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ginnsbaker · 3 months ago

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All Of Your Pieces (23 - The First Days of Spring)

Chapter Summary: You spotted them a few blocks from the orphanage, just past an alleyway, Steve’s visit still hanging over your head. Wanda stood stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, her chin tilted up as she talked to her ex-boyfriend. You thought it was just Steve who came to Scotland to talk to you—it didn’t occur to you that they would try to get Wanda back too.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: fluff and minor angst, mentions of child abuse

A/N: And just like that, we’re back in the real world, closer and closer to the conclusion of Part II. Everything from here rolls downhill fast. // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Spring was a slow hatchling, taking its time to crack through winter's brittle shell. Patches of green clawed stubbornly out of the thawing earth, and somewhere in the distance, birdsong threaded through the air. You’d almost forgotten about birds. The weeks had been muddy, and today, the sky hung heavy with the promise of rain. Still, you couldn’t help but look forward to sunlit picnics with Wanda—to making her little sandwiches, spreading out a blanket, and reading to her until the light faded into soft gold.

But Wanda didn’t care about the season or the idea of picnics in the park.

She cared about a certain kid.

It was the boy from the orphanage where she volunteered. The one with the hollowed-out eyes, bruises that never seemed to fade, and a never-ending string of “accidents” from the roughest home you could imagine. Wanda had seen his mother once, yelling in the parking lot, yanking his arm hard enough that his tiny sneakers skidded on the pavement.

And now the mother was yelling again, and the child was crying, his face streaked with dirt and tears, and the woman’s grip was so tight it was leaving red marks on the kid’s pale skin.

Somehow, Wanda had managed to track them to their home, a run-down shack on the edge of the woods, border of the city.

“Wanda!” you called, hurrying across the cracked asphalt. The second you saw her face that morning—heard her say she had something to take care of—you followed. “Hey! What’s going on?”

“She hit him,” Wanda said through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “I saw it, Y/N. She—she grabbed him so hard he screamed.”

The boy hiccupped through his sobs, shrinking back against his mother’s hip.

“Wanda,” you tried again, taking a calculated step. “You need to breathe.”

The wind kicked up around you, whipping Wanda’s hair across her face. Her hand twitched, her fingers curling ever so slightly. You knew what that meant.

She was seconds away from doing something she wouldn’t be able to take back.

“Wanda, listen to me,” you said, stepping in front of her, blocking her line of sight to the house—of the mother. “You can’t do this. You know you can’t.”

Wanda’s eyes blazed red as she regarded you, your presence clearly not doing anything for her temper. “You want me to let her keep hurting him?” she spat. “Is that it?”

“No, of course not,” you said. “I’m saying we report her. We get someone involved who can actually do something about it.”

“You know we can’t go to the police, Y/N.”

That was true. Over a year had passed, yet your names still sat on Interpol's most-wanted list. If the authorities caught even a hint of your presence here in Scotland, it wouldn’t just be trouble for the two of you—it would put Steve and the entire group that followed him, at risk.

Time hadn’t dulled the relentless pressure of being hunted—it just gave you a breather.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said, voice lower now. “We’ve dealt with worse than this, Wanda.”

She closed her eyes, drawing in a sharp breath as her shoulders rose and fell with the effort to keep herself together. When she looked at you again, the glow in her had vanished, only to be replaced by something that broke your heart to see.

The woman clung to her child like she might never let go. Then, while you tried to calm Wanda, she seized the moment and quietly led her son away, both of them slipping off down the street, not daring to look back.

Wanda stayed rooted in place, but didn’t pull away when you stepped closer and rested your hands on her arms. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you told her quietly. “You can’t save everyone. Not like this.”

Her green eyes were glassy, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I just—he’s a kid, Y/N. He’s just… a kid.” She let herself collapse against you, her forehead pressing into your shoulder as her breathing slowed.

“I know,” you nodded, your thumbs brushing soothing circles against her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against your shirt.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice soft. “You care, Wanda. That’s not a bad thing. But we have to be careful. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll find a way to help.”

You felt her nod against your chest, her arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if she was afraid to let go.

The storm clouds broke overhead a few minutes later, the first raindrops pattering against the pavement as you stood there in the middle of the empty street, holding Wanda close.

The burner phone buzzed again in your pocket. Natasha had been calling for days, and you’d been ignoring every single one. You kept the phone on you anyway, unable to decide if you were ready to let go of this life with Wanda—or if you ever would be. But you weren’t about to answer now, not with Wanda falling apart in your arms.

—

The anonymous tip didn’t go the way you’d hoped.

You’d sent it carefully—no trace, no connection to you or Wanda. The police arrived at the address hours later, long after the mother and her boy had vanished. The shed was empty, save for a few discarded pieces of clothing and a broken chair. No neighbors spoke up. No one had seen anything, heard anything.

Without a witness, without evidence, the case was marked resolved. A polite way of saying nothing to see here.

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell Wanda. She would blame herself, spiral into guilt and anger for not acting when she had the chance.

The picnic was your way of distracting her, of giving her something to smile about. It was a Monday morning, your lunch break from the library unusually long thanks to a slow day and some traded shifts.

Wanda sat on the checkered blanket, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her cheeks rosy from the brisk air. She was opening a container of sandwiches you’d packed when you slid closer to her, a sly grin spreading across your face.

“You know,” you started, leaning in just enough to make her glance at you, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look as good as you do holding a Tupperware lid.”

She rolled her eyes. “You might want to get your eyes checked,” she said, laughing softly as she placed the sandwiches between you.

“I’m serious,” you continued. “You look so hot doing everything and nothing.”

She shook her head, her smile growing as she pushed a sandwich toward you. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s working.”

You took the sandwich from her hands, but your appetite had waned. Wanda, bathed in sunlight, laughing softly as she brushed crumbs from her sweater—it was such a simple thing, so ordinary, yet it felt impossibly fragile. Like if you blinked too long, it would disappear.

But then Wanda looked at you, chewing thoughtfully as the corners of her mouth curled into a small smile, and you swore she looked like she belonged in a painting—like something precious and eternal that you didn’t deserve but somehow had anyway.

If you went back to your old lives—if Natasha’s calls meant what you thought they did—this fragile world you and Wanda had built could crumble. She was the one thing that made you feel whole, the only thing that mattered. And if that was ripped away...

“You know,” you said casually, as if you were discussing the weather, “I think we should get married.”

Wanda froze mid-chew, a tiny piece of lettuce still sticking out from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes widened, blinking rapidly as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard you correctly. She swallowed hard, her hand slowly setting the half-eaten sandwich down onto the Tupperware lid.

“What… what did you just say?”

You shrugged, your grin turning softer, more sincere. “I mean it. I love you, Wanda. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So, what do you say?”

She stared at you, her mouth opening and closing like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” you said, your hand finding hers on the blanket. “I didn’t bring a ring or anything. I guess I’m not that great at planning picnics. But I’m serious, Wanda.”

“You’re asking me this now? Here?” Wanda repeated, looking at you like you’d grown another three heads.

You shrugged, feigning cool but deep inside you were panicking. “Well, the sun’s out, you’re ridiculously beautiful, and I’ve… always wanted to.”

Wanda let out an unrestrained laugh, her head tipping downward as her hands came up to cover her mouth. Her shoulders trembled, and for a second, you worried she was upset—maybe even angry.

You worried she was going to say no.

“Did you even plan this?”

The truth was, you had a ring. It had been sitting inside one of your socks in the cabinet drawer for weeks. You’d tucked it away, thinking you’d wait a few years before getting down on one knee. But lately, patience had been wearing thin. You’d been catching yourself imagining that moment more and more often. Timing was never your strong suit, though—and asking? You were even worse at that.

Wanda took your face in her hands, her laughter fading as she looked into your eyes earnestly.

“Y/N, you realize we can’t even get a marriage license, right?” she began, “We’re living under false identities. We don’t exist on paper, at least not as the people we are now. And that’s just the start. We’d have to fake even more documents, find someone willing to look the other way, and don’t even get me started on what happens if someone decides to dig into our backgrounds—”

She paused to take a breath, but she wasn’t done. “It’s not like we can just waltz into city hall in our wedding gowns with flowers and sign our names on a certificate. I can’t risk that. We can’t risk that. And even if we tried, what happens when someone recognizes us? What happens when—”

“Wanda.”

You said her name softly, but it was enough to stop her in her tracks.

“What?” she asked impatiently, and you could see her conflicted thoughts still tumbling around in her head.

You took her hands that were cupping your face and put them on your lap, lacing your fingers with hers. “You haven’t actually said yes yet,” you murmured. “And I’m starting to think you’re looking for a way to say no.”

“Y/N—”

“I know we can’t go sign papers and flash rings in front of a government clerk, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” You swallowed hard, trying to keep the rising knot of disappointment out of your throat.

“I’m saying we don’t need them, Wanda. We don’t need papers or signatures or any of that. We don’t even need witnesses. We can just… do it. Now, or back at home, wherever you want. Say our vows—”

“You’ve written your vows?”

You could feel her eyes on you, but you were not brave enough to look back up. At least, until you’ve gotten everything out in the open.

“Uh, yeah. And I have a ring back at home,” you admitted nervously. “It’s not fancy, but if you want to make it feel more official, it’s there. But if you say ‘I do’ right now, Wanda…”

You let the words hang between you, your thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It’ll be real. For me.”

“You really are serious,” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, and the blush on your cheeks deepened.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything.”

For a moment, you thought she might start another rant, might bring up all the reasons this wasn’t practical or why you should wait. But instead, she lifted your chin and put her face close to yours, her breath warm against your lips as she whispered, “Okay then. I do.”

You finally lifted your eyes to hers. “You do?” you said, your voice breaking on a laugh.

“I do,” she repeated, her smile so wide it looked like it might split her face.

The world didn’t stop, but it might as well have. You leaned in, slow and unsure, like it really was the first time. And in a way, it was. The first kiss as people who married themselves. Her lips were soft, a little chapped, and she tasted faintly of ketchup. But the kiss remained perfect in every way.

When you opened your eyes, Wanda’s were shining, watery, like she’d been standing too close to the edge of something and didn’t know how far she might fall.

You didn’t realize you were crying too until her thumb brushed just under your eye.

“So… are we married now?” she asked softly, her nose brushing against yours.

You grinned, your chest feeling impossibly light. “I mean, yeah. In the ways that matter most, yeah.”

“Good,” she whispered, pulling you into another kiss. “Although I still want that ring and vows once we get home.”

You grinned. “As you wish, Mrs. Maximoff.”

You were married. In every way that mattered.

—

The very next thing you did after marrying Wanda in private was buy a property—well, more of a gift, really, since Wanda had no idea you were planning it. You picked New Jersey because it was close to New York without actually being New York, and that felt perfect. It’s somewhere near enough to your roots while still granting you a buffer of peace. Scotland had been beautiful and perfect for your time away, but it wasn’t truly home. It was part of the identities you’d been using to stay off the radar. Home was where you could be Y/N, and Wanda could be Wanda.

So, the day after your spontaneous wedding, you made a call to Clint. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, “What’s new?”

“For someone who’s on house arrest you sound happy.”

“I have everything I want here, kid. My family. A farm.”

“That sounds amazing, actually,” you said, into the receiver. “Anyway, I got married yesterday.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a throaty laugh. “You never do anything halfway, do you?”

“It wasn’t anything formal. It was just between me and Wanda, but it’s—it’s real.”

“I’m happy for you, kid.”

You smiled, looking down at the ring on your finger, still feeling a little lightheaded from happiness. “Thanks. Listen, I need a favor, and you’re the only one I trust. I want to buy a piece of land in Jersey. Under my real name.”

“Hang on,” Clint said, voice turning serious. “Under your real name?”

“Yes,” you confirmed. “This is for me and Wanda—for our future. No more fake names. I just want to make sure everything goes smoothly and nobody starts asking questions.”

He made a thoughtful sound, and you could practically hear him leaning back in his chair. “Alright. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do.”

True to his word, Clint came through. Within two days, he sent you a secure link to sign electronic documents for the deed of sale and the lot map. You practically hovered over the laptop, heart pounding as you set your digital signature to something you hadn’t used in what felt like lifetimes: your real name.

It made you strangely emotional to see it there, crisp and official on the deed. A document that said, for better or worse, that you existed—and you were claiming a little piece of the world as your own.

You printed the deed and the lot map, carefully rolling them up. Then you unrolled the map again, pulled out a pen, and scrawled your message in neat handwriting along the side: Where Maximoff will torment me for the rest of my days.

Your heart gave a fond lurch at the thought. Wanda’s teasing, her jokes at your expense, the way she’d get that mischievous glint in her eye. You slipped the map into an envelope, pressing down the seal firmly.

You set the envelope aside, your mind already spinning with how you’d present it. If you made too big a deal out of it, Wanda might freeze, thinking about all the risks. But if you made it too unserious, she might not realize just how monumental this was for you. You wanted to show her you believed in a future that was truly yours. A future where you were Y/N, and she was Wanda Maximoff, and no one could take that away from you.

Taking a breath, you forced yourself to refocus. There was dinner to prepare, chores to do, excuses to be made for why you were holed up in the study all afternoon. But just for a moment, you stayed with the vision of a little house in New Jersey.

—

When Wanda brought up having kids, you were halfway through your second boba and nearly choked on a tapioca pearl. You recovered quickly, but Wanda studied you for a long moment, her gaze sharper than you were used to—like she was reading every micro-expression, searching for the truth behind your reflexive panic.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you said, but even you could hear how unconvincing you sounded.

She didn’t let it go. “Are you sure?”

You cursed yourself internally. If she could see through you this easily, what hope did you have for any real secrets?

“Yeah,” you repeated, mustering a small smile. “I’m fine, really.”

But she was already circling back to her question. “So… about having kids. Did you… want that?”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering all over again. “Wait—do you mean, like, in general? Do I like kids? Or… did you mean…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, suddenly aware of how warm your face felt. “Like, us? Having kids. Together.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. You tried to gauge her expression, but she gave nothing away—her tone could have been light, or maybe it was serious.

“Kids in general,” Wanda said, finally, her face unreadable.

You hadn’t lied to Wanda in a long time, and it felt natural—automatic, even—to give her the truth the moment you had the chance.

So you told her, “Yeah, I like kids. And they seem to like me too.” Wanda gave you a good-natured smirk at that, like she wasn’t surprised at all.

“You’re good with them,” she said, and you could hear the warmth behind it. She was probably thinking about all those afternoons you spent volunteering at the orphanage back in New York, letting the kids braid your hair or climb all over you without hesitation.

You nodded, but after a second, your gaze drifted. “I mean, I think I am. But… I’m not sure if that’s the same as having my own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I grew up in a broken family, Wanda. I don’t really know what good parenting looks like. I don’t know if I’d even know how to raise a kid right, or if I’d be able to love them the way they deserve.”

Wanda smiled at you. “You love me properly.”

You grinned, quick and crooked. “Yeah, but you can be pretty childish sometimes.”

She shook her head, pretending to be offended, but her playful warning was ruined by the way she was already laughing.

The laughter tapered off, and then you met Wanda’s eyes again.

“So,” you asked after a beat, “why are you suddenly thinking about kids?”

She balked, rolling her straw between her fingers. “What if we adopted?” she said, almost ordinary—except her voice caught on the last syllable.

You went still. “Adopt?” A dozen thoughts went through your head before you arrived at a conclusion. “You’re thinking about that boy again, aren’t you?”

She looked away, then nodded. “Yeah.”

You reached for your words like they might keep the ground from tilting beneath you. “I don’t know, Wanda. It sounds like a beautiful idea, it really does, but… it scares me.”

The words seemed to catch her off guard—like she hadn’t expected you to be so direct, or maybe she hadn’t really considered a flat no was even possible from you.

She didn’t answer right away. And that silence was worse.

You felt yourself scramble to soften the blow, even though you knew you were just being honest. “It’s not a never. I want to have this conversation again. With you.”

Wanda nodded slowly, like she was reining something in. “Yeah. You’re right,” she murmured. “And… we’re still hiding. We’re not…” Her voice trailed off.

“Not exactly living normal lives,” you finished for her.

“Yeah,” she said again.

You didn’t regret your answer, but you hated how uncertain it made everything feel. Was she disappointed in you?

She stood a second later, the motion a little too brisk to be casual. “I, um… I should check the laundry. If I leave it too long it’ll start to smell like rain.”

You didn’t know if you’d just had your first fight, or a pre-fight, or maybe a warning shot of something more.

But whatever it was, it didn’t feel resolved.

—

You were halfway through a battered copy of East of Eden when Steve Rogers walked into the library. You weren’t supposed to be reading—not technically. Your job was to stand near the entrance, smile politely at patrons, and make sure no one smuggled an entire encyclopedia set under their coat. But slow days meant slow rules, and the library staff didn’t mind you leaning against the shelves, book in hand, as long as you did your job.

You were underlining a passage with your finger—“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.”—when his footsteps reached your ears. You recognized those boots, that walk.

Your thumb caught on the corner of the paper and when you looked up, Steve was already walking toward you, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. And though you’d braced yourself for the day someone from that life might walk through those glass doors, you weren’t prepared for the beard.

It softened him somehow, made him look less like the man you’d followed into fire and more like someone who fixed motorcycles for fun on weekends. But it was still him. And you didn’t realize until now that you kind of missed him too.

“Steve,” you said, snapping the book shut and tucking it under your arm. “You know you could’ve just texted.”

“Would you have answered?” he asked.

Fair question.

“Come on,” you said, jerking your head toward the stacks. Somewhere private.

The two of you walked deeper into the stacks, where the tall shelves swallowed up the view from the front desk.

You stopped near the philosophy section, surrounded by musty-smelling pages and the faces of long-dead thinkers staring out from their book covers.

“So,” you said, leaning back against the shelf. “What’s the pitch?”

“It’s not a pitch,” Steve said.

“It’s always a pitch with you guys,” you said, your lips curling into a humorless smile.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. Up close, you could see the way exhaustion had settled into his features. Just what had he been doing this past year? Most importantly, you really wanted to ask him about the beard.

“Natasha thought you’d take this more seriously if I came instead of her,” he said.

“That’s because Natasha knows I’d block her number before she finished the word ‘favor.’”

Steve almost smiled at that. Almost. You glanced down, staring at the cover of the book under your arm. East of Eden. A story about choices, consequences. How fitting.

“I can’t help you,” you said finally before he could say more.

“Y/N—”

“You know,” you started, crossing your arms over your chest, “you’re the one who told us to do this. You looked us all in the eye and said, Run. Find somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Build a life. Be happy. And now you’re here, in my library, with that face—like you want to take it all back.”

“That was then,” he said quietly. “Things have changed.”

“What exactly changed?”

“We don’t have all the details, yet, but,” Steve sighed. “I wouldn’t be here if things weren’t… worse.”

You glanced away, frustration simmering. “You can’t just show up here and ask me to… what, suit up again? To leave her? To leave this life behind because the sky’s falling again?” Your voice cracked slightly, and you cursed yourself for letting him hear it.

Steve nodded empathically. You didn’t usually believe people when they said they got it—but with Steve, you knew he did. He’d been here before, more times than anyone should. He’d lost more, had things—people—ripped away from him in ways you couldn’t imagine.

You looked down at your feet, suddenly feeling guilty for saying no to him. “You gave us the order to be here, Steve. And now I’ve built something—something good, something real. I wake up next to her, and for the first time in my life, I’m happy. And you want me to trade that in?”

Steve stood there and took everything you had to give. “I don’t want you to trade anything,” he finally said after a few beats. “You’re right. I told you to run. Told all of you to find something better. You did what I asked. You did everything I asked.”

He put a hand on your shoulder. “It’s really good to see you, Y/N.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the books behind him, your eyes skimming the spines of books about dead men who’d all tried their best.

��And you and Wanda,” he continued, pulling his hand back slowly, like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch, “take care of each other.”

—

You spotted them a few blocks from the orphanage, just past an alleyway, Steve’s visit still hanging over your head. Wanda stood stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, her chin tilted up as she talked to her ex-boyfriend. You thought it was just Steve who came to Scotland to talk to you—it didn’t occur to you that they would try to get Wanda back too.

You were supposed to announce yourself. Step forward, call out her name, and break up the little reunion. But instead, you hung back, hovering just out of sight like some kind of coward.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Wanda—you did, completely. But Vision wasn’t just anyone. He was… well, he was almost in your place now. If the Accords hadn’t happened, maybe it’d be him married to Wanda. Maybe they’d be the ones in Scotland, sharing that little apartment.

You hid behind some bushes, trying to make out their conversation. You couldn’t hear every word, but you caught enough.

“...It’s always been your fight. Our fight. You know that.”

“Don’t do that, Vision. Don’t make it sound like I’m running.”

“You’re choosing to look away.”

“I’ve chosen to live. That’s what this is.”

“And what happens when living isn’t enough? When the people you love are in danger?”

“You don’t get to talk about the people I love.”

That’s when you decided to come out of hiding, startling Wanda. Vision didn’t seem surprised—if you had to guess, he already knew you were there, listening in on their conversation the entire time. He just didn’t care.

“Y/N,” she said, your name falling somewhere between a sigh and an apology.

But you were more focused on Vision. “That’s enough,” you said, glaring at him. “You can’t force Wanda into anything.”

Vision regarded you with an unreadable expression. Over the past year, without the constant presence of people around him, he’d grown more machine-like, more distant, than he’d ever been back at the compound.

“I’m not forcing her,” he said evenly. “I’m simply making my case. If it came off as otherwise, I apologize.”

Wanda pressed her lips together, torn. She looked at you, then at Vision, and you could practically see the conflicting emotions plastered across her face. You moved closer, sliding an arm around her waist, quite tempted to keep her behind you like a shield.

“So,” you said, letting out a shaky breath, “Steve dropped by. Tried to rope me back in.”

Vision dipped his head in a small nod. “Yes. And from what I understand, you refused.” His stare was polite, but the implication stung.

Your cheeks heated. He might as well have said you’re letting the world down for how it sounded. You swallowed, trying not to let the shame bleed into your voice. “I told him no. I have a life here. So does Wanda.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped you would be more open to our situation.”

Was he trying to guilt-trip you? Your lungs felt too small for the breath you were holding. “I—” you started, then let it go, tightening your grip on Wanda’s waist.

“I have faith in Wanda,” Vision continued. “Regardless of how the world has treated her—she can still do the right thing. I believe she will do the right thing.”

You felt Wanda stiffen in your arms. You gritted your teeth. Vision knew how to play his cards around Wanda. You hate that he still knew how, after all this time.

“Vision…” Wanda murmured.

You swallowed, turning to Wanda fully. “Do you… do you want to go back?”

Wanda sucked in a breath, her gaze softening as she looked at you. “I want to stay here,” she said quietly. “I want to be with you.”

She wasn’t lying. But Wanda could want two different things at the same time—and she did. She wanted to be with you, to continue this peaceful life, but she also wanted a shot at redemption. Though Wanda’s guilt had lessened during your time together, you knew she always wanted to do something to make up for what happened in Lagos.

“Wherever you go, I’ll follow,” you assured her, reaching out to gently take her hand. “You never have to worry about losing me. You’ll never lose me.”

Just then, a low rumble crawled across the sky.

At first, you thought it was thunder—an early storm rolling in over the rooftops. But storms never formed this quickly, or with this much spectacle.

Vision angled his head skyward, eyes reflecting the strange phenomenon. “They found us.”

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stevie-petey · 3 months ago

Text

track three: you did me bad

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

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

Rating: mature, lots of swearing and sexual tension

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August, 1989, Mike & Max laugh between rehearsals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They cope with the fear in different ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you fucking high?”

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

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

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

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

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

The tour bus becomes a war zone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And this is where the magic happens.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I try to be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wake!” You hit him again. “Up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

“We have flyers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know who that is?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who the hell is that?” Max asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know Leonard?” Steve is surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, no shit.”

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

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

The way Gregory talks, with a soft smile around his vowels and genuine interest in what you have to say, you’re struck by how different his charm is from Steve’s. It’s real, delicate, authentic where Steve’s is performative, and there is nothing hidden in the way he looks at you.

“I think dinner sounds great,” you tell him, answering for the band before Steve can shut the idea down. “Don’t you guys agree?”

Max looks around uncertainly, noting Steve’s clenched jaw and your hopeful smile. “I guess I could eat.”

“Can we order whatever we want?” Mike asks Gregory.

“Within reason, but Leonard did give me his credit card.”

“Then I’m sold.”

Robin forces a smile on her face. “I’ve never said no to free food,” she clears her throat, not so subtly kicking Steve’s shin. “Right, Steve?”

“Whatever.”

You pretend he sounds excited, that his resentful gaze doesn’t brand your skin. “Byers, I take it you’re in?”

“AC sounds nice.” Jonathan grimaces. He’s never been able to hide his discomfort. “I, um. Like AC.”

“Then dinner it is.” Gregory beams at everyone, not at all expecting anyone to return the smile, but smiling anyway because he’s truly happy to be here, to talk to them, to finally meet the Februarys, even if their reception to him is cold.

Your heart flutters again.

Almost as if he can hear the unusual cadence of your heartbeat, Steve grabs your hand, strokes the underside of your wrist. A silent plea to look at him, but instead you place your hand on Gregory’s arm, walking away.

“So, know any good restaurants around here?”

–

Dinner is unbearable.

The restaurant Gregory takes everyone to is a small, local diner that he’s been to a few times during his time as Leonard’s assistant. He promises that the food will be worth the shitty weather, and for a brief second you’re all hopeful that the dinner will go over smoothly.

Then Gregory pulls a chair out for you and helps you sit down before sitting across from you.

Steve bristles immediately, deliberately choosing the seat next to you as retaliation, and the rest of the band has to bite their tongues to keep quiet.

“So,” Gregory doesn’t wait to explain everything, having already ordered a round of drinks for the table. You wonder if he’s caught on to the group’s tension by now and purposefully selected alcohol as a buffer. “I’m basically here on Leonard’s behalf.”

Steve huffs. “Like his little pet?”

“If you want to look at it that way, sure.” The laugh that falls from Gregory’s chest only darkens Steve’s already shitty mood. He isn’t reacting how he wants him to. “As I’m sure you all know, there’s three shows left of your tour.”

“We can count.”

You pinch Steve’s side, harsh, and he flinches. “What he means to say is that they’re excited to finally be wrapping up the tour.”

“Well, Leonard’s excited, too.” The waiter comes and sets the drinks down. A simple round of beers, a safe option, and you think Gregory accounted for that as well. “But, Leonard being Leonard, he wants to make sure your final three shows are, well. Uneventful, so to speak.”

Don’t fuck up.

At least Gregory tries to put the threat in a lighter, more optimistic tone.

“‘Uneventful’ is one way to look at it.” Robin sips her beer, leaning over the table to get a better look at Gregory. “He practically told us not to fuck anything up or else he’ll fuck our lives up.”

The assistant winces. “He… certainly has a way with words.”

“No kidding,” Mike orders two ribeye steaks. “His money doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Wait, you said Leonard sent you to make sure the shows go well?” Max asks Gregory, who nods. “Okay, so what does that mean? Are you our babysitter or something?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no I hope you guys don’t view it as that. Leonard just… really, really needs to make sure there’s nothing that will jeopardize the future of this band. He wants the Februarys to be successful. Believe me. I’m just here as a sort of precaution. All I’m doing is attending the last three shows to tell him what he already knows: you guys are a fucking once-in-a-lifetime band.”

“Or you’ll be an annoying snitch,” Steve spits out. “I mean, how are we supposed to just trust that you won’t go spewing bullshit to him?”

Your face burns in embarrassment at his treatment towards Gregory. “Why are you being such an asshole right now?”

“I’m looking out for my band!” He argues, grabbing a beer and sloshing it around. “I worked too fucking hard to trust some guy named Greg. I mean, who the hell even names their kid that?”

“Your name is Steve.” Gregory points out, though not unkindly, and you’re not sure if you want to kiss him for his unwavering confidence or kick him for antagonizing an already unstable Steve. “But regarding your concern of trusting me, I won’t force you to. That’s entirely your decision. All I can say is that I haven’t heard music like yours since The Velvet Underground. You guys are special. I’m not here to tarnish that.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to say more, but the food arrives and suddenly the tone in the conversation shifts. Gregory eagerly thanks the waiter, charming as ever, and before his eyes Steve watches his band members warm up to the assistant.

“Leonard is really okay with paying for all of this?” Jonathan asks in disbelief, staring at the sheer amount of food that can’t possibly be finished by them. “I-I mean, this has to be at least a couple hundred dollars.”

“Technically, he told me to do whatever to convince you guys I’m not the enemy.” Gregory shrugs, takes a bite of his burger. “So this will probably be a tax write-off for him.”

“Is that… legal?” Max doesn’t know whether to start with the truffle fries or the salad.

Again he shrugs. “You’ve met my boss.”

The stoic, uncharacteristically dry response makes you snort. Embarrassed, you try to hide it behind a laugh, but Gregory catches the reaction and leans in close to you, as if conspiring, “I heard that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you flick your hair over your shoulder, relishing when Gregory’s eyes follow the movement.

