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lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 1 year ago

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DOWN BAD- P.B PARKER

Pairing- Jock! Peter x Nerd! Reader (enemies to… lovers?)

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Peter Parker constantly nags you, and you hate his guts (naturally). So what better way to mellow the hate by being paired together for a class project? And why, if you hate his guts, do you want to touch him so bad?

Warnings: Making out, suggestive sexual content, dry humping, teasing, swearing etc…

Notes: It’s been a while, I apologize if my writing is a bit rusty! I hope you enjoy nonetheless, I had a fun time writing, and I really did miss it (Taylor Swifts new album really inspired me too!) I am using my phone to post for the first time, I hope to go back and format/ edit if need be when I can use my laptop again. Thank you for all the support :)

“Don’t look at me like that.” You huffed, eyes sharp as daggers as your cool gaze slid over to your target and struck its mark.

Peter Parker. Bullseye.

You could feel his lingering attention solely focused on you, a coy smirk upon his lips as he tapped his pencil against the wooden desk, its dull echo like nails on a chalkboard. A taunting metronome in the back of your mark as he leaned over to tower over you in his seat.

It was too close to yours for your liking.

“Like what pipsqueak?” he murmured, drowning out the professor's droning voice as he dragged on. You wished you could hit him with the textbook in your bag. Both of them, honestly.

“Like you’re thrilled for this. Don’t act like you like me.”

“Well I do like you.” He smiled, beaming ear to ear.

For him, it was the best day of his life. Getting randomly paired with “whoever you’re sitting next to, I don’t care.” (the professor's words, not yours), was a thrill for him, he got to pick on the quiet, shy girl more than usual.

Which would be a shock, considering the sheer amount he did already, always finding his way next to you to tease you, especially with and to his stupid jockey friends. This project was worth thirty percent of your grade. You couldn’t afford this.

“Well I don’t like you. So fuck off.” You heard a low whistle from behind you, a chuck alongside it from his friends. “Kitty has claws?” Peter whistled, eyebrow raising in mock surprise as you shifted your legs to the other side of the chair, angling away from him.

“Oh you’re in for it now Parker” Bucky laughed as you covered your ears in an attempt to drown them out. You felt like you were in middle school again, the way they mocked you. And what made it worse was that it got to you. Not that the jokes and remarks meant anything much, but it was just the sheer annoyance of it all.

You had thrived to be a straight A student your entire life, and in this class… you could feel them slipping. Taking a deep breath, you clenched your pen harder in your hand, pressing so hard the page snagged as you wrote.

You could still feel his eyes on you, flickering over from under his glasses ,his muscles flexing subtly under his blue t-shirt. You pretended not to look, and to not focus on the fact he was extremely attractive. You spent the rest of the hour doing just that, scolding yourself for any indecent thought you had ever had about him, ever. By the time the professor had snapped his laptop shut, the projector turning dark as students started to talk amongst themselves as they packed up, you had half a page of notes, max.

“I’ll be in touch.” he leaned down and whispered, hand lingering by your chair as he slipped by. “Fuck you.”

He just threw his head back and laughed, his friend group joining him as he looked back. And winked. You groaned. This was going to be three weeks of hell.

—————————————————————————

It was a Thursday when you got a text from him. An unknown number flashed on your screen as you lay face down on your bed, contemplating life and if this class was seriously worth it or not.

The buzz of the phone had your head snapping up, confused until it suddenly dawned on you.

Unknown: Think we should start brainstorming for this thing pipsqueak?

Well fuck, you thought, wanting to throw your phone across the room. This class wasn’t that important, right? (It was).

Taking a deep breath, you sat up as your thumbs started to fly across the screen.

You: Who is this?

Unknown: I’m hurt, pips. Truly.

You: I think you have the wrong number.

You smirked. Okay, who were you kidding… this was kind of fun. Kind of.

Peter: It’s Peter, you jerk. Are you really going to make me spell it out for you?

You: Peter who? Doesn’t ring a bell.

Good. Knock him down a few pegs. You giggled to yourself, quickly stopping once you realised why exactly you were kicking your feet like a school girl, for who exactly. You layed back down, head muddled with meaningless thoughts that jumbled as you waited for his response. Grabbing a stuffie, you hugged it close to your chest, feeling it rise and fall as you caught your breath, grounding yourself. Why on earth did this mean so much to you? Why did his texts, something so easily ignorable- suddenly a waiting game?

Peter: Ha ha, very funny pips.

You: How did you even get my number anyways?

Peter: Long story, I had to go on a bit of a hunt. A friend, of a friend of a friend, you get the point. I can be very persuasive ;)

Nope. You thought. Don’t give into this.

You: I’m sure.

Peter: You wanna come over on the weekend or meet at Braxston’s to start… brainstorming?

You: I don’t want to do anything of the sort, but if that gets this over with as soon as possible- then sure. Only one of us has a brain to storm anyways.

Peter: You’ll regret that pips.

You clicked off your phone, a ghost of a smirk on your face. His threat surprisingly didn’t seem like a real threat, but actual light hearted teasing, not the kind he often did.

Fuck. You were supposed to be hating him. You did hate him. It was only three weeks with him. You weren’t sure if you meant that with relief or disappointment.

————————————————————————————

It was disappointment.

You sighed, closing your eyes as you rubbed your creased temple. It was nearly midnight , and your books were still scattered across the desk you occupied, the library a ghost town considering it was a Friday night. Braxston library tended to be on the empiter side, which is why you preferred it. It was the oldest library on campus, smelling of old pages and cedarwood.

Sometimes, when you needed a break you would get up and run your fingers across the leather spines, or climb the ladder for a change of view of the stained glass windows. But tonight, you lacked the motivation to even bother standing. It had been a long night, filled with cramming and stress. Pen and highlighter stained your hands as you shook them out, cramped and aching. For the last hour you had solely focused on the final you and Peter had to pull out your ass, coming up with backup plans with the worry he would abandon you completely.

Topics, ideas, theories- god you didn’t even know anymore. Your body lacked caffeine, your iced coffee long gone. You grew tired of this mindless work, sliding off your headphones to admire the near empty room around you.

Suddenly, you wished it was completely empty.

Peter looked just as shocked to see you, eyes widening in surprise, backpack slung over his shoulder, hair ruffled and eyebags prominent as if he had fallen asleep and been startled awake.

“Pips? I thought we weren’t supposed to meet until tomorrow?” He made his way over to you, inviting himself to lean over you, on your desk. You stared up at him with a look of amusement.

“We don’t have to meet at all. It’s very bold you assume I’m here to see you, of all people.” you snorted. His eyebrow raised. “So who are you here to meet?”

“Two papers and exam prep. You?”

“More or less the same” he smirked, and you felt butterflies start to churn in your stomach. “Sounds like great fun. I’m sure they’re lovely.” you said, snarky comment slipping out before you could stop it, turning in your seat as you often did around him so he wouldn’t see the fluster and nerves in your demeanour whenever you were near him.

He leaned down, breath warm against the column of your neck. You couldn't breathe. You could not fucking breathe with him this close to you. The rich scent of his cologne made you dizzy, it intoxicated you as you stared at your laptop screen, as if it possessed the knowledge of the entire universe.

“You know, you can’t avoid me forever. You’re gonna have to confront me at some point, pip.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about” you snarled softly, staring at the coy, cockly little smirk you wanted to wipe off his face as he stood. “Sure you don’t.” He nodded his head towards your screen, with a wink.

“Good song.” he smiled, before he was off. You continued to stare at him as he walked out the door, not looking back once. Not a care in the world as he slipped on his own headphones, and around the corner.

Eyes moved down to stare at the pause button of your song, lyrics burning into your ears at the thought of him listening to it- and enjoying it.

Down bad, waking up in blood, staring at the sky, come back over and pick me up- fuck it if I can’t have us, I might just not get up, I might stay down bad.

You were so incredibly fucked.

———————————————————

You took a deep breath. Then another.

You let the crisp, cool night air wash over your burning skin, the faint smell of weed tickling your senses, probably from a house down the street. It was a pretty busy neighbourhood, full of students you recognized from afar on campus. You didn’t associate with the more ‘popular’ kids, if that could even be considered a thing past high school.

You tried to shake off the uneasiness that stuck with you, cracking your knuckles as you tried to prepare yourself to not only see Peter, but to interact with him- in his house. Most likely for hours. You knew you probably looked like a complete idiot out on the sidewalk, just near his house but you had to muster some form of courage.

All you could see was a faint light from what looked like the living room, and a light upstairs- you presumed his room. No sign of life other than that.

You thought of his words, how twisted they sounded. You can’t avoid me forever. You’re gonna have to confront me at some point, pip.

Fuck it.

You slipped from your hiding spot (from Peter, you were placed behind a large tree in his front yard, but god knows what people driving by thought), and mentally prepared yourself for his roommates to answer the door, making fun of you before he put the cherry on top. Practically leaping up the porch stairs, you raced to the door, knocking quickly.

You wanted this over and done with. Your palms were clammy and your stomach churned viciously as you heard footsteps near the door. It took everything in you to stay rooted to the ground and to not flee, and when Peter appeared, you feared the opposite.

How the hell you were supposed to move with him in that slutty little fit, a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his waist, his v-line and happy trail on full display… his toned abs and arms in a little white muscle shirt… gods you didn’t know. You were sure your tongue fully hung out of your mouth like some cartoon character as you took him in.

“Took you long enough” he said with a snort, adjusting his glasses, sliding them further up his nose. You didn’t even know he had glasses. Did he wear contacts? Had he worn them and you just didn’t notice? No, surely that wasn’t the case, you noticed everything he did. It was like he sucked all of the air out of the atmosphere whenever he walked in a room. It was suffocating, in a way. Of course you had to look at him, and you were sure you weren't the only one.

“I was admiring the greenery.”

“I saw that. I wasn’t sure the maple needed to be examined that long.” he smirked, and your felt your fists instinctively clench.

He had saw you- so you were fucked and now the only logical thing to do was to run into a brick wall. Perfect, got it.

“I enjoy living in the moment, and I don’t take nature for granted.’ you huffed, attempting to compose yourself as he stepped aside, motioning for you to enter. “I’m sure. Don’t worry it was cute.” he smiled, running a hand through his tosseled hair.

You slid off your shoes, setting them next to his worn in converse you always saw him wear. You noticed the other pairs were missing, not even a missing lace to be found.

“Where are your roommates?” you asked as entered, surveying the open space. It was surprisingly tidy for a boys place, and you couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of Peter rushing around attempting to clean up before you came (though you doubted he would ever do that). Still, it was nice to think about.

Little traces of “boy” still lingered, silly little signs scattered across the walls, flags and such, empty, crushed beer and poking out from the recycling bins. “I kicked them out, because I figured you would want to contentrate.” he said.

Yeah like I’m going to be able to conetrate with you looking that fucking fine. Ha.

“That’s considerate. I’m surprised you even know what that is, Parker. I’m impressed.”

He snorted, throwing a little look back your way as he lead you up the stairs, presumably to his room. “I’m surprised you know how to walk up stairs. You have Bambi legs.” he teased, mocking your clumsiness. You cursed him internally. Maybe out loud too, judging by his laugh.

You tried to stifle down the butterflies. You were not about to flirt with him. You were not about to let your developing feelings expand. You hated him. He was mean and he was an asshole.

You were simply here to get this project done. That’s it.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know.” was all he said, turning down a hall to an open door, light glowing faintly- beckoning to you. You appreciated his refusal to use the overhead light- not that you’d tell him that. He’d probably look at you like you were insane.

“I see you clean for girls you bring over.” you noted, observing his (surprisingly) decently clean room.

“Bold of you to assume I cleaned. Maybe I’m always this tidy.” he smirked, arms flexing over and behind his head as he sat down in his office chair, man-spreading as he stretched.

You tried so hard not to stare. And failed miserably.

“I would’ve thought you cleaned up for ladies you bring to bed.”

His eyebrows arched. “Should I have prepared then?”

Something like churning fire burned in your belly, slithering lower and lower.

“Don’t start with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it pip.” he smiled coyly, knowing he had gotten you flustered. “May I?” you nodded to his bed, trying to ignore your feelings as you sat down. Fanning your skirt out, you tucked your legs in before opening your bag, attempting to cover your thighs with your bag as much as you could- his cool gaze staring lasers into your bare skin.

“So… if we have to base this on a creature in the wild…”

“Jumping straight to the point aren’t we?” he asked and you frowned in confusion.

“What did you want me to do foreplay or something beforehand?” you asked, your word choice more than intentional. You swore a little pink tinted his cheeks as he swiveled around.

“Right to it then. Okay, I was thinking spiders. Specifically their venom and social behaviours.”

You blinked. Jesus okay he had thought about this. This was not what you were expected.

“Elaborate Parker.”

He smiled. “ From what I’ve seen, not a lot is known about the venom entirely. From a predator-prey aspect.. I’ve mainly seen stuff on specific components evolving to target specific sites on cell membrains of prey tissue, we could work with that to start. Maybe expand on the social aspect and evolution.”

You were stunned. This was… more than you could’ve hoped for. Suddenly you felt bad for all the doubt aimed towards him over the few days leading up to this meeting.

“Hmm. I like it.”

“Did you have any ideas you had brewing in that genius brain of yours?” he asked, making you blush internally.

“I had some stuff just in case, but it was just random jots I’m not too proud of.”

He scoffed. “You came prepared with backup stuff?!”

You just shrugged. “Do you blame me?”

“Kinda.” he laughed. “Start thinking of me more highly pips. I even have access to a brown widow, we could do some experiments.”

You winced at the thought of actually studying a spider up close, but it was part of the job. Whatever could get this done the fastest, and you had to applaud him for providing some of your own evidence you could actually showcase.

He caught your wince, and you could feel the teasing start to start. It was like bait for him, he loved it. “The spider may bite, but I won’t. That is, unless you want me too.” he winked, and you fought the urge not to chuck your laptop at his handsome face.

“You’re gross Parker.”

“Oh I’m sure you think I am. Doesn’t make a difference to me.”

You were going to strangle him. “Let’s just focus and get this project done as soon as we can, yeah? Please.”

You riffled through your bag, grabbing different coloured pens and your notebook, skimming through your random thoughts and jots.

“Whatever you say pip.”

“Start researching Parker.” And that was that.

—————————————————————

A few hours had passed, and so far you were quite impressed with how much the two of you had gotten done. For the most part, the two of you had stayed on opposite sides of the room. If he wanted to make a move, he wasn’t physically doing it, and his roommates still hadn’t come home yet.

Though as the hours passed, he had made his way closer to you- ever so slightly. From his desk he nudged over closer and closer, his laptop landing in his lap as he worked.

“What source are you working from right now?” you asked, not bothering to cast your gaze up as you continued to type, fingers flying over the keyboard as you bit your lip in concentration. You failed to notice his eyes darting between your lips and your breasts that poked out slightly as you slouched over, licking his lips hungrily.

“Some research paper. Here.”

You let out a little oomph in surprise as he plopped down beside you, sprawled across his bed as he enveloped you in his makeshift fortress. He stared at you with such longing you felt faint, having to stop your work to pull yourself together.

Fuck.

He nodded towards it, and you realized you had been staring at him longer than you intended, forgetting about the paper completely. “Oh, yeah okay let me look.” you murmured, taking the laptop from his hand to slide it across your lap, the fan whirling softly, the warmth of it adding more coals to the fire you felt already.

He was still staring.

Please look away before I want to kiss you. Or do more then kiss you. I’m supposed to be hating you, stop please.

You tried your best to read and concentrate, but it was next to no use. All you could focus on was him, his fingers drumming on the comforter near your thigh (what man has a comforter anyways?!), and his gaze on you, that was heavy with something. Want, perhaps? Lust? Or you were delusional. Very possible.

“It’s um, it’s good. I like it, I think there’s lots of good… stuff here.”

“Good stuff huh?” he asked sarcastically, a smirk plastered across his face.

He knew. The fucker knew you were down bad.

“Yeah. You know what I mean.” you grumbled, staring back down at your screen.

“I do know what you mean. Do you know what I mean?” he asked, hand inching closer and closer to your thigh- teasing you. You took a deep breath, grounding yourself.

You could push your hatred aside for just a few minutes. It was okay, just this once. Right?

You bit your lip, and fuck if that didn’t turn him on even more. Nodding to him, as if he could speak to you telepathically.

Yes, this is okay. Please touch me. Just a little, even is fine.

“Maybe you should explain a little more, Parker.”

His fingers skimmed the edge of your skirt, warm to the touch as they stroked your skin softly, just a whisper of him lingering. Goosebumps lingered in their wake, and you pushed your laptop off to the side, not caring where it landed on the bed. Just not next to him.

