#physically close to each other on stage

[prettybbychim]

u know beigguang is kinda like… what you’d get if u fused neuvillette and zhongli together + fused wriothesley and childe together. and made em lesbians ofc 😌

[ddejavvu]

i feel like hiccup is the kind of guy who luuuves lazy make outs during any downtime he's got

hiccup is such a lover.

he's always got an arm slung over your waist if you're laying together, or oftentimes more- he'll have his face tucked into your neck, or his legs tangled with yours, or his fingers brushing over your back. if you're sitting beside each other he's got an arm on your thigh, or his own pressed up against yours, or his head on your shoulder. he will always, always, always have some sort of physical contact with you, and most of the time there's some motion to it because he fidgets. He'll play with the seam of your pant leg, he'll twist your hair together or he'll fiddle with your fingers the way he does his own.

this incessant touching translates very easily into makeouts when you start getting more comfortable around each other. in the first stages of your relationship, i think he'd wait a while to kiss you, just to be respectful. but when it happens it's fantastic, and you enjoy a puppy-love period of blushy cheeks, clammy hands and breathy giggles. once it becomes less of a !!!! and more of a <3333, you're both kissing machines. you really can't stop yourself or him, and 9 times out of 10 there's someone's hands on someone else's cheeks and someone else's hands on someone's waist. there's just something so lovey dovey about breathing the same air, noses brushing, cheeks pressed together, soft and sweet and gentle even if you're both drooling into each other's mouths.

his lips are soft but slightly chapped, but the more he kisses you the more he absorbs some of your chapstick and the better his lips get. you can definitely talk him away from whatever he's doing if you state that his lips are looking painfully dry, and that he should let you moisturize them <3 he turns his head so that his nose doesn't run into yours, and he starts by pressing his lips to yours, closed, no tongue, just a chaste press of lips to lips at first. it's a gauge to see how much you're willing to do, if you'd rather talk or if you're not in the mood. but you rarely ever end it there. you'll reciprocate, softening the clench of your jaw so that you can part your lips and kiss sweetly at his own. you spend some time like this, kissing at each others' lips, no tongue or teeth or lust or sex, just kissing. the more you kiss the deeper it gets, maybe he'll lick over your bottom lip or you'll bite his and he'll startle, giving you an opening to lick into his mouth. this is where the groaning starts, the grunting, the moaning, and you're rarely able to stay in your own space for this. one of you usually ends up on top of the other, and it definitely can lead to sex, but it doesn't always. sometimes it's just labored, heavy panting, tongues brushing and licking and tasting each other, lips puffy and swollen from the action they're getting, your body and his body as close as physically possible.

hiccup is the kind of guy that grew up being the center of (negative) attention so now tries shying away from it. any chance he can get he's taking off and hiding away somewhere only dragons could find him, but it's very lucky for you that you've got an island full of dragons happy to carry you to the nearest cliffside to find your lover. the two of you are constantly lost in your own little worlds, and when you lay beside him it's inevitable that you'll curl together like vines intertwining. you're magnetized, you're each the flower and the sun, growing towards each other and kissing until the sky gets dark.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 4)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

This chapter is mainly Romance (Rae oriented!) This one is a bit of a filler episode so I have a feeling that you might not enjoy this one as much but nonetheless, HAVE A GOOD READ!

Breakfast was actually quite nice. Jinu had brought back some hang-over soup, whilst Romance brought back some coffee. To top it all off, Mystery slipped Y/N a sweet bread that she had been craving since a week ago. The spicy soup was able to help her wake up, and Jinu had placed a cup of water on the table inconspicuously to Y/N’s ignorance.

‘Okay well, this has been nice but I have to go.’ Y/N unlocked her phone to a notification from the Huntr/x group chat, asking her if she could supervise the upcoming live recording of Golden.

‘What? But you said we still have to practice to be perfect.’ Romance protested immediately, standing with his arms crossed. 

‘Romance-’

‘Rae. My name is Rae-Jin but just call me Rae.’ He breathed, sitting back down in his chair with a whump. 

‘You’re abandoning us to go hang around Huntr/x?’ Jinu rolled his eyes, looking as if Y/N had greatly offended him.

‘Need I remind you that technically I abandoned them for you lot?’ Y/N raised a single eyebrow, hands on her hips in an imposing stance. ‘Besides, you all just need to practice choreo and singing. That’s all you guys.’ Y/N shrugged, picking up her keys and swiping her notebook and phone. She checked her belongings making sure everything was in order. 

‘You’ll call us if something comes up?’ Jinu said, taking Y/N’s phone from her easily, punching in his number and drop-ringing it.

‘Huh, no password? That's not safe Y/N.’ The leader furrowed his brow, trailing off as he handed Y/N’s phone back to her. 

‘And ghost writing music for a demon boy band is?’ Y/N cheeked, nudging him with her shoulder playfully.

‘Touché.’ He let out a soft smile, as Y/N turned her back to grasp a bottle of juice on the table.

‘Hey, I’ll call you guys if anything comes up okay? Keep practicing! I’m gonna go to work.’ Y/N waved as she headed towards the open elevator doors, taking a swig of her drink, replying to a work text.

‘Stay safe!’ Beom called out as the elevator doors closed.

The boys were left in silence, staring at the closed metal doors. Each of them were thinking the same thing.

‘She’ll be ok, right?’ They all asked in unison.

‘The Honmoon is getting weaker, which means that demons will become more prevalent. I don’t know if it’s safe for her to be out there on her own.’ Abel turned to the group, arms crossed over his chest, his compression shirt stretching.

‘I mean, when we first tried to take her soul, it didn’t work. Maybe she’s unaffected by demon powers?’ Mystery reasoned, trying to reassure the group.

‘I’m not one for taking chances, and we just got our producer. What are we going to do if something happens to her?’ Jinu concluded, slipping off his barstool smoothly. 

'Besides, even if they don't take her soul, they can still harm her physically.' Rae shook his head, dissatisfied with Mystery's reason.

‘If she’s with the demon hunters, then shouldn’t she be safe?’ Beom reasoned, pointing out the truth. ‘Maybe we’ll wait for her call?’

‘I think one of us should stick with her, but stay out of sight. Just to be safe.’ Jinu countered, looking disgruntled.

‘I’ll do it.’ Abel offered easily, shrugging his shoulders.

‘No, we need you for choreo. You're the strongest but most of us haven’t got it down perfectly yet.’ Beom shook his head, looking disappointed. Each of the boys felt the urge to follow Y/N, but on the other hand, they wanted to make sure they did justice to Soda Pop, as their debut stage.

‘Rae, you go. You’ve got everything down almost to a T. Report back if you hear anything, make sure you use your phone. I didn’t acquire them as decorations.’ Jinu sighed, waving Rae off, knowing that the pink haired man was already half way out the door.

‘He’s gonna just jump down the stairs in demon form isn’t he?’ Beom asked, looking at Jinu.

‘Mhm.’ Mystery nodded along, as the stair door swung shut with a clank.

‘Aw rats. Why didn’t I think of that this morning?’ Abel whined, slapping a head on his forehead.

‘I don’t know man. You act so stupid at times but we all know you’re not.’ Jinu laughed, slapping Abel on the back.

‘Lower expectations and then deliver the minimum so people are impressed. That's how I got by dear Jinu.’ Nodding cheerfully while holding a thumbs up.

‘Hey.’ Jinu called over a shadowy blue figure, prowling its way from under the marble kitchen island. ‘You’ll watch over her too. Come find me if she runs into anything that could be dangerous.’

The creature purred in agreement, rubbing its blue head against the leg’s over Jinu before sinking into the ground, wearing a small gat on its head.

‘Alright, let’s get back to work. Y/N said she thought we had to work on the verses a bit more.’ Jinu clapped his hands, ushering his friends back into position.

‘I thought it didn’t matter what Y/N thought.’ Mystery snickered, pulling his arms into his beginning position.

‘Whatever. Let's take it from the top.’ 

–

Meanwhile, Y/N had gotten into a chauffeured car, scribbling the lyrics of Takedown in her notebook. The girls were currently in an interview, expressing how Golden reflected each of their own journeys in life. She flipped between pages, pondering if she should start, What It Sounds Like as well. Y/N wasn’t sure if movie logic actually applied in this world, seeing as this was her new reality. 

She decided to also write down the lyrics of What It Sounds Like as well, just in case.

Honestly, since Y/N had received her memories, she’d felt bad for the girls. It wasn’t their fault Y/N had never been invited to anything. She was admittedly, rather anti-social. If people didn’t try to initiate conversation, she would sit there and do her own thing. Y/N wasn’t afraid to be alone with her thoughts as they were usually filled with lyrics and working on her next beat for the girls. Besides, most of the issues were rooted in Celine’s upbringing of Rumi. The girls weren't the ones keeping her away, it was herself and her own insecurities.

‘We’ve arrived Miss L/N.’ The driver spoke, severing Y/N’s train of thought.

‘Thank you sir! Have a good day!’ Y/N called into the car, before swinging the door shut. Y/N rang up Bobby, hoping that he’d pick up. It was still relatively early in the afternoon.  

After a short conversation, Y/N was brought to the back entrance of the studio, given a staff pass and ushered into the dressing room of Huntr/x.

‘Y/N!’ Sorry we didn’t tell you about launching Golden..’ Rumi smiled sheepishly, looking remorseful.

‘It’s alright, I wrote it so you guys could sing it anyways.’ Y/N shrugged, giving Rumi a forgiving smile.

‘You look like you haven’t been sleeping well.’ Mira stood from her chair, walking closer to Y/N, bringing a hand to grip the ghost writer's chin.

‘Have you been staying up late? Y’know that's bad for you.’ The lean girl sighed, rummaging through her bag for eye cream and handing it to Y/N. The still sleepy girl took it gratefully, smearing some of the cream under her eyebags.

‘Were you up late writing a new song?’ Zoey bounced on the spot, her spacebuns bopping along with her.

‘Uhh, kind of!’ Y/N agreed, looking down at her notebook. Technically, she had been writing a new song. Both for Huntr/x and the Saja Boys. Was it bad that she was helping the Saja Boys at the moment? She had been able to slip Beom and Abel away from the manipulative whispering of their former master but…

Was it permanent?

Was it even real?

‘Five till rehearsal guys! Let’s get the ball rolling!’ A studio executive’s voice called out, clapping their hands authoritatively.

‘Rumi, wait. Can I talk to you?’ Y/N gently grasped the wrist of the purple haired girl.

‘Yeah what’s up?’ Rumi beamed, nerves abuzz from the imminent performance.

‘Rumi I-’

‘Come on Huntr/x lets show them how it's done, done, done!’ Bobby yelled, pushing all the girls off into the stage recording area.

Y/N winced, watching the girls get herded off.

‘Y/N! We’ll talk later okay? Wait for me!’ Rumi called back, using both hands to imitate a megaphone.

‘Okay!’ Y/N called back, feeling a cold shiver creep through her pores, raising the hair on her arms. Y/N broke into a cold sweat, shaking slightly as she took her place in a back corner, hidden away from view. 

‘You’re cold.’ A voice whispered, placing a jacket over Y/N’s shoulders.

‘Wha- Romance?’ Y/N spun around, the newly placed jacket on her shoulders billowing around her. Romance’s pink hair was tied up, tucked into a hoodie, his pink bangs peeking out. His face obscured by a high collared shirt underneath. Behind him was… Jinu’s blue tiger? It gave a low rumble, its pupils dilating at the sight of Y/N.

Aw, it was wearing a tiny hat! It was Jinu's demon familiar. Huh, was he concerned for her?

Nah, couldn't be.

‘It’s Rae, and also, before you say anything, this was Jinu’s idea.’ Rae murmured, pulling the jacket firmly around Y/N once more. ‘Come on, let's get your arms through. Can’t have our writer getting sick.’ 

‘Thanks…’ Y/N flushed slightly, a soothing warmth spread over her skin, caught off-guard by the domestication of the act. The opening bars of Golden began to fill the studio, Y/N recognising her song, snatched her eyes from Rae’s lavender, grey eyes. She felt soft fur under her fingertips as the blue tiger rumbled quietly, circling Y/N’s legs.

Rae however, kept his eyes on Y/N, moving to stand next to her, as Y/N watched the girls with intent. 

‘Y’know, I can dance and sing too. They’re nothing special.’ He huffed, slightly perturbed by Y/N’s lack of attention.

‘Hm? Yeah I know.’ Y/N laughed, breathlessly, relenting to Rae’s tiny tantrum. ‘I’d say you’re the best dancer out of the group other than Abel.’

‘Hmph, well Abel was a swordsman for the Emperor. He can adapt to these rough boyish dances.’ Rae flipped his hair casually.

‘I was a court dancer. I performed Jeongjae for royalty. Rae gave a cocky smile, awaiting Y/N’s praise.

The girl gave him a double glance, taking in his tall stature and elegant limbs. It was clear that the boys were all able to dance, however Rae was right. He possessed a certain amount of grace that the rest of the boys made up for with vigour.

‘Huh, I can see it. When I was watching your group practice, you were quite eye-catching.’ Y/N gave him a reassuring smile, gently stoking Rae’s ego.

The pink haired man gave a hum of satisfaction, nodding in approval before the sound Y/N had dreaded pierced through the studio.

Rumi’s voice had faltered.

Y/N stepped forward instantly but her wrist was caught.

‘Where are you going.’ Rae furrowed his brow.

‘I have to talk to her. Rae, I’ll see you when I get home okay?’ Y/N wrapped her other hand around the boy’s wrist, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

Rae’s grip loosened, momentarily stunned by Y/N’s fleeting touch allowing her to slip out of his grasp.

‘You okay?’ Mira placed a hand on Rumi’s shoulder, as the girl in the centre cleared her throat.

‘Yeah. Yeah I’m fine. Let’s take it again! From the top!’ Rumi pointed, walking back to the starting position.

Y/N dug her fingernails into her palm, watching the performance start again from the beginning. A hand gently prised her fingers out of her palms, silently smoothing out her fingers. Y/N turned slightly, seeing Rae’s familiar hoodie next to her for a second before he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

‘I’m done hiding, now I’m shining like I’m born to b-’ Rumi coughed, the music cutting off instantly.

‘Uhm, Rumi? Are you okay?’ Bobby stepped forward. ‘Do you need some water?’

‘I just need five. I’m gonna take five.’ Her eyes were wide, hands covering her throat.

Protests arose, complaints flew across the room.

‘What?’

‘Five? We go live in ten minutes!’

Y/N hurriedly followed Rumi, power walking behind her.

Rumi slammed the dressing room door open, panting heavily as she ripped off a part of her costume. She practically tore off her jacket, staring into the mirror.

‘Rumi!’ Y/N caught up, running toward the trembling girl. She spotted the girl, leaning over the vanity, chest heaving.

‘Y/N… My voice…’ Rumi gasped, trembling as she touched her neck.

‘Rumi listen I know-’

‘Y/N I…’ She shook, her hands pulling up her jacket. 

‘Rumi, I know about your patterns.’ Y/N closed the door behind her calmly, walking toward the panicking girl carefully.

‘How-’

‘You never want to go to the bathhouse with Zoey and Mira. You always wear long sleeves, no matter the weather, and Celine gets this weird look on her face when she talks about demons and your mother.’ Y/N rattled off, guiding Rumi to sit down with her.

‘They used to just be on my arm. My shoulder. But they’re spreading, Y/N look.’ Rumi shakily pulled down the zipper of her collar, revealing the crawling line of purple patterns.

‘Y/N, how am I supposed to fix the world, fix me, when I don’t have my voice?’ She buried her face into her hands, ‘Why now? When I’m so close?’

‘Rumi-’

‘WHY?!’ Rumi roared, her voice a timbre that she’d never heard before. The shout rippled scarlet red through the room, like a drop in a calm surface of water. The red lines flashed through the city, as the girls gaped at the scene through the window.

Rumi let out a choked gasp, turning to Y/N in horror.

‘Y/N listen, I’m not one of them. I’m not a-’

‘Rumi.’ Y/N slipped off her seat, kneeling in front of Rumi. ‘I know you’re not a demon. This is what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She placed her hands on Rumi’s shoulders. 

‘You knew? And you’re not afraid?’ Rumi’s eyes were welling with tears of fear and uncertainty. ‘You don’t think I’m a monster?’

‘Yes. I knew and I know you're not a monster. Rumi, the only time I'm afraid of you is when I’m standing in between you and Kimbap okay?’

‘Okay.’ She sniffled, letting out a watery laugh.

‘Look. Rumi, I know you released Golden because you thought it would speed up the process.’ Y/N looked up at Rumi through her lashes, giving her shoulders a squeeze.

‘…’

‘And another thing…’ Y/N gave a sheepish smile. ‘You really should tell Mira and Zoey. They’re your family. If you put it off, it’ll be harder for them to understand why you never told them.’

‘But what if they treat me differently.’ Rumi shook her head, holding onto Y/N’s hands. ‘Celine has always told me to hide my patterns. That nothing would change until I turned the Honmoon gold.’

‘Celine was wrong. Look at me, I know you. You aren’t a bad person, your patterns are a part of who you are.’ Y/N stood up, prompting Rumi to stand with her. ‘I see you for who you are Rumi, a huntress who happens to have patterns. You may be part demon, but that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.’

Y/N squeezed Rumi’s hands, giving her a rueful smile, ‘I’ve been told that some humans act more like demons than demons themselves. You aren’t defined by the world, Rumi. You’re defined by your actions.’

A single tear slid down Rumi’s cheek, caught by Y/N’s thumb as she brushed it away.

‘Do you really think I should tell Mira and Zoey?’

‘Without a doubt.’ 

Rumi inhaled a long breath, brushing away her unshed tears, smudging her eyeliner.

‘Okay. I’ll do it tonight.’ Rumi slipped back on her jacket. ‘Can you be there when I do?’ 

‘Yeah, of course!’ Y/N brushed off Rumi’s jacket, zipping up the girl’s collar. ‘But first, we’re gonna go get some kimbap. Come on, let's go.’ She grinned, dragging Rumi out of the room, toward the back exit. A puff of purple smoke revealed Rae, as his silhouette became visible in the corner of the room, where the girls had just left.

‘A hunter that's part demon?’ Rin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the open door. 

–

By the time Y/N and Rumi had made it back to the Huntr/x tower, the sun had long set. Rumi was carrying a plastic bag of Kimbap and Y/N was carrying a bag of tteokbokki. They were discussing how to break the news to Mira and Zoey, deciding that they would have to make sure Celine was not around.

As the doors opened, Mira and Zoey rushed toward the girls, enveloping both in a hug.

‘We were so worried when you both disappeared.’ Zoey’s voice was muffled by Y/N’s clothes.

‘Are you both okay?’ Mira was frantic, spinning Rumi around, checking for wounds. Zoey was circling Y/N with eagle eyes.

‘We’re okay.’ Rumi laughed, placing a hand on her group member’s shoulders. ‘But I do have something I have to talk to you both about.’

‘But first, is Celine here?’ Y/N cut in, looking around the room with a raised eyebrow.

‘No, she left a while ago, we didn’t tell her about what happened.’ Zoey shook her head.

‘Okay, you guys should probably sit down for this.’ Y/N gestured towards the couch.

‘What is it?’ Mira and Zoey sat down, leaving Y/N and Rumi standing.

‘Well, first of all, I’m sorry. I’ve been keeping a secret.’ Rumi began, clasping her sweating hands together. ‘Well there's no easy way to say it so I’ll just show you. 

The leader of the girl group slowly took off her jacket, revealing her arms, littered with purple lines, jagged and jarring.

‘I have-’

‘You have patterns?’ Zoey blinked confusedly. 

‘Huh. Not what I was expecting.’ Mira’s eyes were blown wide.

‘Yes, Celine said that my father was a demon. I’ve had these patterns since I was born but Celine always says-’

‘We are hunters. Voices strong. Your flaws and faults must never be seen.’ Both girls repeated, mocking Celine.

‘Yeah… So, that's why I always kept these hidden. So that you wouldn't think I was a monster.’ Rumi ended, her voice breaking.

‘Oh Rumi…’ Zoey rushed towards Rumi, grasping at her hands. ‘We know you’re not a monster. You’re our family.’

‘She’s right, and I understand why you didn’t tell us.’ Mira also stood, placing a hand on her friend's shoulder. ‘Being told you have to hide who you are for years definitely takes a toll on you mentally.’

Y/N smiled proudly, watching the girls come to terms with their new information. 

It made sense that they were understanding. In the movie, they had already encountered Jinu and several other barriers before Rumi’s revelation. It was no wonder Zoey and Mira were scared. 

‘Y/N helped me tell you guys.’ Rumi stepped aside, grabbing Y/N’s hand from behind her. ‘I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you but…’

‘I knew that you guys would understand.’ Y/N nodded, stepping forward. ‘And I think I have a song for you guys.’

‘Really? Already?!’ Zoey looked excited, grabbing her own notebooks.

‘Yeah, I actually used a lot of what you’ve said, from your own stories. Have a read and see if you like it.’ 

The girls read over and each teared up.

‘How do you put into words how we feel so well?’ Rumi sniffled, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

‘The scar’s a part of me. Darkness and harmony. My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like?’ Mira muttered in awe, ‘We don’t pay you enough do we?’

'Uh, actually I get a royalty on all your songs so... I'm actually living pretty comfortably.' Y/N laughed.

After agreeing to come up with the demo for What It Sounds Like that night, Y/N had taken a car back to her area. Remembering to thank the driver as she stepped out.

'Your hunter friend is part demon?' Y/N was greeted by an angry looking Jinu as she exited the elevator into her apartment.

'Uh, am I in trouble?' Y/N looked around, confused by the reaction of the room. All the boys seemed to be... upset?

Next

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[moonlightwritingf1]

No Mercy | LN4

💋 summary ━━━━━━━ Lando and Y/N are still in the early stages of their relationship, discovering each other emotionally and physically. After a night out, Lando takes control in the bedroom. 

💋 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

💋 word count ━━━━━━━ 5.2k

💋 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, creampie, rough sex, aftercare, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, begging for creampie

It had been a long night, the kind that left them both buzzing with energy yet exhausted in equal measure. The event had been glamorous, filled with champagne and laughter, but now, as she stepped into Lando’s apartment, the world felt quieter, more intimate. 

She kicked off her heels, letting them clatter to the ground, and tossed her clutch onto the couch. Lando stood by the door, his coat still on, hands in his pockets, watching her with a sly smile that made her stomach flip. He was always like this—confident, charming, and a little bit dangerous. It was one of the many things she found irresistible about him.

“What do you want to eat?” she asked, turning to face him. Her voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it, a hint of something deeper that neither of them had fully explored yet. They were still learning each other, discovering the ways their bodies fit together, the ways their minds connected. And tonight, something about the way he looked at her made her feel he was about to show her another side of himself.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his eyes tracing over her body with a slow, deliberate intensity that made her breath catch in her throat. His gaze lingered on her lips, then lowered, sweeping down her chest and hips before finally meeting her eyes again. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that sent shivers down her spine.

“Bend over,” he said.

The words hung in the air between them, thick and charged with meaning. She blinked, momentarily unsure she’d heard him correctly. But then his smirk deepened, and the glint in his eye left no room for doubt. He wasn’t teasing. Not this time.

Oh, she thought, her heart pounding faster. This is different.

She hesitated just for a moment, caught between surprise and curiosity. Lando watched her, patient but insistent, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding. He wasn’t going to push, not unless she gave him the go-ahead. But the look in his eyes told her everything—he wanted this. More than that, he wanted her to want it, too.

And she did. Somehow, in the span of two words, he’d managed to make her feel bold, reckless. She swallowed hard, her pulse racing as she took a step toward the kitchen counter. The cool surface pressed against her palms as she leaned forward, knees slightly bent, ass angled just so. The position felt vulnerable, exposed, but it also sent a jolt of anticipation through her.

Behind her, Lando moved. His footsteps were quiet, measured, but they echoed in her ears like thunder. She could feel his presence behind her, close enough that she sensed the heat radiating off his body. He didn’t touch her right away, though. Instead, he paused, letting the silence stretch out until it was almost unbearable.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with desire. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to see you like this.”

His hands came down on her hips, firm and possessive, pulling her back against him. She gasped at the contact, her body already reacting to his nearness. His erection pressed into her lower back, hot and undeniable, and she couldn’t help but arch into it, craving more of him.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His breath was warm, intoxicating, and it sent a shiver racing down her spine. “Every time I look at you, I think about how fucking good it would feel to be inside you.”

His words were dirty, raw, and they sent a thrill of excitement coursing through her. She moaned softly, unable to hold it back, and he responded by tightening his grip on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I need—”

“You need what?” he prompted, tone teasing but his movements were anything but playful. He nudged her thighs apart with his knee, positioning himself between them. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“You,” she breathed, cheeks burning with embarrassment and arousal. “I need you.”

His chuckle was dark, almost feral, sending goosebumps cascading over her skin. “Good girl,” he said, leaning down to nip at the nape of her neck. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Before she could respond, he slid his hand between her legs, cupping her core through the thin fabric of her dress. She gasped, body tensing instinctively, but his touch was firm, unyielding. He rubbed against her in slow, deliberate circles, pressing just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure shooting through her.

“Spread your legs wider,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. “I want to feel how wet you are.”

She obeyed without thinking, letting her thighs fall open as his fingers continued their relentless assault. The heat between her legs was overwhelming, pooling deep inside her as his thumb brushed her clit. She moaned again, louder this time, head dropping back against his shoulder.

“You like that?” he asked, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “You like feeling my hand on you?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, voice barely above a whisper. “Please, Lando—”

“Patience,” he said, tone sharp but touch gentle as he traced a line up her inner thigh. “We’ve got all night.”

He let out a soft groan of approval as his fingers dipped under her dress until they met the resistance of her underwear. “So wet already,” he murmured, tone laced with admiration. “You really are desperate for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, voice breaking as he pressed his fingers against the fabric, applying just enough pressure to send waves of pleasure coursing through her.

He pulled back slightly, hands retreating to her hips as he leaned in closer. “Turn around,” he ordered, voice calm but commanding. “Face me.”

She did as he asked, turning with hesitant steps. His eyes locked onto hers, intense and unyielding, as if he were seeing straight through to her soul. His hands gripped her waist again, pulling her closer until there was barely any space between them.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and hypnotic. “Don’t look away.”

She met his gaze, unable to tear her eyes away, as his hands traveled up her torso, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. A shiver ran through her at the contact, her heart racing as his fingers continued their journey, tracing the outline of her bra before sliding the straps of her dress off her shoulders and slipping his hands beneath the fabric of her bra.

Her breath hitched as his fingers circled her nipples, teasing them lightly before applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. “Lando,” she whimpered, hands reaching to grip his arms for support.

He smirked, clearly enjoying her reaction. “Do you like that?” he asked, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Or would you rather I go slower?”

“No,” she managed, voice trembling. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, leaning in to nip at her earlobe. “I knew you’d be greedy.”

His hands drifted higher, thumbs slipping under the straps of her bra and easing them down her arms. With practiced deftness he unhooked the clasp, stripping the lace away to bare her breasts to the cool air—and to his hungry gaze. A soft gasp escaped her throat as the garment joined the growing pile on the floor.

Without pausing, he found the hidden zipper at the small of her back. The sound of metal teeth parting was faint, almost teasing, as he drew it downward in one slow, deliberate motion. The dress loosened, silk sliding over her hips before gravity claimed the fabric. It puddled at her feet in a silent surrender, leaving her exposed beneath the dim light while his eyes roamed every inch of newly revealed skin.

She bit her lip, trying to suppress a moan as his fingers reached the edge of her panties and pressed against the fabric as if testing the waters.

“Take them off,” he said, voice calm but insistent. “I want to see you completely bare.”

She hesitated, unsure, but his stare was unrelenting. Slowly, she slid her panties down her legs, stepping out of them and leaving them pooled at her feet. He let out a low whistle, eyes raking over her nakedness with obvious appreciation.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice filled with genuine admiration. “Absolutely beautiful.”

His hands returned to her hips, guiding her closer as he stepped forward. She felt the hard length of his erection pressing against her stomach, and gasped at the sudden intimacy. He let out a soft groan, hands tightening on her waist as he ground himself against her.

“God, you feel so good,” he muttered, voice thick with desire. “So warm, so wet—”

She whimpered, hands grasping his shoulders as he continued to move against her. The friction was maddening, building the tension inside her until it felt like she might explode. “Lando,” she breathed, voice barely audible over her pounding heart. “Please—”

He pulled back slightly, hands sliding to her thighs. “Bend over,” he commanded, voice firm and unyielding. “I want to see you spread for me.”

She hesitated, heart racing as the words sank in, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his gaze, the raw hunger that said he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Slowly, she bent over again, placing her hands on the countertop and spreading her legs wide.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice filled with satisfaction as he stepped behind her. “Perfect.”

She felt his presence close, his warmth enveloping her as he moved in. Behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of him unzipping his jeans, the quiet rustle of fabric stirring her anticipation. He remained clothed otherwise, only freeing his cock from the confines of his pants, the intimacy somehow heightened by the contrast. His hands returned to grip her hips firmly, steadying her as he positioned himself at her entrance. She held her breath, anticipation humming through her veins as she waited for his next move.

“Are you ready?” he asked, voice low and intimate. “Because I’m not going to hold back.”