“Don’t worry, it was cute.” He steals a fry, winks at you, before sitting back again.

Robin has to take the steak knife out of Steve’s tight fist.

You don’t see the exchange, too focused on the dimple in Gregory’s left cheek and imagining yourself kissing it.

“Besides music, tell me about yourselves.” He turns back to the group now, though his shoulders lean towards yours, an easy intimacy to him that eats away at you.

Robin tilts her head. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” He says. “I’m all ears.”

One by one, the Februarys start to laugh at Gregory’s jokes. They tell him stories from their early years, explaining how the band formed, where their name came from. Robin lets him try her milkshake. Mike splits his second ribeye with him. Max discovers they’ve both read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and talks animidly with him about it. Jonathan shows him a picture of Nancy and smiles when Gregory says she’s beautiful.

And you latch onto every word. A breath of fresh air, Gregory’s intelligence and honesty pulls you under the tide like the moon controls the current.

Steve doesn’t think he’s seen you laugh this much since the winter in the apartment together. The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that he washes down with alcohol.

“You look like you’re trying to kill the guy with your mind.” Robin whispers in his ear halfway through the night.

“I fucking want to.” Steve watches you reach across the table to fix Gregory’s glasses. “I want him dead.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Can you save the melodrama for later? I actually like the guy. Don’t scare him off, please.” When the tension in Steve’s jaw doesn’t lessen, she sighs. “Steve, I’m serious. Don’t fuck this up for us. Lay off the beer. Plaster a smile on your face. Pretend you want to be here and that you have your shit together.”

He scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrington.” She grabs his arm, tugs him away from you, and whispers venomously. “I know you, okay? I know you and I love you despite that, but if you continue to throw a hissy fit with the guy who reports directly to Leonard Branham, I will castrate you.”

“I–”

“So, Gregory!” Robin throws a smile back on her face, releasing Steve. “You said you’re from Vermont?”

Steve gets the hint. He shuts up. Puts the beer down. He won’t pretend to play nice, but he at least softens his glare to a sneer, and it’s the most he can offer Robin.

Eventually the bill gets paid and Gregory walks the band outside. He’s perfectly civil, extending his farewells to everyone with his usual kind smile. “It was wonderful getting to know everyone tonight.”

Steve fucking hates that he seems to mean it.

“Thanks for the food, man.” Jonathan claps Gregory’s back. “It was really good.”

“I think Mike might puke.” Max points to the kid, who clutches his stomach with a red face. “How many steaks did you eat?”

“Not enough,” he pants out. “God, Jonathan can you carry me back to the bus?”

“I really don’t want to.”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell Nancy you let me drink beer tonight.”

“I dread the day I marry into your family,” Jonathan bends down, instructs Mike onto his back, and then turns to Gregory again. “Sorry, but we should go.”

He laughs. “I understand. You two have a good night.”

“We won’t.” They both say at the same time, before Jonathan treks home with Mike on his back.

“We should get going, too.” Steve says, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour. He looks directly at you when he says it, though, completely ignoring Max and Robin who remain. “Right, angelface?”

The name is purposeful, a way to mark you as his in front of Gregory, and the shame of it washes over you in sickly thick waves.

Your mouth opens, closes, no words come out. Steve stares at you, expectant in a way that isn’t demanding or cruel or even as a way to guilt you. No. He stares at you with the same expectant gaze that you frame on him every night he walks away with the girls he hides behind.

“Actually, Y/N needs to talk to Gregory about something, right?” Robin’s mercy saves you, giving you an out.

“Right,” you nod, finding your voice again. “I, uh. Needed to talk to him about some potential projects.”

The expectancy dies in Steve’s eyes the same way yours does every night. “A project?”

“Yeah.” Your throat squeezing at your lies. “I’ll see you guys back on the bus.”

Robin catches Max’s eyes and they exchange a brief look. They nod, grab Steve’s arms, and drag him away before he can say or do anything else, leaving you alone, finally, with Gregory.

Steve’s protests and yells can be heard deep into the distance, and you almost don’t want to turn back to Gregory, too ashamed to face him.

Only he gently grabs your arm, spins you around, and his head hangs low so that he can coax your eyes to his. “Angelface, huh?”

“It’s just a nickname.” The lie comes out fast, easier than you expect it to. You hate that it does.

If Gregory notices the lie, he doesn’t show it. “I think it’s sweet. Fitting.”

“Is it? I’ve always thought it was an exaggeration.” You brush off his compliment, not wanting someone else to agree with the name meant only for a boy with rosie cheeks.

“It’s not an exaggeration,” Gregory tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, stroking your cheek in the process. “You’re beautiful, Y/N, and, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner all night. A real, proper dinner, just you and me and Leonard’s credit card.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then why haven’t you?”

Gregory sighs. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were already spoken for.”

Your heart sinks. "I…”

“I’m still not sure,” he laughs awkwardly, boyish smile strained. “I mean, I saw Robin hide the steak knives from Steve.”

“He’s just an idiot,” this time it isn’t a lie. “I promise you that that’s all it is.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, though he isn’t accusatory. Only curious, empathetic and understanding. “If there’s something more, I’ll happily back down. We can forget that dinner was ever on the table. I don’t want you or anyone else to think I’m here to cause any harm.”

Fear tightens your vocal chords. “No,” your hand falls to Gregory’s. “No, please listen to me. I’m not Steve’s, and he sure as hell isn’t mine. I want to get dinner with you, Gregory.”

He squeezes your hand. “I just don’t want to cause any problems.”

“You won’t,” you promise him. Another lie. “Now, walk me back to the bus, properly ask me to dinner, and maybe I’ll kiss you goodnight.”

Gregory smiles, and it’s like a thousand soft raindrops on sun-torn skin.

He holds your hand the entire way back. His grip isn’t as heavy as Steve’s, it’s lighter, easier, less sacred and sacrilegious. He tells you a story from his childhood, more soft spoken now than he’d been at dinner, as if only your presence requires this gentleness overflowing.

When you get to the bus, Gregory pulls you so that you lean against its side, and he settles both arms against the bus, encasing you, and his height only makes the sensation of the proximity more pleasurable when he looks down at you.

“Please, will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’d love that,” you whisper up at him, standing on the tips of your toes, anxious to be even closer to him. “Pick me up after the show?”

His nose dips down to yours. “I’d love that.”

A grin eases its way across your lips, and before you can press them to Gregory’s, he cups your face, kisses your cheek once, twice, and then pulls away.

“Save the kiss goodnight for when I’ve earned it,” he tells you, hand trailing down your arm until he reaches your fingers to bring your wrist to his lips. Only he doesn’t kiss the back of it like Steve does. He kisses the front, the strip of flesh just above your watch. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

The words are murmured against your skin.

“Goodnight, Gregory,” you exhale.

He feels your eyes on him the entire walk back to his car.

–

When you walk onto the bus, you find the band caught in a landmine.

Robin sits at the kitchenette with a deck of cards in front of her, untouched. Her stiff posture and tired eyes tell you that it’s been a long night without your presence.

Max and Mike sit at their bunks, hunched over together, pretending to busy themselves with songwriting. Only their instruments aren’t with them and Mike’s nervous fidgeting gives away everything.

Jonathan lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, a book propped against his chest that he doesn’t bother to pretend to read.

They all greet you with weak voices, afraid that any sudden movement will set off a stray mine. None of them acknowledge Steve in his bed, his knees drawn in tight, his guitar clutched to his chest, aggressive, almost destructive chords plucked from his fingers over and over again as if he can drown his anger in its melody.

The agonizing sound shrieks in your ears. Max flinches, Robin squeezes her eyes shut, and you know that you have to be the to cross the bomb-ridden field to quell its dull roar. It isn’t fair to your friends otherwise.

Steve doesn’t look up from his guitar. He continues to play a song that you think is from their EP, though the angry way he’s playing it almost makes the song sound foreign, unknown.

“I doubt Lenny will like this version of Lower East,” you sit at the edge of the bed like a bird perched in a barbed cage. “Might be a little too aggressive, even for him.”

His lips don’t turn upwards. His fingers don’t relent at the taut strings.

You try to relax your spine, moving your hands from your lap onto the bed. The blankets are familiar, worn, remnants of Steve’s childhood home in Hawkins. “I think he’ll love what you guys are working on now, though.”

You’ve heard the early stages of their album, catching snippets between rehearsals and late night writing sessions. You aren’t telling Steve this to appease him or placate him. You tell Steve that Leonard will love his music because you truly believe it to be true.

“Have you guys thought about what you’ll name the album?” You move so that you’re laying beside him, enough room not to make him feel trapped, but close enough so that your body heat kisses his.

Only Steve still pretends that you don’t exist. His white knuckles clutch the frail instrument and he strums so roughly that the bed shakes with every movement.

Swallowing back your anger, your eyes close.

“You have slept with every girl in every goddamn state.”

The screech of stopped chords tell you that you finally have his attention.

“You get fucking wasted and sleep with the first warm body you find. And then you crawl into my bed when you’re finished. Every single fucking night.” A cold laugh snags at your clenched teeth. “You don’t get to be a fucking asshole to me just because I smiled at someone who isn’t you.”

The vitriol that laces Steve’s laugh cuts your skin. “What, so you decided to try and make me jealous? Is that it? You think that’ll get you my attention?”

You stumble off the bed, exasperated laughter foaming over your fury.

“Oh, you think I want your attention? Please, a fucking mannequin with tits is enough to get your limp dick hard.” Steve’s lips part in shock, but you’re furious. “I-I mean, I’m already yours, Steve!”

You’re screaming now, uncaring of the fact that the rest of the band members are only a few feet behind you. Your body shakes, your throat burns, but Steve’s cruel, callous eyes blind you with upset and insecurity.

“Jesus fuck, I’m yours. All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about!” You’re laughing, only it comes out tight, incredulous. Steve sits in his bed and you bend down, eye to eye; you’ve always known exactly who he was. “But you can’t promise me that, can you?”

Steve doesn’t flinch at your vicious words. He stares straight back into your eyes, skin crawling when he feels everyone else’s gaze on him. He’s hyper aware of their presence. Their bodies are too close, he wishes he hadn’t started this argument with witnesses. He hates that he’s trapped himself on a bus that he can’t escape.

But he had. Now he pays the price for it, biting his tongue, biting back a promise he hates that he can’t give you. Not with them here. Not with anyone else present.

Steve thinks he sees tears rimmed around your eyes when your manic laughter dies and all you can say to him is, “Then it’s your fault if I mess around.”

And then you leave, throwing yourself into Robin’s seat at the kitchenette, as far away from Steve as possible.

He doesn’t talk for the rest of the night.

You end up sleeping in Robin’s bunk. Her body isn’t as warm as Steve’s, but it’s softer, plush, comforting to rest your head on as you cry. She pulls her blankets over the two of you so that no one else will see your tears. She hums random songs to disguise your sniffling.

“Steve’s a jackass,” Robin whispers into your ear, drying the tears that spill out. “Ignore him, alright? You’re allowed to flirt with cute boys named Gregory who drive hot Camaros.” A wet laugh, though Robin is happy to hear the shadow of your normally bright one. “C’mon,” she pokes your stomach, “tell me all about Greg.”

And you do.

–

Sometime in the morning, Steve wakes up before everyone else, grabs his guitar, and slips through the doors. He doesn’t leave a note, he doesn’t tell anyone where he’s gone, and though a part of you is worried, you can’t help but be thankful for his absence.

Robin heats you up some oatmeal and dabs your puffy eyes with a cold cloth. She sets coffee in front of you and kisses your exhausted cheek and sits down at the table next to you as if the weight of Steve’s cruelty doesn’t hang over her as well.

Everyone tries to go about their usual morning routines, though it’s difficult with the ever present worry that Steve has finally slipped through their fingers, gone for good.

You try to distract yourself with film. Claiming the kitchenette as your office, you carefully mix together the chemicals, spread out the rolls of film you’ve combed through a million times now, and get lost in the hypnotic sequence of developing the photos.

“I don’t think ‘running after a venom kiss’ lands well,” you hear Robin chastise across the bus in Mike’s bed with him next to her. “I get what you’re trying to say, but it sounds like a shitty Spider-Man villain.”

He frowns, furiously erasing what he’s written. “What about ‘fighting though vicious lips’?”

“Too sexual, and that’s not what we’re going for. Not for this song, at least.”

“‘Soothing words on velvet faux lips’?”

“Now you’re just stitching v-words together.”

You set a photo down. “What about ‘chasing vitriol with someone’s lips’?”

Robin doesn’t expect to hear your voice, but when she thinks through what you’ve said, she hums, nods, and quickly writes the lyric down. “Not bad, L/N.”

“Where’d that come from?” Mike raises an eyebrow at you, the closest he’s come all morning to asking about what happened last night.

Except you don’t want any pieces of it to remain. Rather than feed into his question, you simply shrug at him and go back to your work.

About midday, an hour before the bus is set to drive the final few miles to tonight’s venue, Steve slams through the doors, storms past you and everyone else, and locks himself in the bathroom.

Despite his aggressive return, there’s a collective exhale of relief.

–

The venue for Kenosha is bigger than Milwaukee's had been. A large lounge area encircles the dressing room, spacious enough to house a small crowd with floor length mirrors built into the walls. The reflective space borders on disorienting, but Gregory looks around in awe and endearing excitement.

“Oh, this is just fucking cool!” He stands before one of the mirrors, his reflection reflected in the dozens of mirrors behind him. He spins around, looks at himself from the other side, and laughs even harder. “God, this would be terrifying if you were high.”

“Stand still,” you aim your camera at Gregory, giggling when he poses like a comic-hero. In the corner of the frame, you spot Mike’s middle finger sticking up. “You’re in my shot, Wheeler.”

“Considering we’re in a mirror-hell, I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. You can practically see everything in here.”

Steve yanks at his shirt, undoing the first row of buttons with unneeded force. “Fucking tell me about it,” he mumbles, bitter, unable to look away from your eyes shining up at Gregory.

“Tell me, was the keyboard custom made?” The man in question points at Robin’s multicolored keyboard.

“I painted it myself, actually.” She beams in pride.

Gregory whistles, ignoring the steely glares he feels from Steve. “If I gave you my violin, would you paint something on it for me?”

Steve wants to bash his head against the mirrors. Of course he fucking plays the violin.

Asshole.

You haven’t looked at Steve since he got back earlier and he really, really misses your voice. This is the longest he’s gone without hearing rosie fall from your lips. Yet here you are, giggling at someone else’s jokes, wasting your film on someone who isn’t him, and Steve thinks that maybe it’ll always be this way.

Gregory’s presence reinvigorates the band, even if it enrages Steve. He’s able to get Max to smile for your pictures again. He poses with Jonathan, holds the drumsticks up like medals. He plays a game of rock-paper-scissors with Mike and the winner’s triumphant smile gets captured by you. Robin throws her legs across Gregory’s when they sit on the couch together and you take a picture of her purple skirt over his denim jeans.

With the endless mirrors surrounding him, Steve can’t escape any of the images.

By the time they’re called onto the stage, he’s never been more grateful to perform.

Gregory stands next to you in the security area. His height makes him impossible to miss in the crowd, and despite Steve’s best efforts, he can’t stop looking at the way your body seems to fit so well beside Gregory’s.

What burns the most, Steve thinks, is that for the first time since yesterday he has all of your attention, your viewfinder always on him, taking only his picture as he performs. The art is meant only for him, yet Steve knows that if you had a choice, you wouldn’t choose him to be your muse.

And what a cruel reminder it is.

The concert nears its end and you adjust your aperture in preparation of the pinks and purples that cloud Rosie’s stage for the finale. You fiddle with your camera, head down, not paying attention to what’s happening on stage, until you hear the click of a mic and Steve’s introduction of the song.

“I need to ask you guys something,” he says to the screaming crowd. “It’s a serious question, so bear with me, alright?” A variety of agreements and promises cheer through the audience, and Steve licks his lips. “God, I knew I could rely on you guys. Okay, when you hear the word ‘rosie’, what color do you think of?”

“Pink!” “Red!”

Back and forth the crowd debates.

Steve draws the mic up to his lips. “See, when I hear ‘rosie’, I think of red myself. But isn’t it ironic that red also makes me think of anger? I mean, isn’t it supposed to be associated with love or some other shit like that?”

A slight murmur of confusion washes over the audience. Steve’s charismatic performance slips, ever so slightly, and they’ve sensed it.

Max eyes him, unsure what to do, and none of the other band members seem to know what to do with Steve’s odd comments, either.

A long pause stretches, almost unbearably long, but Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything else. Robin assumes this to be her cue to start Rosie and begins the melodic lullaby keys for it, only for Steve to suddenly grab the mic and surprise everyone with a completely different song.

For the first time since the start of the tour, he doesn’t perform Rosie.

It takes you a moment to recognize they’re the lyrics to Cool it Down by the Velvet Underground. The song you once suggested the band cover, before a tour was ever on the table, before they even had any other songs to perform, simply because Steve had told you a story from his childhood.

Robin’s fingers fumble on the keys, creating a disjointed sound that clashes with Steve’s voice. She grimaces at the sound, her face red with embarrassment, and it’s Jonathan who’s the first in the band to recover from Steve’s sudden change to the setlist, following the beat to a song that isn’t theirs, while Robin and the others slowly catch up.

You better cool it down.

Oh, baby, cool it down.

Steve stares straight at you, never faltering in the song that he knows has just as much meaning to you as it does to him. He leans down, stares past your lens, a pink haze of smoke swirls around his disheveled hair.

Gregory’s hand rests carefully on your waist, blocking you in.

In this lighting, you wonder if you can hate Steve with the halo that shines down upon him through your camera.

–

Gregory doesn’t recognize the wreckage he runs into, face beaming, after the show. He’s ecstatic, running around from member to member, talking a mile a minute.

“You guys are fucking incredible!” He grabs Jonathan’s shoulders, shaking him, and you have to gently pry him off your friend.

“Try not to kill your boss’ talent, Gregory.” You tease, smiling.

He steps back sheepishly. “Sorry, I just haven’t seen a show like that since I was a teenager and my dad took me to see Springsteen. I mean, it was an almost perfect performance, just be careful not to play the wrong songs when Leonard gets here.”

The temperature in the room drops at the mention of the setlist change. Gregory doesn’t register it, he doesn’t understand that he’s in a minefield now as well.

But Steve does.

He clenches his jaw, hissing through his teeth, “It won’t happen again.”

Gregory’s eyes widen slightly at the unexpected rage. Steve had been cruel to him last night, immature, but he had attributed it to his interest in you and his protectiveness of his band. Now, seeing the deep hatred in Steve’s eyes, Gregory understands that there’s more to his anger than he can ever know.

“Well,” he coughs awkwardly, knowing he’s overstayed his welcome. “I should get going, but I just wanted to say again that you guys were amazing tonight. Truly. I have no doubt that Leonard has nothing to worry about.”

Robin manages a small smile. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Not a problem at all,” then, salt in the wound, he turns to you, “I’ll wait outside?”

“Yeah,” your head jerks a nod, uncoordinated, aware of Steve’s eyes on you. “I’ll, um, meet you in a couple minutes.”

Gregory squeezes your hand and leaves with even more praise for the band, unyielding in his charm, warming the room before the inevitable storm comes. The second the door closes behind him, Robin rounds on Steve.

“You changed the fucking setlist?” She screams so loud in his face that everyone stumbles back, momentarily blinded by her fury.

“It was just one song,” he tosses his guitar onto the couch and rolls his eyes. “Why the hell does it matter?”

“It matters because you didn’t tell us!” Robin grabs at his shirt, pulling him back so that she can force him to look at her. “I looked like a goddamn idiot on stage!”

“You didn’t look like an idiot, Robin.” Jonathan reassures her, though when he turns to Steve, his patience slips into disappointment. “She’s right, though. You can’t just change the setlist whenever you feel like it.”

Mike flicks a guitar pick, watching it thud off of Steve’s head in pleasure. “Yeah, you’ve been a control freak for weeks, but now when Leonard’s freakishly tall spy joins you’re a selfish asshole?”

“You can act out when we’re alone,” Robin’s grip on Steve’s shirt tightens, they’re nose to nose as she spits in his face. “You can be a malicious bitch when Leonard isn’t watching, but that’s the last goddamn time you pull a stunt like that. Don’t fucking ruin this for me, for us.”

“Ruin it?” He laughs incredulously. “I’m the reason why Jonathan recovered so well from the setlist change!” He stabs at his own chest with every word. “Those were my rehearsals that prepared him for the change. I’ve been the one holding this fucking band together! For years it’s been me keeping us afloat, finding our venues, encouraging Jonathan to join, buying your goddamn keyboard, practically begging Mike’s and Max’s parents to let them live their dreams!”

He sucks in a harsh breath, eyes cold and face broken. “Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.”

“Then where have you been this entire fucking tour?” Max shoves Robin aside, sick of the hypocrisy. “Huh? Where the fuck have you been since we left New York?” She laughs in his face. “What, you don’t remember? Did you forget that every night you get drunk off your ass and fuck every girl you can find? Did you forget that you abandon us the second our shows are done so you can go get shitfaced with complete strangers who don’t care for anything other than your saggy dick? Did you forget all that?”

Something cracks under the surface of Steve’s indifference. A twitch of his mouth, a sting in his eyes, but Max sees it and cuts even deeper, no longer respecting the boy she grew up admiring.

“Did you forget that it’s been Y/N holding us together while you’ve gone and done fuck all else?”

He stumbles back, the lash of Max’s viscous words severing the last of his resolve. His body collides into Robin, only she doesn’t catch him. Not this time. He barely regains his balance, nearly deafened by the silence that follows Max’s death kill.

The mask falls. His head spins around in a dizzying manner, looking at his childhood friends like a little kid, lost in a grocery store, terrified and alone. His face bears no trace of the anger that marred it only seconds ago.

Steve would do anything for the Februarys. From the very first day you met him he’s made this evident. He’s bled himself dry for them, given everything he can for the chance to make them happy, to hold their hands through the journey, to be a rockstar with his best friends, to be their leader when they call out to him in need.

Somewhere along the way he lost sight of that.

He’s only now realized how far he’s fallen.

“Steve,” your breath comes out more like a plea, a conciliation. You turn to him like a hunter does an injured deer, aching to patch his wounds.

He’s all alone.

And he knows it. Steve pushes past you, pushes past everyone, and the slam of the door echoes the weight of grief that plagues the room.

No one sees him for the rest of the night.

Steve doesn’t return to the tour bus. In the end, you cancel your date with Gregory. You don’t have it in you to plaster a smile on your face when you’re wracked with guilt over what’s happened tonight.

You apologize over and over again, but Gregory frustratingly understands it all. He tells you it’s okay, that he doesn’t spite you for caring about your friends.

The hollow cavern in your chest rattles at the thought of Gregory referring to Steve as your friend, but you don’t correct him. It’s easier for you not to.

–

You’re up before everyone else in the morning.

The sun rises over the crest of mountains, pinks and oranges glisten in the distance. The stiff, humid air clings to your skin uncomfortably. The rest stop the bus resided in for the night lays deserted. You’re the only ones there.

You find yourself missing Dustin’s endless rambles. He would’ve loved talking with Gregory, both of them fond of mechanics.

Sitting outside the bus, picking at the dirt underneath, Gregory finds you. He doesn’t say anything. He simply sits down beside you and the sun continues to ascend the sky. He watches your side profile. You watch the skyline for any sign of Steve.

When you see his figure stumbling home, you run straight to him. “Steve!”

He doesn’t react to your presence. His bleary eyes can barely focus on you. The bridge of his nose is sunburned, his hair freckled with dirt and debris, his pants torn at the knee and his shirt reeks of booze.

“Oh, rosie,” you carefully touch his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

Steve’s cracked lips bleed a smile. “I know.”

You help him into the bus, careful not to move him too fast in fear of overwhelming him. Gregory stands back, aware that his presence will only provoke Steve. Once he’s on the bus, you turn back to the other man and smile apologetically.

“I should get him cleaned up.” A dismissal, one that Gregory nods at.

“Alright,” he turns to go, but hesitates. “You know, there’s almost a two hour drive to Chicago. Are you… sure you want to ride with them?”

Your mouth turns down. “Where else would I go?”

“You could ride with me?” He’s hopeful. Naively so.

“I’m sorry,” all you seem to do lately is apologize for Steve’s behavior. “But it doesn’t feel right leaving the band like this. They need me.”

“Steve needs you.”

Your body tenses. “If you see it that way.”

“I’ll see you at the venue, Y/N.” Gregory still kisses your hand before you leave.

Steve has thrown himself into bed when you finally close its doors. The rest of the band sleeps, the early hour still fresh. You make your way to him, quiet, no wanting to disturb the others. When you reach him, he moves to the side, silently asking you to lay with him.

You do.

He curls around you, a tight ball of shame and loneliness. Holding Steve, you can feel the ridges of his spine through his thin t-shirt. You’re not sure when he falls back asleep, or when you join him, but eventually you’re woken up to Robin’s morning chatter and Jonathan’s tired yawns.

“Good morning,” Robin says politely to you when she sees you awake. “I made you coffee.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, Steve’s soft breaths still asleep.

She nods, eyes only on the boy in your arms, before going back to her conversation with Jonathan. Mike and Max are in their own world, slowly waking up themselves. The usual morning routine remains undisturbed from last night’s fury.

Soon the bus starts to move and Kenosha fades into the distance. You let Steve sleep for the first hour of the journey. It’s a quiet drive, no one really speaks besides the occasional comment on the scenery. You’re left alone with him, which you’re thankful for.

It doesn’t take much to wake Steve up, and even though you brace for his unrelenting malice, he’s gentle when he awakens. He listens to your soft commands to shower. He doesn’t put up a fight or scream or demand his independence. Instead, he obliges.

He only tries to push you away after he’s showered and you try to soothe his burned face with some cooling lotion you stored in your bag.

“I’m fine,” Steve insists, scrunching his face to ward off your tender care.

Now it’s your turn to ignore his pleas, resting your entire weight against him on the bed instead. He craves the heat, he misses having you in his arms, and you use this weakness to get what you want. “You’re extra rosie today,” you smear the lotion on his nose, smiling when he shivers. “I’m just trying to help.”

He crumbles immediately, melting into the bed beneath him. He wishes he could melt completely into you. But the physics of it aren’t possible, so he settles for resting his hands on your hips. “Fine.”

You smile, victorious, and Steve doesn’t think he can believe in a heaven when there’s already an angel in his arms.

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you. In the safety of Steve’s bunk, there are no prying eyes. It’s just you with him and your soft scent of the soap you’ve stolen from him and your gentle, ever present warmth.

Here, with you on top of him, Steve feels the most human.

“I shouldn’t have treated you how I did the other night.” He confesses, nose pressed to your neck. Where it belongs. Where he hopes he can always keep it. “I was awful to you then and even worse last night.”

“You were pretty miserable to be around,” you twist his hair in your fingers, staring up at your mattress above. Tucked in the corner is a polaroid of you and Steve, laying in the exact position that you are now. “What you said really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” You feel the graze of his eyelashes against your skin as his eyes close. “I don’t like who I’m becoming.”

Your fingers still in his hair, the strands wrapped around them. He’s offering you a piece of himself as he says this. Vulnerability where he normally exudes bravado. The action makes your chest ache even more. Swallowing, you tell him what you hope he’ll be able to understand one day.

“Then change who you’re becoming.”

He laughs, not cruel, not mean, but tired, exhausted. “It’s that easy, huh?”

“It is,” you flick his ear, turning his broken laugh into a true, Steve Harrington laugh that bellows in his stomach and coats his cheeks pink. “It’s that easy, Steve.”

“Alright!” His laughter turns to giggles when your fingers find his sides and attack him. “I-I’ll be nice to Gregory, stop! I-Christ, I’ll make it up to you once the tour is done!”

I’ve already forgiven you, you think, smiling down at his joyous face.

His laughter fills the cold bus with warmth once again. Jonathan sighs in relief at the sound.

–

Chicago is the biggest venue of the tour. The grand finale, as Leonard would say. With the largest capacity and two completely sold out nights, the Februarys step inside cautiously, staring up in awe at the ribbed ceiling and elaborate furnishings in the dressing room.

A long, white couch lines the stark black wall. On the other side, mirrors sit on top of vanities with every possible accessory needed. Lights shine along the mirrors’ edges, golden and honeyed. Every amp of every kind litter the floors, spare guitars hang above, excess instruments at their disposal in an almost greedy capacity.

“Holy fuck,” Max places a careful hand on a royal blue guitar. “This is all for us?”

“Leonard wanted you to have the very best for your final two shows.” Gregory sets down a crate of champagne. “This is for you as well, and don’t worry, it’s store bought.”

The smile Steve gives him is tight, strained, but at least he’s trying. He told you he’d be civil with Gregory, and at the very least he can thank him for the generous gift. “Thanks. We, uh. Didn’t necessarily enjoy the homemade stuff he sent us.”

“Jesus, did you drink it?” Gregory gags. “I’m so sorry. He told the NYPD he’d stop sending people his basement liquor.”