“How much more?”

His voice was low. Deep. Needing. You wanted more.

Another stroke of his fingers on your thigh, closer to where you wanted him the most made you shiver, toes curling. His gaze never left yours, never faultered. Instead of its usual lightness, his teasing and bullying- his eyes were dark with lust. Nothing but his full attention was on you, and you couldn’t help but shudder as he leaned in closer.

Another hand landed on your thigh. “Yeah?” he asked, voice rough as you nodded quickly. “Mhmmm..- oh!” you let out a little gasp as he swiftly grabbed you, swinging you over to straddle his lap, tossing you as if you weighed nothing.

You hated that you found it hot.

He smirked, leaning forward- so close you could feel his thudding heart with a small hand gesture sliding across his chest, could feel his breath catching. Just a small little gap between his lips and yours.

“You’re going to regret this.” you murdered, fingers curling into his shirt, twisting the soft fabric.

“I won’t. Will you?”

“I might.”

His smile grew.

“ I still hate you, you know.”

“I know. And you look so damn hot when you do.” He pulled you closer, fingers digging into your skin, needing you closer and closer despite the two of you practically forming one being.

A clash of teeth and tongue happened, rough and harsh- full of hate and need. A hatred for your need for him. Why did you need him? Of all people?

Because he was so fucking fine.

A hand slipped under your skirt to cup your ass, squeezing it slightly. You ran a hand through his hair, tugging on it as your hips moved on their own account- causing a groan to slip from his lips.

You’d do anything to hear it again.

“This is so wrong.” was all you could moan as his lips worked their way down your neck, tracing your jaw before nipping at your earlobe.

“I don’t do right, pips. You know this.”

“Mhm. But you hate me.”

He laughed against your skin, and you rocked your hips again, a little slap to your asscheek making you jolt.

“Whatever makes you sleep better at night, pips. Whatever you want to think.” he sighed, massaging the skin as you toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss.

You needed his lips on yours. You didn’t want to even try to decipher what his words meant, your head was foggy with want. You were slipping into a puddle of bliss, finally letting the restraint you held on a tight leash go- freeing the want and pure desire.

Yes, you wanted him. Yes, you hated him. And yes, he teased you. It hurt- but this didn’t. This was a soothe to his constant jabs, a salve to the wounds he caused.

“You feel so good. I want you so bad.” you confessed, causing him to moan again.

Yes. Yes, please.

“You’re killing me.”

“Good. It’s payback for the way you treat me.” you smirked, kissing him again. Hard, fast, rough. Mean.

Until he just… stopped.

Pulled away slightly, making you raise an eyebrow with confusion. His cheeks tinted slightly pink, hair messy and eyes wide with excitement, eager to keep going. To go further. So why did he just- stop?

“Parker?”

He smiled coyly.

“Don’t we have work we need to be doing?” he asked sarcastically- and you felt your stomach drop. He was teasing you. He was doing this just to get under your skin, to leave you high and dry and needing. Knowing damn well nothing could possibly get done now but him.

“You- you just want to get back to work? After that?”

“I want to do the dirtiest things imaginable to you, pips. I want to do so many things. But if we keep going and get nothing done, you’ll regret it and hate me. If we get work done, you’ll hate me too. I rather you hate me but feel secure with this, at least.” he murmured, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

It was tender, and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch. “So you just, want to work? Did I do something wrong?” you asked.

“Gods no. But it’s too easy if I just give it to you like that. You know me, pips- I tease. Maybe if you’re good and get more work done we can have some harmless, regretless fun.” he winked, sliding his hands down to your hips, picking you up again to toss you gently on his pillows, kissing your hand with a wink as he stood to go back to his desk.

Oh you were fucked. So, so fucked.

“I heard that.” he laughed, and you buried your head in your hands. This was going to be a long three weeks indeed.

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stevie-petey · 22 days ago

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track three: you did me bad

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

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

Rating: mature, lots of swearing and sexual tension

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August, 1989, Mike & Max laugh between rehearsals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They cope with the fear in different ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you fucking high?”

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

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

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

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

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

The tour bus becomes a war zone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And this is where the magic happens.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I try to be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wake!” You hit him again. “Up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

“We have flyers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know who that is?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who the hell is that?” Max asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know Leonard?” Steve is surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, no shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then I’m sold.”

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

“Whatever.”

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

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

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

Your heart flutters again.

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

“So, know any good restaurants around here?”

–

Dinner is unbearable.

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

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

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

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

Steve huffs. “Like his little pet?”

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

“We can count.”

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

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

Don’t fuck up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything.” He says. “I’m all ears.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. “I’m fine.”

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

“I–”

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

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

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

Steve fucking hates that he seems to mean it.

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

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

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

“I really don’t want to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart sinks. "I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words are murmured against your skin.

“Goodnight, Gregory,” you exhale.

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swallowing back your anger, your eyes close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do.

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Soothing words on velvet faux lips’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what a cruel reminder it is.

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

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

“Pink!” “Red!”

Back and forth the crowd debates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You better cool it down.

Oh, baby, cool it down.

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

But Steve does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somewhere along the way he lost sight of that.

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

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

He’s all alone.

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

No one sees him for the rest of the night.

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

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

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

–

You’re up before everyone else in the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve needs you.”

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then change who you’re becoming.”

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reluctantly you step away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just us!” The others chant.

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

“Showtime.”

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

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

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

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

Each and every moment, your camera documents it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He goes with his bandmates, his friends, home.

–

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

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

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

“And am I an errand?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you fucking hate it.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t deserve this.

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

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

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

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

You hiss in a breath. “Gregory–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White gripped knuckles knock against the doorframe once, twice.

Steve answers. Of course he answers.

And he doesn’t seem surprised to see you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Left for want and nothing.

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

There will never be room for anyone other than him.

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

Over and over again.

There is no end.

–

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

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

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

The vulnerability in his eyes sends the room spinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words and their faulty promises.

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you protecting yourself from?”

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

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

You’re not sure who starts yelling first

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

“Would you just listen to me–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s gone.

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

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

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

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

“Find Steve–?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except this time, Steve doesn’t come back.

–

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

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

No one has seen him since.

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

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

Soundcheck begins at six.

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

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

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

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

Mike scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

“But–”

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

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

“Not happening.”

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

“You slept with Steve?”

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

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

Jonathan nods. “She’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is all your fault.

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

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

Your throat goes dry. “No.”

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

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

Max turns to her. “Without Steve?”

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

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

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

Her outburst rings throughout the room.

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

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

Robin nods. “I can do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t know what else to say!”

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

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

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

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

His timing has always bordered on ironic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you let him.

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s awake, isn’t he?”

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

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

Mike pales. “You wouldn’t–”

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

Bile rises in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Robin.” Jonathan warns her.

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

“We’re gonna die.”

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

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

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

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

There’s a pathetic naivety when he says this.

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

“Wish us luck?”

“Always,” you tell her.

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

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

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

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

“Oh fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The show passes in a slow, nauseating blur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd isn’t sure how to react.

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

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

“You’re burning up,” your palm stings at the heat on Steve’s face. His hair clings to his forehead in sweat and you’re terrified that he’s taken something he shouldn’t have. “Steve, rosie, look at me, okay?”

His unfocused eyes squint up at you. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“You left.”

“And then I came back.” You unbutton his shirt, hoping cool air on his chest will lessen his sickly state. Memories from last night flicker in your mind as your fingers trail his buttons, skim the chest your kisses mark. Not now. Not here. Not again. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

Steve makes a panicked sound. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll be right back–”

Robin slams through the dressing room, long past fury. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Robin, no–” Jonathan has to jump in front of her to keep her from gouging Steve’s eyes out. Mike’s help is needed to help him hold her back, dodging her violent nails and words with terror in his own eyes.

“She just scratched me!” Mike hisses in pain, almost letting go of her, and Jonathan hits his head to keep him focused. “Why the fuck is everyone hitting me?”

While they’re distracted with Robin kicking and screaming, Max walks past them with a drumstick in her hand, aimed right at Steve’s crotch, and you quickly jump up from the couch and yank the weapon away from her.

“Can we not castrate him while he’s incapacitated?”

“I have a spare drumstick in my pocket.”

You twist to reach behind her, the two of you now grappling at one another in a petty fight, Robin’s own fist fight the backtrack to the argument, and eventually Jonathan has had enough.

He tightens his arms around Robin and finally screams, “Stop.”

You fall limp in Max’s chokehold. She loosens her grip. Mike stops complaining and Robin pauses in her abuse long enough to snarl out, “Let me go, Byers.”

“No.” He squeezes her arms behind her back, dodging yet another fist. “In case you’ve forgotten, our boss is watching you have a fucking meltdown right now trying to kill his lead singer.”

Leonard smiles.

But the smile only infuriates Robin more. She tries to lunge at Steve again. “I don’t give a shit!”

You attempt to settle her rage. Leonard’s watching. “Robin, this isn’t helping anything–”

“Fuck you!” She screams at you. “Fuck Steve, fuck whatever the hell you guys have been doing for who the fuck cares how long, and fuck Steve for being having dicks for brains and an impulse control weaker than a ninety year old man’s erection!”

She’s always been so lovely with her words.

Leonard seems to think so, too. He starts to laugh, loud, bellowing in a stoic room that fills with dread at his presence. The laughter cascades throughout the man’s body, disbelief, joy, manic in a way only someone who’s lost their mind can recreate.

It’s a terrible, horrifying laughter that silences even Robin’s rage.

Everyone holds their breath.

Steve lays motionless under you, ignorant of his destruction. In the midst of Leonard’s callous laughter Gregory’s nervous gaze meets yours.

You close your eyes. You wait for the blow to land.

But it never does.

“Now that’s what I call rock and roll!” Leonard cackles with inappropriate glee. “Sex, drugs, fist fights between band members. Hell, I don’t think the first time I slept with a blonde was as glorious as this moment.”

The man’s ecstasy stuns everyone. He claps Mike’s shoulder like a proud father, pinches Max’s cheek and laughs when she slaps him away. He blows a kiss to Robin and shakes Jonathan’s hand eagerly.

“And him,” Leonard points at Steve repeatedly, shaking his head as if at a loss for words. “He’s a goddamn rockstar, you hear me? A rockstar.”

Steve turns his head, his cheek pressed against the couch beneath him. “‘M a rockstar?”

“You sure as shit are, baby.” Leonard cackles again. His white teeth bite into the air and when he finally notices the rest of the band’s stunned silence, he settles his laughter. Clearing his throat, he straightens his blazer. “You can have your album.”

Robin’s jaw drops. Jonathan almost drops her in his own shock while Mike and Max choke on air.

“Have the songs ready by the end of this month. Record it at my studio. Get your shining asses ready to tour the album once you’re done. You’re a part of Major Tom’s now.”

Somehow Steve is the only one who can react.

He sits up, feigning sobriety well enough to fool even you. His tipsy smile shines back at Leonard. “Thank you, sir,” he giggles, his head nods to the side like a child’s. “We-we’re honored, Mr. Branham. Sir. Thank you. Um, again.”

Leonard picks lint off his blazer, turns to him. “Why, it’s my pleasure, Harrington.”

Steve extends his hand, leaning to the side in an obscene manner that Leonard huffs in amusement at.

“But if you ever, ever, pull a stunt again like the one you did tonight,” Leonard says as he accepts Steve’s handshake. “I will make sure your name dies an insignificant death.”

The room becomes cold.

“No one will remember who you are thirty years down the line. Your name will be less than worthless.” Leonard’s grip tightens around Steve’s hand. He makes sure he understands the weight of the warning. Just how easily he can ruin their lives. “Remember that.”

Dropping the handshake, Leonard Branham adjusts his blazer one more time and snaps a finger at Gregory. “Take me back to my hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” Gregory can’t look at anyone as they leave.

In the end, it’s just you and the Februarys left alone in a venue in Chicago. Quiet follows the revelation that they’ll be able to record the album they’ve been longing for since they first played together in Steve’s garage.

There will be no celebration tonight.

Leonard’s words hang in the air long after he’s gone.

It’s only after he leaves that the last of the alcohol in Steve’s system oxidizes, sobering him enough to feel the bands in his chest snap.

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#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #rockstar!steve harrington #stranger things fic #m's writing #i wish i could say it gets better #but it doesnt #steve is so hot tho so theres that

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rika-mmendmethings · 2 months ago

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Risqué Sketches | Sylus

Summary: You're an artist at heart with your boyfriend, Sylus, mostly being your choice of muse. What happens when he comes across a sketchbook that holds your innermost desires and has provocative drawings of him?

Warning(s): explicit language, profanity, first-time, reader is implied to be female, innuendos, cunnilingus, bodily fluids, unprotected sex (tap it, guys), p-in-v intercourse, dirty talk, use of pet names like sweetie and kitten, cervix fcking (I am bad at tagging, hope you get the point)

Word count: 4.5k

Now playing: 2 on by Tinashe

Notes: My first work here ♥ This is the aftermath of my ovulation phase starting.

The sound of your 4B pencil gliding over the smooth, pristine paper broke the silence of the maroon room. You began with a simple circle, which, with a few deft strokes, morphed seamlessly into a diamond-shaped face. Next, the sharp outline of the nose, followed by the delicate contours of the ears and neck, all took shape under your skilled hand.

But it was the eyes that always turned out to be your favorite subject to draw. Their deep, ruby tincture was intoxicating, always pulling you in whenever they met your gaze. In this sketch, his eyes were half-lidded, revealing only a narrow strip of that vibrant red, while his lips curved into a smirk that was borderline dangerous.

With a few final flourishes, you put your pencil away, now staring at the image of your boyfriend, Sylus — shirtless, toned, and looking like he might chain you to his bed if you gave your consent. You held the notebook close to your chest and squealed, face tinted with both embarrassment and ardor.

You were an artist at heart, preferring a more characterized style that personified a person’s personality. People were always your favorite things to draw. There was always something satisfying about being able to perfectly capture a person with simple lines and colors.

Over the course of your relationship, Sylus quickly became your muse — the subject you constantly returned to in your art, the person you longed to capture with perfect precision. As your feelings for him deepened, so did your need to render every detail of him flawlessly. This longing intensified the moment he asked you to be his girlfriend.

What had once been innocent sketches of his sharp, piercing eyes and his Cheshire grins gradually evolved into something more risque, something undeniably charged with desire. Pages filled with nothing but images of a shirtless Sylus, drawn with a quiet intensity, reflected your secret longing for him to take control.

This secret collection of yours was hidden inside the drawers of your study back in your home, only retrieved in the quietest, loneliest hours of the night when the urge to indulge in your fantasies grew too strong to resist. You were far too embarrassed to let anyone, especially Sylus, see these drawings. If he ever discovered what you’d sketched in the privacy of your thoughts, you feared he would end things without a second thought.

So, it was a wonder why you'd carelessly left the sketchbook in your small overnight bag, uncharacteristically exposing it as you prepared to stay at his place. It was an oversight, a lapse in judgment — one that could easily spiral into disaster if you weren’t careful. And yet, some invisible pull urged you to pull it out and continue your drawings. After all, Sylus was out finishing the last deal of the day, and he’d be back at exactly 11:15. It was only 10:30, surely you had a little time to lose yourself in idle fantasy, right?

Your eyes traveled back down to your newest sketch, your brain trying to decide whether or not you were disgusted with yourself or if you should be pleased. The drawing itself seemed alright; the anatomy was near perfect, but the actual content…well…It felt sinful, like drinking too much bubbly soda that left a deep hole in your stomach and spoiled your dinner.

As your eyes drilled into the drawing before you, your mind split into a battlefield of guilt and curiosity, dissecting the morality of repeatedly sketching your boyfriend — especially the more risqué ones. You questioned yourself, wondering if your art had crossed a line when, suddenly, the door to your shared bedroom opened with a soft creak. You froze as if caught in the headlights of a car, watching helplessly as Sylus walked in, unfastening his cuffs.

"Beloved, I’m home," he announced, his voice light with a relaxed smile. "The diamond deal with Chang wrapped up rather quickly, so I came home and picked up some food for us."

Every profanity you’d ever learned rushed to your tongue in an explosive wave — cursing your bad luck, the spiteful gods, Chang the businessman, and most of all, yourself. This was it. The disaster you had been silently fearing. You should’ve thrown the sketchbook into the fireplace the moment you realized you’d brought it with you during your weekends with your lover—or better yet, you should never have sketched it at all.