“Yes,” she whispered, voice trembling with need. “Please, Lando—”

He didn’t waste any time. With one swift motion, he plunged into her, filling her completely. She cried out at the sudden intrusion, body clenching around him as he began to move.

Lando’s thrusts were slow and deliberate at first, each one drawing a soft moan from her lips. He took his time, savoring every inch of her, every curve and contour of her body. His hands slid up her sides, tracing the line of her ribs before wrapping around her torso, pulling her back against him. She felt his breath hot on her neck, lips brushing her skin as he whispered sweet, filthy things in her ear.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “So tight, so perfect—”

His words sent shivers down her spine, and she couldn’t help but press herself back against him, urging him on. His grip on her hips tightened, and then, without warning, he picked up the pace. His thrusts became more urgent, deeper, each one hitting her in just the right spot. She moaned loudly, head falling forward as she struggled to keep up with his rhythm.

“Oh God, Lando…” she gasped, voice breaking. “Harder… please—”

He didn’t need telling twice. With a growl, he grabbed her waist and pulled her back onto him, driving into her with even more force. She felt every inch of him, every ridge and vein as he pounded into her. Her body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with pleasure as he continued to thrust deeper and harder.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, voice rough and primal. “Take it… take all of me—”

She whimpered, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as she surrendered to the overwhelming sensation. His thrusts were relentless now, each one sending ripples of pleasure through her entire body. She felt her orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter inside with every movement.

Lando’s hands slipped to her thighs, lifting them slightly as he adjusted his angle. The change sent a jolt of electricity through her, and she cried out as he hit that perfect spot deep inside.

“Fuck, yes!” she screamed, voice echoing off the walls. “Don’t stop, Lando… don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he only pushed harder, his movements almost desperate now. She felt his cock twitching inside her, evidence of his own impending release, yet still he kept going, driving into her with everything he had.

“I’m close,” he panted, voice ragged. “So close—”

She felt it too, tension in her body reaching breaking point. Her legs trembled, muscles quivering as pleasure threatened to consume her. She wanted to hold on, to prolong the sensation, but it was no use. The wave was coming, unstoppable.

“Lando!” she screamed as her orgasm finally hit. Wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her, body convulsing around him as she came apart. She clung to the counter, legs nearly giving out as pleasure overwhelmed every fiber of her being.

Lando didn’t slow. If anything, he sped up, matching her rhythm as he chased his own release. His thrusts became erratic, breathing harsh and uneven as he fought to hold on just a little longer.

“I can’t… I can’t wait…” he groaned, voice strained. “So good, baby… so fucking good—”

And then, with one final, powerful thrust, he found his release. His body went rigid, hands gripping her hips as he spilled inside. She felt the warm rush fill her, the sensation sending another shiver of pleasure through her already sensitive body.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stood there, panting and trembling as their bodies slowly came down from the high. Lando’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She could feel his heart pounding against her back, the rhythm matching her own as they tried to catch their breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You have no idea how good that felt—”

She smiled softly, turning her head to kiss his temple. “I think I might have some ideas.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. His hands began exploring her body again, gently caressing her skin as he slowly withdrew from inside her. She bit her lip, feeling a slight pang of emptiness as he pulled out, but it was quickly replaced by a new wave of arousal.

Lando seemed to sense it too, because his hands immediately went to work. He turned her around, pressing her back against the counter as his lips crashed down on hers. The kiss was hungry, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. His tongue slid into her mouth, exploring every inch as his hands roamed over her body, teasing and taunting as he built her back up.

“You’re insatiable,” she murmured against his lips, voice laced with amusement.

He smirked, pulling back slightly to look down at her. “And you love it.”

Lando’s arms tightened around her as he hoisted her up effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. She let out a soft gasp, core still sensitive from the intensity of moments before, but his touch—his presence—was already reigniting the fire within her. His hands steadied her, one gripping her thigh while the other pressed firmly against her back, pulling her closer.

The kitchen counter was just behind her, and for a moment, she wondered if he might set her down there again, but instead, he carried her toward the hallway, his stride confident and purposeful.

“Where are we going?” she asked playfully, voice teasing as she nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Her breath tickled his skin, and she felt the faintest shiver run through him, though his expression remained assured as ever.

“You’ll see,” he said, tone low and smooth, like molten caramel. There was something dangerous in his voice, something that made her pulse quicken. His lips brushed her ear, sending electricity down her spine. “Just trust me.”

Trust me. It sounded simple enough, but coming from him, it was an invitation to surrender completely. And she wanted to. God, she wanted to.

He walked with her nestled against him, his body warm and solid beneath her hands. She could feel every ridge of muscle, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, steady and strong. His cologne surrounded her, a heady mix of cedarwood and spice that made her head spin. Every step brought them closer to the bedroom, and with each passing second, the anticipation grew thicker in the air.

When he finally reached the door, Lando kicked it open with a single powerful motion, carrying her inside. The bedroom was dimly lit, the soft glow of the night sky filtering through the curtains. He set her down gently on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering on her hips before sliding up her sides. She looked up at him, heart pounding in her chest, and saw the same hunger in his eyes that she felt on her own.

“Undress me,” he commanded, voice firm but not harsh. There was no room for hesitation, no chance to second-guess herself. She nodded, swallowing hard as she reached for the buttons of his shirt. Her fingers fumbled slightly, betraying the nervous excitement coursing through her, but he didn’t rush her. Instead, he watched with an amused glint in his eyes, clearly enjoying the sight of her eager yet slightly uncertain.

One by one, she popped the buttons open, revealing the expanse of his chest beneath. His skin gleamed under the soft light, and when her fingers grazed over his stomach, she felt the ripple of muscle. He wasn’t just handsome—he was powerful, and the realization sent a thrill racing through her veins.

Once the shirt was off, she moved her hands up and down his abdomen, looking up at him with a coy smile.

“What’s next?” she asked, voice dripping with mischief.

“Don’t play games with me,” he warned lightly, though there was no real threat in his tone. If anything, his words only fueled her boldness.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his collarbone, feeling his body tense beneath her. Then, with deliberate slowness, she kissed her way down his chest, stopping to nip at his skin just above his navel. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands tightening on her shoulders as if to keep himself grounded. But she wasn’t done yet.

With a flick of her wrist, she tugged his jeans down over his hips, the zipper already undone from before. His boxers slid off easily with them, pooling at his ankles. His cock sprang completely free—already hard again, still slick with her from the last time he’d been buried deep inside her. The sight made her breath hitch.

He was big. Thick, flushed, glistening not just with pre-cum but with the wet evidence of what they’d just done. Her thighs instinctively pressed together as her core clenched around nothing, aching for him again. She stared for a moment, unable to look away, her mouth slightly parted as heat rushed through her.

Lando groaned, grip tightening as he stepped out of his pants. “Take me,” he growled, voice deep and commanding. “Show me how much you want me.”

Her breath caught, but there was no hesitation now. She shifted back on the bed, spreading her legs slightly as she positioned herself. Lando climbed onto the mattress, movements fluid and confident, and knelt between her thighs. His gaze locked onto hers, desire burning in his eyes—a reflection of her own.

“Are you ready?” he asked, voice rough and raw.

She nodded, biting her lip as she reached for him. Her hand wrapped around his length, squeezing gently as she guided him toward her entrance. He groaned again, hips twitching as she stroked him, and she felt a surge of satisfaction—she was in control now, and the power thrilled her.

But just as she began to lower herself onto him, Lando pulled back, eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Wait,” he said quietly, voice tinged with something darker and more possessive. “I want to taste you first.”

Before she could respond, he shifted, settling himself between her legs. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading them wider as his head dipped. Then his tongue was on her, sliding along her folds with expert precision. She cried out, arching her back as his mouth worked its magic, licking and sucking with a fervor that left her breathless.

“Lando…” she moaned, tangling her fingers in his hair as he buried his face between her legs. His tongue delved deeper, flicking against her clit with relentless pressure, orchestrating every movement, every sensation. She was nothing but a willing participant in his game.

“Fuck, Y/N… you taste so good,” he murmured, voice muffled but commanding. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing her legs higher as he continued to devour her, making no effort to hide his pleasure. “So sweet…”

Her head lolled back against the pillows, body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. Lando’s tongue was relentless, exploring every inch of her, the tension building inside, threatening to overwhelm her.

“Lando, I’m… I’m gonna—” she gasped, voice breaking as her orgasm surged closer.

He didn’t stop; he doubled down, thrusting his tongue inside her with renewed vigor. His fingers found her clit, rubbing in circles as his mouth worked in tandem, the combination too much. Her vision blurred, stars bursting behind her eyelids as she came, hips bucking against him as waves of ecstasy washed over her.

As her breathing slowly returned to normal, Lando lifted his head, eyes filled with desire and smoldering. He crawled up her body, kissing her deeply as his hands roamed her skin, rekindling the fire that had barely cooled.

“Now,” he said, voice thick with arousal, “fuck me.”

She reached for him, her hand wrapping around his cock with a firm grip. Her eyes locked onto his as she guided him to her entrance, her body trembling with anticipation. Lando’s breath hitched, his gaze darkening as he watched her, his hands gripping her hips tightly.

“Take me,” he growled, voice thick with need. “Show me how much you want it.”

She didn’t hesitate. With a slow, deliberate motion, she lowered herself onto him, gasping as he filled her completely. Her head fell back against the pillows, a moan escaping her lips as she felt every inch of him stretching her, claiming her. Lando groaned above her, his hands tightening on her hips as he watched her take him, his eyes blazing with desire.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough. “You feel so fucking good.”

She began to move. Her hips rolled up to meet his, slow at first—deliberate, controlled. The thick slide of him inside her made her gasp, her back arching off the bed as pleasure coiled hot and tight in her core. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin with each motion, as if anchoring herself to the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely.

She set the rhythm, hips tilting, grinding, riding each thrust with a desperate, breathless need. The drag of his cock inside her was perfect, deep, filling her so completely it was dizzying. Wet sounds filled the room, their bodies moving in perfect sync, skin against skin, heat against heat.

Lando’s breath came in ragged gasps above her, jaw clenched as he held himself back, letting her take everything she needed. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to hers. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and husky. “Take what you need.”

She moaned, the sound breaking free from her throat as her hips moved beneath him in frantic, rolling motions. She was on her back, thighs trembling as they cradled his body, and every grind of her hips sent a jolt of pleasure through her spine. She chased it—desperate, aching—her pace becoming more urgent, more erratic, even as exhaustion started to creep into her limbs.

Her body trembled with the effort, slick with sweat and need, and she could feel the burn building in her muscles, her thighs beginning to shake. But she didn’t stop. Not yet. The pleasure was too close—taunting her, tightening with every movement.

Lando hovered above her, breath ragged, his hands sliding up her sides, fingertips brushing over the curves of her body like he was memorizing her. His touch was reverent, grounding, but his eyes—his eyes burned into her with so much need it made her breath hitch. His jaw was clenched, body strung tight as he watched her fight for her release.

Her hips faltered for a moment, stuttering in their rhythm, and her hands gripped his arms harder, fingers digging into muscle.

“Lando…” she gasped, voice cracking with desperation. “I need you… I need you to fuck me.”

His entire body shuddered at her words, restraint snapping in an instant. He dipped down, mouth brushing her ear as he whispered, “You have no idea what you just started.”

And then he took over. Lando didn’t wait. With a growl, he surged forward, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her toward him. In one swift motion, he lifted her legs, draping them over his shoulders, and drove into her with a force that made her cry out. Her back arched off the bed, her hands scrambling for grip on the sheets as he claimed her completely.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and strained. “You feel so fucking good.”

He didn’t hold back. His hips snapped against hers, each thrust driving her deeper into the mattress. The angle was perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. She gasped, her nails digging into his arms as he fucked her with a relentless rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

“Lando!” she cried, her voice breaking as the pleasure built inside her. “Oh God, don’t stop!”

He didn’t. If anything, he only went harder, his hands tightening on her hips as he pinned her down, taking what he wanted. She could feel the power in every movement, the way he controlled her body, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice low and possessive. “All mine.”

She nodded frantically, unable to form words as the intensity of it all consumed her. Her legs trembled where they rested on his shoulders, her body completely at his mercy. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a searing kiss as he continued to fuck her, his tongue sliding against hers in a parallel of what his cock was doing to her.

“Come for me,” he demanded, breaking the kiss to look down at her. His eyes were filled with a hunger that made her shiver. “I want to feel you come around me.”

She didn’t need telling twice. With a cry, she shattered, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. Lando groaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release, his grip on her hips almost bruising.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” he started, but she cut him off.

“Inside me,” she begged, voice trembling with need. “Please, Lando, come inside me. I want to feel you fill me up. I need it—I need you.” Her hands clawed at his back, pulling him closer as if she could somehow make him deeper, make him stay forever. “Don’t hold back. Give me everything. I want to feel you pulse inside me, feel you claim me completely.”

Lando groaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his control slipping as her words drove him wild. “Fuck, you’re so greedy,” he muttered, voice rough and strained. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her hips lifting to meet his every thrust. “I need it. I need to feel you come inside me, Lando. Please, I want to be yours. I want to feel you mark me, own me. Please.”

Her words were like a match to gasoline, igniting something primal in him. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into her skin as he drove into her with a force that left her breathless. “You’re mine,” he growled, voice low and possessive. “All mine.”

“Yes,” she cried, her body trembling as the pleasure built to a crescendo. “Yours. Always yours. Just come inside me, Lando. I need it. I need you.”

With a final, powerful thrust, he did. His body went rigid above her, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he spilled inside her. She felt the warmth fill her, the sensation sending another shiver of pleasure through her already sensitive body.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They just lay there, panting and trembling as their bodies slowly came down from the high. Lando’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, the rhythm matching her own as they tried to catch their breath.

Lando pulled back, his lips glistening as he looked up at her with a wicked grin. “You’re so fucking naughty,” he teased, his voice low and husky. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” His fingers traced lazy circles on her inner thigh, sending shivers through her already sensitive body. “But I like it. I like it a lot.”

She blushed, her cheeks flushing crimson as she tried to catch her breath. “You bring it out of me,” she murmured, her voice trembling with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, before leaning down to kiss her gently. His lips were soft, almost tender, a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. “Good,” he whispered against her mouth. “Because I plan to keep bringing it out of you.”

As the heat between them began to cool, Lando shifted, pulling her into his arms. He laid back against the pillows, cradling her against his chest. His fingers trailed lightly over her skin, soothing and gentle now, as if he were trying to erase any lingering tension. She sighed, melting into him, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice filled with concern as he brushed a strand of hair from her face.

She nodded, nuzzling closer to him. “More than okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “That was… incredible.”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re incredible,” he murmured. “But don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

She laughed softly, the sound warm and content. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

For a while, they just lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten. Lando’s touch was tender now, his hands moving in slow, comforting strokes as he held her close. She felt safe, cherished, and utterly spent.

“Get some rest,” he said quietly, his voice a soothing rumble in his chest. “I’ve got you.”

And with that, she let herself drift, knowing that in his arms, she was exactly where she belonged.

[wintersongstress]

18+, Simon Ghost Riley x Female Reader - in which Simon can't help losing his head a little whenever you make out in the early stages of your relationship.

❈❧

Simon loves kissing you, but kissing you while standing doesn’t allow him the angle he prefers. You’re much shorter than him and he has to crane his neck and scoop you close to embrace you properly. While your first kiss was perfect, and he wanted to take things slow in the physical realm of your relationship, Simon knew that he wanted to kiss you for long, longer moments at a time, and would like to have you laying down beneath him to indulge in the act. That would only lead things further from there, but he could not help how quickly his mind lost its command over his restraint—not when your lips were soft and pressing, catching and lingering, parting and seeking his again. He’d groan deep in his chest and you’d feel it against your roving hands, and the resonance of it made your obliging legs tremble.

Simon felt them as your knees brushed against his sides, against his ribs, dangerously close to enfolding around him. He’d watch your eyes flutter open, blinking away some haze to find him.

“Pretty girl,” he’d murmur, entranced by your softened, gentle mouth and thumbing the plump edge of it, and fuck, if he didn’t get hard right then and there at your contented smile and the fond caress of your hand as you hooked your palm over the back of his neck, nails seeking his hair. Your upper lip enveloped Simon’s aimless thumb and took him into the sweet warmth of your mouth, tasting the salt of his skin, and the bulge in his jeans made itself at home right against your pelvis.

You’d give a surprised and pleased moan at the feel of him before he could feel ashamed (Christ, what happened to taking things slow?), and it would be so easy to fumble with each other’s clothes, kissing all the while he unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them down your thighs, pinning your knees to your front because he’s too impatient for his access. Freeing himself, tugging your panties to the side so you were exposed, and then the perfect, seamless slotting together ascending to firm, yet gentle thrusts. God yes, Simon thinks, rutting against you now, it’d only take a few, and he could circle and press your clit so you’d come as quickly as he would lost in the grip, the warmth, the sounds of your moans and slick sex and the delirious motion and rhythm of moving within you until he peaks and you leak with his spend. 

At the sudden, soft inquiry of his name and your waist curving into him to meet his fervor, he snaps out of his reverie. He pulls away and sits up, breath ragged, with the last of his restraint.

“’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”  

❈❧

[sprenthecreator]

IMPURITIES EP. 1 | N.Y. State of Mind

Male reader x Yunjin, Chaewon

First chapter of this LSF mini-series.

word count: 8.3k 

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When HYBE made you sign that contract over two years ago, you had no idea that you were going to be managing five wild, unruly girls. If you had known, maybe your signature wouldn't have been on that piece of paper, but at that point in your life, you needed the job; it was either that or starve. Besides, as a frequent K-Pop fan, it really was your dream job, so there weren't many issues with it; it was perfect.

But you never imagined that at your age, you would feel so close to going gray because of the behavior of those girls.

Maybe you were exaggerating and being a little grumpy. After all, they were girls around your age, so you could easily put yourself in their shoes and understand what was going through their heads. However, with all that, there were things that you would never be able to understand in your life simply because you weren't a woman. It might sound sexist, but it was the only explanation you could find.

At first they were little angels, as always happened in such cases; you were a stranger to them, and of course they weren't going to behave like unruly teenagers from day one. But as the days went by—yes, days, not even months—, the ones who seemed to be well-behaved and obedient girls turned out to be a pain in the ass 70% of the time.

To be honest, you couldn't say you didn't love them all. They were unbearable most of the time, but they were also endearing, and you could say you considered them good friends. What other choice did you have? You couldn't be at odds with the girls you would spend seven years of your life with, so there had to be a joint effort on both sides to not make discord the status quo. The results were positive, and even though they continued to do their misdeeds, you had learned to tolerate them for your mental health.

Two years later you were practically a family, having gone through both ups and downs. The emotional journey had been intense and rough, both for you and them. The things you had to deal with were rubbish: tight schedules, physical and mental overload, and most often, tons of hate on social media from out-of-work mentally retarded people. But like the family you had become, you faced each adversity with a firm grip.

And now you were facing the most stressful thing an artist could go through: a damn tour. But not just a tour, also a performance at one of the biggest music festivals in the world, something that even you were terrified of, and if you were terrified, you couldn't even imagine how they felt at what would be one of the most important moments of their careers.

You were all excited, though. The arrival in Los Angeles was smooth and uneventful, both at the airport and later at the hotel. However, things started to go wrong the very next day, at the sound and stage checks for the festival. As a manager, it was your job to absorb the vast majority of those problems so that the girls didn't have to worry, but due to factors beyond your control, it ended up affecting them directly and therefore, it also affected their final performance.

It wasn't a great performance; everyone was disappointed, but you remained strong and encouraging for them to keep them from falling apart, especially in the days to come when social media was at its hate peak and the criticism just kept coming. It was part of your job, but more than a manager, those couple of days you were just a friend to them, and the bonds became even stronger. It was hard to have to get to the point of having to disable all comments on every platform, but it was the best measure you could suggest as a professional who looked after her artists.

Coachella aside, preparations for the rest of the tour were going great. There weren't too many dates due to scheduling issues for the next few months, when the girls would have to start preparing for their next comeback, so you would only visit a few big cities until next year, which is when you would go to Europe as well.

The first stop of the tour was none other than New York, the city where Yunjin had grown up. You had arrived from Los Angeles in the morning, and at noon you were already checking in at the Park Hyatt for your stay for the next three days. The day of arrival was free, then the next was the rehearsal at the venue and the last day was the concert.

"Okay, listen to me everyone," you said, standing in the middle of them with the room cards in hand. You were in the lobby, near one of the many bars in the hotel. "You have a room for each of you, but if you want to share that's your problem," you handed each of them their cards. "If you're going to leave the hotel please notify me or I’ll kill myself and then blame you in your dreams."

"I'm not planning on doing anything today," Sakura said, taking her card. "I'm exhausted and I just want to finish knitting the hat I was making."

"Can you teach me?" Eunchae asked, standing next to Kura and holding onto her arm.

"What, knitting?" Sakura looked at her. Eunchae just nodded with a pair of bright, excited eyes. "Alright, I'll see what I can do."

"I'm playing Overwatch with a friend later," Kazuha said. "So I won't be going out either."

"What friend?" you asked, out of curiosity.

"That's not your problem, why do you want to know?"

You sighed.

"I'm literally just asking."

Chaewon and Yunjin were muttering things to each other, between giggles and knowing glances. You looked at them with a raised eyebrow.

"And what about you two, anything to say?"

They both looked at you with their arms linked, their eyes innocent and their lips pursed to keep from laughing.

"Nope, nothing," Yunjin shook her head.

"You're lying," you looked at Chaewon. "You're going out tonight, aren't you?"

"We already told you no!" she protested. "Why would you distrust us?"

"I can list the reasons and finish tomorrow."

"Oh come on, you're exaggerating," Yunjin patted your chest a couple of times. "We're not going out, really."

"Yeah, we're just going to eat snacks and watch a couple movies," Chaewon nodded.

You narrowed your eyes and looked at both of them for a few seconds. Suspicious, too suspicious. You weren't sure if they were really going out, but they were up to something, that much was obvious.

"Fine, I'll choose to believe you," you said. "Now go, I have a meeting with the venue staff and I can't be late."

The girls went to their rooms, and you asked one of your assistants to take your luggage to yours. The meeting was an hour long, but you had to be there at least twenty minutes early, so you hurried out of the hotel to the venue, to arrange everything related to the logistics of tomorrow and the day of the concert.

The meeting in question started at 1 in the afternoon and ended at 4. Then you and part of your team went to lunch, and at around 7 you were back at the hotel. Your day was not over yet, but the rest of your work could be done calmly from the comfort of your room.

Upon going up and entering your room you went straight to take a shower, then put your laptop on the desk next to the hallway and got to work, with headphones on and a can of Monster that you had bought during lunch.

Your inbox was full, and you were a bit of a workaholic, so you immediately locked in and got going. In these situations you always lost track of time, which was pretty unhealthy but you couldn't help it no matter how hard you tried. But you had to admit that this time you had gone too far, because it was 3 in the fucking morning.

There were still some things to attend to, but it was time to draw the line and set a limit, because otherwise you would end up seeing the sunrise when the next day you should be in full physical and mental prime. So you closed your laptop, rubbed your eyes and took off your headphones before standing up.

Whenever you went to sleep after sitting for a long time you had the habit of taking a walk to stretch your legs, and since there was no space in your room to do it comfortably, you opted for the hotel hallways. So you grabbed your phone, a small jar of M&M's, and left the room.

As expected, the hallways at that hour were deserted. To other people it would have seemed spooky, but to you it was relaxing for the simple fact that no noise pollution of any kind reached your ears, just the sound of the ventilation and the videos you occasionally watched on Twitter at low volume.

But soon you were no longer alone. Just as you reached the elevator to turn around and go back to your room, the elevator dinged and the doors swung wide open.

What you didn't expect was that the ones coming out of there would be two hot girls in cocktail mini dresses and high heels, and that...

Wait a fucking minute.

"Oh this has to be a fucking joke," you sighed, bringing your hands up to your face to lift your head and run both through your hair.

"M-Manager-nim, uhm, we can explain!" Chaewon hurried to say, exiting the elevator with Yunjin.

“Don’t talk to me,” you said, holding up a finger. You didn’t want to know anything, so you turned around and started walking back to your room.

“No, wait!” Yunjin said, chasing after you. “Where are you going? U-Uh… What are you going to do?”

“I said don’t talk to me,” you replied, looking ahead. The two of them walked behind you, right behind your shoulders. “I’ll report you to HYBE so you can get into trouble.”

"No! Please don't!" Chaewon pleaded, shaking your arm slightly. "No no no! We're sorry!"

"It was my idea!" Yunjin snapped. "It's just that if we told you what we were going to do, you wouldn't let us!"

"I wonder why," you said. "I can smell the alcohol coming off of you two."

"We're not even drunk!" Chaewon said. "I swear! Please forgive us!"

"I don't care, you crossed the line," you shook your head. "It would have been easier if you had just been honest with me from the start."

"So you refused to let us out?" Yunjin asked, defiant. "It was easier to just sneak out and be done with it! And besides, what the hell are you doing up at this hour?"

"Managing your reckless ass and looking out for your future. But I see you don't care about that."

At that moment you arrived in front of your door, but before you could put your hand on the knob, Chaewon stepped in between to stop you. Your bodies were very close, and only then did you pay attention to how she was dressed. It was a short, tight black dress, with a considerable neckline and long sleeves that went from her shoulders to cover her hands. She looked so hot in it that it distracted you for a moment, but not enough to forget your mission.

“Kim Chaewon, step aside,” you demanded.

“Aniyo,” she shook her head.

“Oh come on, manager-nim,” you heard Yunjin say quietly behind you, close to your ear. She put her hands on your shoulders and squeezed them gently. “Why don’t you relax a little?”

“Don’t tell me to relax when you guys lied to me so blatantly,” you replied, still looking at Chaewon. “Get out of the way.”

Chaewon glanced at Yunjin over your shoulder and showed a hint of a smile, before stepping away from your door and closing the small distance between you.

“We already told you we were sorry, manager-nim,” Chaewon said, placing a hand on your chest. You felt her breath against yours. “There’s no need to be so grumpy.”

She very subtly pressed her body tight against yours, looking into your eyes with slightly parted lips. You knew perfectly well her intentions because you were no fool, and you wanted to respectfully push her away and enter your room, but a stronger part of you kept your feet rooted there.

“Chaewon-ah…” you sighed, trying to change her mind.

Yunjin pressed herself against you as well, making you feel her chest against your back. She wrapped one arm around your abdomen and slipped the other hand into the left pocket of your sweatpants.

"Why don't you come with us to the pool so you can reconsider this whole thing?" the redhead asked in your ear.

"Yeah, I think all those emails have saturated your mind," Chaewon said, wrapping her arms around your neck. One hand stayed on your shoulder and the other went up to ruffle your hair. "Let us help you clear your head a little."

Before you could say anything, Yunjin lowered her hand from your abdomen and brought it to your bulge, just rubbing it up and down with her palm. Then any desire you had to go to your room and write that email vanished. Still, you didn't want to get too proactive just yet, you wanted to keep some of your dignity and see how far they would take it.

"So? What do you say?" Yunjin insisted, slowly making you hard. "You coming with us?"

Again the words got caught in your mouth when Chaewon suddenly pulled you into a kiss. Everything happened too fast for you to resist, and before you knew it you were wrapped up in a sensual kiss with her, your hands on that small sexy waist. Yunjin was now massaging your already hard cock, her head on the side of yours as she watched you and Chaewon kiss. That was what finally got you into the whole deal.

“You know this is wrong, right?” you asked against Chaewon’s lips, and you turned around to face Yunjin, who thanks to her heels was just as tall as you. Her dress was even shorter than Chaewon’s: burgundy velvet, strapless and an A-line skirt, perfect for showing off that perfect pair of legs. “Not only because I’m your manager, but because you have a sound check later.”

Yunjin put a hand on your shoulder and pressed herself against you. You instinctively wrapped one arm around her waist to hold her. It should have put you off by the fact that you'd never touched her like that in two years, but fuck, you were two people almost the same age, and she was a hot girl; you weren't going to miss that golden opportunity no matter how upset you were with the two of them.

"I've been on more important errands on less sleep, honey," she said, running the tip of her tongue along the side of her upper lip. Her hand still playing with your cock over your sweatpants. "So I don't care."

"Yeah, I know you don't care," you said before kissing her.

Yunjin had probably the most attractive lips you had ever seen, and it didn't surprise you that she knew how to use them so well in a kiss. Your heads went from side to side, as you tasted each other's lips and filled the hallway with wet sounds. Her hand squeezed your bulge and rubbed the outline of your cock, and you just lowered your hand from her waist to her left ass cheek and left it there.

"Hey, hurry up," Chaewon said from behind you. She had you by the waist, giving you little kisses on the back of your neck. "I want to cool off in the pool."

Yunjin pulled away from your lips and looked at Chaewon over your shoulder.

"You and I both know that's not what you want," she said with a giggle, and looked at you. "You're in then?"

"You guys dragged me in," you corrected her. "And I already have my hand on your ass. Now I have no choice."

"Then let's go!" Chaewon said, and she moved out from between you and the door to walk towards the elevator.

Yunjin gave you a couple more small kisses and took your hand to lead you to follow Chaewon. Once inside the elevator, she cornered you against the back wall and kissed you again with her hands on your neck. You returned the kiss, taking her by the waist. A few seconds later Chaewon stood to your left, and you moved away from Yunjin's lips to grab the blonde by the face and crash your lips against hers.