“He didn’t.” Jonathan clutches his stomach. The ghost of his pain from the liquor eminent. “He definitely didn’t.”

Mike pats his back sympathetically and Gregory shakes his head. “Well, I guess I have some phone calls to make when I’m back in New York.”

Everyone laughs, though Steve’s smile borders on a grimace. You can practically see him biting his tongue in a desperate attempt to remain polite. He isn’t his charming self, far from it, but his effort to keep his promise to you is more than you ever could’ve hoped for.

When no one’s looking, you quickly stand on the tips of your toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” you mumble against the skin, lingering for longer than you need, not quite knowing how many more times you’ll be allowed this small privilege of kissing the crest of his cheekbone.

Instinctively Steve’s hand comes to your waist and he holds you against him. The moment lasts less than a second, yet it feels like a lifetime passes before he finally lets go enough for you to pull away.

And when you do, you laugh at the lipstick stain that paints his face. Steve looks at you, confused, but you simply grab your camera and take a picture of the pink shimmer upon his tanned skin.

“What was that for?” He asks you, narrowing his eyes in teasing suspicion.

You wipe the lipstick off, saddened to see it go, but selfishly happy only you got to witness it. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Something akin to intimate worship washes over Steve’s face, melting his hardened features into an oil painting of love and adoration. The painting before you catches your breath. There is no form of art that could ever capture his beauty.

“Y/N, can you help me with my hair?” Max’s voice breaks the moment.

Steve steps back. Your hand drops. “I’ll be right there,” you tell her, not quite ready to look away from him yet.

“Go,” he tells you. “I’ll see you on stage.”

Reluctantly you step away.

Max wants her hair in braids, so you help pin the mess of hair up and twist her red curls around your fingers. In the corner of your eye you see Robin and Gregory talking, laughing occasionally, while Jonathan and Steve stand in their own corner, heads low, discussing something you can’t hear.

Mike has a field day with the instruments. He fiddles with a bright gold electric guitar and Steve has to gently chide him that it wouldn’t be the best idea to try out a new instrument during the show.

A familiar energy returns to the room. Banter between Mike and the older boys. Max’s quick wit joining in. Robin dotting glitter onto Steve’s eyelids, giggling together like school children. The spillover of last night’s argument doesn’t exist at this moment, and you relish in the photos you take of the Februarys, whole again, at least for now.

“Alright, guys.” Steve gathers everyone around, minutes before the show. “It’s just us, okay? I mean it. It’s just the five of us. On and off the stage, we have each other.”

A deviation from the traditional just us just us just us mantra.

The Februarys look at Steve and he allows them to see his regret. He allows them to see his genuine love for the group and his nail-grip hold of success that he craves.

“It’s just us on that stage. It’s always been just us. It will always be just us.”

“Just us,” Robin repeats back to him, her smile rivaling the sun.

“Just us!” The others chant.

Steve’s eyes shine. Whether from tears or from gratitude, you aren’t sure. All you know is that he shakes his head, as if he can’t believe that his band is real, and says the words they’ve all been waiting for.

“Showtime.”

Despite everything, the Februarys best performance happens on their first night in Chicago.

Steve infects the lively audience with his endless charm. He leaves them wilted in his hands, leaves them screaming his name and everyone else’s. The roar of their demand for more vibrates the venue’s walls.

The biggest crowd of their entire career falls to their knees the moment Steve’s pretty mouth sings the songs he’s dreamed of creating since he snuck into his parent’s bedroom one day and listened to a rock album that changed his life forever.

Fans scream when Max and Robin do their handshake, never once missing a step in their sacred tradition. They scream when Mike’s electric solo comes up between the chorus of a song dedicated to his sister. They scream when Jonathan’s drumsticks break and he pulls new ones out from his jacket and they erupt into a frenzy when Steve’s shirt slips down his shoulder and his collarbones wink at them.

Each and every moment, your camera documents it all.

“Lenny’s going to fucking love them!” Gregory shouts in your ear in between songs, tall frame dancing to the beat that has already ended.

His words make you falter, camera half-raised to your face now dropping back down. It hits you, then, that tomorrow night will be the final performance. The show that will make or break the Februarys’ entire career.

One more night, and then it’s all over.

No more shitty roadside restaurants. No more walks through national parks. No more cramped bunk beds and Steve’s hot breath on your skin.

A deep sadness ebbs its way into your chest. You’ll miss the small moments from the tour more than anything else. Homesick for something that isn’t quite gone yet.

“I know he will,” you shout back to Gregory. It’s your only comfort, knowing that tomorrow night Leonard will see the band performing and finally sign them, finally give them the album they’ve always wanted. “He’ll fall in love with them.”

It’s impossible not to fall in love with the Februarys.

The sad ache in your chest dissipates when Steve takes center stage and basks in the pinks and purples of the stage light. Rosie is next. He opens his arms to it, he embraces the song, and you’re falling hard and fast.

“This next song was inspired by lullabies,” he says into the mic, his nose ring catching in the light. “I thought it was a nice contrast. They put you to sleep, but my girl keeps me awake all night long.”

Jonathan slams his drumsticks together and Steve cheers and suddenly the song starts and he smiles sickly sweet at you from the very first note. He sings the song to you like he used to, like the very first night when he ambushed you with such a raw devotion, and for this small fragment of time everything is rosie.

After the show you’re in Pennsylvania again and it’s the first night of a three month tour that will change your life forever. You’re running through twisted hallways, desperate and weak, searching for a boy that’s made of stars and strings, and when he finally finds you, you’re in his arms again just like that very first night.

Breathless laughter falls from your chest. Steve spins you around, his tired body alive with yours so close. He whispers angelface angelface angelface into your exhilarated skin and you’re sugarcoated in his love.

“Did you enjoy the show?” He asks after he’s finally set you down. He yearns for your approval, to hear your praise.

“You’re a fucking rockstar,” you grip his arms, needing something to steady your vibrating body. His flesh is soft beneath your tight grip and he doesn’t flinch at the way your fingers bruise it. “You’re-you’re incredible, rosie.”

Time is a fickle thing, because when Steve’s bashful smile crosses his face, for a moment you think you’re back in New York, laying in your bed with him promising you that he could never forget you, even when he becomes a rockstar.

But the present tears into you when Gregory’s arm falls over your shoulders. “Y/N’s right, Steve. You have such natural talent on stage.”

“Thanks,” he ducks his head, not uncomfortable, but not at ease, either. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Gregory smiles wide at the small compliment from Steve. He’s been eager to appease him ever since he stepped out of his Camaro at the park a few days earlier. “No problem, man,” then, lost in his small win, he forgets the context behind the former animosity and says to you, “so, ready for our date?”

Without meaning to, your body braces for the impact of Steve’s upset. A wince slips from your lips and you close your eyes, preparing for the worst.

Except Steve surprises you. He claps a hand on Gregory’s shoulder, a jovial smile offered to him as he does so. “Good luck on your date, buddy.” Then he turns to you, endless in his surprises. “Get home safe, okay?”

You blink. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. “I will,” you finally say, timid smile gracing your own lips.

Steve nods, winks at Gregory, and then walks back to his bandmates. They wait for him by the stage door. Leonard has bought them hotel rooms to celebrate their final two shows. A luxury that they’ve been afforded. There are no girls who await Steve’s exit.

He goes with his bandmates, his friends, home.

–

Gregory walks you to a dive bar not far from the venue. A hole in the wall, the candlelit tables and soft jazz creates a quiet and intimate atmosphere. Lined in brick, the bar reminds you so much of the ones in the East Village that you can almost taste the homesickness on your tongue.

“This place is beautiful,” you say to Gregory as he pulls a chair out for you. “Have you been here before?”

He sits across from you. “A few times. I rarely get to do anything nice while running Leonard’s errands.”

“And am I an errand?”

“If you are, then you’re the best errand I’ve agreed to.”

You snort, grabbing the menu in front of you. Expensive wines and cocktails laced between craft beer and well shots. Something for everyone. “What do you recommend?”

An ease falls between you, then. Gregory recites his favorite drinks to you with detailed notes about each one. He makes you laugh, he shares his white wine with you to offset your red. Several times throughout the night he calls you beautiful. He asks you about your childhood, asks which artists inspired your work, asks whether you think you’ll ever settle down in New York.

Gregory’s pinky skims your hand when you reach over to fix his glasses, and for a brief second, your skin shivers pleasantly at the contact, delighted at the sensation of something new.

With his face illuminated in the candlelight, you watch the shadows cast over his delicate features and mourn the reality that you met him too late, under the wrong circumstances, in the wrong context.

Maybe if you had met Gregory in a coffee shop one day in Manhattan. Maybe if you had crossed paths ducking into the rundown shop to escape the rain. Maybe if your eyes had connected from across the room. Maybe if had introduced himself to you then with the shy smile you’re weak to. Maybe if you had never known Steve Harrington’s lips on your skin.

Maybe you could’ve fallen in love with Gregory had everything been different. Maybe you could’ve really loved him, been something beautiful together.

But you met him in a park in Wisconsin, far from Manhattan. Steve’s arms had been wrapped around you, his tattoo kisses already engraved under your skin.

Your heart already knows Steve. It didn’t leave space for anyone else.

And you fucking hate it.

Gregory tells you about Vermont and its snow. A vivid storyteller, the way he describes his childhood makes you feel as if you’ve grown up with it as well. He follows every anecdote with more drinks and, ashamed, you drink more than you should to mask the gnawing in your chest that Steve still somehow embeds himself in your skin. That he’s ruined something beautiful yet again.

Time passes. You’re not sure how long or if you’ve contributed anything more than polite hums to Gregory’s night, but he doesn’t seem to mind your unusual silence.

He pays the tab and walks you back to the hotel. He holds the elevator door open for you. His nails scratch tenderly on your hand, drawing small patterns into the skin while the floors pass by you one by one.

The elevator stops at the tenth floor. Gregory lets you get off first, ever the gentleman, and even this small act of kindness digs into the cavity that you call a chest.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Numb, you lead Gregory to your door. You try not to look at Steve’s door, his room nestled next to yours, as you walk past. The lights are off. You don’t hear anything from the other side.

“I had a great time tonight,” Gregory risks pulling you by the waist, drawing you closer, as he rests against your doorframe. His addicting height leans down to you. All you see are his green eyes that your mother would’ve loved. “I’m glad we were able to do this. At least once.”

Your head falls back, wondering if you've misheard what he’s said. “Once…?”

“I wasn’t the one floating through your pretty head tonight.” He looks down at you, a confusing mixture of regret and fondness dot along his face, just as his freckles do.

You hiss in a breath. “Gregory–”

“It’s alright, Y/N.” His lips land on the crown of your head. No one has ever kissed you there, not even the sun on days you’ve drowned in her warm. Soft intimacy that can never be yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” he wipes the tears that fall. You will never deserve him. “I’m so really sorry.”

Gregory must’ve envisioned meeting you in a coffee shop, too. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

He kisses you. Yet even this isn’t a selfish act. He kisses you because he knows that you would’ve loved being woken up to his lips each day just as much as he would’ve loved waking up next to you.

The kiss is soft, slow. He kisses you as if he has all the time in the world, and you suppose in this lifetime, he has to make up for the lost time.

Gregory doesn’t say anything when he breaks the kiss. All he does is look down at you one last time, memorizes the face that would’ve been his for a lifetime, before he finally leaves.

His footsteps grow quiet the further he walks. You stand outside your door, unmoving, listening to the sound of the elevator’s bell signaling its arrival, taking him away from you for good.

The moment Gregory’s gone, your numb body finds its way to a room that isn’t yours.

White gripped knuckles knock against the doorframe once, twice.

Steve answers. Of course he answers.

And he doesn’t seem surprised to see you.

He steps to the side, wordlessly offering you to come in. A moment passes where you hesitate, don’t allow yourself to move. It’s only when he reaches for your hand, bridging the chasm, that you finally give in.

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.”

A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Steve doesn’t react to what you’ve said. He stands before you and watches as your shaking fingers manage to uncork the bottle and bring it to your greedy mouth.

“I mean,” the tarte liquid burns. “I’m fucking furious at you. Gregory is a perfectly good guy and we had a perfectly good night where he asked me interesting questions and held my hand and called me beautiful,” you drink again, trying to burn away the guilt that settles in your stomach, “but when he kissed me all I could think about was you.”

You shouldn’t be telling him this. You shouldn’t be twisting the already tangled strings between you, but the wine coats your tongue and Steve’s brown eyes melt your integrity.

He doesn’t give you the reaction that you consciously aren’t even aware that you’re seeking. He simply shrugs at your fury, takes the wine from your hand, and tips it into his own mouth. Long, slow, sips drain from the bottle.

When he’s done, Steve sets the bottle down, grabs your unsteady hips, and falls against the couch behind him. You land on his chest, unphased by the inevitable fall. You’re used to his insatiable hands and you’re tired and confused and too angry to not fall back into the familiarity of it all.

The force of the fall brings the tip of his nose to your cheek. You can smell the wine on his breath, see the red that stains his lips. His calm expression admires you, studies the conflict on your face.

“What did you think about me while he kissed you?”

His whispered question follows the heavy weight of his hands. They start at the center of your spine, rubbing at the ridges, then down to the small of your back, to the exposed strip of skin that gets revealed to him when your shirt rides up, down the swell of your ass, until they finally hook over your thighs and he forces them open, pulling you so that you straddle him.

“Tell me,” he’s still so soft with you. Whispering, massaging your stomach with his tender fingers, hesitating just before your ribcage, right under your breasts. “What did you think about?”

All the wine you’ve had tonight settles in your stomach. The flush of the alcohol warms your body, the sensation of his patient hands sobering. Your dilated eyes look down at his chest that rises and falls in uneven patterns.

“Your lips,” your voice comes out wanting, gasping when his hands finally cup your breasts, as if rewarding you for your honesty. Thumb moving over your nipple, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t stop. “All I could think about were your lips.”

He sits up, pulling your hips deeper into his. You gasp out. He strains against his jeans and your thin skirt can feel every ridge. Steve laughs, husky and dark, a sound you’ve only heard through bedroom walls.

Needing more, you try to move against him, to feel him where you’re aching the most, but Steve’s strong hands prevent anything further.

A pathetic sound falls from your mouth. “What are you doing?”

His hands fall back to your hips, squeezing at the flesh that’s finally his. Your eyes fall shut, you try to steady your breathing, but when they open again Steve’s forehead rests against yours. His breaths become yours.

“Tell me.” He hovers over your lips, drawing a confession from them that he knows hangs on the tip of your tongue. There’s more. He knows there’s more. “Tell me why you’re angry at me.”

Left for want and nothing.

“You did me bad.” It’s all you can say in your guilty lust. It’s the only way you know how to convey how deeply he’s settled into your veins, into the jugular that he’s kissed over and over again.

There will never be room for anyone other than him.

In the dim lighting of the room, the moon the only illumination, Steve’s eyes dilate. You watch them fall to your lips, just as they’ve always done, envisioning how you’ll taste.

“Tell me to stop,” he’s begging you. He doesn’t want you to become another warm body, he doesn’t want you to think that there’s never been more to his fixation on you than only lust. That you haven’t done him bad, either. He begs you to stop him because he knows that eventually this will burn as well.

“Tell me,” Steve begs again, his lips grazing yours. “Please.”

But you don’t.

Steve kisses the same way he performs. Needy, wanting, begging for your attention and for your heart to bleed into his. He draws melodies from your mouth, kisses choirs into your chest. His tongue flicks rhythms against your collarbones and his breaths beat symphonies into your lungs.

Over and over again he begs you to tell him to stop. He pleads when his mouth latches onto your breast. He pleads when your fingers find his belt and he begs again when you fall to your knees.

You answer his pleads with begging moans. You beg him for more, to carry you to his bed, to go faster, to finally ease the ache you’ve felt since his eyes met yours in New York and he called you beautiful.

Over and over again.

There is no end.

–

You wake up to Steve’s nose in your neck.

Loud, early morning traffic draws lazily through Chicago’s streets. His hot breaths fan your skin, mouthing at the dip of your collarbones, slow and sweet, littering love-sick pecks down to your chest, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Good morning, angelface.” Steve murmurs, a shy smile on his face. His legs are intertwined with yours. He holds you against his chest, skin to skin, no longer any boundaries between you. He plays with your fingers and paints such domesticity in his fondness.

The vulnerability in his eyes sends the room spinning.

Your stomach lurches. Tearing yourself out of Steve’s arms, you stumble off the bed as if it’s burned you. Cold air stings your skin and you realize, too late, the state of undress you’re in. Cursing, you fumble for the bedsheets and use them to cover yourself as you desperately search for your clothes and escape the consequences that will inevitably come.

“Where the fuck is my skirt?” You’re running in circles, looking everywhere while simultaneously trying to assess the damage of the break. You shouldn’t have done this. You’re so incredibly, unbelievably, fucked.

Steve lays naked in the bed. This time it’s him who’s left wanting.

You find the skirt under a pillow that somehow was thrown against the wall. Next to it you find your shirt, then your underwear, and quickly you put the discarded clothing on. “Fuck.”

“What’re doing?” The gentle tone betrays the hurt that resides on Steve’s face. He watches you stumble around, not understanding what he’s done wrong, but when he sees you reach for your shoes, his face hardens.

He realizes what this is. You’re leaving him.

“You just can’t bear to be another girl I sleep with.” He hisses out a laugh, slicing into the suffocating consequences. “Guess I still can’t fucking promise you, can I?”

I won’t be just another girl you sleep with.

All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about.

Words and their faulty promises.

“I know you can’t promise me,” you force your shoes on, heart pounding out of your chest. It takes you several attempts before you’re able to tie their laces, hands shaking too violently. “Goddamn it!”

“What, so you’re just going to leave?” Suddenly he’s next to you, throwing a shirt on and storming through the room that rivals your own anguish. “I mean, fuck, Y/N! You just expect me to be okay with that?”

You stand, finally meeting his eyes for the first time all morning. “I’m doing this to protect myself!”

I’m doing this to protect the both of us.

But Steve doesn’t want to hear your explanation, and you don’t want to hear his.

“What the fuck are you protecting yourself from?”

“This!” Your hands shove Steve’s chest, forcing him to look at the mess you created together. A catalyst that will leave no survivors. You gesture wildly between your bodies. “We should’ve never done this.”

He falls back at your force, dejected and furious. “Are you fucking kidding me? You came to my room–”

You’re not sure who starts yelling first

“I don’t want to do this right now!” You need air. Your pounding head threatens a wave of nausea, and when you try to step past him, Steve blocks your path.

“Would you just listen to me–”

“Let me go!” The sheer desperation in your scream echoes in the room.

The screaming stops. All that’s left is broken silence.

Steve searches your face for something that you can’t name. When he finds what he’s looking for, he laughs, laced with ice, “Fine.”

He grabs his keys first. Then his wallet, his shoes, a baseball hat from his father.

“What are you doing?” You echo his question from earlier, and you hate that you feel a sense of grief watching him flee the room that doesn’t belong to you. “Steve, what are you–”

The only response you get is the slam of the door.

He’s gone.

The finality of his absence rings in your ears. It’s only after Steve leaves that the tears come. They build in your chest, punch their way into your throat, and spill from your eyes faster than you can control them. You heave at the impact of the despair, the collision of it sinks so deeply into your bones that it brings you to your knees.

Robin’s frantic voice and comforting embrace find you on the floor.

“Y/N,” she cradles your face, looks for any signs of injury or cruelty. “I-I heard screaming. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.” There isn’t time for you to be consoled by Robin. You grasp at her arms, your force frightening her even more, but you don’t care. In between sobs you tell her, “but you need to find Steve.”

“Find Steve–?”

“He–“ You try to stand, but Robin forces you down. “He can’t be alone right now.”

Her grip tightens around you. She doesn't understand. “You can’t be alone right now, Y/N.”

“We had a fight,” you’re gasping for air. “He-he was so hurt and–”

“Y/N, I need you to breathe, okay?” She demonstrates an inhale, forcing you to breathe air into your lungs as well. Only after you’ve gasped enough air does she ask you what happened.

Through shaky breaths you tell Robin everything. The almost-kiss in Pennsylvania, how you pulled away, how you told Steve the very first night of their tour that you refused to be another girl he slept with. You tell her about the night Dustin and the others visited, how Steve had almost kissed you under the streetlights.

You tell Robin about the endless touches, stolen kisses to your neck late at night after Steve returns to you, smelling of the girls you try to forget. You tell her about Gregory, the way Steve’s jealousy edged into something more than just lust, into something softer, something akin to love. Your date with Gregory, how it was Steve’s room you ended up in.

Robin doesn’t react when you tell her that you slept with Steve. She doesn’t react when you tell her that he fled the room this morning to escape your dismissive terror.

And now he’s gone, and it’s all your fault.

“He’ll come back,” she promises you instead, rubbing the grief out of your body. “He’ll be fine, okay?”

You shake your head, more tears spilling over. “But what if he doesn’t–”

“He will.” She sounds more confident than she feels. “He’ll come back. Sure, he’ll be a pain in the ass when he does, but at least he’ll be back. He always comes back.”

Except this time, Steve doesn’t come back.

–

“Where the fuck is he?” Max barrels through the venue’s door, impulsively checking her watch every thirty seconds. “He should be here by now.”

The clock on the wall reads half past three in the afternoon. It’s been seven hours since Steve stormed out of the hotel.

No one has seen him since.

“He’ll be here.” Robin’s newfound mantra since this morning. She looks at her bandmates and tries to pretend that their concern doesn’t leak into hers. “He… he’ll be here, alright?”

Steve has never once been outside of a venue this close to their scheduled soundcheck times. Their last night of tour, their final show, the very show Leonard warned them not to fuck up, starts at nine.

Soundcheck begins at six.

And yet Steve still isn’t here. His absence alarms everyone. He’s always been obsessive about soundcheck, never running the risk of being late to a performance. He’s bled too much to jeopardize his career over something as trivial as a late arrival.

The screaming everyone heard from Steve’s room this morning and your bloodshot eyes don’t ease the band’s now frantic concern. You pace the room, unable to do anything other than bite your chapped lips and wring your anxious hands together.

“Robin,” Jonathan picks at his nails. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we go and find him.” She’s already setting her keyboard down, hopping over cables.

Mike scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Wheeler.” She yanks the guitar from his hands and snaps her fingers at Jonathan. “Go with him and look through every hotel and shitty bar you find. Every dive bar, every club, fuck, look through strip clubs. I don’t care. But find him.”

Jonathn doesn’t look convinced. “What about you?”

“Me, Max, and Y/N will take advantage of the fact that Chicago uses a grid system and search every goddamn street we find.”

“But–”

Robin claps, drowning out the protests. “We don’t have time to argue, alright? That asshole needs us right now and unfortunately he sings incredibly well and we have an insane manager who will quite literally take our dreams away like a villain takes candy from a baby if we don’t find Steve.”

“I can go look for him,” you tug at her overalls, pacing even faster to try and swallow down the guilty bile that lingers in your throat. “Alone. You guys stay here. Rehearse. Do whatever you need to prepare for tonight.”

“Not happening.”

You roll your eyes at Robin’s inability to listen. “Look, I’m the asshole who slept with your lead singer the night before the biggest concert of your lives. It’s only fair that I’m the one who looks for him.”

“You slept with Steve?”

“Not now, Mike.” Jonathan covers the kid’s mouth, which he protests at, but his muffled complaints go ignored by everyone.

“That’s such bullshit,” Robin sneers. “Steve is a grown man who can’t keep running away from his problems or drowning them in booze. And we can’t keep letting him.” She looks at everyone, the silent reprimand of the fact that Steve’s slow spiral went ignored for far too long. “We’re his friends, alright? For better or worse, the fucker needs us right now.”

Jonathan nods. “She’s right.”

Mike and Max murmur their agreements. Neither of them bother to hide their uncertainty and worry. You bite your lip. It bothers you that they take collective responsibility for your actions, but you’re wasting time arguing. Your heartbeat won’t settle until Steve’s voice soothes your skin.

Finding Robin’s eyes, you nod at her, silently backing down.

“Then it’s settled. We meet back here in two hours.” Her smile mimics a wince; you don’t miss the way her hands shake, the worry for her best friend evident. “We’ll figure the rest out from there.”

Soon your feet bleed into the soles of your shoes as you duck through every street of Chicago. Its layout reflects New York’s, only the black asphalt beats heat from the sun into your skin and you’re sick with exhaustion after the first hour.

“We’ll find him.” Robin repeats over and over again, but neither you or Max pretend to believe her.

The second hour draws to a close without any sign of Steve. Chicago’s endless city taunts your shaken body. Your heartbeat slams in your throat. Memories of this morning twist their way inside your guilt. Pieces of Steve’s broken eyes, his hurt expression, how you’d been ready to leave him, only for him to leave you instead.

This is all your fault.

With every dead end, Robin’s concern simmers into fury. When the two hours are up, her clenched fists shake with how tightly she presses her nails into her palms. There will be scabs where her skin breaks today.

Inside the venue, Jonathan sits on the couch with his head in his hands. Mike sits next to him. When they notice your arrival, the younger boy jumps up and runs over. Soundcheck starts any minute. “Did you find him?”

Your throat goes dry. “No.”

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Robin stares at the ground. Her knuckles are white. “We rehearse.”

Max turns to her. “Without Steve?”

“We have to.” A dangerous calm resides in Robin’s words.

The other band members hear it, too. Jonathan exhales quickly, licks his lips, before taking a tentative step towards her. “Robin,” his softened voice alludes to his fear. “He’s our lead singer. We can’t just perform without him, not when Leonard will be here tonight–”

“He’s not going to fucking ruin this for us!” The dam breaks. “I-I refuse to let Steve ruin the one fucking good thing we’ve done with our lives.” Robin laughs hysterically. “Either he shows up or doesn’t. I don’t give a shit anymore, but if I can’t fucking control his temperamental meltdowns, then I can at least control how I perform tonight and force Leonard to accept that I’m writing a goddamn album whether he likes it or not.”

Her outburst rings throughout the room.

The silence burns tears into your eyes. This was never supposed to happen.

“I can sing the chorus for Lower East.” Max reaches for her bass, finding its tuning pegs and cord. “I don’t think my voice fits the rest of it.”

Robin nods. “I can do it.”

“Mike, can you do Back for More?” Jonathan finds his drumsticks. “If we’re doing this, then we can’t only have Robin sing. Not on such short notice, at least. Her voice won’t adjust to it.”

Mike shrugs. “Only if she sings the higher songs.”

“I can harmonize with you,” Max scribbles everything onto their setlist. “I think if we sing together we should be able to match the register it's originally written in.”

There’s a fluidity in the way the Februarys write out Steve’s absence. Within minutes they’ve come up with a new setlist and chord arrangement for their hour and fifteen minute show. They divide the songs into who can sing them best, even stretching the capabilities of Jonathan’s thin and wiry voice. Their options are limited.

As they work, they avoid your eyes. None of them blame you, not really, but there’s an underlying understanding that you’re the reason they’re here in the first place.

–

Leonard Branham has never once been on time in his life. He was late to his son’s birth, his second wedding, and even to his divorce settlement (unrelated to his second wedding, but related to his third).

It only makes sense that he shows up to the venue thirty minutes early, before the Februarys are set to go on stage.

He slams the stage door open in a grand manner, cackling as he steps inside. “There’s my moneymaker!”

Mike screams, Robin trips over her shoes, Max slams her head against the wall, and Jonathan’s chair flies back in his surprise, sending him to the ground in a pathetic crescendo, cymbals and all.

Leonard observes their reaction with disinterest. “What? Didn’t George tell you I was coming?”

“It’s Gregory, sir.” The assistant steps from behind him. He gives you a polite smile that you can’t return. “And I did tell them you’d be here.”

“Then where the hell is the kid with the hair?” It’s obvious to everyone that Leonard means Steve. When no one can give him an answer, he narrows his eyes. “Well?”

“He died!” Mike sputters out before anyone can stop him.

Max slaps the back of his head. “Dude!”

“I didn’t know what else to say!”

“What the hell is going on?” Leonard stalks towards the band, nicotine following his scent. He looks between them as if Steve is somehow hidden amongst them. “Did the kid O.D. or something?”

“Lenny,” you risk grabbing the man’s blazer, its expensive material soft under your fingers. “Listen, why don’t you and I go talk outside? Better yet, why don’t I show you around the city? Go for a nice, long walk–”

“Cut the bullshit.” The man snatches his sleeve out of your grasp. “Where the hell is your lead singer?”

A loud crash announces Steve’s arrival before the reek of alcohol and sex does.

His timing has always bordered on ironic.

“‘M here,” Steve stumbles through the door, feet dragging on the ground, hardly able to keep himself up. A melted smile bleeds onto his face when he realizes he has everyone’s attention. “S’it showtime?”

You rush towards Steve, relief flooding through you seeing him alive and safe. “Oh, my god–”

Only Robin’s faster. She gets to him first and punches him before anyone can react. You think you scream. Jonathan’s shoulder collides into yours when he runs over to grab Robin’s violent body.