You hastily shoved the indecent drawings beneath the maroon sheets, your fingers trembling. "T-that’s… wonderful," you managed, your voice unsteady as you fought to maintain composure. One wrong move, one slip-up, and Sylus’s razor-sharp instincts would catch on. "Welcome home, my love."

You forced a smile, as calm as you could muster, but Sylus’s unblinking gaze made the effort feel hollow. His smile faded into something more inquisitive, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. With a fluid motion, he removed his blazer and tossed it onto his mahogany armchair. Then, he took a few steps toward the bed, leaving the food untouched on the desk, its rich aroma floating through the air and teasing your senses.

"Wh-what’s up?" You tried to laugh, but it came out half-hearted, your words trailing off in the air as his presence seemed to loom over you, intensifying the tension. Did he really have to stand above you like that? Like a cat toying with its prey before the inevitable pounce?

“Nothing. I think…I think I just like the idea of coming home to you on my bed like this.” He plopped down onto the bed next to you. “That and you are acting quite peculiar.”

Oh, Lord.

“O-Oh? I am?” you stammered, inching toward the sketchbook in a desperate attempt to shield it from his view, silently praying to any higher power that Sylus wouldn’t notice its presence. Your fingers crawled toward the book, attempting to cover the glaring "SYLUS QIN, MY BELOVED" label emblazoned on the front.

Yet, despite your silent pleas, fate seemed to have something far less merciful in mind.

Sylus’s gaze narrowed, his eyes tracking your every movement, until they landed on the book — half-hidden but still unmistakable. “Ah, you were drawing,” he observed, his tone smooth and steady. “I don’t recognize that cover. May I see it?”

The sensation in your body was electric, every nerve igniting with panic. It felt as though you were doused in gasoline, and Sylus — ever so calm — was holding the match that would set everything aflame. The heat spread quickly to your cheeks, your throat tightening with the sharp sting of embarrassment. His gaze bore into you as if peeling away every defense you had left. You knew, then, that the longer you hesitated, the more suspicion he would harbor.

“Sketchbook?” you croaked, struggling to regain your composure. “Right, yes, I was just… drawing while waiting for you to get home. Totally normal, nothing you’d really want to see.” You grabbed the pad with frantic hands, clutching it to your chest as though it were the last thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your arms shielded it like an impenetrable barrier, a fortress protecting treasures from a curious and relentless dragon.

Sylus’s lips curved into a faint frown, and with barely any effort, he arched a single eyebrow in disbelief. “That’s nonsense, sweetie,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I always love seeing your art.”

“I-I really don’t think you’d want to see it,” you stammered, your words tumbling out in a rush. “I mean, the sketches are so rough, they might burn your eyes out. And your eyes are too beautiful to be burned.” You tried to force a laugh, but it felt weak, hollow.

Sylus’s expression hardened into a skeptical frown, his nose scrunching slightly in the way he always did when he wasn’t buying your excuses. And in that moment, you realized — he wasn’t fooled. Not for a second.

Unfazed by your protests, Sylus extended a hand with a swift and decisive motion, reaching for the sketchbook before you could react. Panicked, you scrambled off the bed and hurriedly backed toward the center of the room.

“Beloved, this is nonsense. Why can’t I see your drawings?” Like a predator, Sylus stalked his way towards you slowly yet purposefully.

“Because—!” You blurted out, voice cracking under the weight of your panic.

“Because…?” he prompted, his gaze never wavering, his tone insistent.

He was now mere inches from you, close enough for you to feel the tension radiating from his body, his slight frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

“Because I…” You dragged the word out, trying to buy yourself a moment of clarity. “I want to keep it private?” It was a half-truth, and you both knew it. Sharing your art has always been one of the most intimate ways you connect, a way to reveal parts of yourselves without words. You had never once turned down the opportunity to show him your creations — it was a quiet kind of intimacy you treasured deeply. And now, you were lying to him about it.

The room hung in a thick, charged silence as the two of you locked eyes, a fierce contest of wills. And in that moment, when Sylus’s lips curled into a knowing, almost playful smirk, you realized you had already lost this battle. He knew. He always knew.

“Forgive me for this, alright, sweetie?” he said, his voice low, and before you could react, his arm shot forward with the precision of a strike. He reached for the sketchbook again, and the tug-of-war began in earnest.

You fought back with all your strength, pulling desperately to keep the book out of his reach, but no matter how hard you tried, Sylus’s relentless determination — combined with the strength honed from years of training — meant you were always on the losing side. For every inch you gained, he yanked it back with ease, closing the gap effortlessly.

With one final, forceful tug, you lost your balance and crashed to the carpeted floor, the sketchbook slipping from your hands. Sylus stood over you, his imposing figure casting a shadow as he loomed above. One hand pressed down on the floor beside you, trapping you beneath him, while the other gripped the sketchbook with a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

He pulled away, resting some of his weight on your lower abdomen and rendering you immobile. Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but feel a certain way with Sylus on top of you like this. His smirks were always rugged and somewhat sinister in tone, but now, with him on top of you, it felt like electricity shooting through your body and down between your thighs.

He studied the front of the small binder with a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he glanced at the cover. “Ah, I see why you didn’t want to share this with me,” he mused. “A sketchbook full of nothing but me? Kitten, I’m flattered.”

You squirmed beneath him, desperation rising as you tried in vain to stop him. You pleaded and begged, but Sylus — unfazed — hummed softly as he began flipping through the pages. Each turn of the page only seemed to fuel his already growing ego, his confidence swelling with every passing second. With each flip, you felt as though the moments you had left as his girlfriend were slipping away. Time felt like it stretched into eternity, and worse still, you were powerless to stop it.

“I don’t know why you didn’t want to share this with me, kitten,” he continued, his voice light but laden with curiosity. “These are wonderful—”

His words trailed off as his gaze fixed on the next page. You could feel the weight of his body, the tension in the air, and the shift in his expression as his mouth parted slightly, his eyes widening with surprise. A faint blush tinged his ears, and suddenly, the silence in the room became almost suffocating. The air grew thick with something unspoken between you. Another shiver ran down your spine, like the brush of a ghost’s touch, as his intense ruby eyes met yours. You felt yourself becoming dizzy with the force of his stare, a pull so magnetic it made your body freeze, paralyzed by an overwhelming surge of emotion. You closed your eyes to steady yourself, fighting the urge to fall deeper into him.

You waited for him to speak, to say something, but Sylus remained silent, his gaze still locked on you, his fingers idly turning the pages. The only sound was the faint ringing in your ears, the heavy silence amplifying the tension between you both.

“I knew you would think I was disgusting…” you muttered, the words slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

Sylus shook his head, his expression softening, his eyes crinkling with disbelief at your accusation. “What? No, no…” he said quickly, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s not that, beloved. This isn’t disgusting in the slightest.” He paused, his gaze never leaving yours. “I was just a little… surprised, my love.”

His finger trailed down your neck to the opening of your shirt, leaving a fiery trail of butterflies in its wake and teasingly playing with the buttons. “I didn’t realize you needed me this badly, sweetie…” He whispered in your ear.

“S-Sylus…”

You shifted around, body suddenly searching - yearning - for something, but you weren’t sure what. It was an exuberant, even wanton, anticipation; a breathless pining that consumed every ounce of your being until your mind became clouded with need. Any previous inhibition or self-doubt you had quickly drifted away.

There was some more shuffling of papers and yet another soft chuckle emanated. “Kitten, if you wanted to know how big I was, you could have just asked.”

He held up another picture from your sketchbook, one where you attempted to draw a fully nude picture of Sylus that ended up being scrapped, the only remnant being the question How big even is he? 5, 6 inches maybe?

Instead of being embarrassed by this though, the comment only furthered your lack of restraint, and you had to slowly rock yourself back and forth against Sylus’s thigh to assuage the increasingly empty pit deep within you. Sylus’s lips pressed against your neck once more, surely leaving marks to remember in the morning.

A small whimper escaped your mouth, his hands wandering up further until they palmed your chest. You allowed yourself to move just a bit faster, only for Sylus’s hands to trail back down and tightly grab your hips, forcing you to remain still.

“Sylus, what the hell!” You whined.

“Patience, sweetie. If you want me to make love to you then you have to calm down, alright?” He turned you around so that you were now face to face and kissed you gently. “This is our first time, after all; I want to do it right.”

He continued to press tortuous open-mouthed kisses down your body, unbuttoning your blouse along the way. “You are so beautiful…” He murmured against your skin.

Your back arched from the hint of pleasure feasting your body, picking away at every last bit of sanity until nothing remained. The comfortable clothes you wore suddenly felt too tight and restricting to breathe.

He pushed you onto the bed so your back was flush against the covers, his frame looming over you, and from the tent of his black slacks, you could tell that your estimation of five to six inches was far off.

“Sylus…I need you…” You panted. “Please”

“And you will have me, sweetie.” He assured, the loving smile he only showed you in full view. “But for right now, I just want you to stay still and be good for me, alright?”

His mouth was back on yours before the words of agreement completely passed your lips, and his arms returned to their place on your cheeks, pressing you closer. He led the kiss this time, his tongue hungrily searching for your own, a groan rumbling low in satisfaction when it met its mark.

His mischievous mouth left yours to press kisses to your jawline, your pulse point, your neck. An involuntary whine left your throat when he found the sensitive spot nestled at the bottom slope into your shoulder, his teeth marking it as his own. “You taste so good, kitten,” he murmured, his assault on the thin skin continuing until you were sure it’d bruise. Despite his task, he didn’t miss the way you shivered at the affectionate moniker.

His tongue was back in your mouth, hands traveling from your throat to your collarbone, shifting around your heaving breasts to toy with your swollen buds. His kisses only paused long enough to rid you of the remaining garment before joining your skin again, traveling down to the hollow of your throat, the swelling skin of your breast, leaving violet blooms in his wake. You were writhing, full of need, your hands grasping desperately at his shirt until he took the hint and shifted it over his head.

Leaning back, he traced the outline of each nipple, moving slowly until he could palm each breast, squeezing slightly. “You’re so beautiful, sweetie,” He sighed, molten gaze focused on the sight of his hands full of you. “I’ve been thinking about how these would feel since forever.” Thumbs pinched and rolled the tender buds, causing you to keen loudly before he smoothed the hurt, lips coming to pull one peak into his mouth.

His tongue swirled against you, fingers alternating their pinching and pulling until you were whimpering. “Sylus, please,” you cried, a hand coming to tangle in his silver locks, tugging at the roots. He chuckled low against your skin, a devilish sparkle in his eyes as he looked up at you. “Shhh, I’ll give you what you want. Let me enjoy this.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth. He was making you crazy with need, taking his sweet time in his torture of your body, and you weren’t sure you’d survive his exploration of you. A lick down your abdomen signaled his ascent, hands trailing down the curve of your pelvis. Bare before him, he admired your form, hands smoothing up and down your thighs. “God damn, you’re fucking sexy. I bet you taste as good as you look.”

Putting a finger in his mouth, you watched helplessly as he suckled the digit, pulling away once It was drenched in his salvia. Electricity raced through your veins when he made sudden contact with your throbbing center, dragging up your slit and pressing against your clit. A loud moan of his name had him grinning, leaning back down until you could feel his warm breath against your cunt. “Is this where you want me?” at your affirmative hum, he nuzzled closer, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe up your sopping core. His movements were slow and skilled, tracing a delicate pattern into your folds until he found the bundle of nerves at the apex. Wrapping his lips around it, he suckled gently, applying pressure until you were crying out for him.

He had you so worked up at this point that it wouldn’t have taken much longer to set you over the edge, his palms keeping you spread as his wicked tongue lashed against your heat. Your hips were undulating against him, hands pulling and tugging his hair as you held him closer. “Fuck, I’m so close, Sylus!” Your eyes rolled back, another moan leaving you. He grunted against you, the vibrations making you shiver. Letting go of your clit with a lewd pop, his fingers trailed up and down your slit, his eyes boring into your own.

A shrill cry left your lips as his efforts doubled, vision blurring with tears as you felt the band in your belly tighten. He had you right on the brink, and you wanted to go over the edge so badly. His fingers were pumping into you wildly, curling to hit that spot that made you see stars, unable to continue forming coherent sentences at his assault.

The second his lips suctioned back to your throbbing clit you slipped over the edge into orgasm, the white-hot band snapping and blooming from your nerves. Moans tore from your throat, a cacophony of his name. He murmured praises against you, his free hand smoothing circles into your flesh until you came back down, chest heaving. When he was sure it had ended he pulled his fingers out, licking them clean before crawling back over your body. “So good. You are amazing.”

Mouths joining again, he grasped you tight to roll over, switching your positions until you were now straddled on top of his torso. Your hands explored the expanse of him; strong muscles beneath flawless skin, smooth under your fingertips. Shifting your hips, you pressed your dripping heat against his strained erection still painfully hidden in his slacks, lapping up the deliciously low moans he pressed into your mouth. The friction of his pants against your sensitive flesh had you mewling, your lips finally leaving his own to trail messily down his jaw, his neck. Large hands join your own in pulling off the remaining offensive clothing between you, leaving him bare to your greedy eyes. He immediately pressed a reassuring kiss to your lips before grunting, “Hands and knees, sweetie. I'm about to make you see stars in the daytime.”

Shifting below him, you leaned on your forearms until your ass was perched in the air, wet cunt fully on display. A deep growl left his chest at the sight, a hand coming down to slap the flesh presented to him, causing you to yelp. “You’re such a devastatingly good tease, aren’t you?” Another slap resounded in the room, leaving a reddened mark in its wake. “So sexy, and all for me.”

Hips swaying, you taunted him further, the feel of his blunt head toying at your entrance making you whine. “Sylus, please, I need to feel you.” He hummed thoughtfully, continuing the slow drag of his cock against your dripping core. He seemed content in teasing you, enjoying the way you jumped when he brushed your sensitive clit before diving down to catch at your ready hole and sliding his cock to saturate your arousal. He stuttered, a low moan leaving his lips and sending a shiver down your spine as his palms returned to the flesh of your ass. “God, I think I might die.”

His descent into you was slow, your walls slowly adjusting to his girth to welcome him deeper. You pleaded, “Move, Sylus. I need you to mov—”

An urgent thrust cuts off your words, a gasp tearing from your throat instead. You felt unbelievably full, the slight sting from the stretch quickly ebbing into a low hum of pleasure, one that radiated down to your toes. Eye closing on instinct, you could feel every inch pulse against your sensitive walls, each of his glides torturously slow. You needed him harder, faster - you needed to fall apart against him.

His thrusts started coming at a rapid speed, his cock slamming home harder each time until the slapping sound of skin was echoing throughout the room. You felt the white hot band of your impending orgasm pull tighter, hands furling into the sheets. You wanted to drag your nails down his skin, to destroy him the way he was destroying you, but his current hold on your body prevented any movement.

It seemed he could read your thoughts because the next moment, you were flipped so that your back hit the bed and you were face-to-face with your lover. He ran a hand through his sweaty locks, briefly explaining, “Wanted to see your face as you came. I want to see you all ruined for me.” You felt a rush of wetness at his words, body already following his directions without a second thought.

The devil of a man just smirked, licking his lips as he positioned himself against your weeping core. Grabbing your knees, he folded them back into your chest before sliding home, the guttural groan leaving his chest in perfect harmony with your own. Arms caging you in, his face was inches from your own as he started pumping into you, crimson eyes taking in each expression of pleasure on your face, each whimper and moan from your throat. A particularly angled thrust had you crying out a garbled form of his name, and it was then he knew he found what he had been looking for.

Dewy lips crashed against your own and you were silenced by the overtaking of his mouth, his tongue seeking yours and stealing your breath. Your cries increased in pitch, the build in your lower gut ready to spill at any moment, and yet he continued to swallow each moan, rubbing your throbbing clit with his thumb.

It was with his next thrust against the tender spot of your walls that had you shouting out his name, orgasm slamming into you until your eyes rolled back and back arched into a dome. Sylus worked you through the high, his hips rolling and grinding into yours until you were messy, nails leaving an angry trail down the skin of his back and biceps.

He cursed, hiding his face in the crook of your neck before finally spilling inside of you, murmurs of your name pressed into your throat as he rolled his hips through his release. You reveled in its warmth, and after a few more lazy strokes he was collapsing on top of you, cock snuggly resting inside your core.

Heavy breaths were the only sound for the next few moments, a content hum leaving your boyfriend's throat as you raised a hand to stroke lazily through his white locks. Your body was sated, thrumming with a calming glow that had every muscle relaxing and your eyes drooping shut.

Unsure of how much time had passed, you were startled when you felt him pull out slowly, his cum spilling from your core. You pout, reaching out for him. “Where are you going? Come back.”