The floor where the pool wasn’t too high, so the kiss didn't last long. Once the elevator doors opened, the three of you walked out to a small hall before the pool area on the left. Behind the counter was only a girl who worked at the hotel. She looked up from her phone and watched you walk towards her.

"Oh, sorry, the pool is closed guys," the girl said.

"Yeah honey, we know," Yunjin said ahead, going to lean against the counter with her purse on the top. From there she pulled out five $100 bills and slid them towards the girl. "Why don't you go take a break for an hour and let us keep watch? Oh, and leave us three towels please."

The girl stared at the bills for a few long seconds until she reluctantly took them.

"You better not make a mess and not make any noise," she warned, pulling the towels out from behind the counter for you. "Because you'll get me in trouble."

"You don't have to worry, sweetheart," Yunjin said as the girl got up from her chair and walked around the counter. "We'll be ghosts."

"Just hurry up," the girl reiterated, going to take the elevator.

As the girl waited for the elevator, Yunjin led you and Chaewon by the hand towards the beautiful pool area. The first thing that stood out to you was the huge wall of windows right in front of your eyes, and the series of cube-shaped pendant lights that hung from the high ceiling and ran from one end of the pool to the other. But the overall atmosphere was modern and intimate, with the white lights of both the pool and the lower ceiling area where you were at a dim level, making a gorgeous combination with the gray matte porcelain floor and the marble walls and pillars.

Yunjin went to leave the towels on the chairs to the right, in a small raised area with white light below that had a few lounge chairs; she left the towels piled on one of them and went with Chaewon to the pool, which was L-shaped with the bottom cut out. They approached the stairs, took off their heels and dipped their feet in the water to stand on the first step.

"Oh god, the water is freezing," Chaewon said with a giggle, while Yunjin pulled her hair up into a high bun.

"It's perfect for washing down the alcohol, whatever," Yunjin said, then turned to look at you. "Ready for a little show?"

"At this point I won't be surprised by anything you two do," you replied from the raised area, arms crossed.

False. You wish you hadn't said that so you wouldn't look like a fool, as Chaewon and Yunjin both pulled their dresses up over their breasts, quite efficiently tucking the skirts at the neckline so that it held up like a top. This revealed both pairs of delicious bodies to you, as the only thing they were wearing were their respective panties. Chaewon's were white, thong-like ones. And Yunjin's were high-waisted black cheeky ones.

"What happened, manager-nim?" Chaewon asked with a giggle, seeing how you were stunned by their half naked bodies. "I thought nothing would surprise you."

"Yeah, well..." you couldn't find anything to say, and you definitely couldn't stop staring at them.

Yunjin and Chaewon laughed and went together into the pool, which was the perfect height for the three of you. While Chaewon's was shoulder-high, Yunjin's was just below her breasts. You went with them as they swam to the long end of the pool, rolling your sweatpants up to your knees, taking off your slippers, and sitting on the edge with your feet in the water.

"Huh? What are you doing there?" Yunjin asked, swimming to your feet. Chaewon swam backwards behind her, careful not to get her hair too wet. "Aren't you coming with us?" She grabbed your ankles, and you felt it as a warning.

"Uhm, I'm actually freezing," you replied, trying to get out of the situation. "I could catch a cold and die."

"Why worry about the cold when we can keep you warm down here?" Yunjin insisted, stroking your calves up and down. “Or did you forget why you came with us in the first place?”

Yunjin moved one of her hands up your calf to your crotch to meet your newly formed erection because of them. She squeezed it between her fingers and massaged it. 

You sighed.

“Are you really going to make me enter those Antarctic waters?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Oh yeah,” she nodded, biting her lip. “Unless you don’t want to get wet with us.”

“Some emotional blackmail you put on, woman,” you shook your head, and reluctantly stood up to take off your hoodie and sweatpants. Now in your boxers, you sat back down on the edge of the pool and slid in.

You gritted your teeth, tensed your body, and closed your eyes to keep from complaining, because the water was so cold that you felt it soak into your bones and freeze them. Yunjin immediately hugged you, both her arms and legs wrapped around your torso. You hugged her back, delighted to be able to feel that delicious body and that soft skin under your fingers.

"I know, I know..." Yunjin murmured, seeing that you were having a hard time with the water temperature. She made sure to be pressed against you, with as much skin as possible against yours. "Let me warm you up, manager-nim," she gave you a soft kiss. "Although I know a way to warm you up even more."

Chaewon swam to your back and hugged you and Yunjin at the same time, her chin resting on your left shoulder.

"And what way would that be?" You asked, already feeling more relieved to be in the middle of that sandwich. Your hands moved down from her waist to her buttocks, giving them a light squeeze and rubbing them up and down.

"Don't play dumb, manager-nim," Chaewon said in your ear, and slipped a hand between your body and Yunjin's to bring it inside your boxers. She grabbed your cock and held it between her fingers. "You know the answer, so you're going to say it."

"Yeah, but we know you well, and we know you won't say it that easily," Yunjin said. "So we're going to make you say it."

You chuckled.

"Are you going to drown me in the pool every time I refuse or what?"

Chaewon's response was to yank your boxers down, releasing your throbbing cock under the water. She wrapped her fingers around it, and slowly began to masturbate you. You gasped, and Yunjin smirked, unwrapping her legs from around your torso to press herself against the side of your body, leaving room for Chaewon to comfortably move her hand.

“Tell me something, manager-nim,” Chaewon murmured, giving you pecks on the side of your neck and then catching your earlobe between her lips. “In these two years, have you ever masturbated thinking about us?”

The question left you as cold as the pool water did when you got in, and your well-known answer made you blush. They were four of the stupidest hottest girls you had ever seen in your life, and they were all recently at their peak of hotness; it had to happen sooner or later for you.

“I...” you took a deep breath, trying not to look Yunjin in the eyes out of embarrassment.

“You have, huh?” Yunjin said, her gaze fixed on you. She held onto your shoulders with one arm while rubbing your abdomen with the other. "You don't have to be ashamed... it's not like we blame you. I've been given outfits that leave little to the imagination."

"How did you imagine us, manager nim?" Chaewon asked in a sexy murmur, still moving her hand on your cock. "Doggy style? From behind against the wall? Us riding you?"

"Or maybe sucking your cock?" Yunjin said, to spread kisses on your cheek near your lips. "Did you imagine my pretty lips around it?"

"I'm sure you also imagined yourself pounding my tight pussy," Chaewon said, moving her hand faster. Yunjin replaced it a couple seconds later.

"Or me jumping on your cock," the redhead said, jerking you off at a fast, steady pace. "Come on, don't be shy, manager-nim. Tell us."

"Please, manager-nim," Chaewon moaned into your ear, massaging your balls before replacing Yunjin's hand with her own. "We want to know."

You would have loved to be able to say something, but Chaewon was moving her hand so well on your cock that you were lost in the limbo of the physical and spiritual realm. You were brought out of your trance by her abruptly stopping her hand from moving.

"Ugh, no!" you whined, clenching your fists. Yunjin and Chaewon giggled.

"Then answer," Yunjin said, circling your tip with her index finger. "Have you masturbated to us or not?"

"Fuck, yes," you huffed. "More times than I'd like to admit."

Yunjin was the one in charge of grabbing your cock again and resuming the handjob, now faster.

"See? It wasn't that hard," Yunjin said with a giggle.

"You're such a pervert, manager-nim," Chaewon said, kissing your neck, while her hands roamed your chest. "Why don't we go outside and let us finish the work? Then maybe we can fulfill some of your little fantasies."

"What if the worker comes?" you said between gasps, since Yunjin was still jerking you off. "I don't want to get kicked out of the hotel with two days left here in New York."

"It's only been 10 minutes," Yunjin said, and let go of your cock. "We've got a good while left to have some fun."

"Then hurry up and get out," you said, trying to get out of the way of the two of them.

Chaewon and Yunjin stepped away from you and swam towards the pool stairs. You followed close behind. As you climbed out of the water you took the lead, heading straight to the small raised area near the exit to grab a towel and dry yourself off as much as you could, having to remove your boxers so as not to wet the lounge chair once you lay down on it. The girls certainly didn't mind, in fact they followed your lead and removed their panties, keeping their dresses bunched up around their chests.

They knelt on their lounge chairs facing you, and bent forward to bring their faces close to your cock, giving you a hot view of their arched backs and wonderfully raised cakes. You weren't shy at all, and as they peppered each side of your shaft with kisses and licks, you groped and squeezed their ass cheeks.

"Fuck, you have a very juicy cock, manager-nim," Chaewon panted, one hand on your thigh and the other around the base of your cock.

"I always knew he was packed," Yunjin said, stroking your cock from the middle up. You looked at her with a frown. "I should have seduced him earlier; now I see I had it pretty easy."

"Are you calling me a slut?" you asked between gasps, making them laugh.

"Considering how quickly you gave in," she shrugged and pondered the answer for a moment. "Yes."

Before you could answer Chaewon took you into her mouth, slowly pumping her head for a few inches and making you gasp. Yunjin joined in by using her tongue on your base and balls. You leaned forward a little, so you could extend your arms further and get your fingers between their ass cheeks and finger their pussies.

Chaewon moaned around your cock, quickly taking as much of your length into her small mouth as she could to pump faster and faster. A few seconds later she pulled out, giving way to Yunjin's perfect lips, which wrapped around your tip and went halfway down before coming back, in a pace that soon became fast and messy.

You rubbed your fingers between their soft and already wet folds as you watched Chaewon give you a sloppy blowjob, in aid of Yunjin's tongue and lips on the rest of your shaft. You didn't want to cum too fast to prolong that experience as much as possible, so you looked up and left your gaze on the cube-shaped lamps while you gasped.

But as hard as you were trying, Chaewon and Yunjin forced you to watch as they both slurped the saliva they themselves left on your cock, over and over again in a toe curling double blowjob that had you moaning like the slut Yunjin said you were. A few long seconds passed, until you couldn't control it, and you came as they were making out with your tip in the middle.

"Oh god!" You moaned, watching as Yunjin and Chaewon were still kissing each other even as your cum poured out in thick rivers and stained their tongues and mouths. They lapped up every drop, glad to swallow as much of your load as they could before using their mouths to get your cock clean and shiny again.

You didn't wait for either of them to say anything before you got up from your chair and went to kneel on the floor behind Chaewon, grabbing her firm ass cheeks and planting your face between them.

"Oh fuck!" she moaned in a small start, feeling your tongue move up and down her folds. "You were hungry for it weren't you?"

"You have no idea how much," you replied, squeezing her ass cheeks and eating her pussy like deep down you always wanted to do.

Within a few seconds Chaewon let her moans flow, soon drowned out by a kiss against Yunjin's lips. You devoured that tight pussy with devotion, with the sole goal of making her feel as good as she had made you feel just a couple of minutes ago. She let you know you were doing a good job by twisting her hips and pushing them back, urging you to keep going until you made her cum.

Her climax came not long after, thanks to the quick licks you gave to her clit and the intense way you groped her ass. She fell back with her hands braced against the chair Yunjin was on, writhing between cute moans and spasms.

“My god!” Chaewon groaned as you licked and kissed between her folds. “Why did you never say I was this good at eating pussy?!”

“I remind you that I’m your manager, Kim Chaewon,” you said, and stood up to spank her. An intrusive thought you let win. “I don’t think it would have been appropriate to tell you two days after your debut.”

“Ugh why now we women are the ones who have to make the first move!” she whined, now lying on her side to look at you with that adorable, usual expression she made when she got angry.

"I wasn't going to risk my career on whether you wanted cock or not. Don't be a bitch," you said, and walked around the front of the chairs to climb onto Yunjin's, who immediately hugged you by the neck and kissed you, pressing your torsos together and making your cock rub against her lower abdomen.

After a few seconds of making out with Yunjin you grabbed her by the thighs and made her sit down, with her back against the slanted back of the chair. You sat on the lower edge with your knees resting on the floor, leaning forward and bringing your mouth directly to Yunjin's pussy.

"Oh fuck yeah," Yunjin moaned, one hand on your head as you ate her out. "I should sneak around more often if this is the result."

"Don't push your fucking luck," you muttered, making her laugh. "If you want me to eat your pussy you just have to ask me nicely."

Yunjin moaned as you reached her clit and sucked gently on it.

"Mmmgh, really?" she asked, arching her back a little.

You smiled.

"Yeah, just fax me and get in line."

"Son of a bitch!" Yunjin squealed in annoyance and pulled at your hair, but her anger didn't last long as it didn't stop you from trying to give her the best pussy eating of her life.

Yunjin relaxed in the chair, leaning back and with her legs wide open to let you work. As the seconds passed she became more restless: she arched her back, tugged at your hair and breathed more heavily, until she ended up enclosing your head between her thighs. The grip was strong, with her calves crossed on your back, and you felt your head about to explode, but that was just like coal to your boiler.

"Fuck! Mmmgh!" Yunjin moaned, fingers clenching in your hair as you attacked her pussy mercilessly. “Right there manager-nim, yes, yes!”

Seconds later Yunjin exploded in your mouth, lifting her pelvis and holding onto your head with both hands. She bucked in her chair, moaning maybe a little too loudly, so you reached up and covered her mouth with your hand as her orgasm passed. When it did, she released your head and you pulled away from her pussy.

“Let’s go to my room right now,” you said, standing up to go get your clothes.

“What, why?” Chaewon asked. “We still have like half an hour.”

“If I fuck you guys the way I want to I’ll lose track of time,” you replied, picking up your sweatpants to put them on without your boxers as they were still wet. “And I don’t want the worker to come and find us in the middle of intercourse.”

"Yeah, that's fair," Chaewon said, and stood up to grab a towel and wrap it around her waist.

Once you were dressed you went to help Yunjin stand up and do the same as Chaewon did. You then grabbed all the wet underwear, wrung it out in a corner and carried it in your hand as the three of you left the pool area heading for the elevator. Upon reaching your floor you rushed to your room, and once inside, the two of them removed both their towels and what was left of their dresses from their bodies to jump into bed.

You stripped down at lightning speed and climbed into bed with them. Chaewon greeted you with her legs spread as you climbed on top of her to kiss her, wrapping her arms and legs around you. Yunjin settled on the left side next to Chaewon, and reached between your bodies to reach for your cock and stroke it; she had it hard in a moment, and without either of you asking, she took it inside Chaewon's pussy.

Chaewon squealed, and bit your lip unintentionally in shock. She dug her nails into your scalp, slightly tense as your cock forced its way between the tight walls of her pussy. You continued to kiss her, stifling moans of satisfaction until you finished with your entire length inside her.

"Mmmgh, manager-nim?" Chaewon moaned against your lips.

"Yes?" you gasped.

"Next time be a little bolder and ask me," she panted, stroking the hair on the back of your neck. "I can't believe I'm finding this out two years later."

"Or I could just sneak into your room and fuck you like the whore you are every chance I get," you replied in a sarcastic tone, beginning to move slowly.

"Oh, would you do that?" Chaewon asked with a giggle.

"Jeez, you're hopeless," you shook your head, moving from her lips to her neck to kiss it.

"You can always pretend you have an emergency and woosh! Catch him," Yunjin said from your left, kissing the other side of Chaewon's neck.

"Great Jennifer, give her ideas," you said between gasps, enjoying the way that tight pussy suffocated your cock every time it went inside. "As if I don't have enough with all the shit you two do on a daily basis already."

"You're overreacting, manager-nim," Chaewon moaned, tightening her grip on your torso, hands now on your neck. "We're not that unruly. But you made a big mistake, because now we're really gonna be bad bitches for this cock."

Mother of god, where the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

You forced Chaewon to release your torso and straightened your back to put her legs open, one over Yunjin, and with your hands on her thighs you began to go harder and harder. Chaewon sought out Yunjin's lips, and the two of them shared a steamy, sexy kiss as you fucked her pussy and made her moan against the redhead's lips.

Yunjin played with Chaewon's perky tits, pinching her nipples and massaging her mounds in the process, then moving her hand down her abdomen and to her pussy to rub her clit in quick circles. Chaewon pulled away from Yunjin's lips and arched her back, holding Yunjin's head with one arm and clutching a pillow over her head with the other.

"Does that feel good, Chaewonie?" Yunjin asked, bringing her mouth closer to one of Chaewon's tits to suck on it, circling her clit faster. You thrust harder, pounding that pussy between moans and with your fingers digging into her thighs.

"It's the best cock I've ever had in my fucking life!" Chaewon moaned, her mouth parted and her eyes fixed on you. "Please don't stop!"

Yunjin focused on licking Chaewon's nipple and moving her fingers faster, while you leaned forward a little just so you could thrust faster. Chaewon started moaning so loud that the very pillow she was clinging to became her muzzle, which she bit down on before covering her face with. An instant later she uncovered her face and exploded with a squeal, squeezing your cock as her orgasm made her shudder.

"Mmmm that's so fucking hot," Yunjin groaned, and got on her hands and knees beside Chaewon to reach over to her crotch, pulling your cock out of her pussy and bringing it into her mouth to suck on it for a few seconds. "You want me to ride you?" she asked.

"Who wouldn't want to be ridden by you?" you asked, and she smiled slowly stroking your cock.

"Wow, you're getting more and more points every time," she giggled. "This was quite a triple."

Yunjin made room for you to lay down in her spot with your head on the pillow. Already settled she straddled you, her pussy pressed against the back of your cock. She made eye contact with you as she untied her hair, and as she let it go she placed her hands on your chest and slowly ground her hips back and forth to rub your intimacies together.

"Are you gonna keep teasing me, Jennifer?" you asked with your hands on her thighs, looking into her eyes.

"Why? Are you desperate to be inside me, manager-nim?" she asked back and bent over you, running her hands up to cup your face. You brought your hands to her waist and then to her ass to squeeze it. "I think you want it even more than I do."

"You better shut the fuck up," you said, and reached for your cock to press it between Yunjin's folds. She giggled, and cooperated by slowly lowering her hips until she was fully impaled on your shaft.

"Oh god this feels better than I expected," Yunjin moaned with her ass resting on your pelvis and her hands on your shoulders. "I hope you know you just created a monster."

"I remind you again that I'm your manager, woman," you panted as she began to move up and down. "You're playing with fire and you might burn me by accident."

"Don't be like that, baby," she panted, giving you small kisses as she moved gradually harder. You had her red hair all over your face, but that and you groping her ass only made it hotter. "No one has to find out, right? It'll be our little secret."

“As you wish,” you replied, squeezing her ass cheeks before dropping your hands to the sides of her lower back. “But if it starts to affect your career or mine I will turn you off immediately.”

“Deal,” Yunjin said with a smirk, and crashed her lips against yours before going wild.

Yunjin grabbed your face and stuck her tongue inside your mouth, seeking to take control of the kiss. You happily gave in, content to let her do whatever she wanted with you as long as she kept moving on your cock, with those hip movements that were slow, deep, and deadly. After a few seconds she moved to your neck, to fill it with sucks, kisses, and finally biting you. She cried out when you spanked her with both hands, which prompted her to move faster and with less control.

"Hey, don't even think about leaving me out," you heard Chaewon say on the left, and she somewhat roughly pushed Yunjin off your chest to climb on top of you and sit on your face with her calves on your arms.

With your view now blocked by Chaewon's ass you had no choice but to adapt to the situation and put your mouth and hands to work. She pushed her hips back, smothering you between her perfect ass cheeks, which you held onto to spread  them and allow yourself to breathe while you ate her pussy.

"Can't you stop seeking attention for five minutes?" Yunjin asked Chaewon, planting her feet on the mattress to squat on your cock, fast and hard. "Oh god I was riding him so good!"

"And now you're bouncing on his cock," Chaewon replied between moans, her hands on your chest. You could hear her sharing sloppy kisses with Yunjin. "What's the fucking difference?"

“That I like looking into guys' eyes while I ride them!” Yunjin protested, moaning louder and louder as she bounced faster on your cock.

Chaewon didn’t say anything else as the two of them began to kiss and muffle their moans against each other’s lips until Yunjin came, grinding her hips with your cock buried deep in her pussy and shaking on top of you. Her orgasm having passed, Yunjin climbed off you and collapsed to the side. Chaewon then raised her hips and knelt beside your head.

“Manager-nim,” Chaewon told you as you sat up, staring at you with those puppy subby eyes. “You’re not going to tell HYBE anything about us sneaking out tonight, are you?”

You looked at her with a poker face.

"What kind of dishonest man do you take me for? Of course not," you replied, brushing a lock of sweaty blonde hair from her cheek. "Next time just tell me and I'll go with you."

Chaewon's eyes lit up like two cute lanterns.

"Really?"

"Aha," you nodded. "Only if you're a good girl and get on your hands and knees for me."

Chaewon complied with the order and turned around to bend forward and rest her hands on the mattress, knees apart and ass raised high for you. You positioned yourself behind her, and with one hand on her waist you went back inside the tightest pussy you'd ever been in. She looked at you over her shoulder and hugged the same pillow from a moment ago tightly, biting it the moment you started to thrust.

The view you had was perfect, and enviable to the you of a few months ago, who could only access it through a very lucky wet dream. But now it was for real: you had a hot view of Kim Chaewon, with that appetizing ass that looked small but whose shape was perfect, and that milky attractive back that had you salivating since the Smart stages.

"Go hard, honey," Chaewon moaned, still looking at you. "Please forget your position and fuck me like I'm all yours."

"Oh, if you insist that much," you nodded slowly, and let out a spank so hard that the shape of your hand was instantly marked in red. Chaewon squealed into the pillow. You then started going really hard on her, making the sound of her ass slapping against your pelvis reverberate through your room.

"Fuck! Just like that!" Chaewon squealed, and buried her face into the pillow. You gave her another spank to make her scream. "Fuck!! More!" another spank. "MORE!!"

One more spank, and this time you grabbed a handful of her blonde hair and pulled it back, in turn separating Chaewon's face from the pillow. Now her moans were fully audible as you pounded her pussy like she was a human fleshlight.

Yunjin had already recovered, and without asking Chaewon's permission, she did her best to get under her and stack their pussies together. Before the baby tiger could protest, Yunjin began kissing every corner of her face and neck to make her melt quite efficiently, as Chaewon was still entirely focused on you and your cock.

"God you are such a pillow slut," Yunjin teased Chaewon, grabbing her ass cheeks and spanking her in the same spots as you. "A little more and you'll be calling him daddy."

"Stop giving her ideas, Jennifer!" you growled through clenched teeth at how good Chaewon's pussy felt in that position.

"I'm gonna cum daddy! Mmmgh fuck!!" Chaewon squealed, burying her face in Yunjin's neck.

"Late," Yunjin laughed looking at you. You just shook your head. "It's your fault for falling into our trap."

"Listen here you little piece of..." you said, being interrupted by Chaewon's orgasm and cute whimpers. You placed a hand on her lower back, fucking her slowly until her body stopped shaking. Then you pulled out of her pussy to switch directly to Yunjin's.

"Hey!" Yunjin squealed when you got balls deep inside her again. "Warn me!"

"For what?" you raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you got down there because you were desperate for me to be inside you again."

Yunjin blushed and rolled her eyes, which was enough to prove you right. You smiled, and grabbed her thighs to press them against Chaewon's. With her, you took off at full speed from the start, already in search of your own climax, which was only getting closer by leaps and bounds.

Yunjin clung to Chaewon with her arms around her neck, moaning in her ear as you hammered her pussy even harder than Chaewon. Sweat was already pouring down your temples, proof that you were giving it your all when you were already exhausted after so many hours of work. It was definitely worth it, because just like Chaewon's, Yunjin's pussy felt so good that it made you use energy reserves you didn't even know you had.

But what kept you going at your best wasn't that, it was the possibility of seeing those two girls go crazy with pleasure thanks to you, and Yunjin's face being fucked mercilessly was like an expensive piece of art in the Louvre museum, especially when a couple of minutes later she came for the second time on your cock.

"Dear fucking lord please cum honey!" Yunjin screamed as you fucked her like an animal through her orgasm. "Oh my god cum!!"

Seconds later, when you felt yourself about to explode, you quickly pulled yourself out of her and went to kneel right next to both of their heads. They both turned their faces towards you, and stuck their tongues out as you stroked your cock rapidly, until with a loud moan you exploded.

The thick strings of cum came out in strong jets and landed on both of their angelic faces, every corner being painted white and getting sticky. What fell on Chaewon's face spilled onto Yunjin's, who collected most of the drops in a pool on her tongue. By the time your climax passed those two were a mess, so covered in cum that Chaewon kept one eye closed and Yunjin had her lips stuffed.

"Oh my god..." you gasped, mesmerized by the sight. "Stay there."

Even though you felt on the verge of collapse, your protective manager instinct kicked in and you were forced to go to the bathroom to get some toilet paper and help them clean themselves up. But as you did so, you realized something that you hadn't realized in all the fuss, something that left you staring into space.

Sakura's room was right next door.

Shit.

[not-neverland06]

n a s t y d o g I logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've never felt this way about a fictional character before. Every gif I see of him has me gnawing and biting at the bars of my enclosure. I want to bite him. If Hugh Jackman ever discovered what thoughts lurk inside my rotted brain about him he'd get a restraining order. This isn't OKAY Anyways... Summary: You'd thought you'd had a good thing going with Logan. You weren't officially anything to each other, but you were getting close. You truly saw a future with him, but he made it incredibly clear he did not feel the same 18+ HATE FUCKING (MDNI)

(one chance please, just one chance with him)

“Are you sure this isn’t totally clingy girlfriend of me?”

Ororo gives you an irritated look and Jean laughs. “Not at all, Scott loves it when I surprise him like this.” You’re all huddled in your room, each of you in varying stages of getting ready. Jean is finishing off her eyeliner at your vanity, Ororo is putting on her boots, and you’re trying to decide between a skirt and a dress. 

You’re not entirely sure how, or why, Logan and Scott decided to go to the bar together tonight. You suspect it has something to do with Jean. She wants them to start getting along so there’s less friction when you’re all around each other. 

At Jean’s idea, Logan had muttered, “When hell freezes over,” in your ear before he had left for the night. You’d gotten a little antsy without him to entertain you and had mistakenly blurted out the idea of going to visit them. Ororo had been dying to get out of the house and Jean was a little worried about her boyfriend as well. They’d agreed to go along with you and you’ve felt a weight in your stomach ever since. 

Your relationship with Logan was relatively new. Hell, a month ago you’d thought he’d hated you the same he did Scott. You’d, of course, been proven wrong when you’d had a few drinks with him and things had taken a very physical turn. 

You weren’t sure if he’d just wanted a one-night stand or something serious. But when you’d tried to sneak out the next morning and he’d muttered a grumpy, “Where’re you going?” You’d gotten your answer. 

You hadn’t been on any real dates, there didn’t ever seem to be time for them. But you spent most of your days together. Sometimes just silently enjoying each other’s company, other times you would be holed up in one of your rooms cuddling. The thought always brings a stupid lovesick grin to your face. 

It’s one of your first real relationships and you’re worried that things are moving a little too fast. At least on your end. You can already tell that you’re falling for him. Headfirst into the deep end of love. And it’s terrifying because you truly cannot tell what he thinks about you. Clearly, he likes you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t let you follow him around like a lost puppy. 

But he’s never truly said anything to you. There’s no official label as to what you two are. You say girlfriend off-handly and you usually don’t mean it when you reference yourself. You’ve never outright said he’s your boyfriend and he’s never really claimed you. He’s made it explicitly clear he doesn’t want you sleeping with other men, and you’ve said the same to him about women. You both agreed on that, but…

You kind of drive yourself crazy trying to figure this out. He’s not vocal about his feelings and everything’s still new so you don’t like pressuring him. You also worry that if you push him too far he’ll just get tired of you and move on. It’s not fair to assume that of him, and you know everything would be better if you just talked to him. But you’re scared. You’re scared the conversation will take the wrong direction and everything will blow up in your face. 

Jean calls your name and your head shoots up to see both Ororo and Jean looking at you expectantly. You flush when you realize they must have been talking to you and you’d just completely zoned out thinking about Logan. 

“Huh?” You blurt out, cringing at how dumb you sound. 

Jean gives you a concerned look, “I can practically taste your anxiety.” The telepath frowns and offers you a comforting smile. “Don’t worry about it, I promise, Logan won’t mind at all.”

“You’re fine,” Ororo adds, because clearly the look on your face screams, I need constant validation. They’re not wrong, but still, you hate feeling like an exposed bundle of nerves. “Think of it as girl’s night, the boys just happen to be there.” 

You force a smile on your face and give your most enthusiastic nod. You change into the dress and finish up with your hair. You finally start chatting with them again, engaging so it might disguise just how nervous you feel. 

There’s this clenching feeling, traveling from your stomach up to your chest. It makes you sick, makes you hurt. And it’s not because you think Logan will be upset with you for crashing. He’d be relieved, if anything. There’s something else. Premonition isn’t one of your abilities, but you’re seriously starting to doubt that now. 

The bar is loud when you walk in. The soles of your shoes immediately start to stick to the floor and your nose screws up in disgust at the loud laughter coming from around the pool tables. You glance around, trying to see if you can spot Logan. 

You’d say you could spot him in any crowd. But has a propensity to hunker down and try to attract as little attention as possible so people don’t bother him. “There he is,” Jean taps your shoulders and points to the two men at the end of the bar. 