“Asshole!” Her broken screams spit at Steve’s body, now sprawled on the ground from the force of her fury. She writhes in Jonathan’s tight grasp, kicking and twisting to escape. “Are you fucking wasted?”

Steve’s glossy eyes stare up at her, his half-lidded smile confirms what she already knows.

“I was worried about you!” Robin scratches at Jonathan’s arms, spits more venom at her best friend. “This band means so fucking much to me, you know that! This is my future too, and you’re fucking wasted and putting everything on the line for some fucking fling?”

Kneeling at Steve’s side, you wince at Robin’s vicious words. She’s right. He’s jeopardized everything for a single night with you.

And you let him.

“Take her outside,” Max shoves Jonathan towards the door. Leonard watches everything. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Fuck you!” Robin repeatedly screams at Steve. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you–”

Max flings the door open and follows Jonathan outside, helping him contain Robin’s rage. The door slams behind them.

“Get him up.” Leonard commands you and Mike, snapping a finger towards Steve. The man doesn’t flinch at what’s just happened. “He has a performance in twenty minutes.”

Mike makes a confused sound. “Sir, I don’t know how to professionally say this, but Steve’s one drink away from a very expensive hospital bill.”

“He’s awake, isn’t he?”

Your fingers tangle through Steve’s hair. His forehead is overheated, he barely reacts at your touch. Looking up at Leonard, you don’t give him the satisfaction of obedience. “He isn’t performing tonight.”

Leonard’s mocking laugh infuriates you. “Sweetheart, if he doesn’t sing, there’s not going to be a goddamn show tonight. Do you understand?”

Mike pales. “You wouldn’t–”

“I would.” Leonard’s condescension drips into his laughter. “I told you my end of the deal. Don’t fuck up. It’s as easy as that. Not having a lead singer sounds like a bigger fuck up than my brother.”

Bile rises in your throat.

Gregory coughs, forcing his boss’ attention to him. “Mr. Branham, why don’t we leave them alone to sort everything out? I’m sure they’ll sober Steve up in no time.”

His blinding optimism squeezes at your heartstrings. Leonard squints at him, thinks for a moment, before he shrugs. “Whatever. Twenty minutes. That’s all you get.”

Gregory guides Leonard to the doors that lead out of the dressing room and into the venue. When the man isn’t looking, Gregory mouths a quick good luck to you before he leaves.

The second they’re gone, you and Mike drag Steve’s body up and throw him onto the couch.

“Get Robin and the others,” you quickly say to the kid, slapping Steve’s face to try and get his eyes to focus on you. You’ve never seen him this gone before. When Mike doesn’t move, you raise your voice, “Go!”

He scrambles to the stage door. You don’t hear what he tells his friends, too busy pinching Steve’s sides and hoping the pain will jumpstart his sobriety. Suddenly water splashes on you, and you spring off the couch.

“What the fuck?” You find Robin holding a water bottle above Steve’s head. “You could’ve at least warned me!”

“No time.” She dumps even more water on him, and though you know it’s meant to help sober him up, you can’t help but feel that a part of it is meant to punish you as well.

Meanwhile Jonathan and Mike run around the room to sort through their instruments. They scream at one another to collect certain cables, to find amps and missing drumsticks and where the fuck did the sheet music go?

Max punches Steve’s chest to make him more coherent. “Stop pissing me off!”

“‘M fine,” he slurs, batting her punches away. “Relax.”

Max only punches him harder after that. You don’t blame her.

The first five minutes Max and Robin switch between waterboarding Steve and bruising his chest. You manage to find pizza from a shop next door and shove the greasy food down his throat.

Jonathan manages to set the stage up, running in and out of the room in a dizzying manner. Mike sprints right behind him. Together, they prepare the stage for either their funeral or their rebirth. No one can say which will come.

The ten minutes that follow you’re able to coax Steve onto his feet. He can hardly walk, but Robin kicks his shins and forces his legs to remain upright long enough to take off his drenched t-shirt in exchange for a nicer one that Leonard won’t scoff at.

“Did you suck the blood out of him?” Robin cringes when she sees the hickeys that litter his chest.

You throw a shirt at her. “Is now really the time?”

“No, but I deserve to make fun of you right now.”

“Five minutes,” one of the stage crew members knocks on the door, pointing to her watch. “Get ready.”

A mad scramble follows. Max shoves bracelets onto Steve’s wrists, Robin pushes him onto the ground so she can force better shoes on, and you lace them up while Robin yells at Jonathan and Mike to come over.

“Okay, I’m gonna be honest,” she tells everyone once they’ve gathered around. Steve still lays on the ground. The Februarys have to stand over his desolate body. “Odds of us pulling this off are about twenty/eighty.”

She kicks at Steve. “Probably more like ten/ninety since this motherfucker is Midas with a shit touch.”

“Robin.” Jonathan warns her.

“Right. Okay. Anyways, the point is that right now I don’t think I can emphasize enough that it’s just us. No one else is on our side. It’s just us and the music, okay? We just need to focus on the music and have each other’s backs. The second things start slipping, we help each other, alright?”

“We’re gonna die.”

Robin’s head drops at Mike’s words. “Yeah. We are.”

The stage crew member returns. Their time is up. One by one the Februarys look at each other, taking in their final moments, and then leave Steve on the ground. They don’t explicitly tell you that he’s your responsibility to get onto the stage.

“C’mon, rosie,” you grab him by his arms. He’s dead weight, still more drunk than sober, and all you want to do is cry. Forcing down the tears, you pry Steve to his feet. “You can’t let them down like this.”

Somewhere in his clouded coherence, Steve nods at what you’ve said. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but he’s able to walk to the door on his own. “Can let ‘em down.”

There’s a pathetic naivety when he says this.

You walk behind Steve the entire way to the stage, terrified he’ll fall and be unable to get back up again. Just before the stage area you meet with Robin, who yanks at Steve’s hand when she sees you and gives you a quick, curt nod.

“Wish us luck?”

“Always,” you tell her.

The stage lights turn off. Hundreds inside the venue scream. The show is about to begin.

You run down to the crowd and find Gregory and Leonard quickly. They’re roped off in a separate section from the crowd, an obscene amount of security surrounding them.

“There are you!” Gregory sighs in relief when he sees you. Looking over at Leonard to make sure he isn’t listening, he ducks his head down and whispers, “should I be worried?”

Your heart beats out of your chest. “Depends. How often does Leonard watch his talent take the stage blackout drunk?”

“Oh fuck.”

Suddenly the crowd’s cheers increase in volume and the stage floods with blues and purples. Robin walks out first, her usual sly and playful manner dimmed. Her too tight smile flinches at the lights and she almost trips over a cable trying to get to her keyboard. She’s nervous. Anyone can see that.

Max follows, stiffly walking to her bass. She doesn’t smile at the crowd or wave at them. She straps her instrument to her chest and nervously taps her fingers on its neck.

Mike and Jonathan walk out together, each of them laughing too forcefully to be genuine. Jonathan knocks into his drum set and Mike can’t find his guitar for several painful long seconds.

You hold your breath watching them tear at the seams of the cruel pressure. Next to you Leonard’s mouth pinches into a thin line.

“Are they always like this?” He asks Gregory.

His eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head. “No, never.”

“It’s been a long tour,” you tell Leonard, careful not to overstep, but anxious to help. “They’re tired. That’s all.”

“And the brewery that was on Steve’s breath?” The man laughs humorlessly. “Let me guess. Daddy’s medicine to help him sleep?”

Gregory shifts from one leg to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and you squeeze a laugh out of your lungs to appease Leonard’s cruelty. He can’t know how terrified you are.

“How’s everyone doing?” Robin shouts into the mic, waving at the crowd. She’s still tense, but behind her keyboard she starts to relax. This, at least, she can control. “Are we ready for tonight?”

The crowd shouts back their responses, the energy infectious in the venue. Everyone smiles and cheers and push towards the stage for a closer look. A sold out show, all for the Februarys.

Robin’s face breaks into a genuine, excited smile. “Hell yeah, I like what I’m hearing!” She presses on some keys, playing a simple, nonsensical melody as she talks. “Now, I don’t know if you guys know this, but this is our second night in Chicago and our last show of our tour!”

More screams. More than you’ve ever heard before. The size of the crowd overwhelms you, yet Robin finally seems to be at ease.

“And in case you didn’t already know, we’re–” She’s interrupted by the screech of a mic.

The side stage curtains swing open and Steve fumbles with the stolen microphone. He squints harshly at the light, stumbles back when the spotlight beams down at him. Blind and delirious, he has to grip onto the mic stand to avoid falling over entirely.

“We’re the Februarys.” He says into the mic, no charm or humor in his voice. He doesn’t greet the audience, he doesn’t allow them to warm up to him, to fall to their knees as he’s always provoked them to do. Instead, all he does is rudely beckon for Jonathan to start their first song.

Unable to do anything but follow along, Jonathan bites his tongue and hits his drumsticks together.

“Steve looks awful.” Gregory breathes out next to you. It’s not meant to be mean or cold-hearted, not when you know he’s right.

Thankfully Steve’s voice sounds fine, albeit slightly strained. What worries you is the way his hair hangs in his sickly face. How his sallow eyes are red. The songs continue and Steve’s only able to stumble through jerky movements, half-following the rhythm that Jonathan provides.

His sloppy performance doesn’t go unnoticed by the audience.

Max and Robin don’t do their handshake between songs. Mike doesn’t go to Jonathan during his electric solo. Steve doesn’t praise his friends or laugh with them after every song. He doesn’t clap for them or share the spotlight with anyone.

The show passes in a slow, nauseating blur.

You don’t take any photos the entire night. No one will want to remember the reek of alcohol that can be smelled from the stage during the final night of the Februarys’ career.

Leonard stands next to you, stoic. It’s impossible to read his face and you’re too busy biting your lips raw watching Steve butcher a performance he’s spent weeks agonizing over.

When the only song left is Rosie, Robin finds your eye in the crowd. Her fear-struck expression confirms what you already know. The song will break Steve if he sings it. You mouth at her to stop him, to cut the show short, but somehow in his alcohol haze he finds your lips and reads the words not meant for him.

“I guess the next song is Rosie.” Steve’s teeth clack against the mic in a painful manner. Only the pain doesn’t deter him. His breathing hitches, the lights burn his face and his flushed face worries you. “I-I mean, what kind of shitty name is’that?”

Robin fumbles to unplug her keyboard and Jonathan throws his drumsticks down and they both lunge towards an incoherent Steve. “How’s it fair that rosie sounds so-so pretty from her lips?”

“Steve, give me the mic,” you hear Robin hiss at him.

Sweat pours from Steve’s face, he fights to keep hold of the mic, but Jonathan wraps both arms around him and forces him off the stage. In the mess of cords and equipment it’s a miracle that he doesn’t fall, but they only make it just past the curtains before the sound of Steve’s vomiting infiltrates the venue.

The crowd isn’t sure how to react.

Robin says something to them, laughing out a joke about food poisoning and how it wasn’t video that killed the radio star, but you don’t stay to hear it. You’re already rushing towards backstage, towards the dressing room that started it all, and Leonard trails right behind you.

Steve lays face down on the couch when you run into the room. Jonathan paces the floor, mumbling to himself about calling Nancy and telling her to somehow get Mike back into college. You sidestep his manic anxiety and focus only on Steve, completely forgetting that Leonard stands in the middle of the room, watching it all unfold.

“You’re burning up,” your palm stings at the heat on Steve’s face. His hair clings to his forehead in sweat and you’re terrified that he’s taken something he shouldn’t have. “Steve, rosie, look at me, okay?”

His unfocused eyes squint up at you. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“You left.”

“And then I came back.” You unbutton his shirt, hoping cool air on his chest will lessen his sickly state. Memories from last night flicker in your mind as your fingers trail his buttons, skim the chest your kisses mark. Not now. Not here. Not again. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

Steve makes a panicked sound. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll be right back–”

Robin slams through the dressing room, long past fury. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Robin, no–” Jonathan has to jump in front of her to keep her from gouging Steve’s eyes out. Mike’s help is needed to help him hold her back, dodging her violent nails and words with terror in his own eyes.

“She just scratched me!” Mike hisses in pain, almost letting go of her, and Jonathan hits his head to keep him focused. “Why the fuck is everyone hitting me?”

While they’re distracted with Robin kicking and screaming, Max walks past them with a drumstick in her hand, aimed right at Steve’s crotch, and you quickly jump up from the couch and yank the weapon away from her.

“Can we not castrate him while he’s incapacitated?”

“I have a spare drumstick in my pocket.”

You twist to reach behind her, the two of you now grappling at one another in a petty fight, Robin’s own fist fight the backtrack to the argument, and eventually Jonathan has had enough.

He tightens his arms around Robin and finally screams, “Stop.”

You fall limp in Max’s chokehold. She loosens her grip. Mike stops complaining and Robin pauses in her abuse long enough to snarl out, “Let me go, Byers.”

“No.” He squeezes her arms behind her back, dodging yet another fist. “In case you’ve forgotten, our boss is watching you have a fucking meltdown right now trying to kill his lead singer.”

Leonard smiles.

But the smile only infuriates Robin more. She tries to lunge at Steve again. “I don’t give a shit!”

You attempt to settle her rage. Leonard’s watching. “Robin, this isn’t helping anything–”

“Fuck you!” She screams at you. “Fuck Steve, fuck whatever the hell you guys have been doing for who the fuck cares how long, and fuck Steve for being having dicks for brains and an impulse control weaker than a ninety year old man’s erection!”

She’s always been so lovely with her words.

Leonard seems to think so, too. He starts to laugh, loud, bellowing in a stoic room that fills with dread at his presence. The laughter cascades throughout the man’s body, disbelief, joy, manic in a way only someone who’s lost their mind can recreate.

It’s a terrible, horrifying laughter that silences even Robin’s rage.

Everyone holds their breath.

Steve lays motionless under you, ignorant of his destruction. In the midst of Leonard’s callous laughter Gregory’s nervous gaze meets yours.

You close your eyes. You wait for the blow to land.

But it never does.

“Now that’s what I call rock and roll!” Leonard cackles with inappropriate glee. “Sex, drugs, fist fights between band members. Hell, I don’t think the first time I slept with a blonde was as glorious as this moment.”

The man’s ecstasy stuns everyone. He claps Mike’s shoulder like a proud father, pinches Max’s cheek and laughs when she slaps him away. He blows a kiss to Robin and shakes Jonathan’s hand eagerly.

“And him,” Leonard points at Steve repeatedly, shaking his head as if at a loss for words. “He’s a goddamn rockstar, you hear me? A rockstar.”

Steve turns his head, his cheek pressed against the couch beneath him. “‘M a rockstar?”

“You sure as shit are, baby.” Leonard cackles again. His white teeth bite into the air and when he finally notices the rest of the band’s stunned silence, he settles his laughter. Clearing his throat, he straightens his blazer. “You can have your album.”

Robin’s jaw drops. Jonathan almost drops her in his own shock while Mike and Max choke on air.

“Have the songs ready by the end of this month. Record it at my studio. Get your shining asses ready to tour the album once you’re done. You’re a part of Major Tom’s now.”

Somehow Steve is the only one who can react.

He sits up, feigning sobriety well enough to fool even you. His tipsy smile shines back at Leonard. “Thank you, sir,” he giggles, his head nods to the side like a child’s. “We-we’re honored, Mr. Branham. Sir. Thank you. Um, again.”

Leonard picks lint off his blazer, turns to him. “Why, it’s my pleasure, Harrington.”

Steve extends his hand, leaning to the side in an obscene manner that Leonard huffs in amusement at.

“But if you ever, ever, pull a stunt again like the one you did tonight,” Leonard says as he accepts Steve’s handshake. “I will make sure your name dies an insignificant death.”

The room becomes cold.

“No one will remember who you are thirty years down the line. Your name will be less than worthless.” Leonard’s grip tightens around Steve’s hand. He makes sure he understands the weight of the warning. Just how easily he can ruin their lives. “Remember that.”

Dropping the handshake, Leonard Branham adjusts his blazer one more time and snaps a finger at Gregory. “Take me back to my hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” Gregory can’t look at anyone as they leave.

In the end, it’s just you and the Februarys left alone in a venue in Chicago. Quiet follows the revelation that they’ll be able to record the album they’ve been longing for since they first played together in Steve’s garage.

There will be no celebration tonight.

Leonard’s words hang in the air long after he’s gone.

It’s only after he leaves that the last of the alcohol in Steve’s system oxidizes, sobering him enough to feel the bands in his chest snap.

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #rockstar!steve harrington #stranger things fic #m's writing #i wish i could say it gets better #but it doesnt #steve is so hot tho so theres that

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muffinpink02 · 11 months ago

Text

Cravings

Okay, this is my first little family/baby story. Its my first attempt at fluff and cute stuff, I hope it makes sense. Let me know what you think. I've already started another one so hopefully you like this.

Summary - You’re pregnant, married to Alexia. Your cravings get you a little emotional. Just little bits and pieces of your pregnancy and Alexia helping you every step.

Warnings - swearing

You stood on your tiptoes as you rummaged in your snack box, trying to look for your latest obsession.

“Babe! Where are those salted caramel chocolates we got? The gold packet ones?” You shouted for your wife as you scanned the cupboards.

Being pregnant wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. Yeah, your body had completely changed, and your mind had gotten foggy, and your emotions were hard to keep up with and you struggled to do simple things like put your shoes on. But, having Alexia as your wife made the whole experience worth it, the girl was a saint.

When you were around 6 weeks pregnant you had suffered with some morning sickness, though thankfully it didn't last too long. When you were rushing to the bathroom at 4am, flopping to your knees, trying to get your vomit in the bowl on time, Alexia wouldn't be far behind you. She would always be by your side, rubbing your back as soon as she heard you jump out of the bed.

“It's okay, amor. Here’s some water, clear your mouth.”

You rinsed your mouth, washing the taste of acid from your tongue. She helped you back to bed, stroking your cheek until you fell asleep against her chest. She would always feel so bad for you, she hated watching you in any kind of pain.

Then came the cravings. At first it was anything sweet and juicy. You became obsessed with fruit, the berry family in particular. Blackberries, blueberries, raspberries if it had a ‘berry’ at the end of it you had to have it. And your most favourite berry was strawberries. You found yourself going through a pack of the sweet fruits every 2 days.

Anything with the flavour of strawberry you had to have. Strawberry ice cream, strawberry jam, strawberry drinks, strawberry sweets, you even changed your lips gloss to strawberry. If it had a trace of strawberry then you had it in your mouth. Alexia joked that the baby was going to come out with red skin and green leaf’s for hair.

The fixation then progressed to strawberry milkshakes. You discovered the obsession when you and Alexia were out in town, you had both stopped to look at a display in the shop window. But your attention was caught by a whole other shop. Alexia hadn't even realised you had gone until she noticed she didn't get a response to her question.

“What do you think? ….Bebé?”

The blonde looked to her side where you had just been standing, she only had to look a few shops down, when she caught you watching the milkshakes being made in the other window. She smiled as she walked over to you, eyeing your ever growing belly as it poked out under your t-shirt.

“Want a milkshake, amor?” Alexia wrapped her arms around you, her warm body pressing into your own.

“Yeah, a strawberry one.” You smiled as you felt her kiss your cheek.

So, Alexia brought you a milkshake, asking for extra strawberries without you even having to ask.

The milkshake obsession then became something you wanted, no, needed everyday.

So, in the mornings before training Alexia would make your strawberry milkshake alongside her protein shake. You didn't know how, but the girl would always make the fruity drink so much better than you ever could, no matter how hard you tried, hers always tasted sweeter.

As soon as you found out you were pregnant you stopped playing for Barca and went on maternity leave. And of course Alexia became super protective over you, though it wasn't a shock to you when she did, she was protective with you before you even became pregnant.

Slowly you had to reduce your personal training as you got further along. Alexia watched you like a hawk when you wanted to do any kind of weight training, making sure you never did anything over 5kg. She would take regular walks with you and even joined your swimming classes, as they were deemed ‘safe’ enough for her.

She insisted on carrying all the bags when you went grocery shopping, not letting you carry anything that could potentially ‘hurt’ you or the baby. Though you secretly loved the extra attention. Until Alexia wanted to build the baby cot alone, because she was scared you would hurt yourself with the hammer, and you had to put your foot down.

Alexia was also amazing with her hands, and not just for other things. If you ever complained about a painful back or sore feet she would be on you in seconds, massaging your muscles until you couldn’t even remember the ache you had. She would run you baths, make your favourite dinners and always make sure you and the baby were getting your vitamins.

She was simply the best, you saw a whole new side to her, you didn't think it was possible but it made you fall in love with her more everyday.

Anything you wanted to buy for the baby the Spaniard would look into the product, and study the reviews for hours, making sure it was good enough for the baby. If there was even one bad review from 3 years ago she would ask you to look for another one. “Just in case, amor.”

She of course brought every book you could read on pregnancy and child care, reading them at night before bed. Telling you all the tips and tricks it had for expecting mothers. You listened while you stared at your wife, her serious tone was on but you could only watch her beautiful features as she spoke, making you wonder what parts the baby would get from her.

You hoped they got everything from her.

One afternoon you came back from a shopping outing with Ingrid. You both walked through your hallway, but was stopped in your tracks when you saw a new gate between the rooms, it was a baby gate. You looked at Ingrid who was already smiling, she knew what Alexia was like.

“Ale, baby? What's this?” You called out.

The blonde skipped down the hall, a proud smile on her face.

“It's for the baby, so it doesn't get into trouble.” She tapped the gate proudly, looking at the object like it was a brand new Bentley.

“But the baby won't be walking for a long time. I don’t know if we need this yet.” You chuckled as she eyed the bars.

“No, no. It's better to be ready. We can get used to it before the baby comes.”

“She has a point.” Ingrid chimed in.

“Sí. Ingrid gets it.” The blonde nodded at the raven haired girl.

“If it makes you happy, then I’m happy. Now, open it up so we can get through.”

Alexia moved to open the gate, but it wouldn't open for her.

“Wait, I think it's this way.” The blonde frowned as she tried to pull the handle. But still, she couldn't open it. “Cosa estúpida.”

“Let me try.” You dropped your bags and attempted to open the gates yourself, but you couldn't do it either.

“Why won't it open?” You sighed in annoyance.

“No, pull it. Pull that bit up. Towards you.” Alexia tried to direct you.

“I am doing that!”

And just before you were about to have a domestic, Ingrid silently leaned forward and with no fuss opened the gate like it was the most simplest thing to do. You both gapped at the Norwegian, wondering what kind of trick she used to open it.

“Do it again.” Alexia stared at the gate, wondering how on earth Ingrid was able to open it.

Luckily by the 50th try you both had learnt to finally open it.

Alexia hated leaving you in the morning when she went to training. She would wake up 20 minutes early just to have extra cuddles with you, or talk to your belly. Your heart would melt when she spoke to the ever growing bump. She had felt silly when she first started doing it, talking to a belly with a small human inside felt weird, but she slowly got used to it.

It actually became something she looked forward to, you would read or scroll on your phone as the blonde shared the events of her day with the bump, she even did it when you were fast asleep, having her own private conversation with the little human. And of course she spoke it in her mother tongue, there was no chance that baby wasn’t going to learn Catalan.

One afternoon when you were five months pregnant she was talking to the bump, her face resting gently against the side of your stomach, stroking your skin. She promised the ‘Berry’ (as she liked to call it), that she was going to take them to all the Barcelona games and how she was going to train the baby to be a midfielder or striker, and definitely not a defender.

You chuckled at her words. Earlier that day you had visited Alexia at training. All the girls excitedly greeted you, everyone wanted to feel your stomach, and you gladly let them, you had missed them all so much.

“Sí, that's a defender in there, I can tell.” Mapi said confidently, smiling at you.

“No, it's going to be a goalie.” Cata insisted.

You laughed as you watched Alexia’s face drop, the group then all started arguing about what position the baby would play, Alexia had sulked on the way home, but you only laughed at her pout. You were suddenly pulled from your memories.

You both felt it. Alexia jumped away from you in an instant.

“Oh, Déu meu. Did you feel that?” She looked at you with wide eyes.

“Yes! It kicked!” You gasped as you touched the spot.

“Like a footballer! Berry has a strong kick!” She touched your belly in awe, staring at the bump. Then came another kick. The blonde gasped as you both felt the little life wiggling inside you.

“That's definitely a striker in there.” She smiled playfully.

You rolled your eyes at the big child in front of you.

“I love you, amor.” Her large hands cradled your bump, she looked at you with so much love it almost overwhelmed you.

“I love you too, baby.” You whispered.

You watched as she kissed your bump, you stroked her hair out of her face as her smile grew. You felt your own eyes water at the beautiful women in front of you. You couldn't believe that this was your life, you felt so lucky that she was the mother of your child.

By 6 months your cravings changed to everything salty. Peanuts, chips, crisps, pretzels, salty popcorn, you name it you had it. You added salt to nearly every one of your meals. Alexia had to conversacate the condiment out of fear of your obsession.

Now you are 8 and a half months pregnant. You only had 2 weeks to go before the baby was set to arrive. So, now it was just a waiting game. A long, uncomfortable waiting game.

“What ones?” Alexia walked into the kitchen.

You looked through your snack cupboard, trying to find the chocolate you had become obsessed with. Your two cravings of sweet and salty had combined and got you into your new favourite obsession of salted caramel chocolate.

“The ones we got the other day, I’m sure I bought 3 packets.”

“You finished them, don't you remember? I even warned you that you didn't have any left after that.” She chuckled as she stroked your neck.

You felt your eyes prickle with heat, your tears making your eyes glassy. Of course you knew this wasn't a normal way to react just because you didn't have the chocolates you craved, but you were hormonal, and tired and everything hurt and your back was killing you and your feet were sore and the TV in the background was too loud.

“Oh.” Your voice cracked.

Alexia's eyes widened in panic. “What's wrong, bebita? Are you okay?”

You sniffed, you tried to hide your face as you felt the tears prick your eyes. God, you felt stupid. Crying over a chocolate bar. You felt Alexia’s hand travel to your back, stroking you with the softest touch.

“Y-yeah, yeah. Sorry, I just really wanted th-” You couldn't finish your sentence as the hormonal dam broke.

Alexia really panicked then. “Bebé. Shhh it's okay, don't cry. I can get you more.” She pulled you into her chest. “I’ll go get you a crate of them, please don't cry.”

You sobbed into her chest, you couldn't believe you were crying over this, you knew it was just your hormones, but you couldn't control it.

“I’m sorry Ale, I’m just… it's just everything hurts. I can’t get comfortable in any position. I’m hot then I'm cold. My bodies changed so much. I can’t even see my feet anymore! My boobs are killing me. I hate the smell of my favourite perfume and now I’m crying over fucking chocolate.”

“Hey, shh it's okay. You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m sorry, bebé. Let me get your chocolate, and whatever else you want, we can get a take out tonight or I can cook your favourite meal. Does that sound good?” The blonde kissed your forehead.

You nodded in her chest, you felt like a sulky child. At least you knew Alexia would be prepared when your child would have their tantrums, or she would just give in and give them chocolate.

“Good. Come sit down. I’ll run you a bath.”

The blonde ran you a bath with your favourite bath soaks. The bubbles were nearly flowing out over the sides once she was happy with it. She helped you into the warm tub, stroking your hair back as you settled.

“Okay. I won't be long. Be careful when you get out okay.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled. “I will Ale, thank you for this.”

“Got to look after my babies.” She kissed your head and winked at you.

She closed the door and made her way to the shops for your chocolate.

You sunk into the hot bath, breathing in the sweet coconut bath milk that Alexia used. You already felt better, Alexia always knew what to do to make you feel at ease. She was always calm around you even when she wanted to panic.

You laid for another 20 minutes soaking your muscles. You carefully made your way out of the bath, wrapping your fluffy towel around you.

You began to get your joggers on when you felt a shooting pain, you grabbed your belly on the sharp twinge. Then another one came, but it was a lot less painful then the first. You took in a deep breath as you put on your t-shirt.

Your doctor told you that you might potentially get pains closer to the due date. So you tried not to overthink it. You looked at your phone, Alexia should have been home by now. That's when you saw her texts.

Alexia - They don’t have the chocolates in the store, going to another one xx

Alexia - They don’t have it in that one either, I’ll go to Summers.

Summers was over a half hour's drive, you didn't want Alexia to drive so far for a chocolate bar. You called her phone, she answered by the first ring.

“Hola baby, you okay?”

“Ale, you don't have to drive to Summers, it's too far.”

“I’m 5 minutes away now, it’s fine, amor. I know you want this. I know you would do it for me.”

You smiled. “Yeah, okay, well thank you, you’re the best.”

“I know.” You could hear the smile in her tone.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Let's hope the baby gets your humble characteristics.”

The blonde laughed down the phone. “I hope Berry is every piece of you.”

You felt your heart melt at her words. The girl really knew how to make you melt.

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Sí, i'll see you soon.”

You hung up the phone and made your way to the sofa, trying to find something you could watch without ruining anything you and Alexia watched together. But as you clicked through the options you jumped with a flash of pain.

