ancient Egyptian Puzzle guy with a trading card.

Speaking of the Egyptian Puzzle guy, the encounter with Shadi is absolutely necessary to tie all the randomness together. Shadi has to be the first to indicate that Yami Yugi isn't just Yugi's other self, but maybe something more. More behind-the-scenes stuff needs to happen to. Things like Mokuba finding out that Yugi beat Kaiba, Pegasus watching the Death-T match, maybe even just somebody annoying like Haga in the audience at some point giving commentary. And concerning the Monster World game, the version of Zork in that game needs to be hinted at being something bigger. (Also... anime-Zorc's design needs to go, forever thank you.)

Once Duelist Kingdom is finally hit, things can proceed more closely to the original, but there needs to be little things that connect to the eventual Memory World arc, because that whole arc was never really expected I don't think.

A whole separate tangent would be about the filler seasons and maybe even Yu-gi-oh! R. Those things cannot be squashed in with the main storyline, and they absolutely need to be refined so they don't feel like every Yugioh fanfiction on FF.net. A good option would be films or OVAs. Since the Kaiba backstory can be covered with Season 0 stuff, we don't need the backstory filler. A term I like using for this stuff is 'another time, another place.' It's like the Pokemon movies being somewhere in canon, but not really part of the story. If they were to work at all, they would need to be put in the 'another time, another place' state. But just think about how much more interesting things would be if it was that way! A lot of complaints about the filler arcs is that they're too long. By having a series of OVAs or a couple of movies, all the good stuff can get condensed into a much, much shorter timeline.

I know that it would probably be animated by Gallop, but I would really, really like to see a different studio work on it. Toei would be fine by me, although I'm biased, and Bones would be amazing. (Again, biased.)

Those are just a few thoughts though.

When people are like “There should be a Yugioh reboot that fully adapts the story including the early manga” I’m like are you sure? You know that Yugioh’s story structure is batshit, right? You want a season full of random unrelated death games followed by an abrupt veer into exclusively card games for 20 volumes followed by an abrupt veer into ancient Egyptian political intrigue, which itself does a complete 180 on all of its own themes 35 chapters in? I’m not saying I wouldn’t watch it, but, uh,