Like you’d thought, Logan is hunched over his whiskey, glowering down at the wood under him like it had insulted him. You almost want to laugh at the sight. Some of the earlier anxiety eases its grip on you and you feel your shoulders begin to untense. 

Before you can walk over Ororo grabs Jean’s wrist. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” she tugs Jean behind her. 

Jean looks over her shoulder at you and smiles encouragingly, “Go to them, we’ll catch up in a second.” You give her a tentative nod and slip through the crowd. There are more people here than you thought there would be. 

You’re happy not to spot any kids in the crowd. You’ve had a few too many nights out crashed by kids who thought they were good at sneaking out. 

It’s easy enough not to spot you or the other women in the crowd. Mutants have gotten good at blending in with the people around them. Makes it easier to get around. It’s probably why neither Logan nor Scott stop their conversation as you approach. “So,” Scott draws the word out, fingers tapping against the glass of his beer. 

“Don’t,” Logan warns. You want to laugh at his grumpy demeanor, but someone’s accidentally elbowed you and you find yourself stumbling a few steps back. It’s taking entirely too long to get to them, the bar isn’t even that big. There’s just that many people here. 

Scott ignores him and rolls his eyes. “Look, we’re stuck here for a while. Try and pull that stick out of your ass.”

“How about I put one in yours?” Logan’s claws come out slightly. But then they both share an odd look and Scott smirks. “Shut the fuck up,” Logan grouses, “not like that.”

“Right,” Scott huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He picks up his bottle and takes a long drink. You’ve nearly reached them now. You stop, though, when you hear Scott say your name. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. Eavesdropping now is just asking to get hurt. 

You drop back into the crowd, hoping the smells of others will stop Logan from discovering you lurking behind them both. Scott continues, “How’s that going?”

You crane your neck forward, trying to hear them better over the karaoke happening behind you. Someone is butchering Britney Spears but you couldn’t care less right now. Logan shouldn’t answer. Since when has he ever shared anything with Scott?

So, imagine your surprise when his answer isn’t immediately telling him to fuck off. “Eh,” he shrugs, downing the rest of his whiskey. Your face drops in irritation. Seriously, all this skulking around for an Eh? That’s bullshit. 

You keep yourself from stepping forward, forcing your feet still, and ignoring the little voice in the back of your head telling you this is a bad idea. You’ve committed this much, you’re seeing it through. Scott whistles lowly, “That bad, huh?” Oh, fuck off, Summers. 

Logan shakes his head and for a moment you have a brief feeling of hope lifting you up. “Nah, not bad. It’s just, I don’t know.” Logan sits up and signals the bartender for a refill. Your snooping senses go off and you briefly see Ororo and Jean exiting the bathroom. Desperate for something to keep them at bay, you flick your wrist. The man in front of them tips his drink down Jean’s shirt, slurring out apologies. Jean huffs and Ororo brings her back into the bathroom. 

Scott and Logan somehow missed the whole interaction and you promise yourself that you’ll pay for Jean’s dry cleaning. You’re definitely not going to. “Think she wants something I don’t,” Logan tells Scott, and your heart plummets to your feet. You can practically see it deflate, all the lovesickness draining out of it and onto the floor of this grimy bar. 

“Like, she just wants to fuck around?”

Logan shakes his head and downs another glass of whiskey. He’s just swallowing it down like it’s water. At a certain point, the bartender gets sick of it and just leaves him with the bottle. “No, she wants something real. Like a real relationship.” Scott’s brows furrow and Logan shrugs. “Not interested.” 

It’s the way he says it that really bothers you. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something different in a relationship. It happens all the time. But he says it so dismissively. He knows that you want something real with him, something secure and loving. He knows that, continues to fuck you and lead you on, and then speaks as though you’re an idiot for ever being interested in that. 

Hurt hasn’t set in yet. You’re staring wide-eyed, jaw agape with shock as you stare at Logan’s back. You’d thought a conversation needed to be had. But you didn’t think that he thought of you like this. You’d thought you meant something to him. 

Scott seems to share the sentiment, his lips tugged down into a frown. He leans against the bar, surveying Logan with a disbelieving look. “What?” Logan snaps.

Scott raises his hands in surrender, shaking his head and backing off. “Nothing, man, I just thought you two were serious about each other.” You miss whatever Logan says as an arm slings itself around your shoulder. 

“What’re you doing?” A husky, seductive voice whispers against the shell of your ear. You jump in shock, glaring at Ororo as she grins at you. She lets her arm slide off your shoulders and glances over at Jean. “I think she was spying.”

Jean nods, nudging you forward. “Definitely spying. Hear anything good?”

You fortify your mind against her probing fingers before she can find out. “Nope,” you blurt out. You hope the racing of your heart is dismissed by your constantly frazzled nature. You hope the look on your face is explained by your earlier boredom and anxiety. You pray that none of them notice the way you lean away from Logan when the men finally turn around and notice you all. 

Scott breathes out a dramatic sigh of relief and slumps onto Jean. “Thank god, I thought I was going to die trying to talk to this brick wall.” his eyes flick towards you in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. There’s a brief pitying look before he grins. “Come to get your boyfriend?” There’s a heavy emphasis on the word that you never would have noticed had you not heard their conversations. 

It’s clearly a petty dig at Logan. And you would appreciate it if you didn’t feel the sudden urge to vomit up your dinner. “Thought you might need saving from Logan.” You tell him, a chuckle hiding the slight tremor in your voice. 

You’re not sure if he does, but you hope Logan notices how you avoided the word boyfriend. You hope that he hurts the same way you do. But you know, deep down, that he doesn’t care. He’s probably relieved that you didn’t use the title. 

Logan gets off his stool, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, and pulls you into a brief hug. His lips press against your temple before he dips down to whisper, “Thank you,” in your ear.

Asshole, he’s not allowed to smile at you the way he is. If you weren’t in such a crowded place and already overstimulated, you’d shove him away. If your friends weren’t watching you’d take his arm and slam it down onto the bar until you hear his fucking adamantium bones break. 

That might have been too far. Maybe you’re not that angry, but you’re hurt.

You place your hands against his chest, a thin smile on your lips while you hum a simple, “Mhm.” He doesn’t seem to notice the way you push away from him. It’s easily dismissed by you cheekily stealing his seat at the bar. 

He comes up behind you, hands bracketing you and keeping you stuck against the bar while you order your drink. One of his hands drifts down, laying against your thigh. You know this isn’t sexual, this is him comforting you. 

He shouldn’t know how horrible you feel in such busy places. He shouldn’t know that and know that his touch is grounding and then help you. Not if he doesn’t want something serious. If he didn’t want to be your boyfriend, didn’t want to be anything but a fuck, then why do this to you? Did he not think this was leading you on? Is this just him caring for you?

You’ll drown in a sea of unanswered questions before the night is over if you linger too long. You tip your head back, let your shot burn its way down your throat, and turn towards the others with a smile. You feel your worries fade and your focus loosen as you simply drift further into your mind. 

You must have disassociated or something. By the time you realize you’re no longer hearing bad karaoke and your elbows aren’t sticking to the bar, you’re already home. You stare in the mirror, hand pausing as you brush your teeth before you quickly finish. 

You didn’t drink much, you never do. It fucks with your abilities and causes migraines. You rinse your mouth out and glance into your bedroom. Logan groans and stretches. His back bows, muscles flexing and you rip your eyes away. You can’t let yourself be distracted by the chest you want to drape yourself across. 

You need to talk to him. It’s never been more clear. You wipe your mouth and toss the towel onto the rim of the sink. You take in a deep breath, trying to get rid of the nerves plaguing you. It’s never worked before, it’s not going to suddenly cure you now. 

You give up on the thought and instead, shove down the anxiety until you have enough confidence to speak. It takes a little while, Logan peaks an eye open, eyebrows quirked when he sees you just staring at him. “Something up, bub?” he flexes, on purpose, and you roll your eyes. You grab his shirt out of your hamper and toss it at him. 

“Put this on. Can’t think when you look like that.”

He chuckles, “That’s the point.” at your pointed glare his smile drops and he tugs the beater on. It barely does anything to deter you. If anything you’re having more trouble paying attention. Especially now that his full attention is on you. The humor is gone from the room, a thick tension replaces it. Logan seems to feel it, sitting up straighter and glaring at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “What’s wrong?” It’s a demand more than a question. 

It’s hard to look at him. But you refuse to let yourself cower now. You take in a fortifying breath and let your gaze bore into his. You put all the hurt and anger you feel into it, willing yourself to be firm. “We need to talk.”

“‘Bout what?” He’s brusque, but there’s a slight concern to his tone. 

There’s no point hiding this. And maybe you had misheard, maybe there was a conversation prefacing the one you’d heard. And you’ll talk it out and everything will be okay. “I heard you and Scott talking at the bar.”

The hope you had, as minimal as it was, is dashed at your feet. He sucks in a deep breath and the look on his face has you crestfallen. You can feel your chest cave in. You feel so stupid all of a sudden. Constantly following after him, even before you started dating him. Looking at him with stars in your eyes and latching onto his every move and word. 

You’d worshiped him, put him up on a pedestal he didn’t deserve. Superhuman or not, at the end of the day he was still a man. And they’ve done nothing but disappoint you. You suck your teeth, gaze dropping to your feet as you fight back the tears in your eyes. “Right,” you whisper, stepping back from him. 

“Look,” he starts. You force your eyes up and watch as he rubs uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He takes a step towards you and you shake your head, stepping away from him. His arms fall to his sides and he sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“That’s it?” You demand, tone incredulous. You weren’t some great love or anything. But that’s seriously all he has to say.

He opens his mouth, eyes softening as he stares at you. Then he snaps it shut, something covers his face and his expression is borderline cruel as he sneers at you. “Not my fault you got in over your head, kid. Never said I wanted anything more with you.” He points at you, and you suddenly feel like a little girl getting scolded. You’ve never had a partner make you feel this small, especially not Logan. “You were just convenient.”

You rear back like he slapped you. You think it might have hurt less than that. To know you wasted so much time on such a fucking dick makes you want to throw up. Or scream, or cry. You can’t decide on one. But your powers can, the walls are shaking, knick-knacks falling off your shelves as energy pulses from you. 

You’ll face the hurt, the sadness, the horrible ache of rejection later. Right now, you need him out of your face before you bring the whole mansion crumbling down around you. “Out.” You grind the word out, turning away from him and clutching your hands to your chest. You take in quick, rapid breaths, trying to think of anything other than how horrible you feel. 

You haven’t lost control like this in a long time. You’re not going to give him the satisfaction of being the reason you get put on probation again. He whispers your name, coming up behind you like he’s going to touch you. 

You want to lash out, want to hurt him like he’s hurt you. But you’ll only cause more damage than necessary. He’s not worth hurting the kids in the rooms around you. You shove past him, ignoring the way he shouts your name. 

You dart out into the hall, grateful there are so few people milling around. Nearly everyone’s asleep, just a few stragglers finishing up their homework for tomorrow. A few of them give you odd looks that turn concerned when they see Logan chasing after you. Your bones are practically vibrating by the time you make it outside. 

You rush towards the grove of trees at the back of the mansion. Your knees give out under you before you can make it very far. Energy pulses out of you in an explosive circle. You hear bark crack and turn into nothing but dust as the air around you trembles. 

It’s a relief, like going to the bathroom after holding it all day. You feel it drain away from you, a plug pulled out as the energy rushes from you. It slows after a minute, feeling more like a leak than a steady stream. 

Your hands shake by your sides as you lay trembling on the grass. Your eyelids flutter shut and you try and keep them open but it’s hard. All of your energy had been spent keeping yourself in check until you made it out of the mansion. 

“I’ve got you,” a voice mutters near your ear. Familiar strong arms dip under your knees, lifting you up and pulling you into a sturdy chest. You recognize the body, recognize the uncomfortable warmth coming from him. But your tongue won’t work and you're passing out before you can try and push him away. 

You’re in your own bed when you wake up again. You’re briefly comforted by the warm feeling of the sheets around you before you realize how cold the other side of the bed is. You’re so used to the feeling of someone being beside you that it’s jarring for no one to be there. You sit up, a spark of anxiety lighting up inside you before it’s being quelled by an outside force. 

“I think it’s best if we keep that under control.” You’re not surprised to hear Charles’s voice. You can’t be, not when he’s actively keeping you calm and placid. You lean back against your headboard. You tilt your head lazily, looking at him while he looks out the window. 

“That tree was a hundred years old.”

You wince, face screwing up when you remember the large oak tree you obliterated last night. “I can remake it,” you promise. 

“You could,” he corrects, “but whatever happened last night between you and Logan is causing your powers to be volatile.” He finally turns towards you, the motor of his wheelchair a dull buzz as he smiles at you. There’s no resentment in his gaze at least. You’d known he wouldn’t be mad at you. He was used to accidents like this. Had you hurt another person, however, this would be an entirely different conversation. 

There’s a dull ache in your chest at the mention of Logan, but it’s quickly covered by another wave of calm from Charles. He smiles and holds out two metal bracelets. They’re thick, something red inlaid into the black metal. They look like handcuffs more than anything. His lips quirk up at your thought and you frown. 

“That’s what they are, right? Cuffs.”

“You’re not a criminal,” he assuages, his tone gentle as you take them from him. There’s a small silver button inside that you click and the metal springs open. You place your left wrist inside and it snaps shut, it’s a snug fit. It won’t be moving around anytime soon. You put the right one on and feel Charles’ hold on your mind ease the second it's closed. Every horrible feeling from last night crashes down on you and you nearly choke on it. 

You wonder how Charles managed to keep you asleep for so long without the roof crumbling. He chuckles, the noise tired. “Jean helped me. It took a while for the cuffs to be ready.”

The way he says that causes alarms to go off in your head. “How long?” He takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head, attempting to dismiss the question. “Charles,” you snap, voice bordering on a shout. 

“Two days,” he says. You gasp and slump back against your sheets. He says your name but you get to your feet and pace. You don't know what to do with yourself. There’s energy buzzing under your skin, but the cuffs are keeping it at bay. It feels wrong like your pores are being clogged with acid. 

“Two days.” You look over at him, horror painting your face and you can see why he was so apprehensive to tell you. “It’s never been that bad before.”

“No,” he starts cautiously, “It hasn’t. Which makes me wonder, what transpired between you and Logan that destroyed my grandfather’s tree?” 

You cringe at the mention of the tree. He’s never going to let go of that. Even when you recreate it, he’s still going to hold it over your head. His teasing eases you out of the spiral you were heading down and you glance over at him. “You’ve been in my head for two days. I’m sure both you and Jean already know.”

He smacks his lips together and shrugs, clasping his hands in front of himself. “Simply seeing if you wanted to discuss it, my dear.”

You vehemently shake your head and sit back down on your bed. “No, I don’t want to talk about him. I don't want to see him.” Charles gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you and you hate it. You truly don’t want to see Logan again. Just thinking about him makes you want to explode. He was a pig and you regret ever wasting your time on him. 

There’s a shriveled part of your heart weeping somewhere, but you crush in your fist until it shuts the fuck up. “Right,” Charles nods. “I do believe it’s best for your recovery that we keep you two separated for a while.” He rolls past you and places a comforting hand on yours. “Rest, you’ll feel more like yourself soon.”

You nod and watch him leave. Exhaustion suddenly seems to drop its heavy weight on your shoulders. Two days being restrained by telepaths probably wasn’t very restful. You lay across your comforter, rolling over and hoping when you wake up your heart will be healed. 

Two weeks. Two pathetic, snot-filled, and disgusting weeks of sobbing over Logan. You felt like a sixteen-year-old again, crying over the boy that didn’t like you back. It was awful, especially knowing that the entirety of the mansion knew what was wrong with you. 

Your students would leave your class and you would lock your doors, hiding under your desk as you wept. Those with superhearing or telepathy would bake you cookies and leave gifts at your door. It was sweet, but honestly made you feel ten times worse. You felt like your sadness was a burden you were forcing everyone to carry. 

Your mother would be so disappointed in you. She’d always told you that you mourn a relationship half the amount of time you were in it. Of course, hers never lasted more than a few weeks. And she’d had more boyfriends than you could count on three hands. 

Besides, you were allowed to wallow for a while. This was someone you were starting to fall for. To be so blind going into and leaving the relationship was awful. Having the rug ripped out from under you had been cruel and needless. You’re resentful and grateful he’d been so horrifically honest with you. On one hand, if the relationship had just ended, you’d be pining after him. Wondering what you’d done to lose such an amazing guy. 

But being faced with the brutal truth, knowing he was a piece of shit, it makes you hate yourself. You should have seen it. Should have known that he didn’t want you like you wanted him. But there were never any signs. You’d run it through your head a million times. Every interaction you’ve ever had with him. None of it shows you where he’d been lying to you or using you. You can’t even trust yourself anymore. 

There’s a loud knock on your door and you sniffle, tossing another tissue in the trash as you go to answer it. “Hello?” You croak. You can barely see, eyes puffy and so swollen your vision is blurry. 

“Holy hell,” Ororo scoffs and shakes her head. She pushes into your room and slams the door shut before anyone can see how awful you look. To be fair, you keep yourself relatively put together during the day. But it’s after hours now, you’re allowed to be a mess. 

“You look like shit.” 

Neither of you are prepared as you begin to blubber. Your lips tremble and your voice shakes as you begin to sob. “I know,” you wail. “I hate it.” Ororo’s eyes widen in horror and she quickly pushes you into your desk chair, grabbing a box of tissues and shoving it in your hands. 

“I feel,” you stutter, having to take in a few shuddering breaths before you can get the words out. “He tore out my heart and ripped it up with his stupid fucking claws.”

“Okay, okay,” Ororo runs her hands over your arms, trying to soothe you. “I know, sh, it’s okay.” She groans, “Stop crying,” she pleads under her breath. 

“I’m trying!” You snap at her, running hands over your wet cheeks and trying to swallow down the rest of your tears. 

“Look,” she steps back and shakes her head. She glances down at you, disgust poorly hidden on her face. She’s really fucking bad at comforting someone. “This is awful, I can’t take it anymore. You two keep dancing around each other and you’re putting everyone on edge. You won’t stop crying and he keeps going off,” she holds her hands up and shakes her head. “I just can’t do it anymore.”

You frown, brows turning down in confusion. “What?” You didn’t think Logan would be mad. You pictured him skipping through a field of daisies, happy to finally be rid of you. It only made you hate yourself more that you were still crying over it all. 

“He’s kind of losing it,” she seems reluctant to relent the information. “Look,” she kneels in front of you and snatches the tissue box from your hand. She tosses it to the side and forces you to meet her eyes. “He’s in love with you. We all know it, Jean’s confirmed it. He loves you, he needs you, he’s just terrified to admit it. He’s afraid of what's going to happen if you two become real.”

Your eyes widen with the realization. She nods enthusiastically as you connect the pieces. You can’t deny what’s so plainly laid in front of you when she assures you that even Jean knows. Jean knowing means she just did a nosy dive into his head. 

You can picture what could happen. With rom-com levels of nauseating romance, you run to find him. You tell him you don’t care that he’s afraid. You don’t care he pushed you away and you do love him. He’s not going to lose you. Nothing can rip you apart. You ride off into the sunset on Scott’s bike blah blah blah. 

This isn’t a fucking romance. And you’re not going to cry over a man who's too much of a pussy to admit he has feelings. You like men who have emotional depth deeper than a teaspoon. “Are you fucking kidding me?"

Ororo’s face blanches and she slowly backs away from you as you stand. “No,” she answers slowly, like she’s not sure of herself now. 

“That’s what I’ve been crying over?” You feel upset for an entirely different reason. You never misread the signs. You never missed a hint that he didn’t feel what you did. He did! He was just happier letting you doubt yourself and the love you held for him than admitting he felt something. You tear off the depression hoodie you’ve been living in for the past two weeks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

You don’t know where you’re going. Normally, you’d run into a forest to let out a blast of energy. It drained you enough that you wouldn’t have to feel anything. But with these cuffs on, you can’t do anything. 

You storm out of your room and stomp down the stairs, uncaring who you wake up. You’ve wasted so much time on Logan, you refuse to stay in your room and cry for another fucking night. 

“I want to see her,” Logan growls. He tries to move around Charles, but he stops him with his mind, holding him in place while Jean disappears inside your room. Logan watches her go and glares at her retreating back as the door closes behind her. 

It’s been a day already, you’ve never needed to be out for more than a few hours. He doesn’t want to think that there’s anything wrong with you, that he might have permanently broken something inside you. 

That talk at the bar with Scott had been stupid. He would have said anything to get him to shut the fuck up and leave him alone. He didn’t really mean what he said, he just wanted him to back off. And saying that your relationship wasn’t anything was quicker than pouring out every thought he’s had of you. 

It was easier lying than it was to admit just how much he wanted you. Just how far he would go for you. But then you’d overheard, and you brought it up. And there’d been faith on your face. Like even you couldn’t believe what he had said because you could see through the bullshit. 

But all Logan had seen was a way out. This was an opportunity to finally get out of the suffocating clutches of something he didn’t want to admit was love. He took the chance before he could think. It’s what he was used to. Taking the easy way out, especially when it came to shit like emotions. 

He hadn’t thought you were going to explode, though. Because that’s exactly what you’d done. By the time he’d caught up to you, you’d burned a crater into the ground and had destroyed Charles’ stupid fucking tree. 

Seeing you like that, laying there lifeless, it terrified him. He didn’t want to live in a world that you weren’t in. There was no fucking point. It was sobering, realizing that, and then realizing that he was the reason you were like that in the first place. 

He didn’t want to live without you and he certainly would never be able to come to terms with being the reason you were dead. But it didn’t matter, whatever realizations he was coming to. Charles and Jean were completely blocking him from your room. They weren’t even giving him a chance to look at you. And he was about five seconds away from ripping the old bastard’s head off and just barrelling inside. 

He didn’t care what they said, he needed to see that you were okay. “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to see her for a very long time.”

“Stay out of my head,” Logan growls, glaring down at the man. “What are you talking about?” He presses, finally processing the rest of his sentence.

Charles sighs and rolls away from him. Logan glares at his back but ultimately follows. “You were the cause of this, yes?” Reluctantly, Logan nods, there’s no point in hiding it. He’s sure Charles already knows. “For her own safety, the two of you will need to remain separated.”

That had been it. There was no arguing about it. No fighting Charles. It was for your safety that he stayed away from you. No matter how much he wanted to explain himself, he wouldn’t risk another meltdown like that. 

You didn’t deserve to get hurt because of someone like him. He wouldn’t be able to stand hurting you again. 

But two weeks seemed like a lot. At a certain point, he’s sure you’re just avoiding him. He knows he can’t blame you. He’d been a fucking idiot. But that didn’t make him any happier. If anything, he was getting more and more pissed off every day. 

He had less patience for mistakes. Was lashing out at the kids more often and don’t even get started on the petty fucking fights he was picking with Scott. How long did you fucking need before you talked to him again?

He knows you’re upset, your crying keeps everyone up at night. Something he’s sure you’d be mortified to learn about. Why won’t you let him comfort you? Why do you have to be so petulant, running around the corner every time you see him? Pointedly ignoring him when you’re in the same room together. 

He could fix this, make this all better. But you’re just not letting him. He knows this is why he loves you. It’s why he was so drawn to you. You seem like a bundle of nerves, constantly flitting around and keeping yourself small. It had been off-putting at first. And then he’d seen you training with Scott, kicking his ass more like. A switch had been flicked in his head. 

He could finally see you for what you were. He finally realized that it was your abilities you were keeping small. You were a fucking spitfire and you didn’t hesitate to tell him off, he loved it. Loved arguing with you just so he could see you get all pissed off. 

But that stubborn attitude he loved was really biting him in the ass right now. 

There’s a knock on his bedroom door and he doesn’t even get to pretend it’s going to be you. He smells Jean’s perfume and rolls his eyes. He puffs on his cigar and contemplates ignoring her.

“Don’t be a jackass, open the damn door.” 

Fuckin’ telepaths. “What?” He snaps at her the second the door is open. Her face screws up when she smells the smoke from his cigar. He knows she wants to put it out, and can see it in the twitch of her fingers. He raises a brow, a silent challenge to try him. He’s itching for another fight and she can feel it. 

She lets out a sharp breath, choosing her battles wisely and backing off. He’s almost disappointed. “We need to talk. This whole thing between the two of you is ridiculous. You’re a mess, she’s a mess…”

Her voice trails off into nothing more than the annoying pitch of a fly. Logan can’t be bothered to listen to her scold him. He’s not a fucking kid, and maybe if you were acting like an adult, they wouldn’t be having this problem. 

A few doors down he can hear you shouting, then the door to your room slams open. He darts off his bed, opening his own door to see what you’re doing. He only sees the back of your head as you angrily stomp down the stairs. 

Enough is fucking enough, he was finishing this now. He was sick of your side of the bed being empty and the stupid fucking glare on your face every time you saw him. He doesn’t even bother saying anything to Jean as he leaves, just chases after you. 

Jean watches him go with a perturbed look. She steps out of the room and glances down the hall. Ororo steps out of your room and walks towards her. “Well?” Jean probes. 

Ororor shrugs, “She’s over it.” Jean smiles but it’s quickly wiped off her face by Ororo’s expression. “Not in the way we wanted.

Jean clenches her eyes shut and takes in a deep breath. She needs you two to figure your shit out or she’s never going to be able to get a good night’s sleep again.

You find yourself in the gym. It’s not your favorite place in the world, you don’t usually get to train with the others. You’re stuck with telepaths, mainly the ones who can shut your powers down if you get too out of control. That hasn’t been a problem since you got the cuffs, but you’ve been too sad to test them out. 

Now you find yourself obliterating a punching bag. You wrap the energy around your fists and let it protect the thin skin as you pummel into the bag. You don’t know what else to do. You can’t have energy meltdowns anymore. You have to try and funnel it all out physically, but it’s not working. Nothing is. 

“Imagining it’s me?” You pause midswing. You glance over to the door just in time to see Logan stalking towards you. He unzips his jacket slowly. So slowly it almost seems provocative. He tugs it off and tosses it onto a nearby bench. 

You scoff as you watch him. “Do you ever have a shirt on?”

He shrugs and moves towards the ring in the middle of the gym. His movements are lithe and fluid as he hops onto the ring, every bit a wild animal. You watch as the muscles in his torso ripple and force your eyes off of him. You try and focus your attention back on the bag, but all your earlier energy is gone. Your mind is completely wrapped around Logan. 

Which you’re sure is exactly what he wants, or he wouldn’t be staring at you so smugly as he leans against the ropes and waits for you to acknowledge him. You suck on your teeth, irritation blooming in sporadic bursts throughout your body that has you nearly shaking. Finally, you give in. 

He smirks the second your eyes meet, “I can take it, sweetheart. A lot better than that little toy of yours can.” He nods towards the punching bag but the insinuation isn’t lost on you. You and Logan had been very active in your relationship. You could barely go a day without tasting each other. 

You’ve been pent up since the breakup. You’d given in a few days ago, pulled out your old vibrator, and tried to bring even a semblance of joy back into your life. But nothing could compare to Logan. 

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he waits for you to react. He’s standing there, staring down at you with all the surety in the world that you’re going to fuck him. It makes you want to dig your nails in and rip him apart, bit by bit. 

You can already picture it in your mind, using your abilities to pick him apart until he’s nothing but molecules dispersed through the air. He’s lucky you have the cuffs on, without them you’re sure he’d already be dead. 

You smirk and move towards the edge of the ring, your voice drops as you purr up at him, “You wanna play, Logan?”

He grins and moves off the ropes, starting towards you as you make your way onto the ring. You’re slightly less graceful than he was, but you’re too focused on wiping the smug look off his face to pay attention. “Come on kid,” he taunts, voice as low as it usually is when he’s fucking into you. “Let’s see what you got.”

You’re not stupid enough to just outright swing at him. You feint to the right and bring your knee up into his ribs. He only needs one hand to wrap around your thigh and drag you forward. His other hand goes to your hip, tugging you closer until you’re practically grinding against each other. You grit your teeth and glare up at him. 

“Come on, sweetheart, that can’t be all you got for me.” Energy wraps around your head, blurring the air around you. You slam your temple against his, it provides enough of a distraction for you to yank your leg out of his grip. You throw your right fist into his ear, bouncing back with a grin as he shakes his head. 

He practically growls as he reorients himself. You shrug and smirk, “What, don’t tell me that’s all you got, wolvie.”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” he grumbles. You open your mouth, prepared to taunt him again. But he’s lunging towards you and you just barely have enough time to dart out of his way. You know he’s going easy on you. He could have had you just then if he really wanted this. 

But he’s dragging this out. Forcing you to spend as much time with him as you can. It only pisses you off further. You plant your foot on his back and kick him forward. He barely even stumbles and it only further confirms your suspicions. “Stop fucking holding back,” you yell at him. 

He turns around slowly. You almost expect there to be a sneer on his face, something angry. Instead, he looks fucking thrilled, like this is all just foreplay for him. He laughs, so low you can barely hear it, and his chest flexes as his claws come out. 

“You sure?” It’s a taunt, a dare, he knows you aren’t going to take the bait. You’d be stupid to, you don’t heal like he does. Once those things get in you, you’re screwed. But right now, you’re too pissed off to try and care. 