“Fuck!”

The pain came again, quicker and longer. You panted as you felt the twinge trickle into your back, causing you to drop you to your knees, you gritted your teeth as the throbbing ache swept down to the bottom of your stomach.

“Owwwww! Shit!” You cried out.

You still had 2 weeks till your due date, surely this wasn't labour? It was just the pain the doctor told you about. Braxton hicks, that's what it was. You grabbed your phone, you tried to call Alexia but she didn't answer, because she was out getting your stupid chocolates!

Then you called Ingrid. Your best friend. Her and Mapi only lived a 2 minute walk from you. Maybe they could drive you to the hospital. The line rang, Ingrid picked up after the third ring.

“Hello, sweet pea.” She sang down the phone.

“Hey, do you think- fuck!”

Another sharp pain stabbed through your body.

“Are you okay?” Ingrid asked, panic in her voice.

“Yeah, well, no. I’m in pain, I don’t really know what to do. Alexias half way across town and-”

“I’m coming over.”

“Thank you, Ingrid. Sorry I don’t want to be a nuisance- oh my g-” You groaned as another sharp pain hit you.

“Mapi, get your shoes on. Stay on the phone, we’re coming now.”

“Okay.” You breathed out.

You put the phone on speaker as you cradled your belly. You could hear Mapi’s confused voice in the background. You pushed the whispers of hair out of your face as you felt your body start to heat up from the pain. Why did this have to happen now?

The girls must have sprinted to yours as they were at your door just over a minute later. Ingrid let herself in with her spare key. You heard their feet as they rushed through your hallway.

“I’m in here gu- uys! Owww!” You groaned.

You felt Ingrid kneel beside you. Her hand instantly rubbing your back.

“How long have you had the pain?”

“Maybe 10 minutes.” You sighed.

“Do you think you're in labour?”

“No, the doctor said this would happen. I’m not due for another-”

Your sentence was cut short as you felt a stream of water coming from between your legs. You waters broke.

“No, no, no, no, please! Fuck. Not now!”

“Ay dios mío!” Map shouted from the door. “We need to get her to a hospital!”

“Mapi, calm down.” Ingrid's tone was low.

The raven haired girl turned back to you, her face was calm but firm.

“Can you walk?”

“Y-yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, I’ll help you. Come.”

Your best friend slid her arm under your own, helping you to your feet.

“Okay good. Breath. Mapi, call Alexia.”

Mapi stared at you with wide eyes, she looked more scared than you, to be honest she probably was. She hadn't even heard Ingrid’s instructions, her whole body stood still, frozen with fear.

“Maria! Come on. Call Alexia.” Ingrid repeated.

Her brown eyes finally snapped to Ingrid. “Sorry, yeah. Call Alexia, I can do that.”

The girl mumbled, panic setting over her shaky voice. You watched as she aimlessly patted her body, looking everywhere as if she had no clue what she was looking for. She finally found the device in her back pocket, she took a deep breath, looking for her best friend's name in her phone..

Ingrid looked at you. “Okay let's go.”

You nodded your head, but as you took a step to walk the worst of the pain finally came crashing down. Your knees gave in once more as your muscles spasmed from the ache.

“Fuck, Ingrid I can’t!” You groaned as you knelt to the floor.

Alexia smiled to herself as she slotted the big box of caramelised chocolates in the boot of the car. She was able to sweet talk the shop owner into selling her the large supply with a photo and signature. She felt so proud of herself, she couldn't wait to show you her little accomplishment. She got in the car ready to drive back home to you, that's when she looked at her phone to see Mapi calling.

She pressed the green button as she lifted it to her ear.

“Hola-” The blonde flinched as the sound of your screams penetrated down the phone.

“Mapi? Wh-whats going on?”

“Ale, y/n’s in labour, you need to get back.”

“What? She’s not due yet.” Alexia felt herself panicking hearing your painful moans in the background.

“Her waters broke. She’s ready. We’re going to take her to the hospi-”

A deafening scream came from the depths of your stomach. There was no way you were about to move, not with the pain you were in. This baby was ready to come out.

Mapi looked shell shocked as she held the phone to her face, her mouth gaping at you. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it to the hospital.” The defender whispered.

Ingrid held your head, helping you move to whatever position you needed, she grabbed the big pillows of the sofa and tucked them behind your back, her calming presence was everything you needed right now but the one you wanted most wasn't here.

“Where is she? I nee- ahhh! Oh my god it hurts so bad! MAPI! Tell Alexia to get home now!” You started to sob.

Alexia started her engine and her phone speaker on loud. “Mapi, tell her I'm on my way, I’m coming, I promise.”

Poor Mapi didn't know what to do, she looked at her girlfriend for help. Ingrid stroked your hair, your sweaty forehead making your hair stick to your skin.

“She's coming, sweet pea, isn't she Mapi?” Ingrid looked at her girlfriend urging her to say the right thing.

“Y-yeah, Alexias on her way. She's already half way.” The defender stuttered.

You threw your head back as another contraction rippled through your body.

“Breath, try to breathe.” Your best friend stroked your back.

“Mapi, let me talk to her.” Alexia said as she pressed her foot on the gas.

“Sí, sí.” Mapi put the phone on speaker, allowing you to hear Alexia.

“Bebé?” Alexia's voice rang over the speaker.

“Ale! Please, I need you. Come home, please!” You begged, hearing your lover's voice.

“It's okay, amor. I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can, I promise.”

“Okay.” Your lips quivered.

“Mapi, keep me on the phone.” Alexia called out as she overtook some vehicles in front of her.

“Sí, I will. You're next to her now.” Mapi gingerly placed the phone on the table next to you.

“I’m here okay, cariño?”

“Yeah.” You whispered.

Ingrid stood up. “Mapi, comfort her, I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

“W-what? Me? B-but you’re so good at it.”

Ingrid stroked her girlfriend's face. “You'll be fine baby, you can do it.”

Ingrid gave no room for argument as she started to call the ambulance service, walking out of the room.

Mapi slowly turned around, she had never been so scared before. Walking out to a stadium of 30,000 people was less scary than this. She took a deep breath before walking over to you. She slowly crouched next to your side, trying not to make any sudden movements as if she was in a cage with a wild animal. But in all honesty, you kind of sounded like one.

You felt her hand gently rub your back. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“Your hand.” You whimpered.

Mapi smiled as she gave you her hand, but the smile quickly disappeared as you squeezed it with a force not known to man.

“Dios mio! What have you been eating!” The girl cried out in pain.

Alexia couldn't help but laugh as she heard Mapi cry out.

“I can hear you, puta!” Mapi groaned.

“Sorry Mapi, I just need you.” You sobbed as you looked at the defender.

That made Mapi smile even if she was wincing through the pain. But it made Alexia feel so guilty for not being there, even if it was out of her control.

“It's okay, breathe with me.” Mapi breathed out.

You breathed with her, but it didn't subside the pain.

Ingrid walked back in. “They’re on their way, but it won't be for another 30 to 40 minutes.

“What?!” You and Mapi shouted in unison.

“I can't wait that long!” You cried out.

Alexia was driving as fast as she could without being too dangerous, she definitely went through a few red lights, only because the roads were clear enough, but she was more than willing to get a speeding ticket if it meant she could be with you.

“The operator said to remove your bottoms and get towels ready incase you have the baby.”

“I’m so scared, the baby’s not due for another 2 weeks.” Your voice was shaky.

“I know, sweet pea. Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.” The raven haired girl mustard up a brave smile but you could see through it, you could tell she was worried too.

Then you felt it. An agonising pain pushed right at your core. It was happening, the baby was coming.

“AHHHHHH! It's coming!” You screamed.

Alexia felt dread take over her body as she heard your pain.

Ingrid jumped into action, kneeling at your feet. “I'm going to pull your trousers and knickers off okay?”

You nodded.

Ingrid quickly removed the clothing off of you. “Mapi, go get some towels.”

Mapi went to move but you had a python grip on her hand. The defender eyed her girlfriend for help, too scared to ask you to let go herself. the Norwegian smiled sympathetically at her.

“You may have to let Mapi go, honey.”

You didn't even realise you were still holding on to her, you hesitantly let her hand go. You didn't miss the way Mapi winced as she stroked her own hand from the pain.

“Okay keep breathing, nice deep breaths.” Ingrid said.

You followed her instructions, you tried to take deep breaths, but was cut short when another crippling contraction swept over your body. The pain was nothing you had ever felt before.

“Erghh! Oh my god! It burns. It's coming, Ingrid!”

Ingrid was between your legs, her green eyes popped open as she saw the start of your labour.

“Okay, I’m going to call again. I might need help.” She pulled her phone.

Mapi walked in just in time to see what Ingrid was talking about, you would have laughed if you weren't in so much pain. Her eyes bulged out of her head, like a cartoon character, her face turned to a shade of grey as she also saw the start of the birth.

“Ay dios mío.” She whispered.

Alexia heard Ingrid, she was only 10 minutes away, she was determined to get home to you.

You screamed as you felt a deep pressure at the bottom of your back, it made you feel sick.

“Where’s Alexia, I need her!” You cried out.

“I’m here, cariño. I’ll be there I swear!” Alexia said over the speaker.

Mapi then came back rushing over to you, the pain in your voice made her want to comfort you.

“Hey, need my hand?” The brunette smiled as she grabbed your hand.

You nodded at your friend, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Thank you.”

You took her hand as you felt Ingrid stroke your leg.

“Hello? My friends in labour. I can see the start of the baby.” Ingrid was on the phone to the operator. “Okay, thank you.”

Another jolt of pain hit you, making you squeeze Mapi’s already crushed hand. You watched her wince in pain, easing off her as much as you could.

“I’m sorry, Mapi.” You sniffled.

“No, no it's okay. I’m okay.” The Spaniard gritted her teeth as she tried to hold back her own tears.

The Norwegian put the operator on speaker.

“Hello, I’m Julia. I’m going to talk you through the steps, okay? You’re doing great. Keep taking big deep breaths for me. How much of the baby's head can you see?”

“I can see the baby's hair.”

“Okay great. Can you tell me roughly a measurement?”

“Like 5cm?” Ingrid squinted.

“Okay. She’s going to be ready to push any minute now.”

Alexia was nearly home, 5 more minutes and she'd be there. Until she saw the police lights in her rear view mirror.

“Fuck!” She mumbled.

Alexia reluctantly pulled her car over to the side of the road. She quickly muted herself on her end of the call, not wanting you to hear the commotion. She tapped her finger anxiously against the steering wheel as she watched the police officer slowly approach her car. She rolled her window down ready to apologise and hopefully be on her way.

“You know you’re going over the speed limit- oh my god, Alexia Putellas! I watched your game just the other day, you played so well. How's y/n getting on? She must be close to having the baby now?”

Before Alexia could answer you let out a high pitched scream over the speaker phone. The police officer looked at Alexia with a confused look.

“Yeah, that's actually her. That's why I’m rushing, she's in labour.” Alexia hoped that would be enough for the police to let her go.

“Oh! Oh right, why aren't you with her?”

Alexia stared at the police officer, was he really asking this?

“Erm, it's a long story, but it's why I was rushing.”

“Ah, I remember when my own were just born. There’s nothing like it.” The police man stared off into the distance, clearly reminiscing.

Alexia smiled politely. She really didn't need this interruption.

“Ahhh! Fuck! It hurts!” You shrieked over the phone speaker.

Alexia looked at the phone, your cries made her so anxious, she just wanted to be with you.

“Oh sorry, I’m holding you up. You get on your way. Try not to rush too quickly. Good luck with being a mama!” The police officer nodded as he went on his way, leaving Alexia to finally get home to you.

You couldn't believe this was happening.

You were so scared that Alexia was going to miss the birth of your baby. Alexia had been with you every step of the way with the pregnancy. Every appointment, every scan, all the birthing class, she was there, holding your hand throughout it all. Now the mother of your child was out driving around town, trying to make you happy, all because you wanted a stupid fucking chocolate bar.

“Okay, give me a push.” Ingrid said.

You took a deep breath as you tried to push as hard as you could.

“Amazing, you're doing really well.” Ingrid smiled at you.

“Well done.” Mapi gritted her teeth next to you, trying her absolute best not to sound in pain.

“Mapi, what’s going on?” Alexia shouted over the phone speaker.

Mapi jumped at the voice. She grabbed your phone with her free hand, her other hand was sweating in your own.

“T-The babies coming.” Mapi stuttered from the pain.

“Merda.” Alexia muttered under her breath, pushing her foot on the pedal.

“Okay, you’re doing it. I can see the top of the head! There's so much hair!” Ingrid smiled brightly.

“There is hair Ale! The baby has hair!” Mapi repeated Ingrid’s excitement.

Two more minutes and Alexia would be home. Just two more minutes.

“Okay, another big push.” The nurse called out over the phone.

“Ready?” Ingrid stroked your knee, her eyes were on you, giving you a reassuring smile.

You nodded, taking another deep breath. Your body was tired, everything hurt, and your bottom half was burning. It felt like something was ripping you apart. Like that scene from Alien. You just wanted Alexia to be here to tell you everything was going to be okay.

“Eerghhhh!” You pushed again. The pain was unreal. “No, no, no! I can't do it!”

“You can! You're doing so well! The heads out, I can see a face!” Ingrid shouted enthusiastically.

Alexia wheels screeched as she messily parked up outside, nearly forgetting to pull the handbrake up in her rush. She ran as quickly as she could to your front door, keys in hand.

“Okay, if you can see a face you've done the hardest part. You're done really well. Another big push.” Julia’s happy voice chimed in.

Alexia rushed down the hallway, she easily jumped over the baby gates she had installed, cursing them as she leaped. She turned the corner just in time.

You looked up to see your wife standing at the door. Her face was similar to Mapi’s reaction.

“Ale.” You whispered, not having enough energy.

The blonde rushed over to you, she knelt by your side, pushing your hair off your sweaty cheeks.

“I’m here, baby. I’m right here. You’re doing so well.” She kissed your sweaty head.

You nearly started to cry, your emotions bubbled to the surface, finally having your wife with you in the scariest and happiest moment of your life.

She brought your hand up to her lips, kissing you as she looked into your eyes, you could see she was scared but you couldn’t miss the love she had for you.

“You ready? Another push.” Ingrid asked from your bottom half.

Alexia squeezed your hand, reassuring you. “You've got this, baby. You can do it!”

You took another deep breath, readying your body to do what seemed impossible.

“That's it! Push, push, push, push! It's coming!” Ingrid spurred you on.

Your whole body shook as the little life entered the world.

And she was loud.

“Oh my, god. You did it!” Ingrid laughed in disbelief.

You looked down to see a tiny little baby, crying in Ingrid’s hands.

You felt Alexia grip your hand, you looked up at the blonde, she was gazing at the baby and you swore you saw her fall in love. She was smiling from ear to ear, her hazel eyes starting to tear up.

“I can hear crying, that's amazing. Wrap the baby up, cover the head, and place the baby on mum's chest.” Julia instructed.

Ingrid did just that, she gently and neatly wrapped your daughter up placing her on your chest.

“A little girl.” You whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks.

You looked up at your wife, she had tears rolling down her cheeks, as she looked at the baby on your chest.

“She’s so beautiful.” She whispered as she kissed the top of your head. “You did so well. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine, just tired and sore.”

She brought her lips to yours, kissing you gently. “I love you, amor. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Don’t be sorry, it wasn’t your fault. Besides, I had two very good midwives. You smiled as you looked at the couple who were now sitting next to each, smiling at your little family.

Alexia chuckled. “Thank you so much chicas. How’s your hand Mapi?”

“It’s seen better days, but I’m glad I could help.” The defender smiled as she pulled Ingrid closer to her.

“Do you have a name?” Ingrid asked.

You and Alexia looked down at the already settled baby, then back at each other.

‘Rudy.” You both said in sync.

“Rudy Maria Putellas. I like it.” Mapi smiled before Ingrid started rolling her eyes.

“No, just Rudy Putellas.” Alexia smiled, not taking her eyes off the baby.

“But, we do want to ask you guys something.” You looked at the couple in front of you. Ingrid was already smiling and Mapi looked scared all over again.

“Would you like to be Rudy's Godparents?” Alexia asked.

“100 percent, yes.” Ingrid smiled so hard her cheeks resembled a chipmunk.

You looked over at Mapi, her eyes had glazed over, she looked like she was about to cry.

“Mapi, are you okay? Are you crying?” Alexia asked in a teasing tone, smiling at her friend.

“Huh? What? Allergies. Do you have a cat? I’m allergic.”

“Mapi, we have a cat.” Ingrid smiled sympathetically at her girlfriend, knowing the girl was clearly just emotional to be asked to be a godparent.

“Hello? The door was open. Did someone call an ambulance for a mother and baby?” The ambulance crew arrived.

“And a broken hand!” Mapi called out, rushing to the front door.

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “She’s a big softy, she would love to be a godparent to Rudy.”

You and Alexia chuckled, but your attention quickly went back to the baby on your chest as she started to squirm.

The paramedics checked you and baby Rudy over, everything was looking great, but they still took you in to get checked by the doctors and a couple hours later you were allowed to leave.

You and Alexia gave Rudy her first bath together, laughing as she sneezed in the baby tub. Alexia dried her off and took her to her room, she got her nappy on her and creamed her little body.

“Okay, baby grow.” You mumbled as you looked through her draws.

“I actually have one mind.” Alexia looked guilty suddenly, smiling at you playfully.

She reached into another draw and pulled out a Barcelona home kit baby onesie. She turned it around to show your number on the back. Her dopey smile looked at the kit then back at you. You felt yourself go completely giddy. You looked at the woman in front of you, her proud smile made your heart melt. In that moment you felt so complete, you had your little family in front of you, with the woman that you loved with all your heart.

“Do you like it?” She asked as she moved back to Rudy.

“I love it. I love you, Ale.” You kissed her cheek as she began to dress Rudy.

“I love you. I love both my girls.” She bopped Rudy's nose.

Finally, you got the baby down in her cot, thankfully she was already fast asleep. You smiled as you looked at her face, you could already see Alexia’s features in her. You both stood over the cot, staring at the little bundle in front of you.

Then you remembered something.

“Ale?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever get the chocolates?”

#woso #woso community #woso fanfics #fcb femení #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas #woso x reader #woso imagine #mapi leon #ingrid engen

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 11 months ago

Note

In Sunday's chapter the madame mentioned that Aemond brought girls from the brothel to the fortress for his pleasure, you could make the reader one of those girls but she is a virgin and it is her first job

This took so long to write, but I was so invested in the story that it almost got to 3k...oops. I hope you enjoy this Aemond smut <3

Warnings: 18+, smut, virgin!reader, (brief) mention of child prostitution, prostitution, oral (m receiving), p + v

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

As soon as you stepped into the pleasure house for the night, Madam Sylvi collected you. She had been waiting for you. Your heart pounded in your chest as you followed her to the back saloon, fearing the worst. You wondered if there had been a complaint from a customer and if you were about to be fired.

‘’Scrub your body with a sponge and change into this,’’ she said, handing you a muted blue dress that tied at your neck. ‘’You will be working outside the house tonight.’’

You frowned, confusion washing over you. ‘’Outside the house?’’ you repeated.

Whoever this customer was, he must be paying the Madam a lot of gold pieces to have girls brought to him because when you got hired, the Madam was clear about not going home with the customers. It was strictly forbidden.

She nodded. ‘’A special customer. He used to come here regularly, but after a recent event, he now requests to have girls brought to him. It minimizes the risks of indiscretion.’’

You swallowed hard. You had been working at the pleasure house for a week and were only doing smaller services. A nervous feeling bubbled in your stomach. You knew that one day you would be required to expand your services, but you didn’t think it would be outside the safety of the house. What if this customer was violent with you?

Madam Sylvi gave you a soft, reassuring smile. ‘’Worry not, child. I trust this customer to take good care of my girls. You will be well-paid and well-fed.’’

Once you were ready, you and two other girls were escorted to the gates of the Red Keep. A guard in armor was waiting for you, and walked you in silence through the winding corridors of the castle that you had never seen before. You kept your gaze low and walked quickly, intimidated by the impressive beauty of the keep and the royal quarters.

The guard stopped in front of two large doors. He knocked, and waited for a moment. One of the doors opened and a man ushered the three of you into the room. His hair was dark, not white. He must be at the service of a figure of the crown.

‘’Stand in line for the Prince Regent,’’ the man said.

The Prince Regent? The name sent a shiver down your spine. You had heard whispers about him, but never saw him in person. Like all Targaryen men, he must be of an alluring beauty.

The door opened again and you all straightened your posture as Prince Aemond walked in. He was tall and dressed head to toe in black leather. An impressive sword was sheathed on one hip, a dagger on the other. He looked imposing, fierce, and insanely beautiful.

‘’The girls have arrived, Your Grace. The Madam has sent her finest ones.’’

Aemond glanced at the three of you, standing in the middle of the room in your light dresses. ‘’Thank you, Ser Phillip. I will see for myself.’’

He moved past the first one, too plain faced for his liking. The girl was hurt by Prince Aemond’s rejection, but she tried to conceal it. You wanted to tell her that she looked good regardless of what the prince thought, but decided against it. You’ll offer her comfort later. Maybe you’ll both need it.

The second one had large green eyes and nipples so dark you could see them through the thin fabric of her dress. Aemond glanced up and down, and then spoke in a monotone voice. ‘’Turn around.’’

The girl complied, and turned around on the spot. Aemond circled her, like a shark circling its prey. He was cold. Completely emotionless. He reached out to touch her, feeling the smoothness of her skin, looking for imperfections.

‘’How lovely is she?’’ he said to Ser Phillip.

‘’Very lovely, Your Grace.’’

Aemond pulled the tie of her dress behind her neck, causing the blue fabric to fall and pool down at her feet. The girl gasped softly, not expecting the prince to disrobe her. He reached to grab one of her breasts, her tan skin contrasting with his.

‘’Do you like my breasts, my Prince?’’ the girl asked, a little too confident that he would pick her.

‘’Not really.’’ Aemond retracted his hand.

The girl’s face fell, but he didn’t care.

He slowly walked towards you. You were terrified. Aemond had been quick to dismiss the two other girls. You didn’t notice any major flaws on either of them. He was extremely picky, or he was looking for something specific.

You tensed under his gaze, his single eye watching you like a cat with his prey. He studied your curves, your face. He took you in slowly. He seemed to like what he saw, but you didn’t want to get your hopes up like the last girl.

‘’Turn around,’’ he commanded.

You obeyed, turning around slowly. He took in your backside, the shape of your hips. Unlike other girls at the pleasure house, you weren't gifted in the hips area, but Aemond didn't seem to dislike it. He reached out to touch the skin on your lower back. His fingers were long and elegant, and surprisingly gentle. He caressed up your back, pulling your hair to the side with his other hand so he could carry on to your neck. His touch sent shivers through your body. You felt like prey in a cage, and he was the hunter.

Your shoulders trembled slightly, and Aemond noticed. ‘’You look scared, little one,’’ he whispered.

‘’I’m sorry, my Prince— I mean, Your Grace.’’ You bit your cheek, cursing yourself.

Technically, your title was not wrong, Aemond was still a prince. However, as he was acting as the regent in the stead of King Aegon, ‘Your Grace’ was more appropriate.

Behind you, Aemond smirked. He enjoyed the effect he had on you. ‘’Take the others and leave us,’’ he ordered Ser Phillip. ‘’Use them for yourself if you wish. I care not.’’

The man bowed his head and took the two other girls out of the room, leaving you alone with the prince.

Once the door closed behind Ser Phillip, Aemond stepped closer to you and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand. ‘’You are a sight for sore eyes,'' he whispered, his one eye looking at yours.

His words left you flushed and stunned. You have been called beautiful in many degrading ways since working at the pleasure house. It was nice to hear true compliments.

‘’I was disappointed with the Madam's girls tonight. All plain faced and overused. I remember my brother wetting his cock in the first one when I was a lad.’’

She didn't seem older than eight and ten, she must have been very young when she started working at Madam Sylvi's.

''But you,'' Aemond said, letting go of your hand to lift your chin and gently force you to look up, still holding his gaze.

You were so captivated by the prince's piercing eye that you didn't notice Aemond moving closer. His hand, firm and deliberate, slipped behind your neck, deftly tugging at the tie that held your dress in place. Before you realized what was happening, your dress slipped down your body, pooling silently at your feet, just as it had with the second girl moments before.

The sudden chill of the room made you shiver, a cool breeze from the large windows brushing against your now-exposed skin.

Aemond ghosted a hand down your neck and over the goosebumps of your chest, watching your nipples turning into peaks invitingly. ‘’You must be a delight to fuck.’’ His palms covered your breasts, weighing them in his hand, kneading them.

‘’I…I would not know. I’ve never laid with a man.’’

Aemond raised a brow at your admission. ‘’Never?’’

‘’Never.’’

‘’How is it possible?’’ he asked. ‘’You work at Madam Sylvi’s pleasure house.’’

‘’I’ve only worked there as of recently. I used to be a baker, but with the False Queen’s blockade, we no longer get food in the city. The place was forced to shut down.’’

You were brief in your explanation, not wanting to bother him with smallfolk problems. It’s not what you were here for. The Madam warned all her girls about speaking of your private life to customers.

‘’I apologize on the behalf of the crown, although my half-sister is to blame.’’

You gave him a nod, accepting his insincere apologies. He was probably taught to speak courtly and politically. ‘’That is kind of you, Your Grace, but I am not here to lament about the smallfolk’s misery.’’ You batted your best innocent eyes. ‘’What does the Prince wishes me to do?’’

Aemond brushed his thumb over your bottom lip. ''Get on your knees and that sweet mouth open wide.''

You knelt down and looked back up at him, waiting for another command. He took his time removing his sword belt and unbuckling his leather doublet. You pleasantly took awareness of the absence of a tunic under.

He reached to unlace his breeches, pulling them down to his thighs and revealing his heavy, half-stiff cock. It was long and thick enough to make a tear drop between your legs.

''Open wide, little bird,'' Aemond commanded, jerking himself to full hardness before feeding his cock to your awaiting mouth.

You wrapped your lips around him, bobbing down a few times to get him wet and slippery before grasping the bottom of his shaft and swiping your tongue over the slit at the head. Everytime you did this, the customers would moan loudly.

But it didn't have the same effect on the prince. He stiffened, his jaw clenching, and pushed you down his cock by the back of your head. You were under his command tonight. You'll do what he wants.

You continued bobbing your head up and down his length slowly as drool slipped past your lips and down his throbbing cock. The image was filthy and beautiful at the same time. You took him deeper, causing him to twitch in your mouth, and stopped before it hit the back of your throat. A quiet moan escaped your lips, his grip in your hair tightening.

He released into your mouth with long spurts and quiet groans. You tried to swallow all he was giving you, but some ended up dripping down your chin and to your chest, painting your breasts with drops of thick white royal seeds.

When he was finished, you pulled back and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. ‘’What does His Grace wishes now?’’ you asked, looking up at him, waiting for his next instruction.

He motioned for you to stand, a smirk tugging at his lips when he saw his seed on your body. He reached out and smeared it over your nipples. ''Go to my bed and wait for me.''

You nodded and walked across the large room, perceiving the bed in the distance. The sigils of House Targaryen were embroidered on the tapestries behind the headboard. You stared at it for a moment, then heard some shuffling, letting you know Aemond was approaching.

Quickly, you hopped on the large bed and sat in the middle.

Your jaw almost dropped when you saw him coming at you, fully naked. He was lean, but not too skinny, his muscles rippling over his body with every move. His chest was pale, and completely bare.

Everyone says Targaryens are closer to gods than to men. You've never been a believer, but, with a body like his, Aemond Targaryen must have been crafted by the gods.

You tore your gaze away, looking down at your lap. ‘’I did not know how you wanted me…’’ you said, fiddling with your fingers.

Aemond lifted your chin. ‘’That’s alright. I’ll guide you.’’

He pushed you back against the sheets and settled between your legs. His hands felt along your skin, leaving more goosebumps behind. Except this time it wasn't because of the cool wind, but Aemond's simple touch.

The prince looked down at you; rosy cheeks, bouncy breasts and soft thighs with enough meat to grab. He kissed between your breasts, and continued down your stomach and hips, pulling soft sighs from you as he got closer to your cunt.

Was he like this with every girl that came to the Red Keep?

Your question died on your tongue as his thumb pressed delicately against your clit. No customers had ever succeeded in finding it, forcing you to fake pleasure when they fumbled around. You pushed back against his thumb, wanting him to do it again. Aemond obliged, moving in motions you had never tried in the privacy of your bed before.

It was not allowed to kiss, but you didn't protest when his mouth crashed on yours. Your hand found way to his jaw, pulling him closer as he kissed you slowly. You were so enthralled by his lips that you barely noticed the two fingers that ran through your folds, prodding at your tight entrance.

You felt a slight uncomfortableness when his fingers slipped inside, your walls clenching around his digits. With how tight you felt, Aemond was looking forward to sinking his cock and pound into you.