He chuckled, body leaning over yours once more. “Just going to clean up, kitten, don’t worry.” You watch as his eyes look down at the mess he made of you, his sleepy grin now turning dark as he eyed his release dripping down your thighs. Long digits swiped through the milky substance, his heavy-lidded gaze setting your skin ablaze before he pushed it back inside your abused walls, a small squeak leaving your lips. “Keep that where it belongs.”

You must’ve fallen asleep again because you woke to him wiping your tender sex clean, pulling your body upright to slip one of his t-shirts over your naked form. Allowing yourself to flop back down on the bed, you peered up at him as he slid into the bed beside you, wiggling you into his arms. Your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his neck and his hands found purchase on your waist and nape. He started playing with the hair there idly, causing you to melt against him. Silence enveloped you both and you drifted off to the land of dreams, content in the newfound intimacy that had bloomed between you two.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

#rika's works ✎#love and deep space #Sylus x you #sylus imagine #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #love and deepspace smut #lads x reader #sylus x mc #love and deepspace sylus #sylus lads #qin che #l&ds sylus #sylus qin

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porcelainbirdss · 20 days ago

Text

one for luck, one for…

summary: in which your friend Phainon decided to play with your hair just before the bell rings — and by some miracle, your deepest covets became satiated.

cw: fem!reader, fem!Phainon, modern au, fluff, Phainon is kinda a mean girl so probably ooc, she’s crushing hard on reader, possessiveness. || wc: 2.7k

"oh, [name]! do you sit here now?" Phainon inquired, her lips stretched into a wide smile as she took in your form, trying to organize your stuff. the bell would ring in about fifteen minutes — and your teacher was always ever so strict, so you preferred to have your notebooks and pencil-case neatly placed — just in case.

you nodded, trying to form your expression into something cordial — the girl was… well, how do you say this? one of the popular ones, while you were more of a pushover, letting your wits be used by others. however, no matter how Phainon might have appeared, she never once tried to use you — if anything, she would be the one giving you answers during quizzes while you found yourself lacking in information, or helping you when the teacher asked you to answer in front of the whole class.

you didn’t understand the girl — of course, what she was doing was utterly kind, but out of all those people she could have chosen — why you?

"yes, that’s my place now." you answered politely, returning her smile as you fidgeted with your pen. for whatever reason, whenever she lied her blue, bright irises on you, you felt a tingle of something foreign spring up in your gut.

Phainon beamed, immediately taking her seat behind you. "finally, that teach made a good decision for once." she hummed, leaning to talk to you over the clamor, "i don’t know about you, but i honestly don’t like him. he’s so stuck up, isn’t he?"

you nodded along to her words, continuing to spin the pen between your fingers, thinking that perhaps this mere action could take your mind off of the way her lips glistened, coated in a thick layer or lipgloss — or how her eyelashes fluttered so sweetly, obviously painted with mascara. "yeah. he’s a pain." you admitted — or rather lied, because you didn’t truly feel as if mr. Anaxa was all that bad.

your classmate giggled briefly in response, twirling the lock of fair hair around her finger. "totally. see? at least you agree with me." she said, the corners of her lips stretching even further upwards, "ugh, always so much homework, and projects…"

with a barely-audible laugh, you nodded once more, allowing yourself to lean over her desk. you noticed her notebooks — clean, and dainty — and you wondered why she loved complaining about school so much. it’s not as if she was struggling, right?

"i wouldn’t mind if he could cut us some slack for once." you murmured, glancing over to the man busying himself with something on his laptop. if he heard you, you’d surely regret ever saying such words — but mr. Anaxa seemed engrossed in whatever he was doing, his vision keen on the screen.

Phainon tapped her nails on the wooden surface, drawing your attention back in. "maybe he’s not that bad? i mean, the new sitting plan is pretty good.” she mused, gently reaching over to your hair. you felt yourself shudder at the careful touch. "personally, i am happy. how about you?"

"yeah— yeah, me too." you stammered, wincing at how awkward that came out. the girl didn’t seem to mind, raking her fingers through your locks.

when you pulled closer to her, you could smell her perfume — you wouldn’t know exactly, as it was pretty hard to discern, but she smelled of jasmine. "you’ve got such nice hair…" Phainon swiftly changed the topic, her eyes meeting yours before she gave you a little tug, urging to turn your head. you did as she pleased.

"oh, um… you think so?" you huffed out a nervous chuckle, sitting upright in your chair. why was she always so kind to you, while she preferred to snarl at others? honestly, it remained a mystery — how Phainon always doted on you, pleaded to be your pair during group-projects, offered her brand lipsticks (which’s prices you were too afraid to even ask about), sat with you during lunch, and many, many more occurrences.

truth be told — there is no point in trying to guess her intentions. Phainon was your school friend, and for that, you were grateful — the scale of bullying you were experiencing ever since the start definitely lessened, and whenever someone tried to do as much as look at you the wrong way, they’d meet with her tight smile. it was usually enough to chase the bully away — although if they were still feeling feisty, Phainon would… well, verbally obliterate them. you seriously don’t know how she always came up with such brutal remarks on the spot.

"mhm." she hummed beside your ear, her breath tingling your nape. "it’s no wonder he has a crush on you. you’re stunning."

another thing she liked to do — complimenting you to the point where you’d be left stumbling over your words, face flushed.

"ah, don’t… he surely doesn’t." you giggled under your breath, your vision flickering over to the boy standing on the other side of the classroom. it became pretty obvious — even to your oblivious self — that he was somewhat interested in you. sometimes, when you had nothing better to do, you’d try to daydream about how lovely it would be to finally have that school love, and a boyfriend. it was a popular topic in all those movies targeted for teenagers, and so you yearned for the feeling too.

except, whenever you tried to imagine him kissing you, the boy’s image always distorted, shifting into a familiar face of Phainon, gently cupping your cheeks, and smiling at you so, so sweetly. her lips would surely feel good on yours, no? she must take care of them, because they’re smooth, and glistening with those lipglosses she loved using. oh, and her hands too — the slender, long fingers curling around your jaw, freshly smothered in balm, painted nails digging into your flesh. the intoxicating scent of jasmine would encompass all your senses before the girl pulls you into her lap, and then—

wait, what are you even thinking about?

Phainon caressed your hair with her comb, attempting to make a small braid. "don’t be silly. he ogles you all the time, [name]." she snickered lowly, tugging a knot out, "i have to admit, he has taste."

you shifted in your chair, wishing you could look at her face, and see the expression she was making. "you think so?"

"totally." she answered, her long fingernails raking through your scalp, and you had to physically stop yourself from shivering. "i mean, i guess he’s hot, but… he’s not good for you. you deserve someone way better."

your hands clenched around nothing. "why? what’s up with him?" you questioned, wondering why someone as polite as him could be a wrong match for you. the boy never came off as vicious, nor rude — at least to you.

"ah, you know," Phainon began, making another loose braid, "he likes to play nice, and all that, but he’s an asshole in reality. manipulates everyone he can." she explained, and you felt her hands briefly clench around your locks. "what a fucking jerk, trying to make my best friend his another victim."

your shoulders tensed upon her seething tone, and your heart seemed to hammer even harder now, beating at your ribs with fervor. Phainon considered you her best friend? that was… well, you thought of her the same way — maybe because she was the only one you had, but still. truthfully, you didn’t expect it — nor the disdain in her words.

"if you say so, then i’ll just—" you paused, mulling over your sentence, "if he tries to make a move, i’ll tell him to get lost. how’s that?"

that evoked a cheery laugh out of Phainon, and the amount of warmth involuntarily swelling up in your chest caused you to giggle along. "that’s my girl. every single boy can go to hell."

"every single one?" you mused lightheartedly, leaning into her touch.

you didn’t see her face, but could easily discern the smile in her voice. "yeah. we don’t need them, right?" she said, separating the next stand of hair to make yet another small braid.

you nodded, and found yourself pondering — could Phainon also be…? it’s not like you had a crush on her, no, absolutely not! but still, her words made you feel that foolish glimmer of hope, and then you weren’t sure how you truly felt about your friend. aren’t you utterly pathetic, for dreaming of her being with you, and no one else? and gods, aren’t you stupid for wishing that her tender demeanor towards you meant something more?

a short moment of silence passed before Phainon spoke again. "anyway, what are your plans for the weekend?" she asked casually, brushing a part of your hair to the side.

"nothing much." you admitted, shrugging.

"really?" she beamed, and you thought you loved how good happiness looked on the girl (or rather sounded, because you still couldn’t see her face). "well, i got invited to a party, but honestly i don’t feel like going. what do you say we go to the mall together?"

you chuckled quietly, suddenly embarrassed for whatever reason. "we could, but… i ran out of money, and my parents don’t want to give me allowance."

(the reason why you were absolutely broke right now was because Phainon’s birthday was coming up, and you spent a horrendous amount on the gift — but that’s out of the topic).

"don’t worry, [name], i can treat you!" she assured, hovering over the desk to look at your expression. "it’s really no problem for me."

"but—"

"oh, we will go to that new clothing shop they opened recently!" Phainon interrupted, a habit of hers that showed up whenever she got excited, "not to sound rude, or anything, but you definitely need a new outfit. i will choose it for you, okay?"

you craned your neck to look at her face, and almost passed out from the way her bright eyes crinkled in the corners, a wide grin stretching her lips. when Phainon allowed herself to let go of that slightly mean facade, she truly looked like an angel sent from above.

"alright, we can do that." you returned her smile, pushing away the wave of guilt threatening to creep up on you. seriously, you’ll have to beg your parents for another sum of pocket money, because there was no way you’d use her like that.

then, another girl came up to your desks, looming over Phainon. she was one of your classmates — personally, you didn’t like her, but she seemed quite close to your friend, so you decided against voicing your dismay out loud. "hey, Phainon, are you and [name] going to the mall this weekend?"

"yeah, we are." Phainon answered bluntly, still yet to pull away from you.

"can i go with you? i didn’t get invited to that party, unlike you, so frankly i have nothing better to do." she hummed, and you wanted to endlessly berate yourself for the sting of something ugly in your heart. still, it was supposed to be your outing, with no one else! why was she bumping into your business?

Phainon’s eyebrows arched upwards, and her beaming expression fell. "no, you can’t."

"but—" the girl attempted to protest, before your friend quickly glanced at her phone’s screen — three minutes until the bell rings. then, she stood up, grabbing your wrist, and pulled you out of your chair.

"i said what i said.” she barked at the girl, taking wide steps towards the door. as you walked out of the classroom, she leaned into your side, a scornful look adorning her face. "ugh, who does she think she is?" she murmured, her eyebrows narrowing together.

you allowed Phainon to tug you along, trying to keep up with her hasty pace. the amount of relief you felt at that moment was indescribable — and, no matter how awful that might sound, you felt satisfied with how she brutally turned that girl down. "but aren’t you two friends?" you spoke, entering the bathroom.

"well, yeah." Phainon rolled her eyes, opening one of the cabins, and pulling you in. you didn’t question her actions. she then rummaged through her bag, and upon failing to find whatever thing she was searching for, she let out a resigned sigh. "i mean— no, no she’s not. she acts as if we’re close, or something, but she’s a goddamn parasite."

you nodded stiffly. "okay."

"plus,” Phainon continued, taking a single step towards you, "i know you don’t like her. it’s pretty obvious, to be honest." she reached for your palm, giving it a squeeze, and you felt as if the ground opened up, promising to swallow you whole.

your blood pressure immediately spiked, and you wanted to simultaneously bolt out of the bathroom, and render the distance between you both. she was so close — so unbelievably close, you could smell the jasmine, and clearly see how her mouth curled up, smothered in that thick coat of makeup. you loved it, but at the same time wished Phainon would stop wearing it so much. she was a natural beauty, after all.

upon your lack of answer, she spoke again. "anyway, i want to go out just with you. understand? so don’t you dare invite anyone else." she whispered, her blue irises flickering over to your lips. you vividly sensed the girl’s fingers clenching harder around your hand, effectively knocking the words out of your throat.

just what was going on?

"uh, i—"

before you could finish your clumsy trail of thought, Phainon’s lips suddenly met with yours — you breathed in sharply through your nose, squeezing her palm back. the kiss was chaste, and quick, but you were completely sure if not for the grip she had on you, your knees would buckle, making you collapse on the floor.

it felt exactly as you thought it would — maybe even better. she was so soft, yet decisive, and your mind went blank with the contact. you couldn’t believe it was happening, because stuff like that only occurred in your deepest dreams — but your current situation was very much real, and you could fly up with the sheer amount of joy.

then, she pulled away, taking in your breathless form with her half-lidded eyes, snickering lowly. "wh-what was that…?" you found yourself asking dumbly, staring at her with wonder.

Phainon shrugged, her features shifting into something friendlier — and perhaps more coy, if you squinted. "this one was for luck.” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"luck— luck?" you stammered out, still too dazed to think properly.

that evoked another giggle out of her. "don’t tell me you forgot about the quiz we’re going to take now?"

you blinked once, twice, and the cogs in your brain turned, finally catching up — oh no, you really did forget, didn’t you? and at this point, you’re going to be late for class!

"maybe…?" you muttered, your vision flickering between everything, but her.

Phainon clicked her tongue, her free hand moving to grasp your chin. she pulled closer again, her mouth brushing against yours, and you thought your whole body was made out of cotton. perhaps you wouldn’t mind being late.

"one for luck, one for…" she breathed, her lips almost — almost closing around yours, but the irritably loud sound of the ringing bell caused you both to jolt. you bit your tongue in surprise, snapped out of the moment.

the girl let go of you, taking a step back with a sheepish smile, so unlike her. "sorry, [name], i— i think i got carried away." she chuckled, raking her fingers through her hair.

you immediately shook your head, trying to ignore the sting on your cheeks. you really must look like a fool right now. "no, i didn’t mind. actually, i… Phainon, i think i—"

your surge of courage got quickly dimmed by the rather obnoxious knock on the stall’s door. you winced along with your friend, exchanging troubled looks.

"girls, the break’s over! get out of the cabin, and go to class!" a voice on the other side called, and you couldn’t help but sigh in utter defeat.

Phainon leaned to you, opening the door. "we’ll finish later. don’t worry." she winked at you teasingly, a mischievous smirk growing on her lips before she stepped out, muttering some apologies to the cleaning lady.

you gaped at her, dumbfounded — and maybe you’d continue to stand frozen, if not for the woman’s stern words, nagging you to move. with reluctance, you followed in tow, trying your best not to trip over your wobbly legs.

there was no way you will pass that quiz.

#phainon x reader #dawg i wrote this while completely drunk #i hope it’s not too bad?? ig it isn’t!!#a better fic coming up soon hehe #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #phainon hsr #phainon x y/n #phainon x you #phainon #fem!phainon

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boybandbaby · 4 months ago

Text

A Night To Remember (Evan Buckley x SingleMom!Reader)

word count: 2267

warnings/tags: single mom reader, a child, v light angst, unspecified reason for father’s absence (let you mind run wild), as always if I’ve missed anything lmk

note: not entirely happy about this but I really wanted to do this concept also sorry if your name is Evie I tried to use a name I liked but something I don’t see most people have

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Your daughter had hopped in the backseat without her usually greeting. With you she was a chatterbox, rambling about her day and what her friends did during school. With new people, she was shy. She’d hide behind your legs as you introduced her to strangers. She takes a while to open up but once she comes out of her shell, she’s a social butterfly.

You’re not sure why she’s so quiet now and she won’t tell you. She sits in the back seat, feet still as her favorite song plays, a pout on her lips as she looks out the window.

You’re worried. Worried that maybe someone had bullied her or that she’d gotten into trouble somehow. No, the school would’ve called.

You make your way home, opening her door to help her out. She hops out and doesn’t hold your hand as you make your way into the complex.

“Did something happen at school?” You inquire.

She shakes her head as you unlock your door. She runs inside and kicks her shoes off, creating a tripping hazard. You figure it’s better to not poke the bear right now and don’t remind her of the rules to put her shoes on the shoe rack.

“Can I do my homework after dinner?” She finally speaks.

“Are you sure? Buck’s coming over, I thought you guys were going to play that new board game he got for you?” You help her take her back pack off.

“I want to go to my room.” She mumbles.

“You don’t want your after school snack? I was going to make you some celery and apples with peanut butter.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Babe, what’s wrong?” You kneel down to her height, brushing hair from her forehead.

“Nothing!” She pushes your hand and runs to her room, door slamming behind her.

You decide to give her some space as you take the groceries out that you bought for dinner. Your mind races with what you could have done to upset her.