You don’t say anything, you just duck under his fist as he swings at you. You know he made it easy for you, giving you an opening to fall into. He’s treating you like you’re something fragile. And maybe you are. One wrong move in this fight and you might not make it through the night. But anger is making you blind to logic. 

Him playing fair just makes you want to play dirty. You use the opening he gives you, letting energy form around your fist and pulling back just enough to slam into his ribs. He coughs, doubling over as you hear bones crack under your hit. He’ll heal in seconds, you can’t bring yourself to feel too bad for him. 

Maybe if he ever took you seriously you might not be such a bitch. But he didn’t think you were good enough to be honest with and he still was treating you like a plaything. In your opinion, he deserves whatever you give him and more. He doubles over and you swing your leg around, bringing it down across his face. 

You hear a crack as your socked foot connects with his face, something crunches underneath you. And when your sole hits the mat again you see the blood leaking from his nose. You almost apologize. Almost, then you see the look on his face. His pupils are swallowing the hazel of his eyes, lips parted as he pants through his teeth. He looks fucking animalistic. 

You have no warning as he pounces on you. His lips smother your own, moving over you with little to no grace. There’s nothing romantic or gentle about this. His fingers are digging so hard into your shirt, you’re sure you hear the seams rip. But you can’t bring yourself to care. 

One of your hands goes to his hair, tugging at the roots until he’s groaning into your mouth. You rake your nails up his back roughly. He cusses against your lips, hand traveling up to your chin so he can roughly jerk you back. 

He stares down at you, a silent question on his face. You’ve barely nodded before he’s descending upon you again. Lips and teeth clash borderline painfully as he lowers you onto the mat. You’re missing all the usual love and tenderness he treats you with, but you don’t care. 

You want to be rough. You want to hurt him like he hurt you, make him ache for you the way you do him. You wrap your legs around his, lifting your pelvis until you have enough leverage to flip him. Your thighs straddle his waist and you grind down against the prominent bulge in his sweatpants. 

He groans into your open mouth, large palms grabbing at your ass and spreading you so he can thrust between your clothed thighs. You can’t help but moan at the friction. It’s just enough to keep you on edge, he pulls back every time you think you might be close to something real building. 

You rip your mouth off his. He glares up at you as you grab his hair and yank his head back. You slam his head hard enough into the mat for it to echo through the room and he growls against your grip. You grin down at him as you slowly get off him. You make a show of stripping, enjoying the way his eyes track your movements. He looks like a dog, panting and waiting for his treat. 

You’re tempted to get yourself off, making him watch, and then leave him straining against his sweatpants. But you need this bad, need him to scratch the itch you can’t reach so you can finally get him out of your head. Neither of you are patient as he jerks his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to pop out. 

It’s already leaking from the tip like a faucet. You kneel, straddling his waist again. You don’t have to do much to slick him up. You pump him a few times before he’s gripping your wrist and jerking your hand away. “Get up here,” he commands, voice rough as he grips your hips. You don’t even get a chance to protest before he’s flipping you over. 

He grabs your thighs and wraps them around his waist. Your ass is off the ground, hovering above his lap as he lines up with your slit. You moan when the tip rubs against your clit. “Whose teasing now?” You grit out, glaring at him. 

His lips curl up, that insufferable smirk on his face before he slams into you. The attitude is practically fucked out of you as he starts pumping in and out. You groan, raking your hands down his chest. He fucking moans at the pain, blood blooming under your nails and immediately closing the further down you go. 

Neither of you are giving up this fight, you don’t want to lose, not even while you’re fucking. He pulls out of you and flips you over so fast you don’t even have time to whine. He’s back in you before you can blink, hips slapping into you in a way that you know is going to leave bruises tomorrow. You’re not going to be able to sit for a week and he knows it. His hands are groping at the skin of your ass, pulling you apart and watching the skin ripple as he fucks into you. 

You’re not going to last long. You’ve been too desperate, too pent up while you’ve been pissed off at him. He leans over you, draping himself across you lazily. You groan at the added weight, it only adds to the sensation, only makes you want him deeper inside you. “Thought you didn’t want me anymore, sweetheart.” He whispers in your ear and you flutter around him as his hand snakes around your waist, rubbing tight circles on your clit. 

You open your mouth but all that comes out is disjointed moans. You know there’s something sarcastic in there, and he must know too because he laughs at your pathetic mumbled sentence. “I don’t know,” he leans back and watches as he makes room for himself inside you. “Seem to need me real bad now.”

Your nails dig into the mat, energy leaking through your fingertips and warming up the canvas beneath you. You can feel it fluctuating, fighting against the cuffs the closer he brings you to the edge. “Fuck you,” the words escape you at a particularly deep thrust and you struggle to keep your eyes open. 

He pauses and you nearly cry at the loss of movement. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you. What’d you say? Stop?”

You glare over your shoulder at him  “Don’t you fucking dare, Logan.” You let your power push up against his back, forcing his hips to move again. He chuckles at the move, fingers creating figure eights on your nub. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he protests, voice innocent. “Ah, fuck,” his voice is nothing more than low grunts and groans in your ear the closer the both of you get to your release. You can’t speak anymore, can’t think. You can feel it cresting higher and higher inside you. 

Your abilities are rising with your release. They’re pushing against the cuffs, fighting desperately against the control the foreign metal has on your powers. You can feel it, heat building up under your skin, like a tingling on the tip of your tongue that you just can’t reach. It’s Logan’s release that finally tips you over the edge. 

The way his breath catches and his hips stutter in their perfect rhythm as warmth floods you from the inside out. You can feel it, him, dribbling down your thighs and staining the mat beneath you. It has you clenching around him, pushing your hips back weakly while you let the feeling overwhelm you. You nearly black out. Two weeks without him hadn’t felt long until you remembered what you were missing. 

You lose your sense of time, dropping to the mat like your bones have gone liquid, dripping out of you. You can feel Logan draped over you still, his weight a comforting blanket that nearly has you drifting to sleep. Naked, in the middle of the boxing ring. He pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss. 

He shushes you, rubbing a hand up your spine and pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your temple. He wraps his arms around you, laying down and pulling you back into his chest. It takes a few minutes of quiet cuddling for you to remember what exactly led you down to the gym in the first place. 

You feel disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. It’s clear what his plan had been. And you’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. You’d barely even fought against him. Of course, you could reason that you needed to get the tension out. This was the perfect way to funnel out your built-up energy. 

But you’re disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. You just disregarded dignity and self-respect for a chance to get him between your legs. You were such a fucking idiot. No wonder this is all he wanted you for. 

“Shit,” you mutter, trying to pull yourself out of his grip. Your eyes widen as his arms tighten around your waist. He tugs you back down until he’s got you in what essentially feels like a headlock. He could easily pass it off as spooning, but it feels a little more demanding than that. “Logan,” you warn, the silent peace of the moment officially shattered. 

“Don’t,” he gripes. You can fight against him for as long as you want, but you’ll only tire yourself out. His arms are literally metal bands around you. “Let me talk and then you can run off.” You huff and wait, but he never speaks. Finally, you look over your shoulder and glare at him. “Well?”

You roll your eyes, “Fuck’s sake,” you mutter. “Alright, speak.”

You can feel his grin against the back of your head. If he didn’t have you in such a tight grip, you’d elbow him in the gut just to be petty. “I made a mistake,” you scoff and he keeps going. Stopping you from interrupting him with something bitchy. “You weren’t just something convenient to me, sweetheart.” he pauses and chuckles, “You’re a huge fucking pain in my ass.”

“Is this your idea of an apology?” You snap, “Because this is pathetic.” 

He doesn’t say anything and you’re tempted to snark at him again. But then the world is flipped on its side as he jerks you around and forces you to face him. Your chests rub together, the sweaty skin sticking together and bordering on uncomfortable. “You ever shut up?” He asks, but there’s no heat to the words. If anything he looks fond of you, and it makes you shift around, trying not to look him in the eye. But there’s nowhere for you to hide, you’re both naked and bare before each other. 

You’re as physically vulnerable as he must feel emotionally. And as much as this is a horrible way to display how he’s feeling, you’re starting to understand him a little better. You know why this conversation is so hard for him, why he can’t accept that someone truly loves him and he loves her back. 

But that’s not going to get him out of it. He’s still yet to say the words. Maybe if he manned up and said something real you’d consider forgiving him. You give him an expectant look and he sighs, forehead pressed against yours as he slumps over you. You want to pretend you’re annoyed at the contact, but you’ve been craving it since you ran away two weeks ago.

You’ve been desperate for this warmth that only he can provide you. Without realizing it, you nuzzle further into his chest, hands drifting up to wrap around his bare waist. Logan feels the tightness in him ease slightly at the way you curl into him. He’s got a shot, even if you try and tell him he doesn’t.  

It’s silent for a while, while you linger in the emotions of what just happened and he tries to find the right words. He leans down, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and smiling against the shell of your ear. “I love you,” he whispers. 

You’d told yourself you’d only consider forgiving him if he said those words. But that’s only because you’d never thought he would actually say it. You didn’t think he was capable of admitting that to himself. It seems so out of character for him. But, maybe, you don’t know him as well as you thought you did. 

He pulls back, hand landing on your jaw and gently guiding your head out of his neck. He gives you an expectant look but you’re finding it hard to meet his eyes. You’ve been waiting for him to say that, but now it feels like you can’t. You’re still struggling to forgive him. He put you through so much unnecessary hurt just because he couldn’t face his own feelings. 

And now you’re struggling to do the same. “I want to say it back,” you tell him. “But how am I supposed to trust that the next time things get hard, you won’t lash out again?”

He frowns, an irritated huff of breath shooting out his nose. But you know it’s frustration towards himself. For letting you both get to this point because he couldn’t just say three words. “I’ll wait,” he promises. “For as long as it takes, I’ll wait.” 

You smile and nod, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. You’re sure you’ll be saying it sooner rather than later. But what’s the harm in making him squirm a little? He deserves it. 

A/N: I don’t write smut, it’s literally in my rules. I think I stared at a gif of him for too long and some horny ass demon possessed me and made me write this. Forgive me, universe, I’m no better than a man.

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[nikkeora]

loving jason todd is like caring for an old marble statue.

he looks like something straight out of greek mythology, something pygmalion would have crafted with rough hands and bright eyes for nights on end. scars from battle like ares, or maybe he's closer to hephaestus considering his past.

but time hasn't treated him well, he's been broken and put back together more times than he can count. there are bad days where he can barely feel the parts of him that had once been taken away only to be stitched back on, where he feels like he's missing arms or ribs or even his head, and he feels as if he'd be right at home between nike of samothrace and venus of milo.

those days, he forces himself through the dark, grimy streets, body on autopilot as he watches limbs that aren't his own fight and bruise and bleed.

but then he comes home to you and slowly, slowly he feels whole again.

your fingers gently tap his before tugging at them, digits intertwined as you raise his hand up to your lips. you're just so warm and suddenly he feels his hand again, that fuzzy feeling gently running up his arm like spring water. he's thinking that the way your fingers are laced together reminds him of the crochet pattern he'd been trying to learn last night when before he realizes it, his other hand is moving on its own, finding purchase on your cheek.

it can't be a pleasant feeling, he thinks. he knows for a fact his hands are rough and calloused, years of abuse caked onto them in the form of scratchy white spots and ugly scars. but before he can take it away, you lean into it, nuzzling his palm as if it brings you comfort.

he brings you comfort, he realizes.

he stands there for a while, both hands now cupping your face, careful not to hold on too tight. his thumbs brush over the apples of your cheeks, feather light on each eyelid, one even traces the slope of your nose. you're so soft, flesh easily giving way under his touch and he can't help but feel like an elephant who's been given a kitten to hold.

then finally, he arrives at your lips.

he traces your bottom lip first, one slow, gentle swipe, before giving some love to the top. without much thought, he places both his thumbs over your lips like he's seen people do for stage directions, feeling the little squish when he puts just the slightest bit of pressure. your eyes open narrowly and he finally cracks a smile at the sight of you all smushed.

you open your eyes wider and his smile softens, his gaze locking onto yours. he feels like he could drown in them, drown in you, and he'd die happy this time.

he doesn't realize either of you are moving until his eyes physically can't look at yours anymore due to the sheer distance and the angle, instead slipping closed as his lips meld onto yours. he can feel the warmth in his cheeks and each kiss feels like pure bliss, the contact grounds him so that he feels like his head's on straight again. he's sure you can hear his heartbeat - after all, it's practically thundering against his eardrums - and the rhythm it knocks into his ribcage feels so real that the bones there can't possibly be missing.

jason feels every part of his body. in a good way. everything the world had ripped away from him now returned and fixed back in place by your warm, loving hands. yes, he may be a little weathered. yes, he may never feel brand new again. but really, does any of that matter when you look at him as if he's a masterpiece?

[willyoubemycherryy]

Intimacy Cues (C. Kent)

Summary: Who better to teach you how to talk body when you never learned the language?

Contains: smut AND plot so it’s long,depressing past, the college au you all secretly needed, struggles with physical touch, struggles with any form of intimacy, one mild panic attack, Clark is understanding but hot, dumb ideas, hugging, bonding, kissing, making out, it starts off shaky then soft but quickly snowballs into horn-e central, size kink, slight dumbification, strength kink, first kisses, virginity kept but not for long just give me till the second part, Clark is a little infatuated, they’re so nasty about each other my word, grinding, kissing (no forreal), prayer bc we all need it

A/N- my stomach is fine, it wasn’t a tumor but a blockage because of something I ate that never digested, causing my tummy to bloat and swell but they fixed me up so I’m back😈

. .* ੈ✩‧₊•

“Nononono- no, stop!!”

This might be the worst decision of your entire life.

Clark pulls away again, looking down at you with his eyebrows drawn together in concern but also exasperation because-

“Hey! It’s okay- you’re okay. Remember…you were the one who asked for my help.” He didn’t say the obvious “but we’re not getting any farther” part out loud but it echoes through your head all the same and you breathe out a deep sigh; regretting it with the depths of your very being but, yes. You did ask him for his help.

Help with what? The answer would’ve ended your social life if anyone who wasn’t Clark had found out.

You needed his help with…closeness- intimacy.

Growing up you were always awkward. Not in a charming way or even unconventional, you just simply didn’t make the cut based by society’s standards. You were always too gangly, too weird, too timid; so imagine the surprise come middle of highschool to now college where you’ve finally grown into yourself.

You know how you like to dress and which clothes look hottest on you, you know what hairstyle suits best for your face shape, you’re still weird but you’re also sarcastic which somehow equals charm to people and you’ve also managed to come out of your shell a bit. Becoming more confident from people naturally gravitating towards you after your blooming stage and even more after letting your friends convince you to join your college’s cheerleading team. You’d become everything you wanted to always try.

Pretty, popular, and fun. The problem?

Thanks to how much of a late bloomer you were, you never got the chance to get comfortable with others intimately during your formative years. Nobody liked you in that way and you were terrified of embarrassing yourself so there was nothing. No first kiss, no first dance with a boy, hell- even now you still get uneasy when others stare at you too long. Hiding behind your image as a college sweetheart made everything you were still to unsettled to try easier. Don’t misunderstand; it wasn’t that you never wanted those things, it’s that you’re not used to others suddenly picking you for those kinds of things after being invisible and missing out on them for almost all your life to the point where you don’t know how to deal with it when those moments do happen.

Still, you acted like everything was fine.

Playing the role of pretty cheerleader- the flirty tease that was favored by many even though that favor was shallow as a tear on a hot day. You pretended. And it was working, nobody knew…or so you believed.

Cue to one of the football teams parties where you’d been flirting with a guy, coy smile painted on your face as you giggled softly whenever he spoke, batting your pretty eyes at him in your little mini skirt. It had been going well until he suddenly leaned closer, focusing solely on you and when you felt the heat of his skin from how close he was- it felt as if the color had drained from your face, leaving you frozen as you became so uncomfortable it was visible; nerves screaming at you to flee until you listened. Spinning on your heels and bolting, trying to calm your breathing enough to will the cotton out of your ears.

You didn’t realize it then but a certain pair of blue eyes had been watching the whole thing. He’s always seen you. Which is funny because you almost always actively avoid him. In fact, he’s seen you enough to know that this isn’t the first time you’ve had that reaction and one day after a particularly rough week of endless pondering over you; he decides to just ask you after practice is over. Clark waits until his and your friends leave, it being only you and him on the field when he starts to walk over to you. The sound of incoming footsteps make you look up and when you see him, he can hear the very second your heart stops; skipping a beat before it quickly begins to thrum out of rhythm.

Honestly, there genuinely are not enough words to describe how attractive Clark Kent was. He was so incomprehensibly beautiful that you avoided Clark altogether just to avoid getting a headache from staring at him for too long especially since the real suffering started when he’d smile. Seemingly perfect pearly white straight teeth but when his grin broadened, his sharp canines would show, leaving you breathless every time. The type of good looking that was flat out overwhelming. Besides being apart of adjacent stereotypes, you two didn’t go together but there was no animosity.

Clark stops and you have to look up at him because of his hulking size. At almost 6’4 he nearly dwarfed you and his proportions matched. Thick, beefy everything- everywhere and you swallow before forcing a smile on your face. While you preferred to avoid him for the sake of keeping yourself out of the psych ward from how crazy he could drive you; you were still curious as to why he came to talk to you. He takes a moment to just look at you, cerulean eyes almost glowing but he doesn’t realize how intense his stare is until you start to shuffle on your feet- dainty hands twitching nervously at your side and that’s when he speaks.

“Hey…I know we don’t usually talk or anything but are you okay?” Even his voice is dreamy but confusion draws on your face because you felt fine; nervous, like you were around any guy you thought was cute, but fine. Clark elaborates at your expression,

“Y’know because of what happened at the party last-”, that seems to jog your memory enough to snap you out of it, eyebrows shooting up as dread overtakes over your face. You whip your head around, making sure there’s no witnesses when you grab him by his sweaty shirt, dragging him all the way behind the bleachers as you slam him against the metal. Clark is caught so off guard that he just lets it happen; lets the pretty thing half his size drag him as you pleased. Your eyes shift as you glare up at him.

You’re positive he’s talking about your little freak out with close proximity guy, the one that made you leave the party completely; walking so fast you nearly burned a trail in the carpet. Heart pounding, you start to spiral.

He wasn’t supposed to see that. He- like everyone else- was supposed to be too drunk to notice anything.

Your nose scrunches, full lips curling in a snarl. “I swear if you say anything to anyone-!” You’re threatening him so fast, Clark falters, raising his hands in defense, debilitating blue eyes widening as he starts to plead his case.

“No no-! I didn’t! I-“, He stutters at your harsh gaze, the feel of your hands soaking through his shirt, warming his chest. He needs to hurry up and explain himself before you start disliking him. “I was just worried! Whenever I see you and a guy, even if you act interested-“, he rushes out, panting as he talks even faster, “the second they get too close you look like you’ll vomit!” Your hostility melts into shock and even more confusion and you let go of his shirt, stepping back as you study him, his words stuck in your mind.

“How..? Are you- you’ve been paying that close attention to me? When do you even see me?” You’re at such a loss for words that it’s hard to string them together to properly question him.

“…I”, he swallows harshly, “I always see you.” It’s pure adrenaline that motors his mouth- he thought he was over the time when lovely faced girls made him nervous but you were unexpectedly feisty. It lit something tingly in him. Your eyes search his face and he spills. “I see how you flirt but you’re sarcastic too. Everyone is so taken by your pretty that they don’t even notice, they just call it ‘wit”, he manages to catch his breath enough to sound less panicked now that you look like you won’t kill him, “I see how even though you’re a flyer, you hate heights-”

“H-how-?”

“Your right leg shakes when they lift you, no matter how stable your base is.” Your mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out, heart racing when his voice goes soft,

“But what I’m saying is- so what that you’re not really what you give off? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. ‘Jus curious why you think it is…”, he blinks those long lashes at you and you find yourself explaining the tale of your sordid social past.

By the end of it he’s stunned speechless.

You? Just how bad was your awkward phase for nobody to be interested in you? Wait so that also probably meant that-

“You’re a virgin?!”

You slap your hands over his mouth with a speed equal to his own, face flushed as you shush him, hissing in a low whisper.

“Jesus Chri- shut up! Are you trying to tell the entire campus?!!” You let out another heavy sigh.

“…yes, I am”. You let your hands fall to the side, refusing to look at him while he’s trying to process; silence filling the space between you. You’ve accepted that your ego will never recover from the most gorgeous being on the planet knowing about all your…truths. That you looked and acted the part of a vixen just to hide that you secretly weren’t.

“…so you’ve never done anyt-”,

“No.”

Well then.

You can’t take another long drag of awkward silence, turning to face the boy who knew you probably more than anyone else did.

“Look- I would’ve loved to remedy this but I-”

“Can’t stomach whenever a guy gets too close due to previous deep rooted societal wrought insecurities…” Bingo.

“Well for what it’s worth,” he gives you one of his disarming grins and a flush creeps up your neck; warming your ears, “I think you’re doing fine now.” You snap your head down to see that you two are standing fairly close or at least closer than you normally allow and you don’t have that itch to get him as far away from you as possible. That’s when you get the idea that- “Oh my god! You can help me get over my thing! This is perfect!”! You’re practically vibrating with glee, excited to finally have all your firsts without that looming of touch related dread haunting you. Clark however is swarmed with various images of him “helping” you and can’t keep his ears from reddening at all the different scenarios where he’d be required to be close to you and begins to stutter.

“W-well, I wa- not that I-! I don’t think that’s a good idea, I mean w-we-”, you cut him off before he can weasel out of it, eyebrows creasing in frustration. You unconsciously step closer, your sweet smell bathes his senses as he stares you down, trying not to gulp too hard. “Please, Clark?”, you start and he swallows harshly at how his name sounds in that whiny tone from your lips.

“It can’t be anyone else because you’re the only one who knows! We’re not close now but we could be-“, and the double meaning makes him tune out completely as he only watches your plump lips move; not even registering the sound coming from them. He was thankful you didn’t ask him why he watched you so closely because the answer was one he wasn’t ready to even admit to himself.

Your lips stop moving after a while and them paired with your begging doe eyes make him cave, Clark nodding in hopeless defeat. He was supposed to be over the influence of pretty girls.

“S’okay, I’ll help you out. Your secret’s safe with me.” The corner of his mouth tilts up in a lopsided smile that was somehow both attractive but made you feel safe and you smile shyly back. You were nervous but you know Clark is a good guy- reckless as hell with his charms- but a good guy. What could go wrong?

•

•

•

Standing in the middle of your dorm room with your arms wound tight around yourself is when you find out that alot can go wrong.

Clark came over and you two came up with a starting plan that seemed the easiest: talk and slowly close the distance between you two until he was touching and looking at you without you getting uncomfortable or pushing him away. It sounded simple enough at first only…. you severely underestimated how you’d react to Clark. The way his deep mellow voice sounded in your ears, how he always held such steady eye contact as he moved towards you, that heavenly jawline tilting when he’d think too long. Already, Clark was big from afar but up close he was even bigger. Strong arms and broad shoulders; chest so thick it was noticeable through his shirt. You were used to others falling at your feet but Clark stood fine and it affected you in ways you didn’t prepare to deal with, so you tried to do what you always did- ignore it.

Matching Clark’s light conversation as you two eventually get more comfortable, gradually gravitating towards each other with slow short steps. The air shifts when you exhale and the breath tickles his chest. This is when you normally get squeamish but you merely hesitate for a few minutes before taking a deep breath and pushing yourself by letting him keep his distance.

His hand twitch and he shuffles a bit closer, biceps flexing as he reaches out, resting his hands on your shoulders; your conversation quiets as he stares at you with perfectly blue lidded eyes and then you feel the stirrings of restlessness under your skin. That impeding urge to get away. Despite the way you feel, the slow atmosphere helps you tremendously to not pull away but your pulse spikes all the same. His hands felt nice. You take another deep breath as you try to come to terms with what you were feeling.

Clark was a guy.

A guy who was standing in your bubble, touching you- looking at you.

A million emotions fly across your face at record speed and Clark doesn’t move any more for the next couple minutes. No, he waits for you; large rough palms warm on your bare shoulders while his pinky idly messes with the thin strap of your top. Your skin was soft. The heavy rise and fall of your chest has him focusing on you more intensely, trying to get a read on how you felt until you break the silence with a shaky exhale.

“We can keep going- you can keep touching me.” He knows you don’t mean it that way but his ears burn anyways as he nods. Taking a second to think before taking his hands off you to take yours, ignoring your big eyes look as he places your hands around his waist- inevitably moving closer and his voice softens like he’ll frighten you away if he were to speak any louder.

“You can touch me too. Promise I don’t mind…this is for you after all.” You suppress a whine because being so close was already hard with you fighting every instinct yelling at you to get gone and go somewhere where nobody could comprehend you but now with Clark staring at you like that, it was even harder. Your eyes flick about the room as you flatten your palms more against his back, mentally rolling your eyes back at how his muscles feel. You don’t even realize you’re biting your lip but Clark does, instantly alert the second he felt your small hands nervously press against him, his eyes zeroed in on the swollen skin dipping under the pressure of your teeth. He feels bad because while he was supposed to be helping you, he couldn’t stop thinking about how sexy you were being so shy but hardheaded enough to build up the grit to go for what scared you because you wanted it.

Without taking his eyes off your face, he rubs his hands up to your neck, making you squeak before smoothing them back down your shoulders; repeating the motions with a gentle hum.

The room feels hot- you felt hot and jittery but it’s too much. Unable to keep the waves at bay, goosebumps trickle over your skin and your eyes scrunch in panic as your breathing picks up. He was close. Close and touching you. You can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes because you know when you do, you’ll be naked for all to see and you scream.

“Stop!”

Nobody can see you-nobody’s supposed to be seeing you, the girl who was never even chose last as you were overlooked entirely no matter how badly you wanted to reach out. Maybe that’s what started your fear. Maybe you were scared of losing experiences because of rejection.

Clark doesn’t move away but he isn’t touching you anymore and you aren’t touching him as your hands fly to the sides of your head, trying to calm yourself down and guilt pours over him. He wants to hug you; comfort you but he knows that pulling you against him in a hug will only worsen things right now so he waits. Closing his eyes to help you feel at ease, listening closely to the beat of your heart until your breaths quiet and he hears it fluctuate back to normal. He keeps his eyes closed until he feels your small trembling hands slide back around him and instead of putting his hands on your shoulders, he moves his arms around them; resting them against your back but not pulling you in yet. It’s quiet besides the hushed sounds of him cooing at you and your breathing. The air now has an underlying current and you shift in his heavy arms, inhaling deeply as you finally look up at his face. Shyly, you cut the silence; voice soft as how you feel.

“…you can open your eyes now..” Clark feels his own heart speed up before he responds, low tone matching yours and electricity hits you when it clicks. This is intimate.

“Are you okay? We can stop and try again some other time; I don’t wanna upset-,”

“I want you to look at me.”

His eyes pop open at your command, peering down at you in such a way that your breath catches; anxiousness rising up you again but you stay right where you are. Willing yourself to embrace the exposed way he makes you feel.

Under the heat of his stare it’s like he’s seeing everything you’ve ever hid or been but his hold is steady enough to let you know he’s there with you and he’s not going anywhere. You still feel naked but more than that, you feel safe. Comfortable enough to not shy away from his warmth, you take another breath; looking up at him through your lashes- it makes his head fuzzy.

His eyes shift from their usual blue to the shade of the sea after a storm and you’re swept away, logic going with you as you slowly glide your hands up his sides to his where his arms hold you. Feeling every dip and curve of his strong build until you reach his hands, repositioning them around your lower back. You move closer but because you two were already standing so close- your chests touch and Clark stops breathing. The soft swell of your breasts move against his body with your every inhale and he finds his senses filled with you.

Your gaze is torn away when you turn your head, looking down as you drop against his chest. Arms looping around him making his own instinctively curl around you, holding you tight to the firm but soft muscle of his chest. You both pause for a few minutes- waiting for the urgent panic but it never comes. Instead, you melt into him with a relieved sigh, warm breath bleeding into his shirt. You two were officially hugging.

And you were in heaven.

You never knew close contact with the opposite gender could be so delightful. Clark was just so big and warm and smelled so good, you bury your face into the meat of his pec almost deliriously, sighing happily. Fuck, you really had been missing out. His arms are firm and heavy against your back, effectively locking you against him. The endorphin rush hitting you has you practically purring; the sounds of your bliss vibrating Clark’s chest and he smiles, letting you get your fix as he enjoys the way you fit into his arms.

Unsurprisingly, you two stay like that for a while. Fitted against each other in the silence of your cozy bedroom. He sees the top of your head move and he’s suddenly looking into your eyes, pupils blown so wide that your eyes are black. Clark has to bite his lip to keep from smiling at how cute you look. Your eyes flit down to his mouth to see the peek of his fangs that always show, letting out a small breathy ‘oh’ when you do. You’re still reeling in all the best ways as you rest your chin against his chest, unabashedly looking at his handsome face.

Clark raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the phantom hearts in your eyes and the way your small feet are standing on top of his larger ones while you make no attempt to separate your bodies, completely content with his proximity. He likes you so he likes your closeness and he’s even more elated that you seem to like him being so close too. Speaking lowly so he doesn’t disturb you, he checks if you’re still on the planet with him.