After a moment, he pulled you knees up, and a loud gasp escaped your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut suddenly as you felt him slowly pushing his cock deep into your walls. Your hands clenched in his hair and clawed at his hard chest, feeling like you were being teared open from the inside.

You whimpered from the pain and scrunched your face, but Aemond didn't withdraw or pause. He continued pushing into you until he was buried to the hilt, causing you to gasp with wide eyes when you felt him hit something deep within you.

He looked down at you, softly grazing your cheek with his thumb, then pulled out, watching your expression when he thrusted back in. His movements were steady and slow, getting you used to all the new sensations going through your body. He remembered when he was a young boy, his first time laying with a woman was a lot.

Aemond leaned down to kiss your neck, one hand still holding your knee up while his other grabbed one of your breasts, rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You moaned under him, praising his name and clenching around him as you snaked your arms around his shoulders, needing to anchor yourself.

It was a pleasant change from what he did with the other girls, but slow sex was a dangerous zone.

When it became too emotional for him, the prince moved you on your side and took you from behind. He did not let you time to speak before he hammered his hips into you, his heavy balls loudly smacking against your ass every time. The new position had you gripping the sheets, feeling something burning in your lower stomach as he picked up speed with his hips, going faster and deeper until you both reached the edge and your orgasm erupted.

You made a sound as Aemond pulled out of you, but didn't move. You couldn’t. Your thighs were still shaking from your orgasm and your head was dizzy. So you looked up at the ceiling until your body recovered.

You didn’t know how many hours had passed since you arrived at the castle, but you were completely exhausted. You will have to walk back to the city soon…unless the prince wanted to fuck you again. A smile curled on your face. You had sex with a Targaryen prince. Better. The Prince Regent had taken your maidenhood.

Your thoughts got interrupted when Aemond rolled off the bed and stood. He grabbed a black silk robe with dark blue embroideries, and covered his naked body.

‘’Come,’’ he said without looking back at you.

You followed him through the room, feeling his seed dripping down your inner thigh and leg. You should be embarrassed, but you secretly liked it.

You stopped in your tracks when you saw a table with a whole feast set up. It was not there when you arrived in the room, meaning someone must have come in while you and the prince were— Red crept to your cheeks, mortified.

You had not heard the door being opened nor the servants coming in with the food. There was lamb, mince pies, and even honey cakes. Madam Sylvi had not lied when she said you would be well taken care of.

‘’Help yourself,’’ Aemond said, holding a small honey cake between his fingers. ‘’I assume you have not dined.’’

Your stomach was famished. You had been surviving on thinned soup and fish for weeks. The meat and the honey cakes made your mouth water. You missed the sweetness of pastries.

You took a plate, but before you could start filling it with food, Aemond spoke.

‘’The tea in the cup is obligatory. To…avoid unwanted bastards,’’ he explained, his eye pointing to a dark cup containing moontea brewed by the maester.

—

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#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond one eye #house of the dragon #prince aemond #hotd aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd

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kaynanarie · 7 months ago

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Eyes of Gold (Part 9)

(A WukongxReader story inspired by Beauty and the Beast and Lutung Kasarung.) (First) (Prev) (Next)

“I think it’s just up ahead!”

The trees lining the trail were starting to thin out, more sunlight streaming in where the forest ended. Excitement tingled your fingers and lightened your feet. An hour of walking had finally led you to the edge of your home.

You rushed down the path, pulling Shihou by the hand. He let himself be dragged along, easily keeping pace despite the heavy basket he carried for you.

“Slow down, the village isn’t going anywhere,” he chuckled. As the last of the trees fell away and the sky broke through, you both slowed to a stop.

Where the Monkey King’s domain ended, so did the forest. The wall of emerald greens came to an abrupt break at the foot of Fruit and Flower Mountain. Beyond it was a sparce field dotted with thorny brambles and spindly trees stripped bare by winter. A single, winding path led from the mountain down to the village nestled in the valley.

“There it is!” you breathed, tears welling up at the sight. Everything looked so tiny but familiar; you couldn’t wait to see it up close again.

“This is as far as I go, then.” Shihou set the basket down and unfolded a heavy mantle stored inside. “Put this on. Once you cross over, it’ll be winter weather the rest of the way.”

You nodded, pulling the cloak over your robes. The fabric was thick and warm, making you sweat in the summery heat. It was only made worse when Shihou hoisted the basket onto to your own back. While the fruits inside were invaluable, their combined weight was nothing to scoff at.

After the last of the straps were secured, Shihou laid a hand on your shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, unable to hide the concern in his gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him, grabbing his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Just a quick visit to the elder so she knows I’m safe. Then I’ll drop off the fruit and leave before my sister finds out.”

Shihou didn’t seem convinced but nodded all the same. “One more thing.” He grasped your hand and held it out before you. Plucking a hair from his head, he quickly tied it around your wrist like a bracelet. It was thin, nearly invisible; only seen when light glinted off its golden-brown sheen.

You raised a brow at him, biting back a confused smile. “Thank you?”

“Just a little piece of me to carry with you,” Shihou explained, one hand sliding up to brush your forearm. “It’ll keep you safe when I’m not around.”

Shihou had fussed and fretted for days following the wolves’ attack. Personally changing your bandages and checking for infection, he insisting you postpone your village visit until your wounds fully healed. Even after the scratches had faded to barely-there marks, you frequently caught Shihou staring; a haunted, regretful look dulling the brilliant gold.

A moment passed as he continued to hold your hand, fingers caressing soft and sweet over your skin. It was like when he comforted you after the attack, cuddling you close and lulling you to sleep in his embrace. The memory burned through you and flushed your face with embarrassment.

You kept reminding yourself it was innocent; just kind reassurance for a friend in need. Shihou was a perfect gentleman the whole time and didn’t impose you in the following evenings. Part of you wanted to invited him back, knowing he would accept in a heartbeat. The other part held yourself in check, wanting to sort through your flurry of feelings first.

Shihou’s voice broke through your yearnful thoughts. “Are you ready?” You met his curious gaze only to quickly look away, blushing bright red when you saw him smirk out of the corner of your eye.

“Yep!” you squeaked out, hiding your burning face with a nod.

“What time will you be back?” he asked, giving your cloak a final adjustment. It sounded casual but there was a subtle reminder hidden in his question.

“I need to return by sundown.” You glanced at the sky, calculating the journey to and from your village against the daylight left. “But it shouldn’t take that long.”

Shihou smiled, all soft fur and gilded eyes that set your heart aflutter. “Alright. I’ll be waiting right here.” He backed away, fingers reluctant to release their gentle touch. “See you soon.”

With a final, bashful nod, you turned away and marched over the boundary of the demon mountain.

The shift from pleasant summer to icy winter left you dizzy and shivering. White puffs poured from your mouth with every breath. Your fingers, toes, and nose started to go numb, nipped by the chilling wind. Tugging your cloak closer, you set a brisk pace towards the village.

You don’t know how long it took but you were exhausted when you finally arrived. The basket seemed to get heavier with every step, throwing you off balanced as you hurried between the buildings. As much as you wanted to visit home, the threat of your sister was still too real to tempt. Instead, you took the longer route through the village, sticking to secluded paths and empty alleys. Soon, you arrived at the elder’s door, knocking with a weary, shivering hand.

Elder Gran was one of the most respected members of the village for both her wisdom and compassion. Many times, she had brought issues and grievances to your father on the villagers’ behalf. When your sister took over as the new overseeing noble, the elder had been less than impressed, criticizing her decisions without fear of retaliation. If there was anyone you could still trust in the village, it was Elder Gran.

She looked quite surprised to find you on her doorstep, dressed in strange clothes and carrying a wicker pack. “You’ve returned! Everyone thought you dead! Quick, come inside out of the cold!”

You were ushered in and bundled by the fire, your basket removed and set aside. A blanket was thrown over your shoulders and a warm drink pressed into your hands as Elder Gran tutted and chastised your frozen state. Finally, she sat as well and pinned you with a hard stare. “How did you survive the mountain, child?”

And so, you told her everything. Getting lost immediately after your banishment. Meeting a strange monkey named Shihou. Discovering the source of your rash was poison ivy. Being cured and offered a safe place to stay. Hearing the Monkey King himself had invited you as his guest raised the elder’s brows to her hairline but she said nothing, only nodding along with your story. Finally, you opened the basket and showed Elder Gran the fruits inside.

“Sun Wukong said I could bring these for the villagers. I trust you to give them to those in need.”

“It’s been many years since the Monkey King allowed the fruits of the mountain to be shared,” Elder Gran pondered, eyeing the food suspiciously. “What does he expect in return?”

“He asked for nothing,” you said, latching the lid close. “He also said if the village needed anything else, he would do what he could to help.”

The elder shook her head in disbelief. “That’s quite generous of him. The village has struggled under your sister’s rule but it’s nothing we can’t handle. If things become dire, I shall keep the Monkey King’s offer in mind.”

“Thank you.” You stood, handing back the blanket and empty mug with a grateful smile. “Now I must go before my sister discovers me and does something extreme.”

“You don’t plan to stay in the village?” the elder gasped, clutching your robe as you turned to leave.

“No, I promised to return to the mountain,” you explained, patting her hand in comfort. “I hope to visit again soon and bring more food to see you through winter. Until then, take care.”

Giving Elder Gran a final hug, you slip out the door and out of sight. Immediately, you missed the warmth of the hearth as you traced you way back out of the village. The sun was starting to set when you reached the field again, time moving much faster than you had anticipated.

You raced down the path, wind whipping your face and cold burning your lungs. As the light grew dimmer, the green of the forest grew closer. Soon, you could see the invisible border and Shihou waiting just on the other side. In a final burst of speed, you launched yourself over the boundary just as the last rays of the sun dropped over the horizon.

Shihou caught you in his arms, holding you close as you recovered your breath. Between his warmth and the balmy breeze of the jungle, the chill of the winter you left behind quickly melted away.

“Made it!” you panted, giving Shihou a triumphant grin. He only shook his head in bemusement, smiling softly to himself.

“Welcome back. Was the running leap really necessary?” he teased, setting you back on your feet.

“I promised I’d be back before sundown,” you said, glancing at the evening sky. “I don’t know why but it seemed important.”

Shihou tilted his head with a smile. “Maybe because you can’t see in the dark?”

“Oh.” The obvious and mundane answer made you blush. “I guess that makes sense,” you muttered.

“Lucky for you, I can see just fine.” Shihou grabbed your hand, gold eyes glowing in the growing darkness. “Just stay by my side.”

Feeling bold, you laced your fingers with his, the burn of your blush reaching all the way down to your toes. You couldn’t see Shihou’s face but felt him startle at the touch. After a moment he relaxed, pulling you closer by your clasped hands as he led the way through the night.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I almost made this two small chapters but figured one big one would be better. Enjoy some village lore and more Shihou feelings.

Thank you for reading! Happy New Year!

#Monkey King x Reader #Monkey King #Sun Wukong x Reader #Sun Wukong #Eyes of Gold #KayNanArie #Beauty and the Beast #Lutung Kasarung #Fairytail and Folktale Inspired #Journey to the West #JTTW #Black Myth Wukong #BMW #Shihou

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astarioffsimpmain · 1 year ago

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Unsolicited Affections (Part 1)

[Screenshots and Tav, Ban, by the lovely @brabblesblog]

Halsin x Plus Size F!Reader

Warnings: Body insecurity; internalized fatphobia; otherwise, floof (for now)

Synopsis: Your growing feelings for Halsin can no longer be ignored. Even so, that doesn't mean you don't try for your poor heart's sake. However, Halsin keeps bringing you closer, and you aren't sure how much longer you can take it without confessing... even though confessing is your worst fear.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to @brabblesblog for taking these screenshots and allowing me to use Ban in the header! For all readers, there will be a Part 2 to this fic and it will be the smut you all requested from the poll I took! This became a super duper indulgent fic for me, as I struggle with all of the insecurities the reader struggles with here. But I hope this little 2 part creation can act as a balm for anyone who has ever struggled with their bodily image, or wondered if they'd ever be seen as beautiful. This one's for you; for us. <3

Part 2 Here

The battle had been bloody. Grime and viscera was spread across each body, hair color lost in deep dyes of red in the wake of the victory. You and your companions trudged back to camp in silence; exhausted. You had failed to obtain what the battle had been fought for in the first place, and you were certain that your mood was soured for the rest of the evening. Upon reentering your campground, Gale was the first to greet you all, thankful to see that everyone was alive, albeit roughed up; obvious disappointment creased his features for a moment when you told him the news that you had failed to obtain the magical object you had set out for, but he hid it behind an understanding smile and ushered you to sit by the fire as he finished dinner.

You had reasoned that if the Netherese Orb in Gale's chest required the consumption of magic to remain stable, that the more powerful the object, the longer it would sate him. So you had taken a group and set out for the most powerful magical object in your direct vicinity - the Circlet of Blasting. You had recognized it the day previous on the head of a Drow with several of its companions near the Myconid colony in the Underdark. Once you found them again, you approached to inquire whether you could cough up enough gold to take it off their hands, but when they turned and pierced you with vicious red eyes that gleamed back at your group with a reflectiveness like a cat's, you knew gold would not satisfy them. And as they drew their daggers, you were proven correct, and the battle had begun.

You slumped over on the log next to the fire, too exhausted to properly stow your weight, as you removed your armor piece by piece. The second person to approach you carried a warm bowl of stew and placed it gently into your palms. The hands were tender and gentle, and much too large to belong to anyone but your favorite Archdruid. You raised your weary head to meet his beautiful bright green eyes, creased with worry, but soft with care as he lowered himself to the ground beside your legs, his muscular arm grazing the now-bare skin of your thigh as he adjusted. A flutter ran through your stomach at the contact, but you clamped down on it before you could get carried away. You knew his kindness was platonic. It had to be. Halsin was simply…kind.

The tell-tale signs of complicated and painful feelings had risen within your chest since rescuing Halsin from the goblins, and although you had tried to deny them, recently it had proven impossible. But while you finally admitted to yourself that you had fallen for his disarming smile, the scratch of his well-worn fingertips against your softer skin, and how passionately he cared about every living creature in nature, you refused to admit it to anyone else. You would be sparing yourself that embarrassment this time around. Your chest ached, remembering the many times you'd fallen for someone and approached them with this truth, only to be turned away over and over again. Inwardly, you snarled, blaming the extra plush your body carried for your lack of luck in love. Whether the objects of your affection had been kind, polite, or downright rude, there was always a moment in which their eyes would quickly rake your body up and down before delivering their blow. Perhaps they didn't even recognize that they did it, but you saw. You always saw.

So, while you knew Halsin would never be unkind to you, you had been trying to make peace with the very probable fact that he would only ever see you as a friend - never quite attractive enough to be anything more. It was something you were used to, but it never seemed to dull the throbbing pain in your heart whenever you thought on it too long. There was a part of you, somewhere deep, that knew you were not at fault; that knew you were not to blame; that perhaps if they had deigned to look beyond the surface for even a moment, that they would have seen how genuine your heart was, and how they never would have had to go without affection, love, or loyalty should they have chosen you. You weren't without this enlightenment, but the constant dissatisfaction of, or concern for, the body you carried from those around you - from well-meaning friends to pushy strangers - weighed heavy on your tired mind.

This moment around the fire was no exception, your burning desire to curl around Halsin's broad shoulders like a cat and purr was strong, but overshadowed by the fear of rejection. You had him near, but pulling him too close was to risk sending him far away, and you weren't sure you'd be able to stand it were that to occur. An icy shudder ran through you at the mere thought of Halsin retracting his warmth from your side. "- giving you a chill?" His dulcet voice pulled you back to reality like a line reeling you in, but you caught only his last few words.

"What?" You said, blinking as his image in your eyes grew sharper again. "Apologies, my mind was far away."

"No worries." He chuckled. "I merely asked if the night air was giving you a chill. You were shaking, my heart."

My heart.

You melted a little. The nickname was fairly new. The first time he had called you that had been two mornings prior, after a late start and a quick bath in the bioluminescent pools near your campsite in the Underdark. You had come trudging back to camp in clothes that were quickly dampening due to being pressed against your still wet skin, wringing your hair out ferociously as you tried to hurry to catch up with everyone else's progress. You had just started to wrench your boots up over your clinging pants when Halsin had approached you, laying a warm hand against your wet-stained shirt. You had startled, your head snapping up to his in a surprised daze.

"Slow down." He had said, running a soothing hand down your bent spine and back up, sending full bodied shocks through you like tidal waves. "You needn't worry, my heart. We will wait for you."

As the memory warmed your cheeks, you cleared your throat and averted your eyes, praying he couldn't see the thoughts lingering just inside the colors of your irises. "No, I'm alright. Just- just a bit weak from not eating all day. Thank you, for bringing me this." You finally acknowledged the bowl in your hands and raised it a little.

"Of course. Please, eat. I hear from the others that you had a rough skirmish. I implore you to let me check you over once you've finished your stew."

Ignoring the way your heart jumped dangerously near to your throat, you nodded silently, opting instead to pick up the wooden spoon in the bowl and begin to eat. It was one of Halsin's spoons; one he whittled. It was smooth and beautiful and easy to hold. Almost all of the cutlery in camp had been fashioned by Halsin, and several of the stools you kept as well. It was his hobby and his form of relief, to create things with his hands. Subconsciously, you glanced down to where the hands in question rested on his knees; large and rough, his hands had seen it all and done it all through his 300 plus years of life, and you couldn't help but quietly admire how much they had learned and lost in the process. And after all of that, he chose to create beauty with those hands that knew so much. It made your heart clench with a new wave of affection. You swallowed hard, as if the feelings would force their way back down in the same way as the contents of your bowl.

Again, you were drawn back from your reverie by the Druid's movements, one of his hands moving from his lap to yours. His palm came down to rest flat on your thigh, only a thin layer of fabric left to separate the blazing heat from your skin. You barely suppressed a gasp of surprise at the sudden contact, feeling much more intimate than it probably was, and locked eyes with Halsin, whose brow was worried into wrinkles. "You seem more distant than usual, are you sure you're alright?" He said, his thumb taking a slow drag across your leg, sending your poor heart racing in your chest.

"Yes," you managed to respond, rather breathlessly. "I- I'm alright." Even you weren't convinced by your attempt at deflection, and Halsin's frown only deepened.

"When you've finished your stew, come find me by my tent. I will have some healing herbs waiting for you." He said sternly and you nodded silently. His eyes softened at your wide-eyed expression and he reached up to gingerly tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "Promise me you will come." He murmured quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, and your heart stuttered wildly in your chest.

"I promise." You replied, and a soft smile graced his lips. He nodded in return and stood up, brushing himself off before walking back towards his tent.

"Gods," you muttered under your breath, pressing your palm to your chest in an effort to keep your pounding heart inside.

"You've been given the perfect opportunity, darling." A voice chimed lyrically behind you, and you turned your head to find Astarion eyeing you appreciatively. "Don't waste it." He grinned widely, putting his fangs on display as he did so.

"Shut up, Astarion." You mumbled, your face heating as you pressed your hands over your eyes. You only hoped you wouldn't make a fool of yourself.

fin

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #halsin silverbough #halsin bg3 #bg3 halsin #halsin #baldur's gate 3 halsin #baldur's gate halsin #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #halsin x f!reader #halsin x f!tav #halsin x plus size reader #halsin x plus size f!reader #unsolicited affections

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felassan · 1 year ago

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Taash's art piece is just so beautiful! With how windy it looks (her hair blowing around), the blue-green background, and the wave-like pattern in the background, it gives the impression of the rushing sea. (and with the rushing sea, it has a sense of adventure!). The ocean background makes sense - she is affiliated with the Lords of Fortune, a group with a cephalopod logo and who are based out of Rivain, a nation almost completely surrounded by the sea. Their vibe/aesthetic has been described as incorporating a pirate-y element, they have ships, and they were said to hold dominion over the coasts of Rivain. We've also seen in-game shots now of a Rivaini shore that we will visit, complete with bright blue-green sea. the eye-like pattern in the sea in the top right and some of the 'triangles' in the sea remind me of dragons and sea-serpents.

With Taash's design, the 'protruding' parts of her armor, like around her shoulders (two, three) look like they could be dragon-scales. Trophies from dragon hunts? :) In Thedas, armor can be made from dragonscale. I wonder, is the jade-looking horn (the same color as the sea) a covering for that horn, or a straight-up replacement horn? We can see here that it has polished planes and cut edges in the manner of a cut gem. Gold coins fall around her, fitting for someone affiliated with a piratey, treasure-hunting faction. The red threads, rope-like in appearance, remind me of that aspect of some Qunari armor/clothing. In this piece they sort of flow around her in places, but we can see here for example that they're an element of her clothing. I wonder if she's Qunari, Tal-Vashoth or Vashoth. Being associated with a group originating in Rivain, maybe she's from Kont-aar or its surrounds, a coastal city in northern Rivain that is the only peaceful Qunari settlement on the mainland continent? Her gold jewelry and items are beautiful. Jewelry seems to be a notable part of clothing in Rivain, and among the Lords of Fortune, those that survive for more than a few years wear their treasures, charms and other items. It seems like Taash is a successful Lord of Fortune(/adjacent), someone who has found/won many treasures and accomplished great feats. The gold dragon at her collarbone is a cool touch.

Maybe it was Taash who wrote this Codex, and the title is alliterative, "Taash Talks"? The writer comes across like a dragon enthusiast and it references being near the shore/sea. Iron Bull once said "So, when you face a dragon, does it get your heart pumping? Do you breathe a little faster, feel the blood racing?" (in the DA:TV trailer, Varric says that they will need someone "with fire in their blood" to face dragons). And from this blurb, something has been unsettling the dragons in Rivain, in a way that dovetails in the Lord of Fortunes being concerned with it:

Upon eastern shores and sunkissed sands, the Lords of Fortune no longer hold dominion over the coasts of Rivain – not when dragons are growing bolder and laying wastes to their ships.

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #I also liked that they depicted her arms as strong :)

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remembrancer-of-heresy · 1 year ago

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Emperor's Children have a sex drive

Boom! This is canon. It took me to read a lot of literature and write down all the hints, but it was worth it.

Here we go ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

First of all, we need to start with Julius Kaeseron, who experienced sexual attraction to Bequa, and later to the demonette. Fun fact. In my native language, because of the translation, not only Julius appreciated the delights of the composer, but also Lucius, lol.

JULIUS WATCHED WITH barely contained excitement as the blue haired composer crossed the stage and descended into the orchestra pit to take her place on her conductor’s podium. Dressed in a scandalously translucent dress of gold and crimson, the gossamer thin material hung with precious stones that glittered like stars. The cut of her dress plunged from her shoulders to her pelvis, the swell of her breasts and the hairlessness of her flesh clearly visible beneath. ‘Magnificent!’ cried Fulgrim, clapping furiously with the audience at Bequa’s appearance, and Julius was amazed to see tears in his eyes. Julius nodded, and though he had no real memory of feminine splendour or any frame of reference against which to compare her, the composer’s curves and obvious womanhood stole away his breath. Julius had felt such stirrings of emotion when he gazed upon his primarch, heard a particularly inspiring piece of music or went into battle, but to feel his senses aroused by a mortal woman was a new experience for him.

Bequa Kynska thrashed like a lunatic atop her conductor’s podium, jabbing and slashing the air with her baton, her hair a wild comet of blue as it whipped around her head. Julius tore his eyes from the magnificent sight of her and looked out over the audience to witness its reaction to this sublime, raucous music.

And yes, in all of these examples, you can see that Julius doesn't just find the girl and the demonette beautiful. He notes that he was delighted by femininity. Moreover, he even calls it seductive. Seductive. Not the most commonly used word in the Space Marine vocabulary.

Julius had never seen anything so simultaneously beautiful and repellent, a naked female creature that evoked both a potent loathing, and a perverse sensuality that gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Hair like needle horns swept back from her oval face, with its green, saucer-like eyes, fanged mouth and luscious lips. Her body was sculpted perfection, lithe and sensuous, but with only a single breast, and her skin was loathsomely tattooed and pierced. Each of her arms terminated in a long crab-like claw of glistening red chitin and moist flesh. Despite the lethal claws, the creature was disturbingly seductive, and Julius felt moved in a way he had not been since he had been elevated to the ranks of the Astartes. She moved with languid, cat-like grace, her every movement redolent with sexuality and the promise of dark pleasures and excesses unknown to the minds of mortal men. Julius ached to taste them.

And here you can see that the space marines did not yet know how to unleash their emotions. How to have pleasure other ways than battle:

The Astartes too were swept up in the surging power generated by the Maraviglia. Blood was spilled as the emotions of the Astartes were overloaded with sensational excess, and were vented in the only way men bred as warriors knew how. An orgy of killing spread from the stage, blood running in rivers as the power of the music thundered through La Venice.

But they learn quickly and start trying a lot of different things. This can be clearly seen in "Reflection Is Cracked". And yes, there is even a special place for more intimate things:

"Which was not to say that the observation deck went unused. Those who imbibed the toxically hallucinogenic cocktails brewed by Apothecary Fabius found enlightenment in its infinite vistas, and many indulged their freshly awakened carnal hungers with vicarious feasts of flesh and blades. Discarded bodies and torn heaps of broken glass lay strewn throughout the bay, and the occasional moan issued from a jumbled pile of clothing and leather restraints."

The same story mentions that they had fun with prisoners on one of the planets for several days. At first, one company abused the slaves, later handing them over to another.

During the Siege of Terra, the Emperor's Children also tortured mortals. Moreover, it is not specified exactly how. If this were ordinary literature, then “more direct and crude enjoyment” could be perceived as a, ahem, dubious agreement. But since Warhammer 40k is here, use your imagination.

Simple pleasures had given way to complex debaucheries. While their allies fought and died the Emperor’s Children slaughtered more than a million people and rendered them down to create endless varieties of drugs and stimulants. Countless thousands more died to give the Emperor’s Children more direct, if cruder, enjoyment.

How exactly did they have fun? Not specified. But I think that everything was there. And yes, this is an important point.

In Angel Exterminatus, Julius even emphasizes that they began to experience pleasure in EVERYTHING. They began to look for pleasure in all things.

The Lords of Profligacy had lifted the suffocating veils of the mundane from their eyes and shown them unlimited worlds of sensation and indulgence. Undreamed vistas of excess in all things: noise, music, bloodshed, hedonism, torture, violence, adoration and most of all, worship. Every second not spent indulging desires declared taboo in an earlier age was a waste of life, and Julius Kaesoron had long since declared that no act of indulgence would remain beyond his grasp.

And yes, sexual attraction is a matter for every person. While most Space Marines will be attracted to ladies, some will look at men. Yes, I can nitpick, but c'mon, just read this passage:

Lonomia Ruen detached himself from the advance, and Lucius cursed. Since the death of Bastarnae Abranxe, Ruen had transferred his cultish adoration to Lucius. For a while it had been an interesting diversion to have a slavish devotee, but Lucius was already tiring of the man’s desperate need. ‘Your body is a wonder,’ said Ruen.

In the first book about Fabius Bile, a lot is described about how the Emperor's Children have fun on the ship:

The observation deck had become a place of contemplation and experimentation for the masters of the Quarzhazat. A place to indulge in pleasures of body and mind. Slaves bearing immense narcotic generators staggered to and fro, filling the air with a pleasant fug. Emperor’s Children sat on marble benches looted from Imperial temples and eldar crone worlds, or lounged on cushions made from the flayed hides of prisoners, speaking softly to one another of past debaucheries and future ecstasies. They wagered on gladiatorial bouts, watching as unlucky crewmembers gutted each other with rusty blades or, in some cases,hands and teeth. Elsewhere, the crude gutter-poetry of lost Nostromo warred with ear-splitting songs culled from the manufactorums of Chemos and Cthonia. The more artistically inclined among them painted obscene murals on the wall and deck. Armour was peeled away from flesh, so that brands could be applied, or the bite of a tattooist’s needle.

And here we see this:

In the shadows, more intimate entertainments were being enjoyed, to judge by the screams of slave and Space Marines alike. The smell of blood and worse was strong on the air.

Moreover, their leader clearly loves his daemonettes too much. These are the interesting hints you can find in books.

The Radiant seemed to enjoy these occasional slaughters, and openly encouraged them, when he wasn’t leading a hunt or consorting with his Neverborn courtesans.

Oleander really distinguished himself, since apparently he started an affair with Fabius' daughter Melusine:

Oleander, it crackled. It has been so long, my love... come to me... come... He took a halting step forward, despite himself. Desire surged up in him, rising wild. His limbs trembled with need and his brain sparked with longing. A face swelled in his mind’s eye, inhuman and beautiful and terrible in that beauty, teased into the open by the electricfingers stroking his soul. He had danced to this rhythm before, however, and he recognised a lie when he heard one. He forced himself to stop, though his every instinct begged that he go forward. ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘No, I know her febrile stink, and you are not her,’ Oleander said. ‘She would not ask – she would demand.’

In the short story "A More Perfect Union" by Richard McCormick it's implied that some Emperor's Children are having sex (or something like sex). And not only with slaves but with each other.