Buck arrives about an hour later. His smile drops when he sees the stressed look on your face. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You usher him in and pull him in for a hug. “It’s Evie.” You whisper though you know she can’t hear. “She was quiet the whole ride home and then when we got home, she bolted to her room.”

“Let me go say hi, I’ll be back to help set the table.” He smiles. He makes his way through the apartment to her room.

He knocks twice before opening the door just a crack. “Evie? It’s Buck. I just wanted to say hi and let you know dinner is ready.”

He hears her sniffles. “Come in.”

He smiles despite hearing that she’s been crying. When they first met, she was too shy to even look at him but over the last few months they’ve became besties. Buck of course spoils her and she loves it.

“Hey, you having a bad day?” He softly asks. She nods, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and putting her pencil down on her open folder which lays on her lap.

Buck gets onto his knees at the side of her bed. “Wanna tell me what happened?” He brushes her hair away from her face and pulls it back behind her shoulders.

Instead of talking, she pulls a pink flyer from behind the worksheet she was writing on. She hands it to Buck.

Elementary School Father Daughter Dance

Saturday February 1st at 6pm

Gymnasium

Please purchase tickets by January 29th. $15 per pair

Dinner | Dancing | Games

“You’re upset because you want to go to this?” He clarifies. She nods.

“My friend Tammy said she’s going with her daddy and my other friend Julie doesn’t have a dad like me but she’s going with her older brother.” Her lip wobbles. “I don’t have anyone to go with.”

“Hmmm. And you don’t want to go with mom?”

“Mommy is a girl.”

“Some people have two mommies instead of a mommy and a daddy and some people have two daddies.” He informs her.

“How does that work?”

“Okay maybe I should let your mom have that talk with you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “How about we go eat dinner and we can show mom the flyer? And if she is okay with it and you’re okay with it, I can go with you.”

“You’ll go with me? Even if you’re not my daddy?”

“Yeah, I’d love to take you. I’m not a good dancer though.” He warns.

“Thank you! Thank you!” She squeals, leaping forward to hug him.

Buck rubs her little back, pulling her up as he stands. “You ready to eat?”

She nods and rests her head on his shoulder as Buck hands her the flyer to hold.

You’re already serving three plates when they come out. You’re smiling when you see that Buck’s gotten her out of her mood.

“Everything good?” You raise a brow at him as you set a fork down by each plate.

“Yes mommy. I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier.” She wiggles down Buck’s front and runs to your side. She hugs your legs, the flyer crinkling against your thighs.

“What’s that you got there?” You point to the paper. She steps back and looks to Buck who nods at her, encouraging her to discuss the dance with you.

You read over the paper and look at her. “I want to go with Buck, pleaseeee.”

“So, this is why you were upset?” You place a hand, palm up, under her chin. “Did you ask Buck already to go with you?” She nods.

“If you’re okay with it, I’d be happy to take her.” He steps in.

“You’d do that?” You look at him, eyes glossy. “It’s not too much to ask?”

“Of course not. It’s important to her and you’re both important to me.” He opens the fridge and gets the juice and two water bottles out.

“Then I guess it’s a date.” You shrug, leaning down to kiss Evie’s forehead.

When dinner is over, Buck helps Evie finish her homework sheets. She’s too burnt out from excitement and her earlier crying that she heads to bed early.

She’s old enough to dress herself and brush her teeth, only asking for help putting the toothpaste on the brush.

After Buck helps her off the step stool, he helps tuck her into bed as you fix her nightlight. She falls asleep with a smile on her face, excited to tell her friends that she will be going to the dance.

You and Buck settle into your bed, changed into pajamas and comforted pulled down the bed.

“Buck?” You ask, nervously, as you slip into your side of the bed.

He hums, fluffing the pillow he always uses when he sleeps over.

“You sure you’re okay with taking Evie to the dance? I know we haven’t really talked about your role in her life. I’m not saying I’m expecting you to be her father or stepfather or anything like that and I know you said you were okay with me having a kid. I guess I’m just worried I’m forcing you to take on responsibility.”

“Breathe baby.” He leans into the bed, crawling closer to the middle. “You’re not forcing me to do anything. I love being with you and being your boyfriend and yes you have a daughter but that doesn’t bother me. I love spending time with you both. I like being part of your family.”

“You’re so sweet. I just don’t want you to feel trapped.”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. “Don’t even think like that. I’m honored that she wants me to go with her and I’m grateful you’re letting me part of her and your life. Okay?” He holds your face in his hands. “I love you.”

“I love you. You’re too good to us.”

“Stop.” He feels a blush creeping up onto his neck.

Just days before the dance, you all go to the mall so that Buck and Evie can get matching outfits.

She’s very adamant about wearing a red dress and requires Buck to wear something red too.

Buck had decided to get ready before he came over for the dance. He also stopped to run some errands before coming over.

Evie had asked you to do her hair and if she could wear makeup. You settled for some sheer lip gloss to satisfy her.

She was pacing the living room. “Mommy! Buck is going to be late.”

“Babe, the dance is in an hour. He’s on his way.” You laugh, pouring yourself something to drink. “Just sit in the couch and relax.”

“I can’t relax! I’m so excited.” She jumps up and down. Buck knocks on the door and she runs. “He’s here! He’s here! Can I open the door?”

“Just this once.” You follow her, standing behind her.

When she opens the door, Buck stands there looking handsome as always. He’s holding a small bouquet of flowers, a pink heart balloon, and a small teddy bear.

“Ah!” Evie screams, holding her hands out for her gifts.

“Hi! You look so pretty.” He kisses her forehead. She giggles and runs to put her gifts on her bed. “She gets it from her mom.”

“You’re a smooth talker, Buck.” You grin at him. “And where’s my gift?”

“Right here.” He winks and pulls you into him by your waist. His lips meet yours in a passionate kiss. You only break away when Evie clears her throat.

“You should’ve seen her. She was more nervous than I was for our first date.” You laugh.

“Is that so?” He picks her up. “No need to be nervous little lady. We’re going to have a great night!”

“You’ll dance with me and my friends?” She pokes at his cheek.

“Of course, we’ll dance all night.” He kisses her cheek.

You kiss them both goodbye and assure Buck you’ll keep your ringer on in case he needs anything.

Buck is a gentleman as always as he opens the door for her both in the car and at the school. Her hand clings to his and he can see the nerves in her little eyes as she looks around the gym.

Her eyes widen and she taps Buck’s side, pointing at her friend Tammy who is sitting at a table with her father. Buck guides her over to the table and asks if they can join them. Buck makes small talk with the man as the kids show each other their dresses and sparkly shoes.

When it’s time, Buck helps serve Evie and helps tuck a napkin into her neckline. He’s at her beck and call, getting her cups of punch and cookies from the dessert table.

They end up winning one of the games due to Buck’s competitive nature. They win gift certificates for a local ice cream shop and promise to go next weekend. They then spend the night dancing (jumping and twirling) to pop music.

Buck’s burnt out, he thinks he might be more tired than a shift at the station. He’s sent you loads of videos and pictures throughout the night, even FaceTimed you to show you the decorations.

Your heart has swelled up with joy and love for your daughter and for Buck. It’s been hard for both of you without her father so her being able to have this experience makes you so happy. And Buck, I mean how could you not love him even more after this? He went out of his way to create a special experience for her without hesitation.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear the front door open, having just given Buck a spare key. You both shared an emotional moment when you gave it to him but it was bound to happen sooner or later and you felt the sooner the better.

You click the volume to mute and stand from the couch just as he’s approaching. He looks beat and tired with droopy eyes but he carries Evie’s sleeping form. Though she’s asleep, she holds onto him for dear life.

“Hey.” You whisper and lean up to kiss him. “I can take her.”

He shakes his head, “I got her. Let’s tuck her in. She’ll be too sleepy for a bath.”

You nod and plan to get her all washed up first thing in the morning. You help pull the blankets from her bed as Buck lays her down. You both take one foot each and unbuckle her shoes. He hands you the shoe and you place them in her closet.

After a kiss to the forehead and a flick of the nightlight, you both exit. Buck wraps his arms around you, his chest resting against your back. He tucks his chin into your neck.

“Sleepy?”

“Yes.” He groans. “I have not danced that much since I was a kid. But I had so much fun, she’s such a good kid. You’re such a good mom.”

You blush, cheeks flaming. “She is. Thank you for doing this.” You’re glad he can’t see your face. You’re about to burst into tears.

“I love doing stuff like this for her. And for you. You deserve a night for just you and to not worry about doing all this alone.”

“I love you, you know that?” You turn in his arms.

“Don’t cry.” He urges, hands rubbing up and down at your sides before his thumb wipes a stray tear on your cheek. “I love you. I’ll be here for you both. Always.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

#911 abc #911 x you #evan buckley x reader #911 x reader #evan buckley #evan buckley x you #evan buckley x y/n

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callsign-rogueone · 1 month ago

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touch

Dain Aetos x reader (Love!) words: 1.4k 🏷: no spoilers and no warnings! Denial isn't just a river in Tyrrendor, Love is down so horrendously bad for this boy, Liam is the captain of this ship, Liz has never taken a physics class in her life, and it’s obvious I fear...

“Why do you look like you want to put your fist through that girl’s face?” Liam asks quietly, nodding across the room toward Amber Mavis.

You huff, looking away from her and back at your plate, poking at a piece of food with your fork. “You and I both know she’s a loyalist bootlicker.”

He hums in acknowledgement — all of you are acutely aware of the number of unmarked Tyrs here, and how their families are content to stay under the oppression of the crown, how they’d been so willing to fight against their own countrymen. “Just that? Nothing to do with who she’s talking to?”

Evidently he’s kept his habit of being extremely observant about literally everything.

“And if it did?” you ask carefully, still simmering with anger as you watch them. Dain is seemingly oblivious to the girl’s shameless flirting, the way she’s leaning into his personal space and laughing at every word he says — and he isn’t funny, by any stretch of the imagination.

Liam looks back at you. “Then I’d remind you that you’ve always been a person who knows what you want, and who isn’t scared to take it. I’d also tell you that as a man, he definitely knows what she’s trying to do, and he isn’t interested in the slightest.”

An amused smile crosses your face at his assessment. “You’re too observant for your own good, you know.”

“I do know. Now, are you going to get over there and do something about that?”

“I’m not going anywhere, brother dearest,” you reply. “He’s coming to me.”

Liam’s eyebrows furrow, his lips parting to ask how exactly you plan to do that — and then he feels the whisper of wind moving through the hall; a gentle, jasmine-scented breeze that makes its way to the front table.

Dain’s head turns immediately, his eyes scanning for you in the rows of tables before rises from his seat, giving Mavis an excuse over his shoulder and putting away his plate before he heads in your direction.

Liam snorts. “Hook, line, and sinker.”

You turn your attention back to your nails. They’re getting a bit long. You should file them tonight before bed, lest it earn you a lecture from Garrick when they’re too long for you to throw a proper punch.

Surely enough, Dain stops a few steps away from the table, looking a little sheepish. “Do you want to study for physics? Since we have a test tomorrow?”

“Sure,” you offer, trying not to sound too eager as you rise from your seat, falling into step beside him -- until he stops.

“Don’t you need to get your stuff?”

You blink. “Oh. I thought you were just using this as an excuse to leave that conversation. But sure, we can actually study.”

For a second, he looks like he’s regretting this decision, but he’s still there waiting for you when you return with your books under your arm and a pencil in your hair. The walk to commons is silent, as is the process of choosing a table.

It takes five minutes and forty three seconds for him to speak, if the clock can be trusted. “How are we supposed to calculate any of this without the time? For number five, I mean.”

You don’t refer to your own book, instead sitting up and leaning across the table to look at his, skimming the aforementioned question with the tip of a fingernail.

His eyes remain glued to the page, a slight blush on his cheeks — he’s likely embarrassed to admit that he doesn’t quite get the concept. At least he prides himself on his intellect more than his muscle, unlike most of these boys.

“You have to derive the time from the distance and the speed, and then control for mass and the opposing force of the wind. It’s coming Northeast, perpendicular to you, so you’ll be using more time and energy staying in a straight line.”

“That makes sense,” he manages. “Thank you.”

You just hum in response, settling back into your seat. The silence eventually becomes less awkward — it’s almost comfortable to be sitting here reading, but with his quiet presence, just the turning of pages and scratching of pen against paper.

But all good things must come to an end; you’re both startled out of your thoughts by the bells chiming one thirty.

Time to head to Kaori’s.

——————

“Okay, question for the assembly,” you posture over dinner. “You have a reasonable amount of evidence that a guy likes you, but he never ever touches you. Is he into you, or not?”

“It depends how long you’ve known him,” your friend reasons from where she’s tucked into Bodhi’s side. “He was too scared to hold my hand at first, but now he won’t let go of me, ever.”

Bodhi looks a little offended.

“It’s a no from me,” Garrick says between bites. “Guys want any excuse to touch a girl they’re into.”

“Maybe he’s just really respectful,” Bodhi counters hotly, “And doesn’t want to assume that you’d be okay with him touching you. Or maybe he’s seen you threaten someone at knife-point before for doing just that,” he adds, playfully pointing his own at you from across the table.

You snort at the memory — Bodhi had found you putting the fear of the gods in another first year who thought he’d try his luck with you by getting a little too touchy, and nearly lost the use of his hands as a consequence.

“Or he’s a total prude,” Imogen offers. “Too stiff to try anything, or too inexperienced.”

“Another fair point. But I really don’t see you of all people with a prude,” Garrick adds, smug.

You glare at him, knowing exactly what he’s implying.

“So who’s this mystery guy?” his girlfriend asks kindly, not-so-subtly kicking him under the table.

“If it goes anywhere, I’ll tell you,” you sigh, pushing a chunk of potato around your plate with your fork.

Unlikely. And even if it did, they’d likely object, Xaden in particular. And his approval means more to you than you’d ever admit.

“This is monumental,” Imogen continues. “I have never once seen you torn up over a guy. It’s always them tripping over themselves to impress you.”

“Can we change the subject, please? I regret asking.”

Bodhi comes to the rescue quickly enough, starting a conversation about the stupid shit his first years have done this week. You don’t really listen, just sit quietly, thinking.

——————

There’s that knock again. You drag yourself to the door, nearly tripping over yesterday’s dirty laundry. “Time is it?”

“Five thirteen,” he answers.

He’s been showing up earlier every time, by almost exactly two minutes. Like clockwork. Literally.

You hum in acknowledgement, turning to dig for clean clothes.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed,” you reply distantly. “You can leave without me, I’ll catch up.”

He takes the shirt from your hands, folding it back up in two easy movements and setting it back in the drawer. You start to protest, but you’re interrupted by another fit of weak coughs that you cover with your elbow.

“C’mere,” he coaxes.

You take a wobbling step forward, not questioning the order.

He rests the back of his hand on your forehead. His skin feels cool against yours, and you can’t help but lean into the soft touch. “You definitely have a fever,” he appraises, pulling back.

You blink at him slowly, not saying anything.

“Let’s get you back in bed,” he prods, pulling back the neatly-tucked blanket that your little wisps of air had fixed up for you, patting the mattress twice.

You hum in acknowledgment, climbing back in. It’s so easy to melt back into the sheets, so much better than having to run two miles. Garrick and Bodhi will probably give you some grief for missing it, but you don’t have it in you to care right now. And if your squad leader told you to go back to sleep, then that’s a pretty ironclad excuse.

“Thank you, Dain.”

He brushes some loose hair from your face, the backs of his fingers skimming over your cheek. “Of course, pretty girl.”

Your head is throbbing, your entire body sore, but you can’t help but smile into your pillow after he turns away — even when you feel like you’re dying, he still thinks you’re pretty.

#fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #dain and love #dain aetos #dain aetos x reader

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kumkaniudaku · 3 months ago

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Just For You

Summary: Terry and Patrice give each other lasting nicknames.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: None

"Terrence and Patrice, you're married. Any objections?"

None from Terry. A few from Patrice, but what was new? She always had objections. Ms. Cole answered each of her star pupil's questions in extreme detail before sending the pair home as a fictional married couple exploring the semester's section on personal finance.

It was Terry's idea for them to work together on the weekend at his house, citing weekday football practices as too much of a hindrance to after-school instructional time. His sophomore year came with another growth spurt to a towering 6'1", and he couldn't let the new length or extra muscle go to waste. The fight for starting receiver had only just begun.

Patrice hated falling behind. The thought of letting days pass without tracking toward their project's completion ate away at her. She allowed Terry to have his way, but under one condition: they'd work all morning on Saturday to knock things out in one day.