“This okay, sweetheart? Y’enjoying yourself?” The petname slips out but you don’t move or rush to correct him as your blood simmers, a numbingly pleasant heat washing over you so strong it’s hard to think. Running your hands in a slow caress up his back, you feel the muscles flex as his arm twitches and a smile grows on your face as you blink dumbly- brain currently taking a break, you mumble sweetly,

“Mmhm, yeah. Never better.”

And it’s true. You’ve never felt this safe, this free with anyone that wasn’t immediate family or your best girl friends. He was touching you and seeing you but you didn’t care because you knew whatever he was seeing and touching, was safe as it would ever be with him.

Clark huffs out a laugh at your belated response, moving one of his hands in a warm caress up your back, feeling you shiver and he bites his lip again. You were so alluring without even having to try and he breathes to reign himself in since he was currently the first and only to have you melting like this from a hug alone. If a hug got you like this he could only imagine how beautifully you’d respond to-

“Um, C-Clark?” Your soft voice brings him back as he hums, flicking his eyes down lazily at you.

“Yeah, baby?” Your sweet little gasp makes him realize that he just called you another nickname but you don’t seem to mind, flustering prettily in his arms. He leans down closer to your face, only to hear you better, eyes patient as he stares at you.

“I know this is supposed to be about me but how do you feel? You’ve been so good with me..I just wanna make sure you’re okay too.” Clark smiles, moved that you’re worrying about him even with all his experience.

“Yeah I feel good but how about you? Want me to let go or we can try something different?” He would’ve asked if you wanted to stop but he was going off your body language and it was telling him distance was the last thing you wanted and he was right as you shook your head before resting your chin back into his chest, looking up at him with those pupil eclipsed doe eyes.

“I feel great but…”, your voice gets smaller as it takes on an almost needy tone before stopping altogether. You snap your face back into his chest and he’s even more curious to get it out of you but you just can’t say it.

“You really don’t need to be embarrassed. Clothed or naked, we all start somewhere”, he whispers against the top of your head, stroking your back soothingly as you try to talk yourself into asking him before you chicken out, “with me you can start wherever you want and you know I’ll never tell. Or make fun of you..”,

His voice is tender with warmness and it turns your reservations to raindrops as you look back into his eyes. Steeling your nerve, you ground yourself with the way you feel in another persons arms for the first time in your life- his arms and decide to go for it.

“You said- we can try something different?” Your heart begins to race again as Clark’s starts to pound. He can’t keep the heat out of eyes as he returns your stare, nodding.

“Yeah. We can do whatever you want.” His breath wafts across your face, forehead resting against yours and the rate at which you find yourself needing him- scares you. You’ve been depraved of this kind of contact to the point of fear since forever but now…

“Then…can we-“, you blink rapidly, not wanting to verbalize it but not wanting to go without even more.

“Can we kiss please?”

Clark has to shut his eyes. You looked so sweet, felt so soft and even though you couldn’t keep the neediness from seeping into your words, you still asked so politely. Blood rushes through his ears as he feels a familiar stirring in his groin, taking a deep breath because it wouldn’t do for him to lose control now, his voice is heady with pure want when he answers,

“F’course. I’d love to kiss, baby.”

Large hands settle around your waist as you get pulled completely flush to him, legs almost intertwining while your pelvises touch; bodies glued together. The languid heat of arousal thrums through you, making your head spin.

Your lips part when Clark presses his forehead more firmly against yours, lighting you from the inside out when he dips his neck to slot his open mouth over yours.

Immediately your chest burns, heart feeling like each pump is gasoline, fueling the fire hes started in you. Clark’s full lips slide against yours, alternating between suckling at your top lip then bottom lip slowly, coaxing you to follow his lead, groaning his approval and the sound turns you up as you press yourself harder against his body. You feel so good you’re thrumming- heat steadily pulsing through you.

Your heads move from how hard you’re kissing, slick sounds coming from your mouths intensifying as you get rougher, delicious shivers all up your spine. Clark presses his lips fully against yours, moving them open wider with his own, hot breaths mingling as he licks hotly against the opening of your mouth. A bolt of pleasure hits you so hard that you gasp, wrenching your mouth off his as you moan- the needy little thing so whiny it makes his cock fatten in his pants as you pant against each others lips. Fuck. He can smell how wet you are. The sweet, heady smell makes his mouth water with him tossing shame clean out the window.

“Can I put my tongue in your mouth? Please, pretty girl?” You move your arms around his neck to get as close as possible, nodding desperately.

“God, yes-” His mouth is back to consuming yours before you can finish. Opening your lips with the force of his swollen ones, he sucks your bottom lip before lapping his tongue into your mouth. You twitch in his hold, even more turned on when he doesn’t have to move to keep your squirming in place, casual show of strength making you lightheaded as he swallows your moans. Wet smacks fill the air, your grip on him tightening when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. You get wetter and he can tell, growling in pleasure as he suddenly lifts you; your legs locking around his waist as he uses his hold on yours to grind you against him. The result is instantaneous. You melt like cotton candy, chest shaking against his from your pleasured moans as your shared spit wets your lips. Still aware of the fact that you need to breathe, Clark pulls away with a suck of your lips- staring at you hungrily with dark eyes.

He can’t even remember when he picked you up but the tiny undulations of your hips let him know it was a welcome decision. You looked so good. Lips puffy n slick, doe eyes teary and blown out, wet as fuck with your hard nipples poking through your top…you could ask him for every one of Saturns rings and he’d get them for you.

Clark takes a deep lungful of your tantalizing scent before he checks on you again.

“How was that, sweetheart? Y’first kiss right?” You nod, cupping his face. You can’t help the way you smooch more pecks onto his pink lips, aching as you answer.

“It was so good”, you drag your nose down his jaw; kissing his ear as you whisper into it, “you feel so good, Clark..”. You have him completely hard at this point, thick and fat as his tip oozes pre when you start to whine. He almost feels bad that you’ve waited so long, being so pent up wasn’t healthy and you deserved to feel good everyday.

“What’s wrong baby?” The low timbre of his voice makes your pulse skyrocket, causing you to absolutely dissolve against him, hips twitching as he helped you rub yourself on him.

“I-I need..-“, you let out a soft cry and he quickly soothes you. Kissing you deeply before pulling away, licking his lips of your taste as he verbalizes exactly what you need.

“Need to cum?”

The heat in your chest blooms up to your face as you nod, suddenly growing shy but still comfortable. You purr as Clark presses a sweet kiss to your cheek, looking at you with pretty lidded eyes.

“Would it be okay if I made you cum princess?”

The utterly wrecked moan that comes out of your mouth has goosebumps scattering up his arms, holding you tighter as you nod vigorously.

“I need words baby”, he whispers. Giving you another kiss to tempt you and it works. He was too irresistible and he knew it.

“Yeah, you can make me cum Clark.” And with that he carries you over to your bed, laying you on the plushness as he takes over your mouth again with a hungry groan, your hands touching everywhere until he pulls away- fangs on display as he smiles making fire sweep through your veins.

Massaging your legs, he rises on his knees- taking off his shirt as your mind checks out from how hot he is, shifting restlessly as the ache in your pussy throbs with the best pain. Whining his name, Clark cooes at you; big hands moving to pull your clothes off. Your nerves are going haywire but you need this- need him to make you feel things, lifting your hips to help him slide your shorts and underwear off, spreading your legs as you let him get a good look at your messy wet hole twitching in need.

Clark swears, hooking his hands under your knees and bending them towards your chest. Exposing you more as he licks his lips, keeping his eyes glued to your cunt.

“Atta girl, jus’ lay there nice n pretty and I’ll give you what you need..”

Part ✌🏽…

[teeskzagain]

°. *࿐ Squirts ꩜ .ᐟ

in which your poor boyfriend is already overstimulated...but you can't stop until he.....!

warnings: sub!heeseung x gentle!dom reader, handjobs and squirting (yeah that's about it), overstimulation, use of pet names: 'seungie', baby, honey.

"Seungie...how're you feeling?"

Quietly, you swing your head forward and to the side, wanting to get a better view of the boy. Your lower back rests against the bed frame with your legs straightened out in front of you. In between them lays Lee Heeseung.

His bare torso leans on top your chest, though, there was a slight hunch to his backside. You could see his body heave up and down as he actively produces whiny pants.

You wait, blinking patiently as you watch his struggling face. His eyes are squinted shut, teeth clenched into a straight line, eyebrows digging into his brow bone. Almost as if he were in pain.

You regard your boyfriend even if he doesn't reply to you. You keep scanning your innocent eyes over his stature, accepting the silence as your hand continues to leisurely pump his nearly liquified cock.

"Hmm? Is it becoming too much?"

Eyes boring deep into his side profile, you work your grip gently up and down his erection. Each stroke sends him deeper into despair. Your hand is full of pre-cum, and seeing as you're on your third round of edging, he feels himself growing basically numb from just leaking nothing but the first stages of arousal. He hasn't even came yet, and already his cock feels tired.

"Are you about ready?" Your voice buzzes lowly, like you're speaking directly into his brain, "Ready to finally cum all over my hand?"

The soft care laced within your tone has him melting, and he can't help the small whine he does as a reply.

"Baby," his grimaced face finds its way closer to yours, and soon he's opening his glossy eyes that are full of plead, "-so close. Please, 'm so close. Can feel myself about to cum."

He gasps lightly when you suddenly change your pace to go faster, "Please- let me."

Heeseung grips the comforter for support. A stifling moan leaves his throat from how overstimulated he's starting to feel. Covered in his own slick, he can't help if he's starting to come undone from your strokes.

"Oh, poor baby..." Gently, you bring your mouth to his bare shoulder and place a tender kiss, "You're okay, you can release it now. Wanna see you cum now." You give another kiss on his smooth skin and in turn his breathing turns to huffs which gradually get louder.

He can't take it anymore. He just physically can't. You're squeezing his head too hard, and each time he mews lighter. Your fingertips playing with his slit after every spew of liquid just makes his body stutter. You're not just jerking him off, your hand is weaving every other direction as a means of stimulating all of his swollen, pink, drenched cock.

He feels his hips chasing your hand now, "Oh- baby. I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum right no..."

You fasten the pace for him, pulling at and gripping his wet skin until eventually he's ejaculating everywhere. His cum spews all over his tip, and into the crevice of your hand. Some flies in front of you two and lands on your naked legs, while some falls to his stomach.

"Fuck, hmmm Y/N. Feels so fucking good. So fucking-" His eyes are rolling into the back of his head, all the while his load just doesn't stop. And neither do you.

"Keep going. Come on, honey." You coo sweetly as your fingers curl even deeper into his erection while still jacking him off rapidly.

Heeseung, who's becoming overwhelmed with the sensation, lets out a hick, "Mm, baby. What are you.."

"Wanna see it all. So i need you to keep going." You mumble with focused eyes at what you're doing to him. The squelching from earlier has amplified along with how red Heeseung's poor cock looks. You feel yourself getting turned on from looking at his delicious cock.

"Wait-" Heeseung shifts his body around, trying desperately to move way from you, "Wait-! Slow down.."

"Just a little more." You encourage, your hand going lightening speed. The cum and arousal are mixing together because of your movements, and soon a milky substance begins to coat his length. He twitches harshly above you.

"Y/N! N-no, please- I'm gonna-!"

Before you know it, he's crying out the loudest moan from all night as a long distance of arousal shoots out from his tip. More follows suit, soaking your hand until it's essentially drowned out and the bed in front of you both.

His cock continues to squirt bits and pieces of the arousal, all the while his fountain of liquid begins to decrease.

You smile happily at your boyfriend, now slowing down on his cock that's bruised like no other, while sending him quiet praise, "See. I knew you had it in you. Good job, did so good for me."

Placing another soft peck on his shoulder, you keep mumbling tiny words while nursing his overstimulated cock, loving how Heeseung relaxes his tired body into yours.

[strialternatives]

bonus:

(if atlus won't give akechi's mom a name i'll have to Do It Myself-)

Here's part 2 of the Akechi palace au with a bunch of character concepts :jazzhands: once again having a normal one lads

check out part 1 over here

some additional mechanics and a plot outline continued under the cut

The fifth and final area is the Imperial Box, this is where the Empress and the Treasure reside.

(Acceptance, Akechi must acknowledge that his old ambitions are long dead and buried so to speak. Thus, he must move forward, whatever that looks like for him personally now that all other legal avenues for redemption have been closed to him.)

The ‘treasure’ is with the Empress, a bound Hereward disguised as Mamakechi’s cognition; Goro, the Emperor, is locked within his own palace and must leave the courtroom a free man on his own two feet. Akira an’ Co have to wake him from his restful sleep and steal him from the palace while the Empress rampages. 

Boss fight includes continuously knocking Hereward down while fleeing the palace as it collapses area by area. Robin Hood and Loki help guide the Thieves out, having finally come together to share a stage.

Phase 1: The Empress will not rise from her throne, she reflects fire, physical, bless and curse attacks with a detached, disinterest as though the battle has nothing to do with her.

Phase 2: The Empress surges up in anger, using a hail of hellfire arrows on the party that must be ridden out.

Phase 3: She full heals the party and invites them to join in the palace’s festivities.

Phase 4: Her attacks start to grow lethargic and sloppy the closer the party gets to the palace entrance.

Phase 5: All of her shields are down, she can no longer reflect attacks, her facade shatters like a mirror, revealing the final palace ruler--Hereward.

Goro has a third awakening during this pursuit--Wilhelm Tell. A Swiss folk hero representing individual freedom and rebellion, a skilled hunter and father most known for shooting an apple from his son’s head at the behest of a tyrant who ultimately seeks retribution. A hero that kept to his convictions while taking control of his future, and protecting the person most important to him. 

(AKA Goro deep down craves a decent fraternal figure and alas, his own psyche and the sea of collective human consciousness decided to provide. And no, he is NOT talking about it Joker.)

Misc Palace rules/gen details:

Loki and Robin Hood hate each other which is honestly just Goro’s internal self-loathing running wild, it’s part of why they can’t exist on the same stage.

Hereward pulls Goro into the metaverse as a defense mechanism of sorts aka before Goro did something self-destructive deep down none of them wanted post-Shido’s trial.

Akechi’s palace is hostile to every intruder aside from Akira, his rival, whom he’ll always see as a threat but respects and trusts more than anyone else. This results in every enemy but his own shadows targeting the rest of the party. They also abide by the "Oracle is off limits" rule. Fights in general are easier with a smaller team as teammates in the back lineup will also take damage.

Jazz records instead of grief seeds, every time you get one the music in the area stops.

In the audience stands there’s a cognition of Wakaba in the VIP section, the party learns about Futaba being Goro’s half-sibling. Goro sees himself in Futaba and deep down wishes he hadn’t burned all bridges on that front.

Initial Infiltration Team: Joker, Sumire, Morgana, Futaba. Haru and Makoto are at uni, Yusuke has a patron in Kyoto, Ann is overseas until a month into the palace and Ryuji is also at uni on a track scholarship until around the same time. The other thieves slowly fill in the ranks as the palace progresses, until we have a full house in the Hall of Severance.

First Layer Philosophy Puzzle Quotes: 

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

“Genuine tragedies in the world are not conflicts between right and wrong. They are conflicts between two rights.” ― Hegel

“The law is reason, free from passion.” ― Aristotle

“The first and greatest victory is to conquer yourself; to be conquered by yourself is of all things most shameful and vile.” ― Plato

“I shall not be present at my trial.” ― Leblanc

This is basically a loose fic outline, broad strokes, etc ;; ty to everyone who left replies and comments, they're all really sweet!

(had to get this au out or the mold would get me ya see :/)

[lazysoulwriter]

the trouble we cause. - pedro pascal x wife!actress!reader.

requested!!! thank you for sending, love doing this one.

---

It had started as a joke.

"Imagine if we ever worked together," you had laughed, curled up against Pedro’s chest one night. "We’d get absolutely nothing done."

Pedro had only grinned, pressing a kiss to your hair. "I'd be professional... ish."

You should've known better.

Because now, six months later, you were sitting across from him at a press junket, cameras rolling, mics hot — and you were this close to bursting into laughter because of the dumb little face he was making at you from across the table.

It was a losing battle from the start.

From the very first day on set, you and Pedro had been... a problem.

It wasn’t intentional. You were both professionals — award-winning, seasoned actors. But professionalism had limits when it came to your husband whispering Spanish nonsense into your ear between takes just to make you giggle.

It wasn’t your fault he kept sneaking glances at you during serious scenes. It wasn’t your fault you kept blushing and ruining your lines. And it definitely wasn’t your fault when the director had to physically separate you two during lunch breaks because apparently, "you're distracting each other too much."

Not that the separation helped much. Pedro had a whole arsenal of "across the room" tactics: raised eyebrows, secret smiles, a whole silent language only the two of you understood.

You were, in short, insufferable.

And everyone else loved you for it.

The junket was the worst (or best) example yet.

Initially, they had placed you and Pedro side by side, thinking it would be cute — married couple! same movie! adorable!

It took all of ten minutes for chaos to erupt.

You couldn't stop leaning into each other, whispering jokes under your breath. Pedro kept trying to "discreetly" hold your hand under the table. At one point, you straight-up started laughing so hard at something he muttered that you had to hide your face behind your coffee cup.

The publicist eventually gave up and moved you to opposite ends of the panel.

Big mistake.

Now, you were playing silent games of charades across the stage — winking, mouthing jokes, making faces until the moderator very politely asked if "the married couple could please focus."

You bit your lip, cheeks flaming. Pedro just shrugged, grinning like the devil himself.

Later, during the one-on-one interviews, it only got worse.

Every time someone asked a serious question, Pedro would somehow manage to derail it.

"What's it like working together?" Pedro: "Dangerous. I fear for my life daily." (said while giving you a full-on heart-eyes look.)

"Was there a lot of on-set chemistry?" Pedro: "Wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying not to propose again."

You smacked his arm for that one — gently, lovingly, the way you did everything with him.

The interviewer laughed. Pedro just looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

When you got home that night, exhausted but buzzing from the day, you collapsed onto the couch together, still in your fancy clothes.

Pedro immediately pulled you into his lap, arms locking around your waist.

"You know," you murmured, tracing lazy patterns over his chest, "we're a menace."

Pedro laughed, deep and warm. "I think they’re just jealous," he said, nuzzling your temple. "They wish they had this."

You smiled, feeling that familiar, overwhelming rush of love for him.

"This," you echoed, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

And you wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it meant getting scolded like teenagers every time you were in a room together.

Especially if it meant this.

---

[emptymasks]

They're done! I really want to try and make prints again as it's been years and I've never felt like I was very good at making whole posters. Dipping my toe back in with these silly chibis of each Papa with every Ghoul they've had. Perhaps they can also work as a guide for those wanting to learn all the characters? I added in a fair amount of little references with the Ghoul's poses so it'll be interesting to see what you guys figure out and notice!

The prints are on pre-order and won't ship out until November. I've put up 25 of each to start with but if they get low on stock I'll keep adding more until I have them printed and then it'll be a set amount in stock.

Also a reminder about the stickers of every Ghost Papa and Ghoul that I made earlier this year that are also available as customisable badges! Thank you so much to everyone who already bought them and got Etsy to list them as a 'bestseller' for a while. They're still up and in stock.

EDIT: someone informed me Delta was not in Secondo's era so sorry little water ghoul but he got edited out of that drawing.

Characters featured on the prints and are also available on stickers and badges: Papa Emeritus I / Primo, Papa Emeritus II / Secondo, Papa Emerirus III / Terzo, Papa Emeritus IV / Cardinal Copia, Aether, Air, Alpha / Fire, Aurora, Chain / Water, Cirrus, Cowbell, Cumulus, Delta, Dewdrop / Sodo, Earth, Ifrit, Ivy, Lake, Mist, Mountain, Omega / Quintessence, Pebble, Phantom, Phil / Special Ghoul, Rain, Sunshine, Swiss, Zephy.

I can’t link to my Etsy without risking Tumblr hiding the post from tag search results, but the link is in my pinned post, my carrd, I’m emptymasks on Etsy. Reblogs help support artists more than likes ❤️

[ID: Four landscape drawings, one for each of Ghost's Papas and the Ghouls that were in the band with them while they were the lead singer. Each Papa is in the center with each of their ghouls standings to their sides. Every character has their name written above or below them, on brightly coloured backgrounds for each Papa's robe colour. Also, individual pixel art chibi drawings of 69 characters from various European musicals (listed above) that are available as stickers. These drawings are also available as badges where they are placed inside circles to show what they will look like as physical button badges, some of them with plain colour backgrounds and some with 1-3 different pride flags as examples of how you can customise the backgrounds.]

For those who want to know what the little references in the prints are and don't want to guess, they're under the cut:

Omega can be a stompy boy when he's playing guitar, Alpha likes to throw up peace signs, Air is very found of the rock horns hand symbol, there's one close-up photo of Lake out there where you can clearly see his black sclera contacts and he's doing double 'horns' hand symbol, Mountain infamously takes his shoes off when playing the drums and leaves them on the stage at the site of his drumkit, Dewdrop likes to like.. most things including his guitar and his picks and sometimes his own hand, Pebble liked to hand out his drumsticks at the end of shows by dropkicking them into the crowd, Omega wore a flower tucked into his guitar strap during one show and Terzo constantly flirts with him more than other ghouls, Delta is suspected to be the ghoul that attempted to kick an audience member off stage when they climbed onstage and attempted to kiss Terzo, Zephyr was the only band member and only keyboardist who sat down while playing, the special ghoul played by Tobias wore a nametag 'Phil' in an interview, Swiss constantly is showing all his teethies with his smiles and always wiggling and moving around, Aether and Dewdrop often interact with Dew teasing/bothering Aether, Dew and Rain also often interact with Dew constantly reaching to grab his neck and attempt to kiss him, aaaand I think that's everything I intentionally included other than just generally tried to get the poses and expressions to match the personality we've seen from each ghoul.

[cowboy1ikereid]

sweet creature ~ s.r.

‘Wherever I go, you bring me home’

Summary: Spencer calls you when he’s missing home.

Warnings: pregnant!reader x husband!spencer, reader is in her second pregnancy and they already have a 3 y/o daughter, spencer is, again, a huge softie, calls you sweetheart, he's called away on an urgent case and misses you, reader is almost in third trimester, they fall asleep on the phone, cuties, inspired by sweet creature by harry styles, fluff and comfort

Category: Fluff x Comfort

Word count: 1.1k

Author's note: Spencer Reid deserved to get married and have children but he has to be a girl dad and I don't make the rules. I just know he would be the most sweet, caring and loving husband/dad in the world. Anyways I kind of had to do something to this song because I saw it live (Wembley N4 I’ll miss you forever). Enjoy!!

You were exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Being 7 and a half months pregnant and taking care of your 3 year old daughter alone had never been part of the plan. In fact, Spencer was supposed to be working either in office or from home during the later stages of your pregnancy, but a serious case meant that he was needed urgently by the BAU. With only 8 hours notice he was in Florida, and suddenly he was approximately 920.4 miles away from you.

It was around 9pm, and you’d been eagerly awaiting a phone call from your husband. You’d blame your anxiety on the hormones, but you knew it wasn’t just that. You’d always been like this whenever he was away, and you never quite managed to properly adjust to how much travelling his job required. Lizzie, your daughter, was laid next to you in the bed you and Spencer shared, asleep on his side of the bed. She was the same as you whenever her dad was away, even if she didn’t quite understand his job. She was a daddy’s girl, and if sleeping on Spencer’s side of the bed helped her to feel that little bit closer to him when he was away, you would let her. Her curly light brown hair was sprawled across the pillow which she drooled on, unconscious.

Your phone was on silent so the ringer didn’t wake her up, but as soon as you felt the persistent buzzing and Spencer’s name appeared on the screen, you stood, stretching slightly before leaving the room and quietly closing the door behind you, simultaneously swiping the button to answer the call.

“Hi.” You whispered softly, cautious not to wake up your sleeping three-year-old who was in the next room.

“Hi sweetheart. How are you?” Spencer’s sweet voice spoke over the phone.

“Hanging on. I managed to settle Lizzie after she cried because you couldn’t tuck her in tonight.. Little one has been quiet for now, but I just know that she’ll start getting active as soon as I attempt to sleep.” You spoke with a soft smile on your face at the thought of the little life growing inside of you whilst you tiptoed down the stairs and into the living room, sitting down on the sofa with a hand on your round bump, rubbing it gently.

You heard Spencer sigh over the phone. “I miss you. I saw the three of you this morning and it feels like I haven’t seen you in months.” He chuckled. Spencer was alone in his hotel room, and it felt strangely quiet. Unfamiliar. If Spencer was home, you’d be asleep in his arms by now, your soft snores echoing in the darkness of your bedroom. Pregnancy was tiring, after all. But you struggled to sleep without each other, and you knew that. Your house may as well have been cold and empty to you without him there. Your house wasn’t your home. Spencer was, and you knew that he felt the same way about you. That was why he’d called.

“Any new symptoms? At around the seven month mark, you should expect to experience some shortness of breath, discomfort which may lead to difficulty moving, frequent urination, lightheadedness caused by the baby putting pressure on your blood vessels which can slow blood flow, fatigue-” He began to reel off pregnancy symptoms until he was cut off by your sleepy laugh.

“Spence, you’ve been gone for less than a day. You don’t have to worry about me. I feel the same as I did earlier.” You giggled.

“And that is?” He questioned. You could picture him furrowing his eyebrows, and the thought of it made your heart warm.

“Achey, tired, like a whale, hungry..” You listed, and you already knew he was going to give you advice on how to deal with your symptoms. He’d done more than enough research on pregnancy when JJ was first pregnant with Henry, and since then he’d unexpectedly found himself helping a woman give birth on a case.

“You need to rest. It’s late and that’s one of the only things that could help with your symptoms right now apart from physical activity, but I doubt you’d want to do any exercise at the moment,” He instructed, and you knew that he was being serious, even with his light tone. You’d think that you’d know more about pregnancy than Spencer, with you being mid-way through your second pregnancy, but he knew everything. Whilst anybody else might have been surprised by that, you weren’t. He’d done extensive research on the topic, after all, and he continued to. “And I can also guarantee you that you don’t look like a whale.” He added, and you could hear his smile in his voice.

“That’s what you think. I can hardly move, and when I do I waddle. I waddle, Spencer!” You pouted, and you could hear him laugh.

“Well I’m sure you look beautiful whilst you waddle.” He teased.

After a few quiet conversations between the two of you, 9pm turned to 11:30pm, and you could feel your mind wanting to drift off as your conversations slowly turned into Spencer spouting off random facts whilst you listened, his voice soothing you as though he was there with you. You decided to go back upstairs and tuck yourself into bed whilst he talked, placing your phone on the nightstand. He wasn’t really next to you, but it was close enough. You knew Lizzie wouldn’t wake up between Spencer’s soft words, the low volume your phone was on and her tendency to be a heavy sleeper. However, Spencer soon realised you were responding to him less and less.

“Sweetheart?” He said quietly, and you hummed in response, already drifting off. “Do you want me to hang up?” He asked, and your eyes snapped open. “No. Uh, I mean, I’d like it if you could just… stay on the line.” You said quietly, and he understood what you meant.

“Of course,” He responded, “Good night. I love you.” He said, and you said it back.

Soon enough, you fell asleep, and if he closed his eyes, he could picture you there next to him, your soft snores echoing around his hotel room. That was all he needed to relax, and Spencer soon found himself drifting off to sleep, feeling like he was at home. Feeling like he was with his home.

You brought him home.

[stevie-petey]

track five: gasoline, pretty please

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

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

Rating: general, some swearing, blood

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eye twitches. “The greatest.”

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

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

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

Steve swallows. “Right.”

“Then that’s what I’m here to do.” 

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

He still hasn’t forgotten the taste.

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

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

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

“Oh, definitely.”

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

“Seems I have some competition, then.” 

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

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

Childish laughter bubbles in your chest. “Never.”

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet you’re the only one he performs for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he allows you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Part of my job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m really not.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nancy would kill me–”

“We both know she’d agree with me.”

“Okay, no–”

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

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

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

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

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

Steve drinks again. “It’s only beer.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s what you said last night.”

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

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

But he can’t tell Robin any of this. 

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

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

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

Robin breathes out. “Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jonathan blinks. “Yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Niceties and pleasantries. 

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

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

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

I could never forget you.

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

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

But he knows you, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Steve?

His post-show ritual has just arrived. 

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

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

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

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

It’s the only release he can afford. 

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

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

Max snorts. “Took them long enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

There are snippets Steve remembers, though.

Like being forced to ski in Colorado.

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

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

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

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

Jonathan quickly sits up in bed. “We?”

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

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

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

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

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

Of course you fucking roped him into your idea.

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

“I told you to get up!”

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

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

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

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

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

“It was Steve’s fault.”

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

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

“I’m sleeping,” he says, monotone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We never signed a fucking waiver.”

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

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

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

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

“I’d rather fucking die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, so let’s get to skiing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little help, here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snow falls all over. Your second winter together. 

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The most overqualified concert photographer in history.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

November, 1989, the Februarys recover from skiing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s really good at doing that.”

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

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

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

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

“They really loved your work. A lot.”

“Where’s this going?”

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

“Oh.” 

“They’re based in New York–”

“Gregory.”

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

“Gregory.”

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

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

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

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

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

And Steve. All you could think about was Steve. 

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

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

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

Him. 

Gregory can’t even say his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gregory trips. “I-sorry?”