Xantine to Euphoros:

'It has boon some time since you made your way to my bed chamber, my lord,' he said, draping a purple cloak around his naked body and drawing himself up to standing height with a predator's grace.

Euphoros to Xantine:

'I was worried, I hear pillow talk from from souls who tell me you are lost to your ...'* he looked at the empty containers. 'To your predilections.'

In the book Pariah, the simply amazing character Teke the Smiling appears. And yes, he not only notices the beauty of Beta and Judika, but also wants to “have fun” with the girl. He calls her "sweet" many times as if in mockery. And jokes that she should take her friend on board as "plaything".

‘My, but you’re beautiful,’ Teke said to me, regarding me intently. ‘As beautiful as the boy. Those eyes, that mouth. The hard absence of soul. It’s such a shame he’s been spoiled.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Bequin,’ he said. He paused. ‘Well, of course, I do. Very much. Right up to the unthinkable point where it becomes a pleasure for both of us. But I can’t. I’m not allowed to. You’re too valuable.’

‘You have provided us with it. Within just hours of knowing you, Bequin… sweet Mamzel Bequin… you have already performed an extraordinary service for us.’

‘Oh, he likes you, doesn’t he?’ said Teke, smiling at the Curst. ‘Do you want to bring him too, as your plaything?’

And I like how in the sequel the two girls talk about Teke.

‘I don’t have to imagine,’ she said. ‘I’ve met them. A brief encounter with the one named Teke. Thankfully, I was well warded. It was hard to tell what he wanted more – to kill me, or copulate with me.’ ‘Both, I should think. At the same time.’

Also worth mentioning is Telemachon, who was infatuated with Nefertari. Mostly due to the fact that she is a Drukhari. And he wanted to kill her for the Dark Prince. Is there any sexual connotation here? Well:

‘My angel. My lovely angel, you know nothing of what you speak. You’ve spent a lifetime running from the Youngest God. But he loves you, sweetling. He adores you and all of your kind. I can hear him sing each time you breathe. And one day, when you leave your flesh behind, you will be his. A concubine of spirit and shadow, claimed by your true love at last.’

Telemachon closed his eyes, breathing in her breath, drinking her every exhalation. Being near her was rapture. ‘Let me touch you,’ he said, shuddering. ‘Just let me touch you once.’

‘You live in defiance of his hunger, lovely angel... Let me taste you. Let me bleed you. Let me kill you. Please. Please. Please.’

Telemachon’s hunger for her was still a palpable thing, an aura that invisibly stained the air around him. He was imagining the salty richness of her blood on his tongue, and the thought made him shiver.

I want her, came the swordsman’s wish, as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud. He did not send the words to me, but his murderous desire was fierce enough that I couldn’t help but sense his thoughts.

A feather. A single black feather. I tore it from the fine golden chain that bound it to the pistol grip and crushed it in my hand. ‘Is this from her wings?’ I demanded. ‘But of course.’ ‘You diseased creature. Stalking her. Watching her.’ ‘And more.’ The onyx of his eyes flashed with reflected light. Telemachon was smiling. His facemask didn’t change, but I sensed whatever was left of his face behind the silver twisting in mirth.

And I really like that the Thousand Sons Space Marine stubbornly says that he doesn’t need Nefertari. That she is simply his property and she has no value to him in the Black Legion. Also he when Telemachon speaks of Nefertari:

I will end him. My mind inferred the tigrus-lynx’s violent eagerness as words, though as ever no words were spoken.

‘Do you value your life so little?’ I asked him, surprising myself with my own honesty. ‘This hunger for her will be the death of you.’

And the Chaosites have clearly expanded their vocubular. Just imagine what the Space Marines said smt like that during the Great Crusade:

‘Prey,’ the wych hissed again, echoed crudely by her sisters. ‘Oh no,’ Lucius grinned. ‘You are quite mistaken, my lovelies. I am not being hunted by you. It is you who are being hunted by me.’

Even Abaddon knows how to speak with ladys even if they are eldar which is really funny:

‘The Maiden of Commorragh,’ he greeted her.

‘They are gone.’ Nefertari broke in, still wearing her smile. ‘Their bodies hang in my Aerie if you wish to introduce yourself to them the way you have to others.’ Abaddon snorted in amused resignation. ‘What a wretched little darling you are, alien. And what of Falkus? Where is he, Khayon?’

I also found two interesting comments on reddit, but alas, I could not find exact references in the books. I'm still a human being and this is a Tumblr post, not a dissertation:

The Emperor's Children are quite possessive of the Daemons of Slaanesh. Fighting honour duels for a kiss of a daemonette or to catch the eye of a Keeper of Secrets. They showered even the least of Dark Prince's daemons with affections and gifts. It is because of this they are jealous of the Word Bearers like Saqqara who needed none of that to be beloved by daemons.

And another one:

The bile series straight up has the ec doing kinky shit only just off screen and one of the things Fabius gets accused of when he's setting up his new men is that he's just making a harem for himself.

I also like reddit about Fulgrim because it's true:

I’m pretty sure there is a pretty blatant scene in Slaves to Darkness that shows Fulgrim’s interest in EVERY excess and sex is part of the equation. It’s like a bunch of cultists and demons in the Webway essentially worshipping Slaanesh by experiencing excess including sex, gluttony, etc. Fulgrim is taking part, but it’s not exactly clear what he is taking part in. He’s a demon prince by this point obviously.

He was the only primarch who was married. He can lie himself that he didn't really loved his adoptive parents and wives but can't lie me:

Fulgrim sat back. ‘I was betrothed, once,’ he continued idly. ‘Several times, actually. Political marriages, of course. Made to seal binding agreements, or open negotiations with certain executive dynasties.’ Pyke didn’t reply. His tone had become sombre. A rare thing, for Fulgrim. The Phoenician seemed to always be smiling, laughing at some joke only he understood. But now, he seemed tired. He rubbed his face. ‘I outlived them all, one way or another.’ ‘Did you love them?’ Fulgrim smiled slowly. ‘Some. I think. At first. After a time, I stopped. Love was a weakness I could ill afford in those days. A billion lives rested on my shoulders, and any hesitation on my part would have doomed them all irrevocably.’ He laughed softly. ‘Or so I told myself then.’ ‘And now?’ ‘Now, I know it would have. There is no room for weakness in this galaxy. No room for imperfection.’

And do you know why this is a lie? Because after Fulgrim become a daemon prince, he immediately got N'kari as his consort:

Fulgrim reached the dais and flowed up its side. The bloated thing squirmed in greeting, uncoiling its bulk and twining it around Fulgrim as he embraced it. The thing purred up at the daemon primarch, baring its teeth. Fulgrim ran a hand over its hair. ‘There, N’kari, my delight… We will have bliss again once this is done with, but he is family, and that means I should listen to what he says, hmm? At least a little.' N’kari… It was not its true name – that was a thing that would have broken reality to speak – but in the realm of the warp it was like a signature drawn in atrocity. Layak had glimpsed it and heard it at the edge of bloody visions, but never seen it before. Now it sat before him. N’kari… Eater of Delight, the Son of Ruin, the Daughter of Delight, one of the Six Courtesans of the Dark Prince. Fulgrim settled next to the exalted daemon, their snake bodies intertwining with a sigh, then turned his gaze back on Lorgar.

Fulgrim squirmed, a hand running through N’kari’s hair, while another picked a wet, red fruit from a silver platter and held it out to the bloated daemon. Layak noticed that the exalted daemon’s face was a warped echo of Fulgrim’s own, a fattened parody of the daemon primarch’s primarch’s soul-breaking perfection. N’kari ate the fruit and licked Fulgrim’s fingers.

‘Which war is this, brother dear?’ said Fulgrim, running a finger over N’kari’s cheek.

Fulgrim snarled as soon as Layak willed him speech. ‘I will take your soul and–’ ‘Your consort has already issued the necessary threats.'

N’kari walked to Fulgrim’s side, its bull-headed form shrinking and thinning until it was a slender figure wrapped in red silk, its skin the colour of a shark’s belly, its eyes black orbs. A delicate crest of bone and skin ran down the centre of its scalp. ‘Where the Prince of the Princes goes, so go I,’ it said, its voice a melody that promised bliss and suffering. ‘I am bound to this and to him. As you command him, so shall I follow your will.

By the way let's not forget the words of my man Tyrell, Renegade Lord of Arden IX (Codex: Chaos Space Marines (8th Edition, pg. 52):

Take care, lest your protests grow tiresome. I have asked for so little! Anyone would think that I have asked you to sacrifice yourselves and your sons! And yet, in Slaanesh's boundless and pleasing mercy, I have asked only for your daughters. Surely you would not deny me my small enjoyments?

And I don't care what fandom thinks about my beloved Ian Watson. I don't like he's other space marines. But his Children of Emperor are great:

Were the screaming tethered female prisoners hallucinating while abominations were perpetrated slowly and perversely upon their flesh? A few tormentors had shed items of armour, exposing grotesquely mutated rampant groins, their organs of pleasure bifurcated and more, with squinting eyes sprouting from them, and with drooling lips. Others had no need to shed armour. Chaos Spawn had materialized: wolf-sized creatures with legs of spiders and bodies of imps, with questing tentacles and phallic tubes. Jaq himself almost believed that he was hallucinating. A snake-like umbilical cord connected these spawn to the swollen groin-guards of their master – who stood back, roaring and whinnying with delight, as they guided the spawn in the ravishing of their captives, soaking up the sensations of these roving external members. Corralling other hysterical captives were beastmen slaves armed with serrated axes. A Chaos Tech-Marine monitored these slaves. His armour was studded with spikes. Each shoulder pauldron was in the shape of giant clutching fingers. He wore a nightmare helmet shaped like a horse’s head, eyes glowing red. One of the shaggy beastmen drooled and dropped his axe. The beastman reached out a paw to caress a particularly voluptuous captive. Immediately the Tech-Marine adjusted a control-box strapped to his forearm. The disobedient beastman’s metal collar exploded, severing his head. The head fell. It bounced and rolled amidst the captives even as the beastman’s body was tottering.

I almost forgot to add that in the book Renegades: Lord of Excess Xantine emphasizes that he is fascinated by love. He liked to kill, torture and just look at lovers. So much so that he was delighted with the way his personal daemonette of Slaanesh hugged him. The usual hug after sex, something personal and more sensual.

Later, he warms up to Cecile, a psyker, but not enough to not use her as a navigator. Although the book mentions that he didn't want to know whether she sighed in surprise or pain when he loaded the helmet on her.

He also called one woman, whom he had picked up a long time ago (she interested him because she laughed when she learned that she had become with the inhabitants of the world, who kicked her out of the city, calling her a witch) a muse.

So...

It is clear that, first of all, the Emperor's Children derive pleasure from murder and torture. But still this is not enough. Some may have their own personal obsession. For example, Lucius' fencing. A Space Marine was mentioned who sought satisfaction in the spiritual realm rather than the material. They may love music, food, or take drugs. Including fucking. It's just not their main goal.

So everyone who is against “sex among space marines” can relax. Yes, there is sex drive, but this is just one of the pleasures. Besides, only the Emperor's Children have this thing… at least I haven't found any other Space Marines yet. But judging by my excellent analysis, if I try, who knows.

#emperor's children #fulgrim #lucius the eternal #julius kaesoron #fabius bile #warhammer 40k #wh40k

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iamthesilentwriter · 7 months ago

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Detectives for a Day

Harry Potter x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader

Summary: It’s Career’s Day at school, and you and Harry are tasked with interviewing James and Sirius about their work as Aurors.

Warnings: fluff, slight angst, (please let me know if I have missed any)

Authors Note: Hey guys! How have you all been? Sorry, I haven't posted in a while; and most likely, won't post again for another couple of weeks. I hope you all enjoy this oneshot; sorry it's a bit long - honestly, I think my oneshots keep getting longer and longer... oh well. Thanks for reading!!

Word Count: 9,562

Navigation | Masterlist

The classroom hums with the faint rustling of paper and low whispers. Sunlight streams through the windows, painting streaks of gold on the tiled floor as the final lesson of the day nears its end. You’re seated beside Harry, your desk cluttered with doodled-on scraps of paper and a pencil teetering on the edge. Outside, the sun hangs low, casting a warm afternoon glow.

At the front of the room, Ms. Carter claps her hands to gather everyone’s attention. “All right, class, settle down! I’ve got something exciting to announce,” she says, her bright smile matching the colorful floral dress she wears. She picks up a piece of chalk and writes Career Day on the board in bold, swooping letters.

Harry leans toward you, muttering, “Bet it’s another boring writing assignment.”

You elbow him playfully. “What if it’s not? What if it’s actually fun?”

Ms. Carter’s voice lifts above the quiet murmurs. “Your next assignment will be a little different. Next week, you’ll visit one of your parents at their workplace to see what they do. Then, you’ll write a presentation about it to share with the class!”

The room buzzes with excitement as kids chatter among themselves.

“Does it have to be both parents?” someone asks.

“What if my dad works far away?” another chimes in.

Ms. Carter raises her hands for silence. “It can be one parent or guardian. I’ll send home letters with all the details today. Be sure to give them to your parents!”

You glance at Harry, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. “We have to go to our dads’ work,” he whispers, his green eyes wide.

“Obviously,” you whisper back. Images of bustling hallways filled with wizards, magical gadgets, and secret missions flash in your mind.

“I bet they’ll show us all the cool Auror stuff,” Harry says, his grin widening. “Maybe they’ll even let us help!”

You giggle at the thought of solving cases like detectives in a storybook. “We’d be the best Aurors ever,” you say, eyes sparkling.

When the bell finally rings, the classroom erupts into motion. You and Harry grab your bags, clutching your Career Day forms, and dart out of the classroom, weaving through the crowded hallways.

The crisp afternoon air greets you as you step outside. The schoolyard is alive with laughter and chatter, the sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Just ahead, you spot Lily and Remus waiting near the gate, Lily’s red hair glowing in the sunlight.

“There they are!” Harry exclaims, tugging you along.

You both dash over, skidding to a stop in front of them.

“There’s my boy,” Lily says warmly, wrapping Harry in a hug. She turns to you with a smile. “And our star student. How was school, you two?”

“Good!” You and Harry say in unison as the four of you begin walking home.

“So, what did you get up to today?” Lily asks, her tone light.

Harry eagerly recounts how Ms. Carter read a funny story during morning lessons, and you chime in about the science experiment after lunch. Both adults listen with amused expressions as you and Harry try to outdo each other with details.

“And then Ms. Carter told us about our new assignment!” you add, your excitement spilling over.

“Oh?” Remus asks, his brow lifting. “What’s the assignment?”

“It’s Career Day!” Harry says with a wide grin. “We get to go to one of our parents’ jobs and write about it. Then we’ll present it to the class!”

You pull the crumpled form from your pocket and hand it to Remus. “Here, Dad. Ms. Carter said you have to sign it.”

Remus scans the paper, his expression growing thoughtful. You’re too busy talking to notice.

“It’s such a cool idea! I can’t wait to go to Daddy’s work! I bet it’s full of Auror gadgets and secret cases!”

“Detective gadgets,” Lily echoes with a wink, keeping the moment light.

“Right, detective gadgets!” you say, grinning.

“It’ll be awesome,” Harry adds. “I’ll get to see how my dad solves mysteries!”

Lily laughs. “I’m glad you’re both excited. And I think it’ll be great for you to go with your dad, Harry.”

Remus’s voice is quieter, more measured. “I’m… not so sure about this.”

You slow your steps, frowning. “Why not? If Harry gets to go, then I should too!”

“It’s not that simple,” Remus says, his tone cautious. “Your daddy’s job can be… complicated. I’m not sure it’s the best place for you to visit.”

“That’s not fair!” you protest, your voice rising. “I want to see what he does! I promise I’ll be careful!”

Remus’s hesitation lingers, but Lily steps in, her tone soothing. “You’ll both have to be careful about what you say during your presentations. We can’t exactly tell your classmates what your dads really do.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, his brow furrowing.

“Well,” Lily explains, “we’ll need to come up with something muggle-friendly to say. Something simpler.” She smiles at you both. “Remus and I will help you write it so it’s just right.”

Harry shrugs. “That’s fine. We’ll just call them detectives. That’s basically what they are, right?”

“Exactly,” Lily says, laughing softly.

You glance at Remus, still uneasy but keeping quiet. Harry nudges you with a grin. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “It’s going to be amazing. You’ll see.”

Despite your dad’s reluctance, you let yourself imagine the thrill of visiting the Auror Office, your excitement bubbling back up as you envision the adventure ahead.

The evening sun dips below the horizon, casting a soft golden glow across the kitchen. Shadows stretch lazily along the walls, softened by the warmth of the overhead light. You sit at the kitchen table, pencil tapping against your notebook as you work on your assignment. The smell of herbs and spices drifts through the room, and your stomach growls, urging you to ask if dinner is almost ready.

Instead, you swing your legs under the chair, barely able to sit still. Your attention wavers between the words scrawled across the page and the front door, your eyes darting to it every few minutes.

At the stove, Remus is a picture of calm. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing faint scars on his forearms as he stirs a pot with practiced ease. A wooden spoon clinks softly against the side of the pot, and steam curls into the air. He hums quietly, a tune you’ve heard a dozen times but can’t quite name. The sound wraps around you like a cozy blanket, soothing in its familiarity.

"When’s daddy getting home?" you ask suddenly, your voice cutting through the quiet.

Remus glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Soon. You’ll know the second he walks through the door because you always tackle him before he even has a chance to say hello."

You grin, not denying it. "I just miss him when he’s gone."

"Mm-hmm," Remus hums, his tone laced with amusement. "Now focus on your assignment before dinner gets cold."

You groan dramatically, slumping over your notebook. "This assignment is boring."

"What’s it about again?" Remus asks, even though you know he already remembers.

"Career Day," you reply with a sigh, twirling your pencil between your fingers. "I get to write about what I want to do when I grow up, and I get to go to Papa’s work and see what it’s like."

Remus pauses for the briefest of moments, the wooden spoon hovering over the pot. "That’s quite the assignment," he says carefully, resuming his stirring.

"Yeah! I’m going to write all about how daddy is the coolest," you declare proudly, your eyes lighting up at the thought.

Remus chuckles softly, shaking his head. "I’m sure your teacher will be impressed."

The faint creak of the front door interrupts the moment, and before Remus can even turn, you’re out of your chair. Your notebook lies forgotten on the table as your chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

"Daddy!" you shout, your voice echoing through the house.

Sirius barely manages to push the door closed before you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his waist and holding on tightly. He stumbles slightly, caught off guard, but quickly recovers with a laugh.

"Missed me, did you?" he teases, ruffling your hair with one hand while his other sets his bag down by the door.

"So much!" you exclaim, tilting your head back to look up at him. "You got home safe!"

"I always do, love," he says warmly, crouching down so he’s eye-level with you. "Did you behave for your dad while I was gone?"

"Mostly," you answer with a cheeky grin, making Sirius laugh.

"All right, all right," Remus’s voice calls from the kitchen, cutting through the moment. "Let your daddy breathe. Go wash your hands—dinner’s ready."

You pout but do as you’re told, darting down the hallway toward the bathroom. Sirius watches you go, shaking his head fondly before heading into the kitchen.

"Smells amazing in here," he says, stepping behind Remus and slipping his arms around his waist.

"Don’t distract me," Remus says lightly, though the corners of his mouth twitch upward as he leans into the embrace for a moment.

"How was your day?" Sirius asks, pressing a kiss to Remus’s cheek before letting him go.

"Quiet," Remus replies, plating up the food. "She’s been excited about this Career Day assignment all afternoon."

"Ah," Sirius says knowingly. "She’s been asking about coming to work with me for weeks now."

Remus stiffens slightly, but before he can respond, you bound back into the room, your hands still damp from washing.

"I’m ready!" you announce, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet.

"Then sit down," Remus says, gesturing to the table. "Dinner’s served."

You slide into your chair, Sirius taking the seat beside you as Remus sets the plates down. The clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation soon fills the room.

"So, how was school today?" Sirius asks, glancing at you as he spears a bite of food.

"It was good!" you say around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, earning a raised eyebrow from Remus, who gestures for you to swallow first. "Guess what, daddy? For Career Day, I get to come to your work with you! Isn’t that the coolest?"

Sirius’s face lights up, his grin matching your excitement. "That sounds awesome, kiddo! You’re going to love it."

"I know! I want to see all the gadgets and the cool cases you solve—"

"Hold on," Remus interrupts gently, setting his fork down. His expression is calm, but there’s a slight edge to his voice. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves."

You frown, your excitement faltering. "What do you mean? Daddy said it’s cool."

"It’s not that simple," Remus explains, his tone measured. "Your daddy’s job isn’t always… safe. I’m not sure it’s the best idea for you to go."

"But I’ll be with him the whole time!" you argue, your voice rising slightly as you turn to Sirius for support.

"We’ll talk about it later," Sirius says firmly, though his tone remains calm. He meets Remus’s gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

"After dinner," Remus agrees, though his voice is tight.

You slump back in your chair, your appetite dampened by the nervous flutter in your chest. The conversation shifts to lighter topics, but the tension lingers, a quiet undercurrent beneath the surface.

Later that night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, your thoughts racing. The house is still, but the faint sound of voices from down the hall draws your attention. They’re not loud, but there’s a sharpness in their tone that cuts through the quiet.

Curiosity and unease gnaw at you. Pushing the covers aside, you slip out of bed, your feet making barely a sound on the floor as you pad toward your parents’ room. The door is mostly shut, but the murmur of voices leaks through the crack, too muffled to catch every word but clear enough to feel the tension.

"You can’t just promise her things like that," Remus’s voice rises slightly, sharper than you’re used to hearing from him.

"She’s my daughter too," Sirius shoots back, his tone defensive. "And she’s excited about this. I don’t see the harm in letting her see what I do."

"The harm," Remus bites out, "is that your job is dangerous, Sirius. You know that better than anyone. How many times have you come home bruised or worse?"

"It’s not like I’m taking her on a mission," Sirius argues, frustration thick in his voice. "She’d be in the office. Just the office. She’d be safe—there’d be dozens of people around to make sure of that!"

"Safe?" Remus repeats, incredulous. "You think that’s the only concern? It’s not just about safety—it’s about what this teaches her. She already worships the ground you walk on, Sirius. What happens when she sees all the flashy parts of your job and none of the cost? What if she thinks this is what she wants to do one day?"

There’s a heavy pause, and you lean closer, your heart hammering in your chest.

"And what’s wrong with that?" Sirius’s voice drops, quieter now, but there’s a hard edge to it. "You don’t want her to see my work because you’re afraid she might admire it? Admire me?"

"Don’t twist my words," Remus snaps, his own voice losing some of its usual calm. "Of course she admires you. I just don’t want her idolizing a version of you that isn’t real. Your work isn’t just gadgets and clever plans, Sirius. It’s late nights, danger, and—you know it—it’s loss. I don’t want her thinking it’s all some kind of… adventure."

"She’s not a baby, Remus," Sirius counters. "She’s curious. She’s smart. If we explain things to her—really explain them—she’ll understand. She’ll see the whole picture."

"You think she’s ready for that picture?" Remus asks, his voice dropping again but no less intense. "She’s a child, Sirius. A child. Do you really think she can grasp what it is you do?"

"Maybe she can’t," Sirius admits, his tone softening. "But maybe it’s better she hears it from us than makes up her own version in her head. She’ll see the truth eventually, one way or another."

"Not if I can help it," Remus says, and there’s something steely in his voice now.

The room falls silent for a moment, the kind of silence that feels heavy, crackling with unspoken words.

"You always make everything so black and white," Sirius finally says, his voice quieter but tinged with frustration. "It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. We can let her in a little, on our terms, without putting her in harm’s way."

"And what happens if she wants more?" Remus counters. "What happens when a ‘little’ isn’t enough?"

"Then we handle it," Sirius says simply. "Together. Like we always do."

The silence returns, but this time it’s different. Not heavy, exactly, but not settled either.

You step back from the door, your chest tight. Their words swirl in your head as you retreat to your room, slipping under the covers as quietly as you left them. The voices fade as you burrow into your pillow, but the weight of their argument stays with you.

You’d wanted to see daddy’s work so badly, but now… you’re not sure what to think. The excitement that had filled you earlier feels tangled now, knotted up with confusion and guilt. You want to be proud of him, to see the world he steps into every day. But if it causes this much tension, is it really worth it?

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night, the echoes of your parents’ voices lingering in the back of your mind.

The sound of laughter fills the Potter’s living room as you and Harry construct your fort. It’s a chaotic mess of cushions, blankets, and chairs teetering dangerously, but to you and Harry, it’s nothing short of a masterpiece.

"We need one more chair for this side," Harry says, pointing to a sagging corner of the fort.

"I’ll grab it!" you say, scurrying off to find another chair.

When you return and the fort finally stays upright, you and Harry cheer loudly, your voices echoing through the house. You both duck inside, settling into the small space with triumphant grins.

As you sit cross-legged, Harry glances at you. "So, did your dad ever say if you can go to Career Day with your daddy?"

You frown, picking at a loose thread on one of the blankets. "Not yet. He’s… he’s worried about it."

Harry tilts his head, his green eyes curious. "Why’s he worried?"

You sigh, leaning back against the makeshift wall of the fort. "He says Daddy’s work is dangerous, and he doesn’t want me to think it’s all fun and exciting. He thinks I might get the wrong idea or something."

Harry nods slowly, considering this. "I mean, your dad’s kind of got a point. What your daddy does… it can be dangerous, right? He deals with bad people and stuff."

"Yeah, but I wouldn’t be doing any of that," you protest. "I’d just be in his office, meeting the people he works with. I wouldn’t be in danger."

"I get that," Harry says, his voice calm and thoughtful. "But I also get why your dad’s worried. He just doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Being scared for you—it’s kind of normal, isn’t it?"

You look at him, your brow furrowed. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Harry says with a shrug. "I mean, if my mum or dad thought something might hurt me, they’d be worried too. It doesn’t mean they don’t trust me or think I can handle it—they just care about me."

You’re quiet for a moment, his words sinking in. "I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that."

Harry grins. "Your dad’s just trying to keep you safe. It doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind if he sees how much this means to you."

"Maybe," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Thanks, Harry."

"Anytime," he says, nudging your shoulder. "Now, are we making a second floor for this fort or what?"

You laugh, diving back into your plans, but his words stick with you, making you feel a little better.

From the kitchen, the hum of voices drifts through the house. Lily and your dad sit at the table, mugs of tea in hand.

"I just… I don’t know, Lily," Remus says, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. "She’s so young. I don’t want her to think Sirius’s work is all fun and excitement. It’s not like that, and it’s not what I want for her."

Lily leans forward, her voice gentle but firm. "I understand where you’re coming from, Remus. You want to protect her. That’s what parents do. But you can’t shield her from everything forever. She’s curious—about Sirius, about his work—and that’s not a bad thing."

Remus sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I just… I’m worried about the example it sets. She already sees him as larger than life. What if this just adds to that? What if it gives her ideas—dangerous ones?"

Lily reaches across the table, placing a hand over his. "That’s where you come in. You and Sirius both. She doesn’t just look up to him, Remus—she looks up to you, too. You’re her balance. You can help her see the whole picture, the reality of it. It’s not about hiding it from her; it’s about helping her understand."

Remus is quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming softly against the table. "And what if I say yes, and she doesn’t understand? What if it’s too much?"

"Then you’ll talk to her," Lily says simply. "Like you always do. She’s smart, Remus, and she trusts you. You’ll know how to handle it. You always do."

A loud crash from the living room pulls their attention, and Lily stands to peek around the corner. "You two all right in there?"

"Everything’s fine!" Harry shouts, his voice muffled.

"We meant to do that!" you add, giggling.

Lily shakes her head, amused, and returns to her seat. Remus exhales a quiet laugh, some of the tension in his posture easing.

When it’s time to head home, you and your dad linger at the Potter’s kitchen table for a moment. He clears his throat, looking a little unsure. "Hey, kiddo. Sit down for a second. Let’s talk."

You slide into a chair, glancing at him curiously.

"I’ve been thinking," he starts, folding his hands on the table. "About Career Day. And I’ve decided you can go with your daddy to his work."

Your eyes widen, excitement bubbling to the surface. "Really?!"

"Really," he says with a small smile. "But there are going to be some ground rules."

"Okay," you say eagerly, sitting up straighter.

"First," he says, holding up a finger, "you stay with your daddy at all times. No wandering off, no matter how curious you get."

"Got it," you say, nodding earnestly.

"Second," he continues, "you listen to what he and his coworkers tell you. If they say something’s off-limits, you respect that."

"Of course!"

"And third," he says, his voice softening, "we’ll talk about what you see afterward. I want to make sure you understand everything, okay?"

You nod quickly, a grin spreading across your face. "Okay, Dad. I promise."

Before he can say anything else, you throw your arms around him in an impromptu hug. "You’re awesome! You’re the best dad ever!"

"Hold on—"

"Nope," you cut him off, squeezing him tighter. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you so much, Dad."

He chuckles softly, wrapping his arms around you. "I love you too, kiddo. Just remember, this is a big responsibility, okay?"