He scrunched his face and ran a hand over his haircut. "Patrice, that's a lot. We can't stretch it to two days?" He thought again for a better solution when she started to open her mouth with a rebuttal. "What if we talked on the phone and finished up Sunday night! Then you only have to leave home once!"

"Take it or leave it, Terrence. One day or a little bit every day after your practice."

With Saturday morning SportsCenter's top five clips playing on the television while they sat beside each other, their feet and legs jutting out from beneath his mother's coffee table, it was clear he'd taken the offer with a few concessions. Highlights stayed on during homework.

Patrice sat still and quiet while she watched Terry twirl a pencil between his fingers and squint at the instructions on their project syllabus. Late morning sunlight streaming through the living room window brought out the honey color in his eyes, her favorite part of the blue-green pieces of art she pretended not to sneak glances at when they spent time together. His brows furrowed to create little ripples at the center of his forehead. Three. She always counted them when he made his focused face.

If anyone didn't know him, he'd look like an intimidating man at least five years his senior. But Patrice knew Terry was mostly a gentle giant. He spoke softly as if the sound of his own voice was scary, opened doors, laughed on occasion, and remained polite day to day. Compared to the other boys in his grade, Terry was a saint—a saint slowly creeping his way into Patrice's day-to-day thoughts.

Terry's shoulder brushed against Patrice's as he shifted on the floor, making her shuffle further away to avoid the goosebumps populating her forearm. Terry glanced over, concern replacing the focus in his eyes. "You okay? Did I hit you?"

"No, I just didn't wanna be so deep in your space." Partially true. The why was her secret to keep.

Terry shrugged. "It's cool. You're not bothering me." She never was. If he were honest, Terry wished she would bother him more. Come over more, show up to more games, and stay on the phone a little later when he called under the guise of missing notes from class, knowing the only thing he missed was her voice. He scooched closer to her, leaving a sliver of space between them. "So, I think you're the breadwinner in this scenario. Sixty-thousand a year ain't half bad. You must be a professor or something. Talkin' them students' heads off, I'm sure."

"Shut up," Patrice laughed as she elbowed his side. "You aren't far behind! Your $45k gets us to a combined $105k. That's more money than I've ever seen."

Her compliment of his pretend income pulled a closed-mouth smile from Terry. "Yeah, well, how do we spend it? Says here we need to budget our combined monthly income between bills, discretionary spending, and savings." Quick mental math helped him tally their post-tax income. "That's $3,204 bi-weekly. Just under $7000 a month. I think we can handle that."

"Let's start with housing and work from there?"

"I'm following your lead."

One hour of hard work and bickering netted the play couple one outcome they could agree on. Terry thought it'd be best for them to choose a modest three-bedroom dwelling with a low mortgage to fit their housing needs and free up funds for two cars. Though Patrice wanted a bigger backyard for her garden, she relented when her mate pointed out she'd get the better car and a summer vacation if they were wise with their monthly spending. One night out a week, $500 a month in "fun funds," and a strict savings schedule left them more than enough money in their reserve to consider children in their plan.

Brain fog stemming from a quietly growling belly made Patrice stretch her arms high about her head and whine. "Can we take a break? I'm a little hungry."

"I can make you something!" Hearing the extra eagerness in his own voice felt like a punch to the throat for Terry. Embarrassment had him scaling back to save face. "It's just a PB&J. You don't want me using the stove. Or you can wait 'til my mom gets home. She usually does crawfish on the weekends."

"Shoot, let's do both! I've never had crawfish before."

Not ever having crawfish was a cardinal sin in Terry's household. If his parents found out Patrice had been living a life without experiencing their family specialty, she'd be forced to camp out until every piece of corn, sausage, potato, and crustacean was consumed. Terry logged the reference in the back of his mind for later use as he made his way into the kitchen.

While Terry focused on the even spreads of peanut butter and jelly on his mama's "good" bread, Patrice took her time mosying around the large living room to acquaint herself with her surroundings.

Expensive trinkets and books she'd never read lined the cubby spaces on one side of their large wooden entertainment center. On the other, family photos told the Richmond family's story. At the top, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond posed in formal attire with big smiles to celebrate what Patrice assumed was their wedding day. Another shelf featured photos of twin girls with encased baby booties in the middle. She smiled at their big afro puffs and chocolate-covered faces while they enjoyed dessert at Disney World. Then, she spotted it. Perched on a stack of photo albums, a little boy decked in Spider-Man gear from head to toe stretched himself in the hero's signature squat. But those eyes were unmistakable. Little Terrence was clearly on a mission to save the world. Or his backyard, at the very least.

In awe of how cute Terry looked as a kid playing make-believe, Patrice reached out to grab the frame for a closer look. That was him, alright. Terry still had the same toothy grin that crinkled his nose at the bridge and made his eyes close from the rise of his cheeks. Ears too big for his body stood out even more than they did ten years later. He may have been smaller in stature and much more upbeat than the brooding teenager in the other room, but after a year of friendship and a little secret pining, she could recognize him anywhere.

Immersion disarmed Patrice's senses, giving Terry ample space and opportunity to sneak up on her. "That's funny?" His voice cut through the silence, making Patrice jump and turn to catch the sly smile on his face. "That was my fifth birthday. I can't remember why I didn't get a party, but I guess I still had fun that day."

"It's cute," Patrice complimented. "I didn't know they made masks for little kids with adult-sized heads."

Payback from her jab tasted perfectly sweet on her tongue, like her Nana's homemade apple pie. Patrice watched Terry roll his eyes and shake his head before pulling the glass photo frame from her hands and placing it back in its rightful spot.

He pretended to laugh along before kissing his teeth. "Come get this sandwich before I change my mind, girl."

Terry would never change his mind, no matter how hard he tried to pretend or fight back the smile revealing his top row of teeth. Patrice had a free license to pick with him, and, on occasion, he'd join in to further solidify their friendship.

Lighthearted rounds of the dozens meandered into winding conversions dominated by Patrice's favorite secret chatterbox. He ran through team drama a mile a minute, only taking breaks to chew and ask her intentions for the remaining pretzels on her plate. She granted him permission to clean up her portion and his if it meant he'd keep talking.

"So, you like orange?" His abrupt change in subject turned Patrice's passive listening into active confusion. He pointed at the scrunchie on her wrist to clarify. "The color, I mean. I noticed you wear it all the time. I was just wondering if it's your favorite."

Patrice fiddled with the ponytail holder, looking for anything to keep her from making eye contact with Terry. Knowing she was being watched excited and terrified her with equal intensity. "Um, yeah. It is."

"How come?"

"I don't know, really. I think because of how the sky turns orange when the sun's going down in the summertime. That's always been pretty to me." Terry committed the information to memory with a quick head nod, letting awkward silence scream into Patrice's ear until she forced out a follow-up question. "What about you? What's your favorite color?"

Terry thought for a moment. "Blue, mostly. But like Carolina blue. If you get too dark, it's like the Patriots, and I hate the Patriots."

"Dang. Soooo, no tickets to see Tom Brady for our fun money, huh?"

"Well, I ain't say all that!"

Stomach-busting laughter derailed all thoughts of returning to the second half of their assignment. Instead, they chose to take a nose dive into each other's likes, dislikes, and anything in between. Terry had to know Patrice's birthday for…research purposes.

She scribbled the date on his mother's wall calendar. "April 23rd, remember? Shakespeare's birthday!"

Fitting. Terry stored the date away in the section of his brain reserved for important things like stats and Lil Wayne lyrics for good this time.

"What's your favorite food?"

"My maman's étoufée," Terry answered, whistling from the memory of last Thanksgiving. "I can't wait to go visit next month!"

How Patrice wished to visit with him and experience even the smallest taste of the dish, brightening his smile more than she'd ever seen before.

Back and forth they went while time morphed into more of an abstract concept than a rule governing the physical world. Terry's favorite film? Remember the Titans. An obvious answer for obvious reasons, but Patrice loved to hear his explanation anyway. Patrice's plans for her future career? A teacher, high school English more specifically. And, if she found the time, she'd get her PhD and teach other teachers how to teach one day. Her commitment to learning and school was admittedly odd to Terry, but still, he found her passion for it magnetic.

In their own world, Patrice and Terry were free to be themselves in every imperfect way. Nothing was too nerdy or too weird to discuss. And, if it got close, they knew to keep each other's secrets.

Gathering plates for cleanup, Terry rattled off his umpteenth question. "What's your middle name? Wait! Can I guess?" Patrice smiled and pushed for him to take his best shot. "You look like a Nicole."

"No way! How'd you guess that?"

"Every Black girl's middle name is Nicole. Or Marie. It was a 50/50 chance."

"It was a 50/50 chance," Patrice mocked before kissing her teeth. "What's yours? Michael?"

Terry smirked at her attempt to get him back. "Nope. It's James. Me and my dad have the same one."

"I guess that's kinda cool." Curiosity turning the wheels in Patrice's head robbed her of seeing Terry trying to hide his smile and reddening ears from her view. "Do people ever call you TJ, or is it always Terrence or Terry?"

Hardly anyone called him Terrence. His full first name was his mother's go-to when he was in trouble. In school, teachers faithfully called him what existed on the roll sheet. But, those closest to his heart knew him as Terry and nothing else. The divide between Terrence and Terry was his way of telling friends from foes. TJ, though, was new and interesting.

Thinking for a couple of seconds yielded no results. "Nah, I don't think so. You can have dibs if I give you one."

Decisions decisions. Alternate names gifted by little boys never went well for Patrice. Four Eyes, Girl Urkel, and Stilts still haunted her well past elementary and middle school. The potential fallout from another botched nicknaming debacle wouldn't deter her from having something special between them.

"Fine," Patrice relented, grumbling enough to pull a laugh from Terry. "But nothing about my physical appearance. Or food-related. Or downright mean. Or Pat. I hate Pat."

Her heavy southern twang exaggerated all of her demands, eliciting a laugh from Terry as he shook his head. "You know, usually, people don't get that much say in their nicknames. It's kinda the whole point."

"Yeah, well, this ain't one of them time, so tread lightly."

Terry lifted his hands in surrender, not wanting to squander his opportunity to deepen their connections. If rules existed around what he could and could not call her, so be it. "What about…P," he prosed after a few seconds. "Short and simple."

"And unfortunately already taken by my mama. Try again."

"Patty? Like LaBelle. Y'all both kinda mean but in a cool, old lady way."

Patrice's annoyed eye roll sharply contrasted with Terry's impish grin. Payback was officially his again.

"Terry, I swear! Be serious!"

Relenting, he tossed out another option. "Okay, okay," he laughed. "For real this time. How does Treece sound? Just the second part of your name." Terry watched her mull over the idea, his smile growing when she offered no immediate rebuttal. He nudged her shoulder and smiled when she forced a sour expression. "Nah, you like it! Treece! Treecey! Big Treece!"

Listening to Terry rattle off variations of her newly minted nickname, the sound from his lips sounding like her mother asking who wants a second helping of ice cream or Usher singing to her and her alone through her radio's speakers.

"You know we sound like twins now, right? TJ and Treece?"

"That's what we should name the kids."

Missing context caused an invisible record to scratch, forcing Terry to quickly correct himself. Kids? They'd just reached good friend status. Patrice opened her mouth to question Terry, but he beat her to the punch with an explanation.

He emphatically waved his hands in front of him, trying to sweep the misstep into the ether. "For the project! I meant kids for the project!"

"Right!" The project. Duh. Patrice tried to recover cooly from what she was sure looked like utter panic with a dash of hopefulness on her face. "The kids from the project. Which –"

"We should get back to. It's gettin' late. Unless you stayin' for crawfish tonight?"

Dancing eyebrows and an irresistible grin slowly turned a firm no into a maybe before Patrice could stop her lips from moving.

She sighed, giving in to the barely there push of peer pressure. "I'll call and ask my mom," she grumbled. "Is the phone in the living room, TJ?"

"By the couch, Treece."

Special names reserved for private use added another layer to a friendship blossoming by the day. Terry stood in the kitchen for a second longer to try out Patrice's new moniker alone, flexing different inflections and how it sounded next to his. Treece and Terry. Terry and Treece. Treece Ellis. Treece Richmond.

The last one earned a few repeats until Patrice's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"No luck on crawfish, TJ! I've got to leave to babysit my brother tonight!" she hollered from the other room. “Come on so we can finish! We gotta get one of these kids on paper and budget for their Spider-Man birthday party!"

Terry chuckled and shook his head. She'd never let him live that down. "Alright. I'm coming. You're a real demanding wife, you know that?" he shouted back with a smile.

Treece Richmond. He could get used to that one.

—————-

Reply if you'd like to be tagged in future work!

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @hrlzy @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl @ariiijestertheklown @blyffe @tvchi @wabi-sabi1090 @blackmoonchilee @flydotty @aldrigmer444 @ash-ketchumzzz @nayaesworld @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @writingsbytee @teddybeerz @trippyscotch @theogbadbitch @ghostfacekill-monger @nyifly22

#aaron pierre #terry richmond #terry richmond x oc #rebel ridge

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saffusthings · 2 months ago

Text

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part seventeen: dream a little dream of me

word count: 1.6k

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff

sixteen | seventeen | eighteen

The second date should’ve felt more awkward. It didn’t.

Alex had picked a science museum of all places—not exactly romantic on paper, but the look on his face when he pointed out the replica Mars rover was too earnest to judge. He had this habit where his whole face would light up like a lightbulb the moment before he got excited about something, and Y/N had already learned to clock it like a warning siren.

“So, technically,” he was saying, hands jammed in his jacket pockets as they strolled past a massive display on deep-sea robotics, “the algorithms used for this submersible’s sensor mapping were adapted from AI software developed for self-driving cars.”

“Technically,” she echoed, teasing, “you should probably just work here.”

He looked sideways at her with a crooked grin. “I applied when I was sixteen. They didn’t take me.”

“They’re clearly still recovering from that mistake.”

He tried to play it off cool, but she caught the slight flush of his ears.

She liked him more than she expected to. Not in the way you decide to like someone—more like how you step outside one day and realize the air smells like rain and suddenly, you’re soft and open and all the windows are down. He was like that: unexpected and quiet and warm around the edges.

They made their way through the rest of the exhibits in no particular order, weaving between dwindling crowds of families and groups of students on field trips, neither of them in a hurry. He let her take her time at the forensic anthropology section, where she ran her fingers along the raised edges of a reconstructed skull, and she let him lose himself in the physics wing, where he explained, with ridiculous enthusiasm, why the double pendulum was so cool. It was there that the nickname Professor Albon was born.

At some point, he took her hand. It wasn’t a big deal. He just did it naturally, without hesitation, like it had already been a habit, and for a moment, that simple touch made her feel warm all over.

They ended the night sitting cross-legged on the floor of the museum café, long after it closed, surrounded by vending machine snacks and a half-solved crossword puzzle she’d found in her bag. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a dim glow over the abandoned chairs and tables, but neither of them seemed eager to move. They laughed about everything and nothing, the kind of laughing that came from being tired but happy, the kind that made her lean into his shoulder without thinking.

"Okay," Alex said, tapping the eraser end of his pencil against the page. "Eight-letter word for ‘illuminates or clarifies’?"

As she took a moment to think it over, Alex watched in his periphery as she counted off the letters of her word on her fingers. "’Explains’ fits," she mused, popping a purple skittle into her mouth.

"Hmm." He scribbled it in. "Not bad. Maybe I should keep you around."

"Yeah, yeah," she nudged his knee with hers, grinning. "You just like me for my crossword skills."

"Wrong. I like you for your crossword skills and your terrible puns."

“My puns are great, thank you very much.” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

He liked her brain. She liked how funny he was. They made a good pair—two academically overworked people who laughed at obscure engineering memes and played footsie under café tables without meaning to. When they said goodbye that night, he kissed her like he was trying not to smile through it. Like maybe this could really be something.

It felt easy.

And in the days that followed, it stayed easy. He texted her every night.

alex: Made the Mars rover jealous. Can’t stop thinking about you.

Y/N: did you just say that unironically. because I might have to stop seeing you on principle.

alex: Too late, I’ve already added you to my will. You get the Lego Technic collection.

Y/N: wait nvm i’m back in

They made time. Even when they both shouldn’t have.

He’d bring her coffee before her class–something with cinnamon and oat milk in it. He’d scrawl dumb physics jokes on the lid just to make her roll her eyes. She started keeping his schedule in her head without meaning to. She knew which nights he had his advanced systems class and which ones he spent buried in the lab. He’d text her when his simulations crashed at 3AM. She’d send him memes about courtroom drama tropes in return.

He had an engineer’s sense of humor—dry, sneaky, often deeply specific. It took a while to catch on, but once she did, it felt like discovering hidden easter eggs in his sentences.