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

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

You smile wickedly. “Gotcha.”

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

–

Leonard books the Februarys three shows in California. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike shrugs. “Ted’s an ass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

And they oblige.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This time.” Max adds. 

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

“Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N is going to sleep with us.”

“What?” He chokes on his spit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Again, do I get a say in this?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not joining.” 

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

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

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

Right on fucking time.

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

I meant it. I really am trying.

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

“Will we?” Max’s question severs.

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

It’s the most he can promise. 

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m on his side for this one.”

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

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

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

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

“You slept together that night?” Max gags.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And when you’re not taking pictures of our performances?” Robin pushes you just a little more, just enough to get you to see what everyone else already knows. “What are you taking pictures of, then?”

Once, you would’ve told her that you take pictures of Mike chasing Jonathan with a frog through a national park. Pictures of Max with her comics on the bay side of the bus, a moment of peace between shows. You would’ve told Robin that you take pictures of her as she gets ready in the mornings, a lazy image of her in the bathroom mirror with tired eyes but a warm smile. 

Once, you would’ve taken a photo of the way the snow freckled in Steve’s brown hair and how it melts golden in the sunlight. How he looks encased in the green pine of the mountains. The way his hands grip the ski pole and the velvet red of his jacket matching the rosie flush of his face. 

But you can’t tell Robin any of this, because it never happened. You never took the photos. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you’d been too afraid to. The memories you want to preserve are the same memories you try to forget. In putting aside your turmoil and grief for the sake of the band, you’ve slowly lost pieces of yourself in the process.

You’ve slowly lost the love for the art your mother left behind.

Gregory coughs again, this time with more force. It’s enough to break the mountainous silence and bring the attention off of you and onto him. “Excuse me,” he clears his throat excessively, putting on a show. “Didn’t someone say there’d be drinks?”

Robin allows the distraction, worried she’s pushed you too far. Tossing Gregory a beer, she offers one to you as well. “Here. You look like you need one.”

“Thanks,” your mumbled response doesn’t make her feel better. You crack the can open, drink the bitter liquid, and it tastes better than the empty realization of tonight.

– 

The second night in Los Angeles follows the same as the first night.

Steve stumbles into sound check covered in hickies and a bruised eye. He reeks of alcohol and his normally tanned skin looks grey. The Februarys’ bite their tongues when they see him. At the very least he’s shown up for rehearsals sober, albeit hungover. 

You watch them sound check as you normally do. As you watch the band go over the setlist and bicker as usual, the conversation from last night sits heavily in your skin. When Steve shows Robin how to hold a guitar in order to settle a playful argument, you reach for your digital camera before you can second guess it.

The image of them comes out hazy. You were too quick, too ill prepared, but even the lack of skill can’t explain the broken way Steve’s body appears in the photo. The shadows under his eyes are only emphasized in the pixels. The hickies that mar his body look more like cruel bruises than passionate ones. 

Unsettled by how devoid his beauty has become, you put the camera down. You don’t want to remember Steve this way. 

The show itself doesn’t help the pit of dread in your stomach. The overcrowded audience feeds into Steve’s spiral. They shout his name and jeer crude remarks and toss beer cans for him to catch and crack open after every song because he shotguns them with impressive speed. They’re too blind to recognize that he’s fading.

You break from your usual habit of taking pictures of the crowd. Something about the people in the venue makes you uncomfortable. You don’t like how they treat Steve like their shiny new toy. 

Instead you focus on the band the whole night, photographing Robin’s lithe fingers and Jonathan’s exposed neck and Max’s light eyes and Mike’s wild hair and Steve’s lips.

Only the lips you photograph are hard to recognize. Bitten raw and dry and chapped. They no longer resemble the soft lips that used to kiss you to sleep. 

The dread in your stomach only grows. Nothing about this is right. 

You’re desperate at this point. As soon as the show wraps up you jump over the barricade and intercept the Februarys before they walk into their dressing room.

“Wait, hold on a second.”

They all jump back, surprised by your sudden appearance. 

“Someone’s here early.” Robin remarks, eyeing you. “What’s up, pretty girl?”

“I just–” A hickey peeks through the top of Steve’s collar and it punches you in the throat. Your entire body goes numb, yet your nervous system screams at you to run. “Can I take some pictures of you guys? I-I mean, how I used to? After your gigs where I’d take pictures of your guys’ instruments and outfits and–”

“Breathe, dude.” Mike clamps his hand over your mouth. “You’re stressing me out.”

Jonathan slaps his hand away. “You’re all sweaty from performing, don’t be gross.”

“You know fast talkers stress me out!”

“You don’t just shove your hand onto someone’s mouth–”

Robin pushes both boys behind her. While they continue to argue, she grazes your arm. “Take as many pictures of me as you want, babe. You know I love it when I’m your muse.”

Max kicks the boys, causing them both to kneel over in pain. “And these idiots will agree once they get their heads out of their asses.” 

“Perfect,” exhaling in relief, you look past the group for the missing member. “And Steve–” 

He isn’t there. 

Robin lets out an exasperated breath. “Where the hell did he go?”

Your mouth opens to suggest checking the dressing room, but the words die in your throat when a horde of girls run past you. Steve is in the center of it all, already drunk off the attention, tattered in lipstick marks and booze.

–

California feeds the excess of loneliness innate in Steve.

Every night the alcohol consumes him. He drinks to forget how your lips kissed the inside of his thighs and then he drinks even more to feel the phantom touch you left behind. The girls he sleeps with are happy to pretend to be someone else for him. 

They all just want to be able to say that they fucked a rockstar. 

Steve just enjoys the sensation of being held, if only for a brief second between parting lips and hushed tongues. 

He hangs precariously on the thin line he drew out of faulty promises and hurt feelings. A tightrope of his own creation, Steve toes the line between preserving enough of himself for the Februarys and erasing the remaining pieces to forget you.

The morning the band leaves for San Bernardino, he spends the entire drive nursing a hangover. He buries himself in blankets to block out the excessive sunlight and has to clutch onto his bunk railing to steady himself against the rocky pavement that jolts the bus back and forth. 

Robin spares him enough sympathy by hand feeding him some crushed granola and even asks Mike and Jonathan to keep their voices down so that Steve can sleep. 

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve her in his life, but he’s glad he did at least one thing right. 

By the time they arrive at the festival grounds of Glen Helen, it’s late noon.

Max sees them first.

“Holy shit…” She stares out the window, for the first time in her life completely speechless. 

“What’re you–” Mike pushes beside her. His jaw drops. “Oh fuck.”

Hours before the Februarys are expected at the amphitheater, a sea of people intersperse through the trees and tall grass of the forest. Thousands lay in the grass and stand with their friends and clink their drinks together and inch their way closer to the stage. A haze of smoke clouds over them, some acrid wood, some herbal.

“Jesus fuck.” Robin can’t take her eyes off the crowd. The bus creeps past them down a private road and it takes several security guards to clear the way. A dozen onlookers try to follow the bus, but they’re denied access. 

Jonathan roughly pulls Steve out of bed. He’ll want to see the visceral proof of their success. He has to be reminded of it in order to accept that it’s real. That it’s his.

“What the fuck–” Steve hits Jonathan’s chest as he falls off the bunk, but Jonathan doesn’t even blink. He shoves Steve towards the window instead. 

“Remember this,” he tells Steve. “Remember why we do this.”

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

A sold out show of thousands, and they’re all waiting for the Februarys.

When Steve was twelve his father taunted him for wanting to learn the guitar. When he was sixteen he was told by his mother that he would only suit a traditional career if given enough luck. When he was twenty-one and waiting tables in a shitty diner downtown all he had to his name were two songs. One Robin wrote, and one he wrote. 

Now he’s twenty-four. One EP, one album, dozens of songs, and a sold out show at Glen fucking Helen his last night in California. 

And everyone does know the Februarys’ name. 

Leonard greets them when they step inside the dressing room. “About time you kids made it to beautiful fucking Hollywood!”

Gregory coughs. “We’re in San Bernardino, sir.”

“Same shit.” The man waves his hand in the air. “I don’t give a damn. So long as the speed is fresh and the women are titty it’ll always be Hollywood to me.”

Max barely suppresses a snarky comment. He’s her boss whether she likes it or not. “We didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I!” Leonard cackles. “But I was bored and own a plane. Bought her after McCartney lost a bet with me. Bastard hasn’t answered any of my calls since. It’s a shame, really. Beautiful wife. She’s who I named the plane after.”

“And you think Paul McCartney hasn’t called you back because he’s upset he lost a bet ten years ago,” you say carefully, tilting your head at Leonard. “And not because you named an airplane after his wife?”

He lights a cigarette. “Who gives a fuck why he hasn’t called back? Moral of the story is that I’m here and expecting tonight’s show not to be a complete ass fuck like Chicago was,” smoke drifts around Leonard. “Tell me, will I be fucked in the ass tonight?”

Steve steps forward, a handsome smile covering the scent of alcohol that leaks from him. “Not unless we have your consent, sir.”

“Aw,” Leonard clasps a thick hand to Steve’s face. “The alchie thinks he can make jokes now, huh?”

Jonathan has to cover Mike’s mouth before the kid can break out into hysterical laughter. He ends up dragging him outside, away from the rest of the group. Leonard watches in amusement. Steve watches in shame.

“We’ll give you a show.” Robin cuts through the silent standoff. She hates how quickly Leonard can turn Steve into a broken shell. He idolizes the man more than she’d care to admit. They all do. “We can promise you that.”

Leonard takes another drag. He lets the smoke simmer in his lungs. You feel his eyes travel slowly from you to the remaining members of the band. 

Smoke gets exhaled. “Then let the show begin.”

–

People shove against you and compress your chest to the barricade and loudly talk over one another in an anxious anticipation for the show that will start any minute. Warm bodies and hard limbs stifle your breathing, yet in the deafening chaos of it all you wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Maybe it’s the outdoor sanctity or the loose alcohol or the access to drugs and sweat and tears, or maybe it’s simply the music, but the Februarys have never experienced a crowd quite like this one. 

“You guys are fucking rowdy!” Steve whistles into the mic after the second song. The ground shakes beneath him in response. His ears ring from the impact of the screams. Feeling like a little kid given his favorite toy, Steve bites his lip and leans over the mic, “Can you guys scream a little louder for me?”

White, bone rattling noise echoes back.

“That’s what I like to hear!” His laughter rings throughout the amphitheater. Boyish, prideful, charming like honey. The sweet taste of it fills your mouth as you watch Steve enamor the audience. He gets them to bite onto his wit, to eat from his maroon voice. 

Stars glisten behind Steve in the dark of the night and yet he outshines the galaxy without even trying. 

He decided to tempt the stars tonight by playing into the part himself. Stealing a dress suit jacket from Gregory and pairing it with a tight button down shirt with only the first few buttons done, he drips grungy Hollywood with his silver cross necklace stacked against endless chains around his neck. 

Rosie has come out to play. 

“This next song is a favorite of mine,” Steve caresses the mic stand and smirks when he gets the reaction he’s desired. “It starts out a little rough, messy, even. But isn’t that what teasing is all about?”

Jonathan starts the count and Robin plays the first few chords. Immediately everyone recognizes it.

Tease sends the crowd into a frenzy. Energetic and sensual and fucking addicting, they dance and scream along and beg for more, just as the song instructs them to. 

Steve feeds into their wanting ways. He bounces around and head bangs with Mike and kisses Robin’s cheek and plays right back to Max and even slams down on one of Jonathan’s cymbals and he comes back to life after months of vacant death. All smiles, all love and passion and endearing charm. 

This is the Steve Harrington you fell in love with.

Terrified you’ll miss the rare glimpse of the boy you once knew, you take as many photos as you can. You don’t pretend to find anyone else in the viewfinder. The images you take are all of Steve.

His jaw and the shine of his nosering. The cross that nestles against his chest and the buttons that don’t cover anything else. The moles that adorn his melancholy skin. How the pads of his fingers press against his guitar and the thrust of his hips. 

He’s a beauty that offers no salvation.

You get lost in it. 

That’s when someone slams the camera into your skull.

It happens quickly, faster than you can even fully react. All you remember doing is screaming out in pain as the camera hits the crest of your temple and crying at the blinding pain throughout your entire body. 

“Fucking bitch.” You will never forget the way the assailant slurred viciously, unsteady on his drunken feet yet unwavering in his venom. “Blocking my goddamn view.”

Blood drips down your brow. You can’t see out of your left eye. Someone screams your name and pulls you behind them. He sounds like Gregory. You aren’t sure. Your ears ring too loudly from the impact of the assault to focus on anything other than the pain that explodes in your skull. 

“Don’t fucking touch her.” 

Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage?

The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin. 

“Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

“Steve!” Gregory tries to pull him off. You don’t know where you are. Your ears ring and there’s so much blood and you should be doing something. You can’t just let Steve ruin another show for you, but metal fills your mouth and you think you bit through your tongue from the impact. 

Security shoves through the crowd. Jonathan jumps down from the stage to help them pry Steve off from the man now screaming out in pain. Gregory calls for more help and suddenly Robin’s familiar and warm and gentle arms drag your body over the barricade. 

“You’re okay,” she whispers against your ear as she pulls you from the crowd as carefully and quickly as she can. “Can you move your legs for me? We gotta get you backstage, sweetheart. Help me out, here.”

Numb and overwhelmed you do as you’re told, forcing your legs to move. Robin guides you through a swarm of people. The second you’re backstage, away and alone from prying and public eyes all demanding more, you finally break. 

The tears come faster than you can stop them and your body shakes so violently that you’re afraid you’ll fall. Robin takes you into her arms immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she holds you tight to her chest, careful not to touch the bleeding wound on your head. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone get some fucking gauze!” Max screams at any crew member who will listen. She runs around and slams through every drawer she finds, Mike right behind her. 

“Is Y/N okay?” He asks, too nervous to look at you.

Robin holds you even closer. “She will be, but let’s just focus on finding something to clean her up first, okay?”

Both kids look so distraught and worried and it breaks something even deeper within you. Weaker than ever before, tears wet your face and the dull ache nauseates. Humiliation coats your skin, fear claws at it. 

But it all fades the moment Steve runs into the room.

“Y/N.”

He doesn’t look at anyone else. He doesn’t hesitate or wait or overthink. In seconds his arms replace Robin’s. Fear paints every inch of his face. His hands trace every dip of your skin. 

“You’re hurt.” Raw despair drips into Steve’s voice. He cups your face and carefully tilts your head so that he can inspect the injury. He has to hold his breath to steady how irrevocably his heartbeat stings seeing you in so much pain. “Oh, angelface.”

Steve’s touch burns, yet it makes your skin cold and you aren’t sure if you want to pull away or collapse into the cavity of his chest. “You’re okay, yeah? Just look at me. Max and Robin will find you something to stop the bleeding.” He brushes hair out of your face and attends to you in such a delicate way that you never thought you’d see again. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Though your tongue feels raw, you still can’t resist reassuring him. “You’re not the one who hit me.”

He doesn’t respond, instead grabbing the gauze that Robin offers and dabs your temple with a wet rag that Max threatened a crew member for. The cold stings against the wound and you wince with every touch, but Steve shushes you with soothing words. He apologizes under his breath over and over again. 

“You can’t be serious.” Jonathan’s raised voice gets everyone’s attention. He stands in a corner with Gregory, who Steve hasn’t let come any closer to you. 

“What’s going on?” Max sets down the rag and stalks towards the men.

Mike jabs a finger at Gregory. “This asshole just told us to go back on stage.”

Robin laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, fuck no.”

“You guys sold 20,000 tickets,” Gregory closes his eyes, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. “You only have five songs left, it’d be unprofessional to waste the remaining time–”

“Y/N was just fucking assaulted!” Jonathan’s malice surprises everyone. He doesn’t fucking care what Gregory or anyone else thinks. You’re one of his closest friends and your blood hasn’t even dried yet. “No way in hell are we going back out there.”

“I care deeply for Y/N, and what happened tonight was despicable,” Gregory tries to look at you, but Steve blocks his view of you. Suppressing an agitated sigh, he begs the band to understand. “But I wouldn’t ask you guys to do this if it wasn’t important.”

Steve tightens his arms around you. “We’re done. End of discussion.”

“If you’d just listen to me–”

The door opens. Leonard Branham walks in. “Let them cut the show early.”

Gregory’s jaw drops. “Sir, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m plenty serious. I mean,” Leonard snorts loudly and gestures towards you and Steve, holding each other still. “Look at these two kids. Young and in love. No better drug than that. Even I can be sympathetic enough to that, you heartless cow.”

Max stifles a laugh. Mike doesn’t. 

You ignore the way Steve’s fingers dig into your waist when Leonard says “in love.”

Gregory clenches his fists. This is the most uncomposed you’ve ever seen him. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a sold out show. Thousands of dollars that people paid for.”

“And I don’t give a shit. I’ve already made millions off this band anyways.” Leonard claps Steve’s shoulder, reminiscent of a proud father. “Fuck if I care if this kid’s knight in shining armor act makes me lose a few thousand. At least it’s entertaining!”

“But–”

Leonard’s amusement quickly turns to displeasure. He reels Gregory with a steely look. “I don’t pay you to suck my dick, do I? I pay you to do as I say, and right now I’m telling you to go make the announcement that the show’s over.”

Swallowing down humiliation, Gregory nods his head stiffly and leaves without another word. 

“Fucking asshole,” Steve says under his breath, pulling you even closer. 

“Alright, well.” Leonard adjusts his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He flits through the endless money within it before settling on five hundred dollar bills. He shoves the cash in Robin’s face. “Here, take this. Should be enough to cover the girl’s injury. If you need any legal fees: don’t.”

She accepts the money, albeit reluctantly. “Thank you, Mr. Branham.” 

“I repay my investments. Remember that.” He shrugs, looking right at you when he says it. A silent reminder of his offer with the Jinxs that you have yet to accept. “Anyways, I should get going before the horde of angry people pit me like a pig. Good luck.”

The Februarys don’t even blink at his departure. They swarm around you instead, asking you a million questions a second. 

“Do you feel sick?”

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“Do you need ice? More gauze? Stitches?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“She’s injured, not blind, Mike.”

“Had to make sure.”

Steve remains silent, holding you rather than asking his own questions. In his selfish ways this is the only thing he knows will keep him calm. Your scent, your soft skin against his, your hair in his face, your body with his. 

You try to answer their questions and ease their concern, but as you attempt to reassure Robin that you don’t need stitches, a loud, macabre sound leaks through the dressing room from the audience outside. 

They’re booing the Februarys. 

A deep, hollow vessel of dread sinks into your stomach. 

“You have to–”

Mike cuts you off. “Wait, you know I’m only holding up two fingers, right?”

“The show, you guys can’t–”

“I really think we should get your wound looked at.” Robin touches your face slightly and frowns at how deep the gash appears now that the blood has been wiped away. “I’ll take you. We can use the money Lenny left.”

Max nods. “Use every last cent that bastard left.”

They aren’t listening. No one is listening. “Please, just go back on stage–”

Only Steve hears your pleading. It’s always him. “You heard Lenny, Y/N. The show’s over.”

“But-but I’m fine.” This isn’t what you want. The booing persists and leaks through every crevice of the dressing room and drills into your skull and it only seems to be deafening you. “The fans, they’re upset and-and you can’t just let them down like this–”

“Y/N,” Steve pinches your chin between two fingers, forcing your head to tilt up at him. In his eyes is tenderness. Resentment cannot be found. “I don’t fucking care what the fans think. No show is worth your safety.”

You guys sold 20,000 tickets.

Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.

Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.

The booing outside grows into a nauseating crescendo and Steve looks at you with such softness. You can’t be the reason he loses a childhood dream that’s already been salvaged from ruin because of you. 

Desperate, you raise your voice to be heard over the roar of the audience’s fury. “But this is everything you’ve ever dreamed of!”

“And I’m not sacrificing you for it! Nothing is worth losing you! Do you understand that? I’m not fucking losing you. I-I can’t lose you.” 

All the air escapes your lungs.

The confession rings throughout the room. 

And you stare up at Steve with no resolve or hesitancy or fear of what he’s said, as if you’ve expected it, as if you’ve always known, and isn’t that why you left that Chicago morning? Because Steve couldn’t admit to you what you already knew?

But as he stands before you, breathing in and out heavily, his adrenaline finally abandons his body. It leaves him weak and afraid. Like a shock to his system he comes back to himself, realizes where he is, who is with him, what he’s just admitted. 

Everyone looks at Steve and they know. They know he’s in love with you they know he’s going too fast they know he bruised his knuckles tonight because he’d rather be in pain than to have you afraid and they know you’re wound so deeply into his skin and this is all happening too fast he’s going too fast.

Steve lets go of you as if you’ve burned him. Maybe you have.

The door slams shut.

No one calls after him.

–

Robin and Jonathan shove you into the back of a taxi and drag you into the first emergency room they find. Jonathan fills out all the paperwork. Robin holds your hand while a kind nurse cleans your injury. 

Two hours later you’re cleared of a concussion and discharged with an ice pack to your head. The nurse instructs you to take it easy the next few days. Robin promises the woman she’ll keep an eye on you and Jonathan picks up your prescription pain meds for the swelling.

You’re just relieved that your camera made it out alive without any damage. Your skull took the brunt of it.

Even though it’s nearly one in the morning by the time you get back to the hotel, Mike and Max are waiting in the lobby. When they see you, they jump to their feet. 

“What’d the doctor say?” Mike eyes your bandage wearily. “Are you brain damaged?”

Max pinches his side. “Can you be normal for five seconds?”

Though their worry endears you, the pain meds haven’t kicked in yet and your head feels like it’s on fire. Smiling thinly at them, you manage small reassurance. “I’m fine, guys.”

“No concussion, which is good.” Jonathan steps in for you. “She just can’t do anything reckless for a few days.”

Max snorts. “I’m sure that’ll be easy.”

“Now isn’t the time.” He gently berates her remark. “It’s late and we’ve all had a long day. Let’s just get some sleep. Tomorrow you guys can be your usual asshole selves.”

Mike boos, but Robin swats his chest and looks pointedly at Max. “Do as Jonathan says or I’ll hit you, too.”

She rolls her eyes but yanks the back of Mike’s shirt and drags him to the elevator. Jonathan accompanies them, kissing your forehead with a whispered goodnight as he leaves. The kids send you one last concerned glance before the elevator doors close and they’re gone.

“Do you need anything else?” Robin asks you, eyebrows knit in worry.

You shake your head. “I’m fine. Really.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “I can stay in your room tonight.”

“Robin,” you squeeze her hand, understanding her worry but hating the sensation of it. “I love you, but tonight was overwhelming and I just…”

All you’ve felt since leaving Glen Helen is overwhelmed frailty. The crash of your camera lens to your head, the man’s slurred anger, Steve’s fists cracking his skin, Leonard’s indifference and Gregory’s guilty eyes. 

The terror on Steve’s face when he saw all the blood. His desperation to hold you, to search your skin for any other injuries and kiss them better. How raw his voice was when he confessed to you what he’s fought so hard to hide.

Closing your eyes, you exhale the weakness that bites your lungs. “I just really want to be alone right now.”

The edges of Robin’s eyes soften. “Yeah,” she says. “Of course, but if you’ll allow me to be selfish, I’d like to at least walk you to your room.”

You kiss the back of her hand. “Guide the way, Buckley.”

Her soft laughter eases the ache in your head for just a moment. Your hands remain intertwined the entire way to your room. She only lets go of you once you’re at your door, but even then she lingers. 

“You know I love you, right?” Robin studies your face, as if trying to find something within it. “You’re still my best friend.”

You want to tell her that of course you know she loves you, but for some reason the words die in your throat. For hours now your body has been locked in a state of fight or flight. A varying mix of emotions heighten and depress every minute and all you want to do is close your eyes forever.

“I love you, too.” You caress her cheek, allowing yourself this one thing. Grabbing the key to your room, you unlock the door. “Thank you for taking care of me tonight.”

Robin cups the back of your head and kisses your hairline, right where Jonathan did earlier. “Always,” she mumbles against the skin there. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.”

You leave her standing in the hallway. The silence in your room somehow amplifies the ringing in your ears. Alone for the first time all day, your knees sink to the floor, too exhausted to find the bed. 

You don’t know how long you stay like this, head down and knees pushed against your chest with the hard floor beneath you. Long enough to leave your body numb to the pain, though not long enough to lessen the tugging in your chest that begs for attention. 

Not now, you plead to yourself. Please. 

The tugging in your chest only continues to constrict. Crawling out of your skin, you throw off your shirt and unzip your skirt and stumble into an old t-shirt before falling into bed. You force your eyes closed. Inside your ribcage something buries itself into the bones there. A million pins prick your skin.

A string ties around your throat and pulls tighter and tighter. Your chest squeezes, rattles your lungs, the begging doesn’t stop.

You have to see him. 

Steve’s room is across from yours. It takes you less than a minute to cross the bridge of the hallway that divides you. Your legs carry you to his door, where you stand, hesitating, ears straining for any sign to turn around. That you’re making another mistake. 

But there’s only silence in his room. 

He’s alone.

Memories of the last time you stood before his hotel door flood your mind. Pleasurable, bitter flashes. The kiss that was on your lips from someone else. How Steve kissed them clean and poured liquid honey down your throat. The screaming the morning after. Vicious words that ruined the sanctity that the night had salvaged. 

You knock on the door and wait several heartbeats. 

No one answers.

Frowning, you test the handle and find that it’s unlocked. Your breath catches. For a moment you consider going back to your room, but the tugging in your chest pleads for release, it pleads for the reassurance that he’s okay. 

You let yourself inside.

What hits you first is the stench of alcohol. Then you see the remains of the room. 

Fragments of plates are shattered on the floor. Torn pieces of sheet music litter between the glass. A table on its side, thrown against the wall. Clothes strewn everywhere, torn from their suitcase and left in piles throughout the room. Cigarette butts burn holes into the carpet. 

Careful to avoid the mess you’ve made, you step through the ruin.

Steve sits at the foot of his bed, a crumpled body on the ground. His head tilts to the side, knees curled into his chest, more a child soothing a hurt too big for his body than a broken man. 

His glossy eyes find you in the dark room. A weak sound escapes his lips. A sheen of sweat covers his face, drenching his body. Paler than you’ve ever seen him, you’re afraid to ask how much he’s had to drink tonight. 

“Is this real?” Steve’s hoarse question breaks the last of your resolve. He stares up at you like a little kid, lost and alone. “Are you real?”

“This is real.” You talk to him like an injured animal, lowering your voice, approaching him slowly. “I’m real, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers something incoherent. The sound weakens your knees and sends you to the ground beside him. Back against the bed, Steve’s head falls to your chest and you cradle his frail body that shakes through tears.

You’ve never seen Steve cry before.

You’ve seen him exhale elated laughter, you’ve seen his face twist in moanful pleasure and ecstasy, you’ve seen him spew bitter words and malicious anger, but you’ve never seen him cry.

“I’m sorry,” he cries into your skin, repeatedly, without pause, like a prayer that he begs salvation from. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

You don’t know what exactly he apologizes for. He doesn’t know, either. The only thing he knows is that he’s missed being in your arms and that his mouth can’t form any other words. All he can say is your name and the remorse that builds in his chest and spills down his face. 

Eventually Steve falls asleep pressed to your ribcage. Your arms fall numb but you don’t want to let him go. Early morning sunlight creeps through the window and you stare at his sleeping profile like you used to, back when everything was easy with him. 

Steve still looks the same as he used to. His freckles align in the same place, eyelashes still kiss his cheeks that are stained with tears. But his pale skin cracks at its edges, dry and lifeless. The warm gold he used to be is gone. You can feel the ridge of his spine through his shirt, the outlines of his ribs. 

Sucked dry by the alcohol and sex, Steve has become a skeleton of his potential. 

Blinking back your own tears, your finger strokes his cheek. Even in his sleep, Steve leans into the touch. 

You can’t keep doing this to him. 

The deal had been suffocating Steve. You had been suffocating him, all for the false hope of holding onto the scattered pieces of your relationship with him. There was never any other way for this to end. The pieces settled where they landed for a reason. 

His mistaken confession tonight only evinces it.

And I’m not sacrificing you for it.

Steve would give up everything for you, renounce his entire life for the possibility of remaining at arms length of you, to even just breathe the air you exhale. 

And it’s killing him. What you have is slowly killing him. It isn’t something that can be messily stitched back together, not like you once naively believed. 

Robin was right. You really are a catalyst. 

Gregory’s offer nips at the scattered remains of your mind. Go back to New York. Photograph another band. Give up the Februarys. 

Tomorrow you’ll talk to them. They deserve to be the first to know what your answer will be. But tonight, you hold Steve and watch the sun rise over the wreckage of a reliquary love. 

– 

“What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving us?” 

You should’ve known Robin would voice her disbelief over the news loudly and with great proclivity. 

“Robin–”

“Absolutely fucking not.” 

She paces the room and laughs to herself hysterically. When you asked the Februarys to meet you in the hotel’s conference room before leaving for Vegas, she thought you were just going to ask them to pose for a few more photos. Maybe confess that it was really you who ate the last batch of cookies that El sent. 

She didn’t think she’d be stepping into the conference room with a goddamn resignation speech prepped and ready. 

“This is a joke, right?” Mike looks around the room, as if expecting Leonard to jump out from behind the curtains. When he doesn’t find anything, he aims his disbelief and upset at Gregory, who unhelpfully stands beside you. “What the hell did you do to Y/N in her concussed state?”