"I will!" you say brightly, pulling back just enough to beam up at him.

For a moment, the worry in his eyes softens, replaced by something warm and fond. He ruffles your hair gently before letting you climb into the car, a small smile tugging at his lips.

As the car pulls out of the driveway, you lean back in your seat, already imagining all the cool things you’re going to see at your daddy’s work. Remus glances at you in the rearview mirror, shaking his head with a small, affectionate smile.

He still has his concerns, but for now, he’s content just seeing you happy.

You pull your coat on, excitement bubbling under your skin as you hop around the living room, searching for your shoes. Sirius is already waiting by the door, arms crossed and a smirk on his face as he watches you dart from place to place.

“Shoes, Darling,” he reminds, tapping his foot.

“I know!” you call, your voice muffled as you check under the couch cushions.

Remus steps into the room, holding the shoes you’d abandoned by the kitchen door. “Looking for these?”

You beam up at him, sliding them on as fast as possible. “Thanks, Dad!”

Remus folds his arms and gives you a look—a mix of fondness and the usual sternness that comes when he’s trying to make a point. “Before you leave, young lady, a few things.”

You groan theatrically. “Dad…”

“I’m serious,” he says, though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile. “I want you to behave yourself. No wandering off, no pushing your daddy to do anything reckless, and you listen to him. Understood?”

“Yes, Dad,” you promise, though the sparkle in your eyes suggests you’re already scheming.

Remus crouches down to your height, his hands resting on your shoulders. “I mean it. Daddy might make it look like fun and games, but what you’re seeing is serious work. Stay close and pay attention.”

You nod, seeing the worry etched in his eyes. “I’ll be good. Promise.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead before standing. “I’ll hold you to that. Sirius—”

Sirius raises a hand in mock solemnity. “Scout’s honor, Moony. I’ll keep her safe and out of trouble.”

“Hmm,” Remus says, clearly unconvinced. “She’s a lot like you, so good luck with that.”

With a grin and a wave, you head out the door with Sirius, who claps a hand on your shoulder as you walk down the path.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Sirius begins, picking up where Remus left off. “Your dad’s right, you know. Listening to me isn’t just for show—it’s about staying safe. The Ministry’s no joke, especially for people like us.”

“People like us?” you ask, glancing up at him curiously.

Sirius nods, his usual mischievous air dimming slightly. “Yeah. People who don’t quite fit their mold. Things can get dicey if we’re not careful. That’s why you stick with me and don’t go wandering off. Got it?”

“Got it,” you say, your voice quieter as you take his words to heart.

Before long, the two of you arrive at the prearranged meeting spot, where James and Harry are already waiting. James grins as he sees you approach, his glasses glinting in the morning light.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” James teases, ruffling Harry’s hair. “Alright, you two—got all your questions ready? This is your chance to grill us about the glamorous world of the Ministry.”

Harry glances at you, his expression a mix of excitement and nerves. “I think so…”

“Good,” Sirius says, pulling something from his pocket with a flourish. “Because if you forget any, I’ve got this.”

You blink at the tape recorder in his hand. “What’s that?”

“State-of-the-art Muggle technology,” Sirius replies proudly. “It’ll record every word for you. So no excuses if you miss something!”

James laughs, shaking his head. “Of course, you’d have a tape recorder, Pads.”

“Preparedness, Prongs,” Sirius says, winking at you.

The four of you set off toward the Ministry’s visitor entrance, the air buzzing with anticipation.

When you reach the unassuming red telephone box nestled in a quiet corner, Harry frowns, tilting his head. “Why are we taking the visitor entrance?”

James exchanges a look with Sirius, who grins. “Because, kiddo, you’re not employees. And last I checked, you’re not adults yet, either.”

James nods. “Visitor entrance is standard for anyone not on the payroll. Don’t worry—it’s all part of the experience.”

“Experience,” Sirius repeats, gesturing grandly at the phone box. “Now, step inside, and let the magic begin!”

Harry shoots you a look, part confusion and part amusement, as you both step into the cramped space. The adventure is officially underway.

The telephone box hums to life as James picks up the receiver, dialing an odd sequence of numbers. A calm, professional voice fills the cramped space.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“James Potter, Auror,” James replies. “Accompanied by Sirius Black, also an Auror, and two visitors for educational purposes.”

The floor beneath your feet lurches, and the telephone box begins to descend. Harry grips the side, his eyes widening as you flash him a reassuring grin.

The lift comes to a halt, and the doors swing open to reveal the vast, bustling atrium of the Ministry of Magic. The ceiling is enchanted to shimmer like a twilight sky, its deep navy hues flecked with golden constellations. Ornate fireplaces line the walls, wizards and witches stepping in and out of them in bursts of green flames. In the center of the atrium, a golden fountain stands proudly, its statues of magical beings sparkling as water cascades around them.

“Wow,” Harry breathes, craning his neck to take it all in.

You nod in agreement, your awe mirrored on his face. The space hums with energy—heels clicking against polished floors, the soft buzz of magical correspondence zipping overhead, and the murmur of voices as Ministry workers dart to and fro.

Sirius places a hand on your shoulder to guide you forward. “Keep up, darling. Plenty more to see.”

James leads the way to a smaller set of lifts, pressing the button for Level Two. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” he announces as the doors close. “Home sweet home.”

The lift halts with a ding, and you step into a hallway lined with doors, bustling with witches and wizards in deep blue robes. The Auror Office is just ahead, its glass doors etched with the department's crest.

Inside, the office is lively but chaotic—desks crammed with parchment, enchanted maps hovering mid-air, and memos zooming past like tiny paper birds. Wizards and witches are deep in conversation or examining strange artifacts under magnifying glasses.

Sirius waves his wand at a cluttered desk in the corner, clearing off a stack of case files. “Welcome to the Auror Office. That one’s mine.”

James points to the desk beside it, which is equally disheveled. “And that disaster zone is mine.”

“Your desks look... busy,” Harry says diplomatically, earning a bark of laughter from Sirius.

“Busy is an understatement,” Sirius replies, plopping into his chair. “Organized chaos, I call it.”

Before you can comment, James gestures to a large enchanted map pinned on one wall, glowing with various colored dots. "This," he explains, "is our main tracking map. Those dots represent different magical signatures—dark wizards, strange magical surges, and even certain enchanted objects. It helps us keep an eye on trouble spots."

“Does it show everything happening in the wizarding world?” Harry asks, leaning closer to inspect it.

James shakes his head. “Not everything. It’s enchanted to highlight only specific threats we’re monitoring. Each color represents something different. For example—” He points to a red dot hovering over a city. “This one marks a dark object in transit. The system flagged it because it hasn’t been cleared by the Department of Magical Artifacts.”

“Cool,” Harry murmurs, scribbling notes in his notebook.

Sirius nudges you gently. “See, sweetie? I told you we do more than just chase bad guys.”

Frank Longbottom appears at his desk nearby, his friendly demeanour catching your eye as he waves. “Speaking of bad guys, don’t forget about the paperwork. Dark wizards don’t file their own incident reports.”

You giggle softly, earning a smile from Frank before he gestures to a stack of parchment on his desk. “That right there is my ongoing case log. It’s a mix of surveillance notes, suspect interviews, and evidence cataloging.” He grins. “Not as glamorous as it sounds, but it’s part of the job.”

“What’s the hardest part of being an Auror?” you ask softly, feeling brave enough to interject.

Sirius leans back in his chair, his expression softening. “Sometimes it’s seeing the aftermath of what dark wizards do. It’s not always easy to walk away from a case unscathed.”

James nods solemnly. “And balancing it with family. It’s not the kind of job where you can just clock out at the end of the day.”

Frank raises his hand dramatically. “For me, it’s the paperwork. Merlin, I didn’t sign up to be a scribe.”

Moody, who has been silently observing from a nearby desk, snorts. “Paperwork’s the least of your problems. The hardest part is staying alive long enough to retire. Constant vigilance—that’s the name of the game.”

Harry looks at you, raising his eyebrows at the stark difference in answers.

James quickly changes the tone, gesturing toward a set of magical artifacts on another table. “These are confiscated items,” he says. “Mostly dark objects or cursed items that were used in illegal activity. Each one has to be cataloged and analyzed before we can decide what to do with it.”

Sirius points to a sinister-looking locket encased in a glass box. “That one’s got a nasty curse on it. Took us weeks to figure out how to contain it without setting it off.”

Harry leans closer to inspect it, his curiosity shining through. “What kind of curse?”

“Blood magic,” Sirius replies, his tone serious. “Very old, very dark. It’s dormant now, but you don’t want to be anywhere near it if it wakes up.”

You shudder at the thought, clutching your notebook tighter.

The group moves on to another section of the office, where a wall of moving photographs catches your attention. James stops to point them out. “These are some of the most wanted wizards we’ve ever dealt with. Each one of these cases took months—sometimes years—to resolve.”

“Not all of them are resolved,” Moody growls, his magical eye flicking to a blank space on the wall. “Some are still out there.”

Sirius pats you on the shoulder, sensing your unease. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. They’d have to get through us first.”

Your dad’s words soothe you, but only a little. Your eyes drift back to the board, taking in the grim collection of faces. Each one seems to have its own haunting presence, staring back at you with sneers, cold eyes, or twisted smiles. You shiver, huddling closer to Sirius, but something catches your attention.

A name, scrawled in dark ink beneath the image of a woman with wild, dark hair and a cruel smirk: Bellatrix Lestrange.

“Bellatrix?” you murmur aloud, furrowing your brow. “That’s… a star, isn’t it?”

Sirius glances at the board and stiffens. His usual carefree demeanor falters for a moment, and he looks at you carefully. “Yeah, it is. In the constellation Orion,” he says slowly, his tone almost cautious.

Your curiosity sparks further. “Like your name. Sirius is the brightest star in the sky, right? And Bellatrix is a star, too.” You glance up at him, a question already forming in your mind. “Do you know her?”

For a moment, Sirius doesn’t answer. His hand falls from your shoulder, and his jaw tightens. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and measured. “I do,” he admits. “She’s my cousin.”

Your eyes widen, and you take a small step back, staring between him and the board. “Your cousin?” The idea feels impossible. The woman’s smirk is malicious, her presence on the board threatening. She doesn’t look anything like Sirius—nothing like the kind, brave man who always makes you feel safe. “But… how? She’s…” You struggle to find the words, your voice dropping to a whisper. “She’s up there with them.”

Sirius exhales, running a hand through his hair. “She’s up there because that’s exactly where she belongs,” he says darkly. His tone carries a bitterness you rarely hear. “Bellatrix isn’t just some distant relation, Starlight. She’s… well, she was the worst of us. A fanatic who believed in everything the Black family stood for—pure-blood supremacy, power, cruelty. She’s hurt a lot of people. Done terrible things.”

You can’t quite reconcile the venom in his voice with the fact that they’re family. “But you’re not like that,” you say, your voice firmer now. “You’re not like her.”

Sirius looks at you, his expression softening. “No, I’m not. I never have been. But I can’t change where I come from, and neither could she. The difference is, I chose to walk away. Bellatrix… embraced it.”

You glance back at the photograph. Bellatrix’s face is striking, sharp features framed by wild curls, her expression unhinged even in a still image. It’s hard to believe she and your dad share the same bloodline. “She doesn’t seem anything like you,” you mutter.

“She’s not,” Sirius assures you, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—sadness, maybe, or regret. “We grew up in the same house, under the same rules, the same… expectations. But she made her choices, and I made mine.”

You look at him, questions swirling in your mind, but another face on the board catches your eye—another name. “And… what about him?” you ask, pointing to a photograph of a young man with dark hair and a quiet, somber expression. His name is listed as Regulus Arcturus Black.

Sirius’s jaw tightens again, and his hand rests on the back of his neck. “Regulus,” he says quietly. “That’s my brother.”

Your stomach twists. “Your brother?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. My little brother. He… well, he followed a different path than I did.” His voice softens, carrying a weight that makes your chest ache. “He believed in the family’s ideals for a long time—pure-bloods, power, all that rubbish. But in the end…” He trails off, his gaze distant. “In the end, he realized it wasn’t worth it. Not the way they wanted him to live.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

Sirius sighs, crouching down so you’re face to face. “Regulus tried to break away from the family, just like I did,” he says, his voice steady but pained. “But it’s not as easy as it sounds. He didn’t want to be like them anymore, but he couldn’t outrun the expectations. And… he didn’t make it out.”

Your chest tightens at the thought of someone your dad cared about being caught up in something so dark. “He… he died?” you whisper.

Sirius nods, his hand resting on your shoulder. “Yeah. He did. But he realized the truth before the end, darling. That matters. It doesn’t make it right, but it matters.”

You glance back at the board, at the moving photographs of Bellatrix and Regulus, their faces so different yet tied to your dad in ways you never imagined. The weight of it all presses down on you. “That must’ve been hard,” you say softly.

“It was,” Sirius admits, his voice low. “But it’s ancient history now. What matters is the choices we make, not the ones others made before us.”

You look up at him, feeling a surge of pride. “You made the right choice, Daddy.”

He smiles at that, though there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Yeah, I did. And I’d make it again a thousand times over. But it’s not something I ever wanted to pass on to you.”

You nod, still trying to process everything. The board looms behind you, its dark faces and names a stark reminder of the weight your dad carries. But as he ruffles your hair and guides you away, you feel a little lighter knowing that no matter where he came from, he’s chosen to stand on the right side.

“Come on,” Sirius says, his usual grin creeping back onto his face. “Enough of this gloomy stuff. Let’s go find the Quidditch department. Maybe we can sneak you a team badge while we’re there.”

And just like that, the shadows of the past fade a little, replaced by the comfort of your dad’s hand on your shoulder and the warmth of his voice.

The Auror Office is buzzing with its usual energy—quills scratching, enchanted memos zooming through the air, and the occasional magical artifact emitting an ominous hum from a nearby desk. You’re perched on the edge of James’s desk with Harry, swinging your legs while Sirius leans casually against a filing cabinet, tossing a small rubber ball into the air and catching it repeatedly.

“Potter. Black.”

The gruff voice of Alastor Moody cuts through the noise like a thunderclap. You turn to see him striding toward you, his magical eye whirling wildly in its socket. He stops in front of James and Sirius, his gnarled hand clutching a rolled-up parchment.

“We’ve got reports of a cursed item causing a stir at a Muggle children’s park,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “Nothing too dangerous, by the looks of it, but it’s spooking the locals. Do you mind checking it out?”

James grins, standing up and clapping his hands together. “On it, boss.” He’s already grabbing his wand from the desk, looking more excited than he probably should be for what sounds like a simple mission.

Sirius raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A cursed item in a park? Sounds like our kind of job.” Then he turns to you and Harry, his grin widening. “What do you two think? Fancy seeing your dads in action?”

Harry’s eyes light up immediately. “Really? We can come?”

“Of course!” Sirius says, ruffling his godson’s hair before glancing at you. “What about you, sweetheart? Up for a little adventure?”

You nod enthusiastically, your heart already racing with excitement. “Yes!”

Moody lets out a grumble, his magical eye swiveling to focus on Sirius. “Just don’t let them wander off, Black. This is a retrieval mission, not a field trip.”

“Relax, Moody,” Sirius says with a wink. “They’ll stay close. Right, detectives?”

“Right!” you and Harry say in unison, grinning at each other.

James chuckles, motioning for you all to follow. “Alright, let’s go save the day.”

Sirius throws an arm around your shoulder as the four of you head toward the Apparition point. “Stick close, kids. You’re about to see how it’s done.”

The sun is high, casting long shadows across the colorful play structures of the park. The air smells faintly of freshly cut grass and sunscreen, blending with the happy shouts of children playing. James and Sirius survey the park with practiced ease, their wands tucked discreetly in their sleeves.

“Alright, detectives,” James announces, turning to you and Harry with a smile. “We’ve got a job to do. Sirius and I will handle the tricky bits, but we need your sharp eyes. Keep a lookout for anything unusual—something that doesn’t belong in a park, or feels… off.”

You raise your hand like you’re in class. “What kind of cursed item are we looking for? Is it dangerous?”

James crouches down to your eye level, his expression patient. “Good question. It could be anything—jewelry, a toy, even something like a piece of trash. The important thing is how it feels. If it gives you a weird sensation, like tingling or heaviness, don’t touch it. Let us know straight away.”

Harry tilts his head. “Why would someone leave a cursed object in a park?”

Sirius smirks, clearly enjoying the moment. “Sometimes it’s deliberate—someone causing trouble. Other times, it’s accidental. Cursed objects have a way of moving around on their own. Like a stray dog.”

“Or a stray Black,” James quips.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Funny. But seriously, don’t underestimate it. Even small curses can cause big problems in the wrong place.”

Harry nods, his brow furrowed in concentration. “So, if we see anything weird, we tell you. Got it.”

“Exactly.” James claps him on the shoulder before straightening up. “Let’s split up, but stay close. Harry, you check near the swings. Y/N, you take the sandpit. Sirius and I will cover the rest.”

You and Harry exchange a quick nod before heading off.

You crouch by the sandpit, scanning the soft grains for anything unusual. Harry joins you, pretending to adjust a stray plastic bucket. “Do you think it’s actually here?” he whispers.

“Probably,” you reply, brushing some sand aside with your shoe. “They wouldn’t bring us along if it wasn’t.”

“What happens if someone touches it?” Harry asks, his voice low. “Would it hurt them?”

“Depends on the curse,” you say, glancing at him. “Dad said some are just annoying, but others… they can be dangerous.”

Harry nods, his gaze flicking toward James and Sirius, who are inspecting the area around the merry-go-round. “They look so... professional. It’s weird seeing them like this. They’re always joking around at home.”

“Except Sirius,” you say with a grin. “He’s always Sirius.”

Harry groans, shaking his head. “That was awful.”

You’re about to retort when something shiny catches your eye near the fence. “Harry,” you whisper, nudging him. “Look. Over there.”

Harry follows your gaze, his eyes widening. “Is that it?”

“Maybe,” you say, your pulse quickening. “Let’s call them over.”

Before you can, a woman with a stroller pauses nearby, eyeing you curiously. “Lose something?”

“Oh, just an old coin,” you say quickly, thinking on your feet. “Family heirloom. We’re trying to find it.”

Harry nods, adding, “It’s supposed to be lucky. We think it’s buried here somewhere.”

The woman smiles, adjusting her grip on the stroller. “Good luck, then.”

As soon as she moves on, you wave to Sirius and James.

“What’ve you got, darling?” Sirius calls, already making his way over.

James crouches beside you, examining the shiny object. “Good spotting. This looks like the one.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, leaning closer.

“Cursed locket,” James says, carefully extracting it with his wand. “Nothing too dangerous now, but it’s better off in our hands than left here.”

Sirius slips the locket into a protective pouch, giving you and Harry a proud smile. “You two did great. Perfect teamwork.”

As you head back to the car, you feel a swell of pride. Watching James and Sirius handle the mission so confidently makes you realize just how skilled—and how cool—your dads really are.

The moment you step back into the office, Sirius strides toward the storage cabinet tucked into the corner, the cursed item wrapped securely in protective layers. You trail behind him, glancing around the space that feels both familiar and vast. Once the item is locked away, Frank Longbottom appears in the doorway, his expression serious but calm.

“Sirius,” Frank calls, his voice low. “Meeting’s starting.”

Sirius exchanges a glance with James, who nods and turns to you and Harry. “Alright, you two,” James says, gesturing toward your desks near the window. “Sit down and get started on that speech. We’ll be back soon. Stay at your desks, no wandering off. Understood?”

You and Harry both nod in unison. “Got it, Dad,” Harry replies, already pulling out the rough draft of the written speech from his bag. You follow his lead, settling in at your desk and reaching for your quill.

“Good,” James says, clapping Harry lightly on the shoulder before heading out with Sirius. As the door closes behind them, the room feels quieter, but the faint hum of activity in the building carries on.

The two of you begin working, the soft scratch of quills on parchment filling the air. Harry leans over slightly to whisper, “Do you think we’re supposed to include the part about the timeline here, or save it for later?”

“Save it,” you whisper back, “it’ll make more sense after we explain the context.” You chew on the end of your quill, thinking about how to phrase the next sentence.

That’s when you hear it—muffled voices rising from somewhere down the hall. At first, it’s easy to ignore, but then the volume increases, and the tone sharpens. You glance at Harry, who’s also stopped writing, his eyes flicking toward the door.

The older man’s voice booms through the hallway, even though the words are somewhat muffled. “You could’ve gotten us both killed!” he yells, the anger in his tone unmistakable. “Do you even realize how close it was? You weren’t paying attention!”

The younger man responds, but his voice is quieter, harder to make out. You catch fragments of an apology, something about being distracted, but the older man cuts him off.

“Distracted? That’s not an excuse! We’re lucky to even be standing here right now. If you can’t keep your head in the game, you’re going to get yourself—and everyone around you—killed.”

You and Harry exchange a look, wide-eyed but silent. The argument continues in the background as you both turn back to your work, though it’s harder to focus now. You keep sneaking glances at the door, the words from the argument replaying in your mind.

Is this what it’s always like for your dad? For Harry’s dad? You knew their jobs were important, but you’re beginning to wonder just how dangerous it really is. The thought sits heavily in your chest as you try to concentrate on finishing your sentence.

The sound of footsteps signals the end of the meeting, and moments later, Sirius and James re-enter the room. James walks over to Harry’s desk, his usual easy grin back in place. “Harry, want to come take a look at that new prototype before we head home?”

Harry brightens immediately, nodding. “Yeah, definitely!”

“Great.” James ruffles your hair lightly on his way out. “Hope to see you, your dad, and Remus at ours for dinner tonight.”

“We’ll be there,” Sirius replies, watching them leave. The door closes behind them, and the room quiets again. Sirius settles at his desk, pulling out a stack of paperwork. His quill scratches against the parchment, but he pauses when he notices you’ve gone unusually quiet.

“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and giving you his full attention.

You hesitate, fiddling with the corner of your parchment. Finally, you look up at him. “I heard someone yelling in the hall,” you admit softly. “An older man was yelling at a younger man about almost getting them both killed because he wasn’t paying attention.”

Sirius’s expression softens, though there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes. “You overheard that, huh?”

You nod. “Is that... is that what your job is like? Is it really that dangerous?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before coming over to sit on the edge of your desk. “Listen,” he says gently, “there are parts of my job that can be dangerous, yeah. But we’re trained for it, and we’re always careful. The man you heard—well, sometimes mistakes happen, and they can be scary. But we do everything we can to keep each other safe.”

You chew on your lip, still unsure. “But what if something goes wrong?”

Sirius leans forward, resting a hand on your shoulder. “That’s why we work together, why we have teams. And that’s why I come home every day—to you and Remus. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Okay?”

You nod slowly, his words easing some of the tension in your chest. “Okay.”

“Good.” He grins, squeezing your shoulder before heading back to his desk. “Now, finish up that speech. We’ve got a dinner to get to.”

“Alright, who’s next?” Ms Carter asks, the classroom buzzes with quiet chatter as you and Harry step up to the front, your project materials in hand. The whiteboard behind you is blank except for the title of your presentation, written in Harry’s neat handwriting: A Day in the Life of a Detective.

Harry sets down the props—a small wooden box filled with papers, a few pens, and a notebook—while you adjust the easel holding up your poster board. It’s covered in diagrams, timelines, and sketches, all carefully crafted to sell your story.

“Alright,” you begin, looking out at the room, “thanks for being patient, everyone. Harry and I are here to talk about what it’s like to grow up with parents who work as detectives.”

A few murmurs ripple through the class, some students leaning forward with interest. You glance at Harry, who gives you an encouraging nod before stepping in.

“Our dads have been partners for years,” Harry says, his voice steady and confident. “They work on really complex cases—missing people, stolen items, that sort of thing.”

“They’re really good at it, too,” you add, a touch of pride slipping into your tone. “They’ve solved some cases that seemed impossible.”

“Like what?” a voice pipes up from the back of the room. It’s Daniel, always the first to challenge anyone. “What kind of impossible cases?”

Harry grins, clearly ready for this. “Well,” he starts, “there was this one case about a guy who disappeared from a locked room. No windows, no secret passages, nothing. It was like he vanished into thin air.”

You pick up where Harry leaves off. “Our dads figured out that the guy used a trapdoor hidden under the carpet. It led to a tunnel that came out a block away. Everyone else missed it because the trapdoor was enchanted to—” You catch yourself, flushing slightly. “Uh, I mean, it was really well-hidden.”

“How did they figure it out?” asks Emily from the front row, her brow furrowed in curiosity.

Harry leans on the desk behind him, arms crossed casually. “They worked out that the floorboards in that corner of the room sounded different. They were hollow. And there was a tiny scrap of dirt on the carpet that didn’t match the rest of the room.”

You nod. “They’re really good at noticing little details like that. Stuff most people would overlook.”

Another hand shoots up. “What’s the most dangerous thing they’ve had to do?” Sam asks, his eyes wide.

You exchange a quick glance with Harry. You’ve talked about this, rehearsed the details so it sounds thrilling but believable. “There was a case where they had to track down a group of thieves,” you say. “These people were stealing priceless artifacts and hiding out in abandoned buildings.”

Harry jumps in. “Our dads had to stake out one of their hideouts for hours, waiting for the right moment. When they finally went in, the thieves tried to make a run for it.”

“They cornered them in this narrow alley,” you add, your voice dropping for dramatic effect. “It was tense, but they managed to arrest all of them without anyone getting hurt.”

“That’s so cool!” says Ava, practically bouncing in her seat. “Did they get scared?”

You hesitate, but Harry answers smoothly. “Sometimes, yeah. They always say it’s normal to feel scared—it keeps you sharp. But they’re trained to handle those situations.”

“Do they ever talk about their cases at home?” another classmate asks.

“Not really,” you reply. “They keep most of the details private. But sometimes they’ll tell us little bits, like how they solved a puzzle or tracked someone down.”

Harry nods. “They’re careful not to bring their work home too much. They say it’s important to have a balance.”

The questions keep coming, and you and Harry take turns answering, weaving a web of stories that blend just enough truth with fiction to keep everyone captivated. By the time you wrap up, the class is buzzing with admiration for your “detective dads” and their incredible cases.

As you return to your seats, Harry leans over and whispers, “Think they bought it?”

You grin, keeping your voice low. “Completely. We should be detectives ourselves at this rate.”

The evening sun casts a warm golden hue over the Potter household as you and Harry burst into the living room, laughter spilling out as you hold up your project board for all to see. The presentation had been a resounding success, and the excitement buzzes in the air like static.

“Mum! Dad!” Harry calls, his voice carrying through the house. “We nailed it!”

Lily steps into the living room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Remus follows shortly after, holding a steaming mug of tea, a soft smile on his face as he takes in the sight of you both glowing with pride.

"Let me see, let me see!" Lily says, crouching slightly as Harry angles the board toward her. Her eyes scan over the carefully placed pictures, diagrams, and handwritten notes. "This is incredible, you two. Look at the detail!"

“We worked really hard,” you chime in, beaming. “And everyone loved our mystery theme!”

Remus nods, his amber eyes sparkling with pride. “I knew you two would do great. You’ve both been talking about this project for weeks. It’s clear how much effort you put into it.”

Sirius emerges from the hallway, his hands in his pockets and a smug grin plastered across his face. "Did someone mention mystery? Clearly, the two best sleuths had some inspiration from yours truly."

You giggle, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. He chuckles softly, ruffling your hair in response. “I’m glad you’re my detective,” you say, your voice muffled slightly against his chest.

He freezes for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the sentiment, before his arms wrap around you. “And I’m glad you’re my partner in crime,” he murmurs, his voice warm with affection.

“Oi, what about me?” Harry protests, mock offense lighting up his face. “I helped too!”

“Don’t worry, Prongslet,” Sirius says, releasing you and reaching over to pull Harry into a one-armed hug. “You’re my deputy detective.”

Remus shakes his head, hiding a small smile behind his mug. “I think Lily and I deserve some credit too. Someone had to teach you two where to look for clues.”

Harry grins and leans back. “Maybe you guys can help with our next mission.”

“Next mission?” Lily raises an eyebrow, amusement clear on her face.

“Oh, yeah,” you say with a conspiratorial nod, moving to stand beside Harry. “We already have ideas. It’s going to be even bigger than this one.”

“And, of course,” Harry adds, glancing at you with a playful grin, “we’ll need our dads to help us solve it.”

Sirius smirks. “Well, I am the best detective around.”

Remus snorts. “Debatable.”

The adults exchange amused looks before nodding in unison. “We’re in,” Sirius says dramatically, crouching slightly and holding out his hand like a pact.

You and Harry place your hands on top of his, and then Remus reluctantly adds his own. “This is going to end in chaos,” he mutters, but the soft laugh that follows betrays his excitement.

Lily watches the scene with a fond smile, her arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe. “Just don’t burn the house down,” she says, shaking her head.

“No promises!” Sirius and Harry say in unison, and the room erupts in laughter, the sound carrying into the cozy evening.

#harry potter #wolfstar daughter #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #lily evans #oneshot #fluff #slight angst

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