“You know,” he’d murmur as they lay back in the grass near campus, watching clouds roll over like they weren’t chilly out here in the autumn breeze, “you statistically reduce your lifespan by two minutes every time you eat instant ramen.”

“Cool. So I’ll be dying a noble, sodium-rich death then.”

He turned his head toward her, smiling with closed eyes. “Hmm, a martyr.”

“A hero.”

“Buried with your books and MSG packets.”

She shoved his shoulder. He let her.

On Thursdays, she’d sit outside his lab, cross-legged on the cold tile floor with flashcards in her lap, quizzing him on his presentation slides about failure analysis and impact resistance.

“Okay, explain to me like I’m five—what is a stress-strain curve and why should I care?”

“Because,” he’d say, crouching in front of her with a smirk, “it tells you how close something is to breaking.”

“And that’s relevant to your research…?”

He gave her a confused look, until it turned sheepish as he scratched the back of his neck. “I’m… not entirely sure about that bit, actually.”

She started looking forward to the moments in between—the walks across campus, the shared bag of chips while sitting on the hood of her car, the ridiculous voice memos he sent when he was overtired and delirious.

They kissed in stairwells and library corners and once,perhaps ill-advisedly, on a park bench in the middle of a thunderstorm. The rain had soaked through their clothes, cold and unrelenting, but he had just looked at her and said, "I think we should be stupid about this," right before he leaned in. It was impulsive and dramatic and made her laugh until she had to cover her mouth, their faces inches apart. Her hair was soaked, his glasses fogged up, and they almost dropped his backpack in a puddle, but the moment stuck—sharp and golden and untouchable.

They talked about future dates like there’d be dozens of them—bookstores they wanted to browse together, a tiny Thai place he swore by, a stargazing night he promised would be “scientifically optimized for romance” depending on the cloud cover. She rolled her eyes at that one, but her heart still fluttered.

They were still in the sweet spot—the space between maybe and more, where everything felt bright and possible.

It wasn’t perfect – but it was promising.

The third date was dinner—some hole-in-the-wall Thai place with flickering neon signage and laminated menus stained with old curry thumbprints. He’d gotten lost on the way and sent a flurry of frantic texts.

alex :) : I passed the restaurant. Twice. There’s a cat staring at me through a laundromat window. I think it’s judging me.

Y/N: be strong. you can beat the cat.

alex :) : Negative, Sargeant. It’s very confident.

He’d arrived breathless, slightly damp from a drizzle, and holding a single packet of Skittles “for your efforts,” he’d said solemnly. She called him an idiot. He looked delighted.

That night, they talked about things that didn’t matter—TV shows neither of them had finished, foods they pretended to like for the aesthetic, the sheer horror of Alex’s undergraduate group project from hell (“We had a guy who thought duct tape was a structural solution”).

And then, slowly, they talked about the things that did matter.

Like how she used to want to be a journalist when she was little, because she thought it meant you got to ask as many questions as you wanted and never had to apologize.

Or how he still wasn’t sure what kind of engineer he wanted to be—just that he wanted to make things that didn’t break when people needed them most.

“You know,” he said, nudging his glass in slow circles across the table, “you’re not what I expected.”

Y/N looked up. “Is that a good thing or, like, a 'you’re secretly a serial killer' kind of a thing?”

He smiled. “It’s a good thing. Really, really good.”

By the fourth week, they had a rhythm. It wasn’t just dates anymore—it was Hey, want to walk home together? and I saved you the last chocolate chip muffin, but only because I like you more than I like muffins. But barely.

It was him reaching for her hand without thinking, her resting her head against his shoulder on the bus when she was too tired to hold it up.

It was a shared Spotify playlist for when studying is ur 13th reason.

It was early Saturday morning sun filtering into her apartment while they quietly read their own books, his socked foot nudging hers on the side of the couch almost every ten minutes.

It was good.

But between the sleepy smiles and the shared muffins and the texts that kept getting longer instead of shorter, the truth was that they both had dreams. Big ones. All-consuming ones.

And no matter how much you wanted something—or someone—there were only so many hours in the day.

a/n: one of my more favorite chapters! an unfortunate lack of lando though :/ what did you think of it?

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amongemeraldclouds · 11 months ago

Text

starry eyed

Tom Riddle never meant to feel affection. That warm, sickly feeling felt like indigestion and heartburn. An inconvenience. But Salazar, you had never been on a date. It was an injustice he needed to make right.

Tom Riddle x f!Reader | Based on this request | Fluff

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party | 1.9k words

It was just supposed to be another project. Tom Riddle expected you to just be another schoolmate who would let him do most of the work so he could have things exactly as he wanted. He never minded the work; enjoyed it, even. But he did mind having another student’s grimy fingers all over his carefully planned and skillfully executed projects. Just the thought of it made him want to cast crucio on whoever owned those grimy fingers.

Yet you managed to squeeze your way through his neatly arranged schedule. A row of clean lines and routines that made room for your squiggles and smiles. Literally. You had penciled yourself in his timetable “library with y/n for Astronomy project :)”. At least you had capitalized the A in Astronomy as all subjects should be.

That was how he first found himself walking towards you at the library. People respected him, was even intimidated by him. But you smiled up at him like you had been friends forever and he nearly doubted for a second if he was supposed to be there. He figured you were either naive, a lamb prancing into the lion’s den, or simply unbothered.

“Why did you invite me here?” He asked, placing his books across you in the library.

“Hi Tom,” you beamed, ignoring his question. “I’m doing great. Thanks. For a smart person, that sure is a silly question.”

He clenched his jaw and so you soldiered on. “We were paired together for the project so I thought we’d meet tonight to discuss. You may not be used to it Mr. Perfect, but I always help out with all my projects so like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

“Fine,” he breathed out quickly. “Just try to keep up,” he said curtly as he opened his books to discuss.

“Maybe you’re the one who has to keep up with me,” you said, unfazed.

But he ignored you and launched straight into the project details and his plans. Your eyes widened and you grabbed your notebook and pen. Tom’s mouth twitched and you imagined it was his version of a smile. He really was going to make it difficult for you, but you were up for the challenge.

You may have also had a crush on him, but that definitely had nothing to do with the way your heart was pounding in your chest. School could also be intense and exciting. Ha.

By the third written sentence, you managed to catch up and gather all the details he had in mind for the project. You asked questions about the plan and Tom was surprised you mentioned a minor detail he had not previously considered. It irritated him, but you had also managed to earn his respect.

The discussion had been a lot more engaging than he thought. Though it probably didn’t say much considering his expectations had been so low, it had melted with the lava down the centre of the Earth.

You tapped on the table lightly. “Now that we’ve accomplished a lot, it’s time for snacks!”

Tom blinked, not sure if he heard you right. “What are we to do with snacks?”

You blinked back. “To eat. So we can take a break from all the studying?”

“I don’t do breaks. My focus levels are perfectly fine,” he stated.

“This is why you’re so grumpy all the time! You don’t eat snacks or take breaks,” you slapped a hand to your forehead.

“Ah yes you have cracked the mystery. You now know everything about me,” he replied sarcastically and you snorted. If you hadn’t felt so tired, you may have spent some energy being embarrassed for your un-lady like behaviour in front of your crush. But you had your priorities straight.

“Try these biscuits I baked and I promise you will know all about joy and the wonders of the universe,” you offered.

“So it’s spiked?”

You looked horrified. “I’ll have you know my baking is magical all on its own.”

“It’s bad enough that I have to work on this project with you. If I go on this break with you, will you leave me alone to complete this project?”

“Maybe,” you said, scooping up your belongings and rushing out the library before he could change his mind. You inwardly cheered when he followed you.

Tom didn’t take any of your words seriously, but when he bit into the biscuit, the buttery goodness that melted in his mouth made him feel like he was coming home to a place he never knew he belonged to. Not that he would ever tell you.

“What’s your favourite astrological event?” He asked as he savoured the biscuit.

“I love meteor showers, though I’ve never seen one before. Imagine seeing a cluster of stars raining down the sky,” you said, after a moment’s pause.

“Don’t have to imagine, I’ve seen it before,” he said unimpressed.

Your eyes widened in fascination. “What did you wish for?”

He looked affronted. “I don’t do wishes, I make things happen.”

You slapped your thigh and his eyes followed your movement, making you blush. “How could you not make a wish? It’s like having a magic lamp and using it as a teapot. Where’s the wonder and romance?”

“Magic is a science, it’s why we’re here,” he insisted.

“We’re here for biscuits,” you declared instead and shoved another into your mouth. He inwardly smiled. Sure, if anything were to be magical the way you saw it, he supposed it could be those heavenly biscuits.

He was sure that was the last time he’d meet you outside of class. But the very next day, he found your squiggly handwriting on his timetable again. “Library with y/n for Astronomy project + snack break :)” He sighed, but he secretly looked forward to the buttery biscuits.

You made good progress on the project as the days passed. Tom continued to be surprised by your helpful contributions. Sure they were unconventional and your process was far too scattered for his liking, but you came up with creative ideas and were equally as committed as he was to the project.

Tom suggested extra research for some information he wanted to include and you managed to read all the chapters he wrote down. All for the love of education. You were certainly not a girl trying to impress your crush. Nope.

The snack breaks were also not as miserable as Tom thought they would be. You got to know each other better and there was something strangely fascinating about you. Then there were those life-changing biscuits.

He sometimes found himself craving those buttery goods during his long hours of studying. The problem was that he could not get them anywhere else except from you. It didn’t help that you were nearly done with your project and would soon have no reason to see each other. That diabolical woman, he thought.

Something else stayed with him. On one of your snack breaks, you finally built up the courage to ask Tom about his dating life. He managed to deflect and turn the question around to you, but you didn’t mind. Hopefully you sharing would one day help him open up to you.

“What was the last date you’ve been on?” He asked and you watched in slow motion when he licked the corner of his lip to catch a stray crumb. You had to dig your nails into your palm to stop yourself from squealing.

Then you thought hard about his question. “What qualifies as a date?” You asked cautiously.

“Someone who likes you takes you out, preferably somewhere you like, and you spend quality time together.”

“Well,” you turned it over in your head, “then I guess I’ve never been on a date before.” You quickly added, “I have had boyfriends before, we just did things they liked and anyway, it’s no big deal.”

It had been days, but he still seethed at the memory. He was not one for romance, but even he felt indignant that all that sunshine and sweetness was wasted on boys who didn’t know what they had. That evening, he added you to his timetable himself. He was going to set things right.

“Are you sure you’re not here to m*rder me and take full credit for our brilliant project?” You asked as you followed Tom Riddle deeper into the woods. You hugged your coat tightly as the evening chill swept around you. The crickets chirped and twigs snapped below your feet.

“Do you think I’d announce it if I was? Besides, there’s no one around so you’ll just have to trust me,” he replied.

“I thought we were becoming friends,” you remarked.

“Never assume things,” he said matter of fact.

You gripped your wand tightly and walked on. He was right. You followed a boy into the woods at night because you had a crush on him. You cursed inwardly and vowed to make better decisions in your next life.

We’re here!” he announced. There was a clearing ahead and before you could ask what it was, he pointed to the sky. “Should be about now,” he commented. The next moment, you watched as stars glittered and rained down the sky. It was a meteor shower. Your eyes brightened, reflecting the glowing lights that dove through the sky.

“You said you’ve never seen one before and it just so happens there’s one tonight and this is the perfect spot,” he explained before you could even ask. He then asked you to make a wish.

“Only if you make a wish with me,” you said, looping your arm around him. You figured it was the closest he’d allow a hug. Surprisingly, he stayed beside you, letting you lean into him.

“Isn’t it enough to just watch this with you? You like it, don’t you?”

The pieces clicked in your head. “You said and I quote ‘a date was when someone who likes you takes you out, preferably somewhere you like, and you spend quality time together.’ Mr. Tom Riddle, is this your way of telling me you like me? Is this,” you motioned at the stars and around you, “a date?”

“What did I tell you about assuming things?” He deflected and pointed at the stars again. “They won’t fall forever, you know. Are you going to use this magical lamp as your teapot?”

Perhaps it was the shooting stars or the cold evening air, or being alone with the boy you liked in the dark forest, that made you bold.

“What if you’re the only one who can grant my wish?” You gave him your brightest smile and Tom could read all the words you’d never speak aloud in your eyes. He shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips and he brought them down to yours.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle and you wrapped your arms around him, letting your body melt against him. He pulled you in closer, his arms strong and confident as if you belonged to him. He placed tender kisses down your jaw, moving slowly to your neck, and as you gazed up, you watched the last of the stars fall down the sky.

The cold bit down your skin as Tom stepped back and you immediately missed his warmth. “You like me!” You beamed.

“How are you so sure I’m not just after the biscuits?”

You wrapped your arms around him, enjoying the warmth again. “I’ll bake you all the biscuits you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you also like me, which works perfectly because I like you too. You’re never getting rid of me now.”

Tom returned the hug. Not that he wanted to get rid of you anyway.

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party

A/N: Tom secretly liking biscuits is so adorable. A subtle nod to our tea party!

#blurb-berry cupcake #emerald’s tea party #amongemeraldclouds follower celebration #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle fluff #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle #slytherin boys #amongemeraldcloudswrites #amongemeraldclouds fluff

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captain039 · 4 months ago

Text

PART 5 Unconventional Alpha

Alpha!Viktor x omega!reader

Warnings: Heats, suppressants, AOB, light swearing, Viktor’s not dying but still disabled, reader has chronic pain, plus size reader, nesting, Older Viktor, Professor Viktor, artistic reader, age gap reader is in their 20s +, smut? Haven’t decided yet

Previous part <-

Viktor appeared at your door the next night. A packed suit case behind him, you flush a bit knowing what you asked him to do, it isn’t conventional for an unmated alpha to stay with an unmated omega during her coming off period and a potential heat. You’re stewing over at how bad it all looks, but when you go to open your mouth and say anything he shoots you a look with those honey golden eyes and you shut up. You can’t deny that you’re calmer now, your mind isn’t racing or panicking and you can sleep easier knowing he’s there, on the pull out bed. You feel bad for making him stay there, with his bad leg you’re unsure if it’s even comfortable, your mother said to but it incase you have friends wanting to stay over, that rarely happens. Viktor tends to things on his laptop on the small kitchen table, he always has his brows furrowed when he’s deep in thought, scribbling away on his notepads or typing quickly. It’s a soothing sound, pencil against paper, key taps filling your room. You don’t speak much, but you don’t mind it, you figured he was always the quieter type when working or in general, though sometimes you get into conversations about his work or your art casually when he isn’t busy. It’s a quiet evening, you’ve gotten used to his presence and find yourself wanting him to never leave. He sits at the kitchen table, his things spread out there, you’re surprised at how messy he can be even if he tries to organise things, it’s quite sweet you think. You on your arm chair by the pull out bed a book in your hand. You notice he stops typing and your eyes flick to his, his nose flares a bit and his eyes snap to yours.

“Your heats coming” he says and you frown sniffing yourself, you can’t sense anything or feel anything.

“How do you know?” You ask and he chuckles softly.

“I know” he says and the words make you frown.

“You’ve- done this before?” You ask out of curiosity and mild jealousy.

“With an old partner” he says and you flush a bit. Of course he’s been with other people, other omegas, Jesus Christ get a grip on yourself.

“Oh” you answer and instantly curse yourself silently, you watch his eyebrow raise ever so slightly.

“I’ll uh, have a shower” you stand up quickly and shuffle to the bathroom. You close the door and turn the fan on running a hand down your face at your antics. You can’t get jealous over past people, everybody has past partners, he’s not even your alpha! hell he’s probably gone through countless of ruts! Your face flushes at the thought and you quickly busy yourself with turning the shower on and stripping. You stand under the water and sigh a bit leaning your head against the tile. It’s the heat talking that’s it, your hormones are gonna go haywire and it’s gonna get a hella of a lot worse. Why did you ask him? Why did you run to him in a midst of panic? Why did he say yes? Out of pity? Does he even realise you have no idea what you’re doing? That even with the heat you’ve got no clue on sexual relations besides getting yourself off with your fingers?! You take a deep breath trying to calm yourself. Gods he probably doesn’t even want you like that, you insulted his work practically, you’re hardly classed as a pretty petite omega their alpha can throw around if needed. You poke your stomach, watching it go in then out and glare at it. Self love is a hard thing when the world makes you feel unwanted. Maybe you should tell him to go, you wouldn’t want to be stuck here with you going through your first mature heat either. You leave the shower, dry off and head to your room awkwardly before getting dressed and falling on your bed. Your body grows tired easily before you find yourself asleep.