“I was never concussed.”

Gregory pushes his glasses up. “And this was entirely her decision.” 

Max can’t look at you, arms crossed on the couch as if to protect herself against the sting of betrayal. “Some bullshit decision.”

“C’mon, guys,” you hate the hurt on their faces. “It’s only for a few months. We all still live in the same building.”

“I don’t.” Max’s eyes cut right into you, forcing you to look down at the ground. 

Jonathan sits on the couch next to her, his own arms crossed. He’s looking at you like he looks at particularly complex and almost uncomfortable displays of art. You recognize the look from the classes you shared together and from late nights exploring the city to find inspiration for your next film projects. 

“Why do you want to leave?” He asks you, no hint of anything in his voice. Emotionless, without any indication how he feels, and in the lack of emotion he reveals the quiet regret that his eyes can’t hide. 

“I don’t want to leave, it’s just–” The excuse gets caught in your throat, its jagged edges cut your gumline and stab your teeth. Steve sits alone, in his own seat away from his bandmates, and he hasn’t once looked at you since waking up to you at the end of his bed this morning, tucked away from him. 

You aren’t sure how much he remembers from last night. You aren’t sure that you want to know. Not when he remains quiet now, head turned away from you as you tell the Februarys that you’re leaving. 

“I miss New York more than I thought I would,” you miss the weightlessness the city provided you, but you can’t say that you miss the city itself. Only the memories you made within it. “And I figured that if I photograph the Jinxs then maybe it’d revitalize my love for photography. Go back to my roots, you know?” 

Robin chokes on her spit. “Did you just say the Jinxs?”

You give her a funny look, unsure why that’s what she chooses to focus on. “Yeah. They’re the band that requested me from Lenny.”

“Oh dear fuck.” She clutches her stomach.

Immediately Mike turns on her. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I-I happen to, um. Know Amelia Sloan. Pretty well.” Robin squeaks out, face red and splotchy in embarrassment. “She’s the lead singer.”

Jonathan drops his head. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you.”

“You’re sleeping with the enemy?” Mike jumps away from Robin as if she’s physically injured him. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I didn’t know she’d try to take Y/N away from us!” Robin exclaims, panicking as well. 

Max glares at her. “You probably fed the idea into her head.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t talk about Y/N or the band whenever I’m sleeping with a girl.”

Mike scoffs. “Of course you do, it’s how you get laid in the first place. And now you’ve slept with the goddamn enemy. Not even Steve has done that!”

Steve closes his eyes. Jonathan rolls his. Robin tugs at her hair.

Max still can’t look at you. 

“Stop saying I’m sleeping with the fucking enemy!”

As the Februarys continue to argue, Gregory gives you a silent can we please get the fuck out of here? look, which you don’t hesitate to act on. Using their argument as a distraction, you slip out the room to go call Leonard and inform him of your decision. 

The moment the door closes behind you, Steve throws himself off the seat and grabs his things. “I’ll see you guys on the bus.”

His voice comes out raw from disuse and the alcohol that burned it last night. He can’t stay in the conference room where his friends mourn the loss of you. Not when he desperately wants to mourn as well. Alone. 

But suddenly the Februarys look at one another in frightening synchronicity and within seconds they’re jumping into action. Jonathan throws himself onto Steve, hooking his arms tight. Mike and Max gather anything in the room that can be used as a weapon and throw them behind the couch. The giant oval table that the hotel provides in the conference room gets shoved against the door by Robin, locking everyone inside. 

“What the hell?” Steve fights against Jonathan, but the guy’s surprising strength has him pinned to the wall. The rest of the band members stand in a circle around them and Steve’s cynical laughter cuts into the silence of the room. “Is this a fucking impromptu intervention?”

“I think we can all agree you’re long overdue for one.” Robin snarks back. 

Steve tightens his fists. “Fuck you, Buckley.”

“No, fuck you.” She sneers. “You need to sort your shit out with Y/N, do you hear me? Because I’m not fucking losing her over some petty miscommunicated feelings that goddamn third graders can express more eloquently.”

“We actually really like Y/N.” Max says. “She’s our friend.”

“She takes us to parks!” Mike gestures wildly. “And she actually thinks I’m funny!”

Jonathan nods solemnly. “She’s been good for us, Steve. Even you have to see that.”

“Do you guys think I want this?” Steve’s eyes sting and the cavity in his chest collapses. Baring his teeth to protect himself, never to be malicious, he sucks in a defeated breath. “I mean, fuck. I can’t even go an hour without seeing her and you think I want her to leave?”

His head knocks weakly against the wall behind him. He lets it hang there, tired of holding himself up. “That’s the fucking problem. We aren’t good for each other. If she’s unhappy then I can’t stop her from leaving.”

Mike makes a mocking gag of a sound and stomps over to his bag. “Oh, just shut the fuck up.” He grabs a book from within it and throws it down on the table. The thud echoes throughout the room. “Open the goddamn book.”

Steve tilts his head at Jonathan. “I’m pinned to a fucking wall right now.”

Robin yanks Jonathan off of him and then grabs the back of Steve’s shirt, collaring him, before throwing him onto the table without any gentleness. “And now you’re not. Open it.”

A pulsing ache instills Steve’s body. It screams at him to run. Taunts him to ruin everything yet again. The rusted leather book that gets thrown at him like a stray dog gets thrown a bone persecutes him to open it; it sees through who he is and all he tries to hide.

Inside the book are all of your photos. Steve could recognize the style of your art anywhere after spending hours observing the way you create it effortlessly. 

“How the hell did you get Y/N’s portfolio?” He doesn’t understand why it’s being presented to him now.

“Mind your own business.” Mike grunts.

Robin pushes the book closer to him, her eyes now gentle yet again, sympathetic. “Look through the photos, Steve.” She brushes hair out of his face and pauses for a moment, thinking through her words carefully. “Really look at them and finally fucking accept what’s been obvious from the start.”

Steve shakes his head. An image of himself stares back at him, smiling into the mic with your familiar handwriting beneath it, February, 1989, my first time hearing rosie sing.

“I-I can’t–”

“You can,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to his. She breathes in the shaky exhale he releases. “Remember why we stay.”

She kisses the crease between his brow. Steve wonders how he can tattoo the kiss into his skin. 

“We’ll see you on the bus.” Max throws his earlier words back in his face, though there’s a lighthearted teasing behind them. She grazes Steve’s shoulder, an uncharacteristic act of tenderness towards him. 

Jonathan stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives him a small nod. Mike waves a sad goodbye and Robin leaves with one last reassuring smile. 

He’s alone again. 

Yet he doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to run. Instead, Steve finds himself wanting to run his fingers through the pages of your portfolio. He loves every picture you’ve ever shared with him, but he’s never seen this collection of photos before. The edges of the book’s pages are frayed and worn from love. Small doodles decorate the gaps between pictures, small comments and thoughts meant only for you to read. The portfolio encompasses who you are, the purest manifestation. A small sense of guilt tinges Steve’s chest at the idea that he’s intruding on something you wouldn't want him to see. 

The kiss that Robin left on his skin warms, reminding him of what she’s asked. 

A collection of your work resides in the book. The pages start from the very beginning of your time with the Februarys. Within the images Steve recognizes the first night you ever photographed the band, a picture of his face pressed against Robin’s as they share a mic. It’s been a long time since they’ve been so close during a performance. 

Steve swallows the remorse down and flips through the photos. They’re a collection of every memory he’s ever wanted to preserve, but within the images he can’t help but notice a repetitive pattern that connects them all together. 

All the photos are of him. Each and every one of them contains pieces of him. But it’s not the photos that fill his chest with dandelion fondness. It’s the words you write beneath them.

Snow on his winter jacket with a box in his hands, standing beside a bright yellow taxi in front of your old apartment – Steve, the gentleman who carried all my boxes. 

His head buried under a blanket, hair peeking out the first morning he woke up to your laughter – A surprising early riser.

Silver rings around his fingers as he taunts Jonathan for questioning your decision to include a Velvet Underground song – Jonathan might be onto me. 

The corner of Steve’s mouth as he smiles at the first crowd you documented for the Februarys – What a dangerous smile. 

All the photos contain the same date.

February, 1989.

You’d only known Steve for a week prior to the documented film and yet you captured such a softness to him. You’ve always seen through him, Steve knows this, but he didn’t think the view would be so gentle in the destruction that it brought. 

But even in the destruction, the soft way you photograph Steve never quite disappears.

A lipstick mark on his cheek, red and vibrant despite the bitterness that came before it – Rosie with my kiss on him.

Pink lights encasing a halo around him – And he claims I’m the angelface. 

His back against a small restaurant window, sitting next to Robin and listening to a story she tells him because he couldn’t bring himself to sit next to you – I love how sunlight is gentle with him.

The photos are dated with different months, different stages of the deconstruction you brought upon each other, yet the softness remains. 

And in the most recent photo, dated only yesterday, displays Steve in his suit from Glen Helen, a hand on his hip and his shirt straining against his chest – There’s my rosie.

You must’ve added the picture this morning. Before you told the Februarys that you were leaving, you glued one last photo of Steve into your portfolio, depicting him as the rockstar he pretends to be, captured in a light that makes him feel like he’s worth something.

Steve is your muse just as much as you’re his. 

It’s then that he finally releases the breath he’d been holding ever since he ran into his apartment one night, sweating and late for what he thought would only be a simple introduction to a possible new roommate, but instead he found you in his living room golden and holy.

From the very beginning, he’s loved you.

And you’ve loved him. 

You still love him. 

– 

Steve spends the entire three hour drive to Vegas going over and over the portfolio. He memorizes every picture, every line of writing, every small detail and drawing and messily glued on scrap of art and each passing minute his body warms. 

No one talks to him during the drive, though the Februarys share secretive glances with one another. He kept the portfolio. He walked onto the bus. They’ve done all that they can. They just have to hope that it’s enough.

You meet everyone at the venue, smiling as if you haven’t just made the band mourn the loss of you. Gregory chose to stay on the bus, worried that his presence would only further upset the band. 

“Welcome to Vegas.”

Robin takes your camera from you and places the strap around her own neck. “I imagine this will be your last show with us, considering Leonard doesn’t value anyone’s time or money but his own.”

Opening the stage door for the Februarys, your smile turns into a bittersweet one. “You know Lenny so well.”

One by one the band members step inside, each offering you their own remorseful smile. Max thanks you under her breath as you hold the door open, Mike winks playfully, and Jonathan grabs your shoulder for a brief moment and squeezes it. 

“Let’s make this show count, then.” He says, slow, savoring the last moments he has left with you. 

You grab his hand. “I like the way you think, Byers.”

Jonathan laughs and walks inside, leaving only Steve outside, the last of his band mates. You glance at him for a moment, unsure how to look at him after the vulnerability he wept last night. His stoic reaction to you leaving hurt you this morning. You’re not sure you know how to be around Steve anymore. 

But he surprises you. He always surprises you. 

Steve grabs the door and his other hand lands on your waist, his fingers slotting around the skin he once carved his prints into, and gently, ever so gently, moves you to the side so that he can hold the door open instead. 

“After you,” he murmurs, a playful lilt in his voice. 

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

“Always.” 

One word, and still it kisses your fiendish skin. 

You walk inside. The venue is beautiful. Mike has already made himself at home, sprawled across a lush cream couch. Robin sits at one of the vanity tables, fixing her makeup and luminescent as ever. A mosaic covers one of the walls and forms an image of a field of desert flowers, its multicolored tiles bright and smooth to the touch, Max’s finger runs over their edges in silent awe. Jonathan stares at the wall of photos next to the mosaic, a picture of every artist who has ever performed in the venue displayed. 

An empty frame waits with the Februarys’ name etched into the wood. 

You nudge Jonathan’s side. “Think I could take your guys’ photo?”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know if you’re qualified.”

“Hilarious.” Grabbing your camera from Robin, you spin around and clap your hands. Once you have the Februarys’ attention, you point at the mosaic wall. “Listen up, assholes. I’m taking your portrait for the wall and you’re all going to smile and look happy. Understood?”

Mike salutes and Max pulls him to her side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Robin walks from the vanity and stands behind her, placing her chin on Max’s head and smiles wide. Jonathan stands beside Mike, two brothers who stand back to back like a vintage poster. Steve takes his time walking over to them, as if savoring the final moments of normalcy. 

He stops next to you. “Where do you want me?”

His question startles you. You didn’t think he wanted your input anymore, not like he used to. “Oh, um,” you clear your throat and try to lessen how tight your vocal chords are. “Stand next to Robin, behind Jonathan. Try to balance the height difference, maybe? And try to be in contact with someone. You’re all linked together, I really like the patterns it forms.”

Steve has a tender look in his eyes that makes you suddenly nervous. Voice dying off, you struggle to finish the sentence. “I-I mean, if that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.” He walks to Robin and presses his cheek to hers, eliciting a giggle, and ruffles Mike’s hair. With an easy, charming smile, he asks you, “this alright?”

Bringing the camera to your face, you can’t suppress the gooey smile that melts into your lips. “It’s perfect.”

The Februarys all knit together in a beautiful and intimate piece of history that only they possess. Childhood friends smile at one another. Their bodies embrace. There are no unattached strings between them, only clean, uniform lines that draw them even closer together. 

A family. 

Once you’ve taken the picture they break away from one another, though the lighthearted energy remains. An easy peace settles over the dressing room, lighter than it’s been in a long time. Not wanting to lose these final moments of delicacy, you take as many pictures as you can, for old time’s sake. 

Your viewfinder captures Robin in the mirror, Steve helping with her hair. He braids the strands together, fingers lithe from years of practice. She winks at the camera and his coy smile sets your heart pounding. 

A game of tag breaks out between Mike, Jonathan, and Max. You follow their childish laughter with your camera. Max’s emerald green jacket clashes with Mike’s burnt orange t-shirt and Jonathan’s gold rings that Nancy gifted him for his birthday. Their youthful smiles paint the nostalgic memory. 

You take pictures of the instruments in the room, just as you used to. Mike’s sage guitar resting against an amp, nestled next to Max’s red bass and Steve’s blue guitar, an explosion of colors all combining into something iridescent. Robin plays her keyboard for you and you capture the light that spills onto her fingers and onto her pink fingernails.

As you capture every fleeting detail you find, eyes never leaving your camera, you feel someone watching you. The weight of Steve’s gaze, impossible to forget. From the corner of your eye you notice his honeyed eyes. His eyes simmer on your skin, though you’re terrified to meet them. 

When a stage crew member knocks on the door and gives the Februarys their usual five minute warning, Steve finally looks away and turns to his bandmates instead. Something akin to content settles into his features. 

“We know why we’re here,” he tells them. “We know why we stay.”

“Because it’s only us.” Robin finishes, knocking her head against his. 

Steve pulls her close, he pulls everyone close. “It’s only us.” He affirms. “And we know what we have to do tonight.”

Max smirks. “We give them a show.”

As they lean against one another you take a photo of the harmony between them. The easy way the group looks at one another. How bright Steve’s eyes become when he’s with them, when he’s talking to them and laughing with them.

This is how he’s supposed to be, you think. Alive and bright. 

Steve leans down, the Februarys follow, and he allows the anticipation to build into barely contained desperation. The seconds spill over and he looks at his friends and bites his lip and can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

“Showtime.”

The Februarys break into cheers. 

Steve will never grow tired of the sound. 

– 

The Vegas venue is one of the smaller venues they’ve performed in. Capped at a capacity of one thousand, the sold out show murmurs conversations and speculation as the audience awaits the Februarys. 

You stand at the center, placed in the barricade that only gets built for you. Camera warm in your hands, you breathe in deeply. The excited rumblings of the crowd, the hot stage lights, the scent of bodies and smoke and alcohol in a building meant to be danced in. 

You hope you never forget any of it. Already you grieve the loss of this version of you, this part of your life, that you will never get again. Not quite like this. Never the same. 

Your reverie ends with Steve’s arrival on stage. He walks up the mic while the rest of the Februarys take their places behind him. The crowd bursts into the cheers they’ll never get used to hearing, that you hope they’ll always receive. 

Steve grabs the mic stand, fingers lazily wrap around the metal. His skin glows golden under the stage lights, a thin silk shirt drapes over him in a dream-like manner. “We fucking made it to Vegas!”

More screams and applause. He chuckles, the rough edges of the boyish laughter presses against your chest. “God, you guys know how to make a guy feel special.” 

Mike plucks a few strings to the tune of the crowd’s pleasure. Steve nods along, extends his arm towards the kid. “Over here we have Mike Wheeler on electric guitar, arguably better than me,” he bows down, getting Mike to laugh. “Next we have Robin Buckley on keyboard, isn’t she pretty?” Robin plays a few chords and scrunches her nose in flirtatious manner. Steve blows her a kiss and turns to Max. “Here we have Max Mayfield on bass, a fucking monster.” The girl shoves him, but not even she can hide her smile. Finally Steve drags the mic stand to Jonathan and places a messy kiss to his cheek. “And last, but certainly not least, we have Jonathan fucking Byers on drums!”

A series of beats get pounded into the drums and at Jonathan’s cue the crowd goes fucking wild. Whistles and energetic praise all demanding for the show to finally begin, for the music they came for to come to life and become a part of their jugulars. 

Steve lowers the mic and gets caught in the moment. He can’t believe any of it is real. 

You watch his awe. The volume inside the venue only grows louder and Steve’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. In the crowd his eyes find you already staring back at him, and because nostalgia has always tasted sweeter dipped in melancholy familiarity, he winks at you. 

Your heart beats out of its chest. He ducks his head seeing the blush that blooms on your cheeks, and the shyness, though endearing and lovely, lingers in the back of your mind. 

“We’re the Februarys,” Steve shouts into the mic, teeth peeking through his confident smile. “Let’s go!”

Jonathan dives into the first drum solo and Max plays along, head banging to the rapid staccato tempo that Mike one day thought of alone in his room one night. Robin accompanies the tempo with a slower set of chords and Steve grabs the mic and the venue drenches in his clear voice. 

Throughout the night you lose count of how many pictures you take. It doesn’t matter to you. Your final night with the Februarys will be preserved through the film. This you’re sure of. 

Though as the show continues you find your attention drawn to the way the Februarys whisper between the songs. Poorly hidden glances at you follow the whispers. Their behavior confuses you slightly, worries you, but you’re desperate for one final memory of the Februarys that’s painted in lovely pinks rather than remorseful blues, so you push down the disquiet and cheer along with the crowd instead.

The setlist was carefully curated by Mike and Robin the week leading up to the tour. It took multiple days, arguments, and compromises before they were able to settle on which twelve songs to perform from their EP and album. You watched them agonize over the unseen details, such as whether Going should bleed into Lower East or whether it’s better suited as a closing song and if the flow of the music should tell a story or leave the audience unexpecting.

So when the Februarys don’t perform Rosie, a song that nearly broke the band apart trying to figure out where to put it in the setlist, you find it more than a little odd. 

None of the band members stumble over the unexpected setlist change. They knew they wouldn’t be performing it tonight. Instead they wrap up their set as they normally do, ending with Going where Steve screams everything he has into the microphone. 

Except he doesn’t say anything when the song is over. He doesn’t think the audience for the show or wishes them a good night. He’s completely silent as the fans scream for an encore, for any semblance of more. 

Mike moves first, unplugging his electric guitar from its amp. Max does the same with her bass. From his drumset Jonathan unplugs the microphone that sits next to him. Robin turns off her keyboard and goes to the wings of the stage. She brings out Steve’s acoustic guitar. He takes it from her. 

You watch along with the crowd, straining your neck to understand what the hell they’re doing. They’ve never done something like this before. The show feels unfinished, yet they take apart their instruments as if it is. 

Steve walks over to the edge of the stage. He stands in front of you for a moment, eyes only on you. A hush falls over the venue. Every breath gets held, you’ve forgotten how to release yours. 

He sits down. Close to the edge, his feet dangle over the sides, as close as he can possibly get to you given the constraints of the stage layout. Robin places a mic right next to him, angled so he doesn’t have to hold it, leaving his hands free for his guitar. 

“We’re going to sing Rosie a little differently tonight,” he murmurs. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

The question is only meant for you. He knows you’ll understand it.

Heart beating in your throat, you nod. 

Thank you, Steve mouths back, fingers already playing the beginning notes of the song. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t blink when he swears to you, for everything.

Under the dim pink lights he plays the song he wrote that spilled from his chest and onto a piece of paper one night. Steve had been alone in his room staring at his ceiling. Your laughter floated through the bedroom walls, giggling with Robin about something. He had traced the cracks in the building’s walls, silently whispering to himself rosie rosie rosie, unable to get the sugary saturated way the endearment fell from your lips the night before. No one had ever given Steve a name before with so much charm and sincerity. 

You get all rosie. I think it’s cute.

He remembers pulling out the photo you’d taken of him and staring at it, awestruck by how unreal it all felt to be portrayed as a rockstar. Steve had always had the far fetched dream, but somehow the growing recognition and crystallizing music couldn’t satiate the itch. He didn’t feel that he deserved it. But then there you were, somehow able to soothe the overwhelming craving for more that has always plagued him, all with one photo. One moment. 

That night Steve wrote Rosie. He still considers it the easiest, and truest, song he’s ever written.

And now he performs it for you. He was always meant to only perform the song for you. 

Steve’s lonesome fingers pluck the guitar strings. Mike and Max stand to the side, their instruments at their sides. Jonathan sits at his drums, head down, softly swaying to the melodic chords that remind him of his own love in New York, waiting for him. Robin leans over her keyboard, head in her fond hands as she watches her friend serenade you.

Slow, raw, aching, Steve never once looks away from you as he sings. His ember voice lilts through the guitar’s symphony. Everything he was never able to tell you, that he was afraid to tell you, intertwines within the strain of his voice and the pleading way he plays. 

Rock-a-bye-posie? 

No, maybe it’s ring-around-my-baby?

Or could it be rosie and falling down with you?

Through the blurry tears in your eyes you watch Steve. The ragged pause of his breath between the lines, his brown eyes a melted toffee adoring you, the darling way his freckles and moles dance across his skin as he sings. 

He’s never looked more beautiful begging.

Mixed up all inside my head the rush of lullaby blues.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

Or could it be forever rosie?

Steve plays a little harder going into the bridge. He gasps for air and his wanting turns into a requiem. “Yes or no?” He prays into the open wound before you and begs you to fill it with something holy. “Can I be forever rosie?”

“Angelface,” the scratch of a guitar string cuts the softness of the requiem. He has to tell you. He has to get you to listen and know that has given himself entirely to you. He wants you to forever call him rosie, to always be the cause of the flush on his face. “Pretty please,” he begs under his breath between the lines, broken and aching. 

Just before the bridge fades Steve prolongs the melody. He adds to the song, an extension of himself. He will not be left for want and nothing. “Let me be forever rosie,” his timbre softens around the edges of his prayer, finally tying his sacrament to you with the parting words, “forever rosie and falling into love with you.”

The final guitar note echoes irrevocably. 

Rosie has come to an end. 

All around you there are screams. Loud, blinding screams. The ground shakes and people cheer and throw their hands together in a frenzy that only music can strike. But you don’t hear any of it. The spillage of praise for the boy in front of you fades into nothing when he looks at you. 

“Thank you,” Steve acknowledges the crowd, though his heart isn’t in it. His heart resides in your chest. He gets up and turns to the Februarys, linking his arms through Robin’s and Mike’s as they all line up in the center of the stage and take their final bows. 

Robin blows you a kiss as she exits the stage. Jonathan and Mike both wink, following her. Max simply waves before she joins her friends. All of them knew what tonight would bring. 

Just before Steve steps off the stage he quickly grabs the microphone. He only has one last chance to beg you to stay. When tonight ends, he could lose you forever. 

Losing you would be the one thing Steve would never recover from.

“Please don’t leave,” his lips press against the mic, desperate to ensure you hear him. His eyes sink into your chest. The words press into your bones. “Not when I’m finally ready to promise you everything.”

And then he’s gone. 

You don’t remember jumping over the barricade. You don’t remember running through the crowd, weaving through the onslaught of bodies. You don’t remember the hot desperation that singed your veins or the spiraling need to find him, for more. 

All you remember is Steve waiting for you.

He waits for you in the dressing room, one last stand, one last attempt. He draws into himself when he notices you standing in the doorway. Neither of you move. He watches you, tries to read your body language. 

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

He doesn’t know anymore. 

But then you’re running into his arms. 

The kiss starts the same way your relationship did. Messy, fast, all encompassing. There isn’t room for anything else. There was never room for anything else. 

Steve draws you so tightly into his chest and makes such a delicate sound. You nip his bottom lip, tug at his hair, and he answers your pleads with nails digging into your hips, where he carves himself into the outline of the bones there. The tender flesh welcomes him home, your skin exhales in relief, where have you been?

“I love you,” Steve bites the confession into your lips and soothes them with another kiss. “I love you,” he sighs against the mouth that he craves. “I love you,” he will die a happy man if all he is ever able to say again are these three words, marked nipped into your collarbones with his greedy teeth. 

“I’ll stay,” you answer the prayer, merciful face wet with tears. “I love you, rosie,” you feel him smile against your lips. You were always going to end this way. He was always going to be your rosie. 

Steve moves his lips to your cheeks, then to your nose, the crest of your forehead, the ridges of your collarbones, etching the same promise into them. It may never undo the hurt you brought upon each other. The scars left behind may not fade, but the tragedy of humanity wasn’t the fall of Eden, but the failure to stay in the garden. 

When you love someone, you stay. 

“I’ll stay.” Steve promises, human just as you are.

It is the only innate instinct to keep trying to hold onto one another. It is embedded within human history, and you once swore to him that you were going to be a part of his history.

-

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[clockwayswrites]

Birdritch... something. I hurt so much. It's some number. You'll figure it out. You're smart, darlings.

masterpost over on @clockwaysadmin

Danny stayed at the back, trailing after the rambunctious flock of Waynes as they made their way behind the stage and to the other, hidden side of the theater. It made Danny smile, to see the family bumping shoulders, teasing, and laughing with each other.

His life in Gotham was something that Danny loved. He’d clawed it out from the proverbial grave of his death and everything that came with it: nearly failing high school, his failing health after, the trauma it left him with, the relationship with his parents he left behind. But he’d gotten to the surface. He got his Bachelors and Masters and PHD. He got a job that he traded for another and another until he rose up to where he worked at an amazing company and got mostly left alone to dream up new ways to make the world better.

Danny loved it.

But that didn’t mean that Danny didn’t miss the close friendships that (metaphorically and physically), Danny had moved away from to achieve what he had. Visiting Jazz and Taylor, Sam and her brood, or Tucker and his partners wasn’t the same as living with them close. He missed what the Waynes had with an ache so deep that he had to push it aside so that it didn’t swallow him whole.

“Cass!”

Tim calling his sister’s name shook Danny out of his rumination. He found a little out of the way spot of wall to lean against between some boxes and rolls of scenery.

“You were amazing, darling,” Bruce said as he leaned in to kiss Cass’ cheek.

Bruce handed over the bouquet of white roses and babies-breath that he had brought from where it had been stored in the sitting room. Cass basically buried her face in the flowers and inhaled.

“For real, little sis, your moves were amazing. You have to show me how you hold some of those poses so still,” Dick said.

“As if you could stay still,” Barbara teased with a well placed poke to Dick’s side that made him squeak and move defensively behind Cass.

“Pretty sure she beats you in flexibility now too, dickhead,” Jason said.

“It is okay, love you still,” Cass said in her soft tone. She pulled out one of the roses from the mass of flowers and tucked it behind Dick’s ear.

Dick looked momentarily torn if he should be insulted or fond, though fond quickly won out and he pressed a little kiss to the top of Cass’ head. It seemed to be a signal, somehow, and suddenly all of the family was talking to Cass or to each other. The fatigue was starting to pull too heavily on Danny for him to make out most of the chatter, so he simply closed his eyes and let the happy voices wash over him.

There was a gentle pressure on his arm. Danny blinked his eyes open to a worried Cass, dark brows furrowed above the dramatic white and glitter of her stage make up. Danny smiled, though he knew it probably looked a little drawn.

“Hello, Cass,” Danny signed.

The furrow between the bows only grew as she signed. “You okay?”

“Okay. Tired,” Danny replied before he gave up to talking verbally. The sleep clouded his mind about signs right then. He really would have to practice. “I’m just a little out of sorts, but I’m very glad I came. Thank you for inviting me. You danced absolutely wonderfully. I don’t know much about ballet, but even I could see how skilled you are.”

“Thank you. I am glad you came. Could have not,” she said.

“Of course I had to come, you invited me and it’s an important night for you. It should be!” Danny made himself stand up away from the wall and put a bit more energy into his smile. “I’m fine, really, fatigue just gets me sometimes.”

Cass turned his frown away from Danny and directed it at her father.

“I already talked Danny into letting us give him a ride home,” Bruce replied.

“I really would be fine,” Danny couldn’t help but argue. “I’ve made it home in worse states than this.”

“Oddly enough,” Jason interjected, “you really aren’t helping your case.”

Danny couldn’t do anything else but give an unrepentant little shrug to that. He probably wasn’t, but it was true. Besides, he had already agreed to the ride, not that he felt he had much choice. It was too easy to be swept along by the Waynes.

Barbara may be right that they did absorb people.