You wake up with a small groan wondering why it’s so damn hot and this bed is suddenly uncomfortable. You sit up, kick off your sleep pants and stare at the boring bed with a look of disgust before you get up and strip it. You flick your light on unaware of the alpha in your couch and start making a nest out of instinct. You raid your linen cupboard in your bedroom and begin making a nest on your bed glad your beds to one side and against the wall. You don’t feel the eyes watching you from the door way, too focused on making this nest.

He wasn’t asleep, he heard your groan, saw the light flick on then a lot of shuffling. Your scent is stronger now and it’s keeping every ounce of self control he has to not do anything. He’s filled with alpha pride that you chose him to stay with you. Seeing you panicked reeking of scared omega in his lab in the middle of the night confirmed all his thoughts of him wanting you, the trust you put in him, subconsciously seeking your alpha out even if he wasn’t just yet. He leans against the door way keeping the pressure off his bad leg as he watches you make a nest with a hazed look in your eyes. You get unhappy when something doesn’t sit right, either throwing it off the bed or slapping it into place. To anyone else it would be funny to watch, to him it brings out a deep primal feeling of satisfaction watching his omega prepare. When you finally stop your hands on your hips as you stare of it unhappily your fingers tapping against your hip. He realises now you’re in a tank top and underwear, your sleep pants kicked across the room probably because you got hot. He knows he shouldn’t disturb you during such a time but the frown on your face is getting harsher by the second.

“Omega?” He coaxes gently and you jolt looking to him with wide eyes. You stutter gesturing to your nest, run a hand through your hair gesture around some more before giving up. It makes him smile as he limps closer having left his cane by the couch.

“What is it?” He asks softly.

“It’s not- right” you huff gesturing to your now made nest.

“What isn’t right about it?” He presses knowing how particular omegas can be when making their nests.

“It’s not-“ your hands make a fist and he knows you’re struggling with heat clouding your thoughts it’s likely even worse. Your skin has a light flush to it and he can see a slow layer of sweat forming. Your scent though, it’s spiked and sweet and mouth watering, he itches to have you in that nest right now but knows that won’t end well so he opts for gently contact.

You feel a slender hand covering your fisted one, and slender fingers guiding you to look at him.

“The shape?” He asks and you look back to it shaking your head.

“Softness?” You shake your head again having laid down your softest blankets on there.

“Scent?” He asks and you glance to it, then him, then back to the nest. It smells like you obviously, but also your laundry detergent, but it doesn’t have his scent.

“Wait here” he says gently before limping out of your room. You feel bad making him put up with your antics before he returns with a dark blue blanket. You tilt your head slightly mouth opening a bit.

“This is from my bed, I use it every night, it should smell like me” he holds it out to you and your mind stops. You take it carefully heart pounding in your chest, you press your nose to it without thinking breathing him in deeply a shuddering calm washing over you. You flush and stop once you realise what you’re doing, he doesn’t look grossed out, disgusted, judgmental, there’s a gentle look in his eyes and a small twitch of his lips before he nods to your nest. You thank him quietly before moving to your nest and laying it over the top, something settles in you and you sigh in relief feeling the agitation leave.

“You’re good at this” you say embarrassed.

“I’ve had experience with omegas yes, but every omega is different” he says smiling gently.

“Well you knew what I needed in an instant” you scoff out a laugh.

“Because I watch” he says softly limping closer his hands lifting to brush fly aways back down.

“I watched how you’ve been acting these last few days” he adds and you feel your cheeks warm.

“I see the over thinking and anxiety, but the calmness in the quiet, how you prefer a soft to touch blanket over your quilt for warmth, how you wake up, get breakfast and sit in your chair for a five minutes then start eating, you miss lunch, but snack during the day, I watch how you forget where you put things then mentally scold yourself when you find them” his fingers gently trace your cheek and jaw as he speaks.

“I notice how your scent sweetens when we talk” he whispers and you feel your cheeks warm even more and look away.

“I watched and learned omega, you trusted me to be here with you during a vulnerable time, I’m going to do my dam-nest to make sure I do it right” he says letting his hand fall back to his side. You notice how he favours one side due to his bad leg, the swirl of emotion in his golden honey eyes, his thick brows and high cheeks.

“Can I-?” You trail off a bit.

“You can” he says and you huff.

“I didn’t even say what I wanted” you sass lightly.

“You still can” he says with a small smirk matching your sass.

“I wanted to hug you” you say quietly.

“I know I’m a little sweaty and I’m going into heat-“ he cuts you off his arms wrapping around your shoulders and bringing your head to rest on his chest. You sigh and melt into him instantly careful not to lean into him too much but just enough. He smells delicious up close and with your heat it’s heightened, that undertone of alpha, coffee and amber. You find yourself wanting to nuzzle into his neck breathe him in there where his scent is the strongest. Despite his lean frame you find out he’s quite strong and sturdy, probably from physical therapy or something you wonder. You feel him lean his weight onto you a bit and away from his leg, you tighten your hold on him offering support and he chuckles gently against your hair.

“Sweet omega” he whispers and you feel yourself warm up and his body tense slightly as if he didn’t mean to let that slip. You figure you should let go so you do, reluctantly and he pulls back as well. You notice a faint blush on his cheeks and feel your heart rate pick up.

“I’ll um, let you get back to sleep and off your leg” you smile and he nods in response.

“Goodnight” he says.

“Goodnight” you mumble as he limps out your room. You listen to the pull out bed creak under his weight before you flick your light off and crawl into your nest. His blanket is over top you, wrapped around, your nose pressed to the soft fabric as you smile and feel yourself drift off to sleep again.

Next part ->

Taglist

@imithicwolf

@donnie-is-here

@justmoniesworld

@sseleniaa

#x reader #aob #au #viktor x reader #alpha Viktor #Viktor #Viktor arcane

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gingerteafairy · 2 months ago

Note

BESTIE IT’S TATE’S BIRTHDAY SUCK HIS SADNESS OUT OF HIM THROUGH HIS DICK

OMG REALLY????? I DIDN'T KNOW IT THIS IS OOOO GOOD LORDD I had to drop everything to write this. masterlist

𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑

tags n warnings: smut/mdni, tate langdon x fem!reader, angst, blowjob, overstimulation. word count: +800

The house was a mess. Torn balloons were thrown on the floor, glasses were overturned on the table, serpentines were mixed with traces of a celebration that never happened. What should’ve been a harbinger of a party now seemed like an abandoned scene, frozen in time.

The only exception was that lonely chair in the room, pulled in front of the table, where Tate used to get lost in thoughts, scribbling words that might never be read by anyone. But now, there was no ink staining his fingers, nor the soft sound of the pencil scratching the paper. There was only just the two of you.

He was there, sunk in the chair, shoulders slumped, his head between your breasts exposed by the rolled-up shirt. You, standing in front of him, admiring his fragility, feeling in your chest the weight of a sadness that seemed to swallow everything around.

"I don't understand how so many bad things happen to me." Tate cried, his voice choked and fragile, the sobs tearing his throat. "I... why? Where did I go wrong?”

His body seemed small, vulnerable, as if at any moment he could fall apart there, in your arms. Your fist slows down his pace, your thumb spreading his pre cum, massaging his frenulum.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against his damp neck, tasting the salty tears that slid down his pale skin. His angelic blond hair clung to his damp forehead, contrasting with the dark shine of his eyes. A shadow that crept across his wounded soul, making his brown gaze almost black, dense, filled with a sick love and feverish desire. A fallen angel. The most ravishing of all. Ethereal.

"Oh, Tate..." Your voice came out low, a whisper filled with tenderness and concern. You caressed his face gently before kneeling between Tate's legs and kissing his sex. "I'll take care of you."

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he wanted to hold on to that promise, but soon his expression contorted again, you licked him from the base in a single, slow lick to the tip.

“No… You don't need to…” He whined, a sob stuck in his throat. He sniffed, raising his hips desperately towards your lips.

“Shhh.” You silenced him, pressing a chaste kiss to the damp tip, your lips parting to accommodate him in your mouth.

“That feels so good—so much.” He stuttered, sinking his trembling fingers into your hair, tugging at the strands in a desperate gesture.

You gave him the attention he deserved, your mouth sliding over his size. Tasty. Divine. Your mouth filling with water, making the movement easier. You added your forgotten fist, sliding up and down as you simulated an arousing kiss on Tate’s tip.

“Oh, like that. Like that, don’t stop.” He whimpered, holding your head to start thrusting into your mouth, throwing his head back. “Fuck, fuck. You—”

You clamped your eyes shut, trying to stabilize yourself with Tate’s more desperate thrusts, sucking, pressing his cock against your warm cheeks. Eye contact back, lowering to see how wet his cock was with your saliva.

“‘m gonna cum. Uhmm, I. Fuck. I’m going to.” He babbled, the sensitivity becoming almost unbearable with your affection, his grip on your hair was tighter, holding your face with both hands.

You held your breath to prevent the gag reflex as you felt him start to spurt the first jets into your mouth.

“Hold on, there’s more.” He mumbled, slumping back in his chair, shivering as you resumed the movement of your hand to prolong his pleasure. “Oh, stop. No. That. No. Too much, I…”

You swallowed all of his seed, pulling away and pressing the tip til the small “pop” sound that Tate found so satisfying escaped. You gasped, feeling your own chest rise and fall unevenly before you leaned into him again.

Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him against your body in a firm embrace, and this time Tate returned it without hesitation. His previously tense body felt more relaxed now, his muscles relaxing under your touch. He nuzzled against you, his warm, rhythmic breath beating against your skin.

Gently, you tilted your head and placed a soft kiss on the top of his greasy blonde hair, breathing in the familiar scent that was his. Your fingers slid down the back of his neck, a slow caress, as if trying to comfort him.

“Happy birthday, Tate.” Your voice came out as a whisper, full of tenderness. You held his face with both hands, guiding it so that your eyes met his. The brown glow, so intense and enigmatic, stared at you with silent devotion. "Thank you for inviting me. I hope you have many more years of life, ‘cause I want to be there for all of them. Sorry if my gift wasn't enough, I did my best to organize your party. Promise I'll give you a better gift next year."

For a moment, Tate just watched you, his lips parted, as if he was taking in every word of yours to the bottom of his heart. Then a small smile appeared on his face before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your chest, where your heart rested.

"You are the best gift I could ever have." He murmured against her skin, closing his eyes.

#tate langdon x y/n #tate langdon x you #tate langdon x reader #tate langdon #x reader #imagine #reader insert #fanfic #evan peters #evan peters fandom #evan peters x reader #evan peters x you #evan peters x y/n #ahs #american horror story #evan peters smut #ahs murder house

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magical-reid · 4 months ago

Text

Chemistry in Chaos

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 9.4K

Warning: Not Proofread

Summary: Even in the darkest moments, when the Nogitsune’s whispers clawed at the edges of their minds, Stiles and Y/N found light in each other, a quiet reminder that love was stronger than fear. Together, they rebuilt what was broken, proving that even in the chaos, hope could bloom.

Stiles’ Perspective

The air in the chemistry lab always smelled faintly of sulfur and old textbooks, a mixture that clung to the back of my throat. I wasn’t really paying attention to Mr. Harris droning on about covalent bonds; my pencil was stuck between my teeth, bouncing slightly as I tapped my knee against the underside of the desk.

It wasn’t like I didn’t care about chemistry—I mean, science is kind of cool in a “fun-fact-you’ll-never-use” way. But lately, focusing on anything for more than thirty seconds felt impossible. Especially when I was… me. Or whatever I was becoming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. My chemistry partner. You. You sat two seats to my left, your elbow propped on the desk, chin resting on your hand. The sunlight streaming through the windows caught in your hair, creating a halo-like glow that made my chest tighten uncomfortably.

Not that you noticed. Not that we ever talked, except for the bare minimum required to get through Mr. Harris’ impossible lab instructions. You’d lean in with quiet questions, like, “How many milliliters does he want for this?” or “Did I add too much sodium hydroxide?” And I’d stammer out a reply, feeling like a total idiot because my heart started doing backflips every time you spoke.

But that was it. Outside of class, we were practically strangers.

I wanted to change that. I’d spent too much time convincing myself I didn’t care. But now? With everything that was happening to me? With the blackouts, the creeping sense that I wasn’t entirely in control anymore, I couldn’t help but wonder: if I was running out of time, would it be so bad to just… say something to you?

“Stilinski,” Harris snapped, jolting me out of my thoughts. “Maybe if you spent less time daydreaming and more time working, you’d actually pass this class.”

The laughter that rippled through the classroom was sharp and humiliating. My cheeks burned as I ducked my head, muttering an apology.

When I glanced back at you, your lips twitched—not a laugh, but a faint, amused smile. And for some reason, that felt worse than the humiliation. Like you were untouchable. Like I’d always just be the awkward guy in your peripheral vision.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

You didn’t mean to smile, really. It wasn’t fair that Harris always singled Stiles out. But there was something so… endearingly ridiculous about the way his head jerked up like he’d been caught sleeping in class when you knew for a fact he’d been wide awake the whole time.

He was a puzzle, Stiles Stilinski. All flailing limbs and sarcastic quips, but with this odd, quiet intensity beneath the surface. You noticed it in the way his brows furrowed when he worked through problems, his eyes darting between the formulas like he was connecting dots no one else could see.

You noticed a lot about him, actually. Too much, maybe.

Like how he’d scribble notes in the margins of his textbook, things that weren’t even about chemistry—doodles of stick figures or rambling ideas about whatever supernatural chaos was consuming Beacon Hills that week. Or how he never seemed to sit still, even when he was trying to.

You noticed, and yet… you never said anything. What could you say? It wasn’t like you and Stiles were friends. You were just two people who shared a lab station.

So why, lately, did you catch yourself watching him more than you should?

Mr. Harris called for the class to pair up for the day’s experiment, and you felt a flicker of nerves. Not because the experiment was hard, but because working with Stiles always threw you off balance in a way you couldn’t explain.

“Hey,” he said softly as he slid into the seat beside you, the word accompanied by an awkward little wave.

“Hey,” you replied, trying to sound casual as you adjusted your notebook.

For a while, you worked in relative silence, exchanging the occasional question or observation. But when Stiles’ hand brushed yours as you both reached for the same beaker, you flinched.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling back quickly. His voice was strained, like he was embarrassed.

“It’s fine,” you said, forcing a small smile. But your heart was racing for reasons you didn’t want to unpack.

What you didn’t notice was the shadow flickering in his eyes—the way his hands trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the desk.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Void!Stiles Perspective

It was almost too easy.

Watching the way he looked at you, so full of longing and hesitation, was pathetic. Stiles was so busy tying himself in knots over his stupid crush that he didn’t even notice me slipping into the cracks of his mind.

Her.

The word thrummed through him like a heartbeat. Quiet, persistent, and utterly vulnerable.

You were his weak spot, whether he realized it or not. And oh, I was going to have so much fun with that.

When he reached for the beaker and your hands brushed, I felt the sharp jolt of adrenaline that shot through him. The way he recoiled, stumbling over his words.

It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.

And then there was you. Sweet, oblivious you. You didn’t even realize how easily I could destroy you—how I could twist this fragile connection into something far darker.

I grinned. Not that anyone could see it, but I grinned.

“Time’s up,” Harris announced, snapping everyone’s attention back to the front of the room.

For now, I stayed quiet. But I’d already made my decision.

The game was about to begin.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

The rest of chemistry class passed in a blur. You tried to focus on balancing equations, jotting down formulas, and double-checking measurements, but you couldn’t shake the unease that prickled at the edges of your thoughts.

It wasn’t Stiles, exactly—well, not just him. There was something off about him today, a weight in the air around him that hadn’t been there before. It made your stomach twist, though you couldn’t quite explain why.

When the bell rang, you packed your bag quickly and muttered a quiet, “See you tomorrow,” to Stiles, who nodded distractedly. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

You didn’t wait.

Walking down the hallway, you replayed the last hour in your head. It was the little things that stuck out: the way his eyes had lingered on you longer than usual, dark and searching. The way his fingers had trembled slightly when he handed you a graduated cylinder. The way he seemed… fractured.

It wasn’t your problem, though. You told yourself that as you wove through the crowded hallways, heading toward your next class. You barely even knew Stiles Stilinski outside of chemistry. Whatever was going on with him, it wasn’t your responsibility to figure it out.

Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Something bad.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Void!Stiles Perspective

She was nervous. I could feel it, the way her pulse quickened as she glanced at him during class. The way she practically bolted out of the room when the bell rang.

Good. Fear was the foundation of control. And control… control was everything.

I followed her as she moved through the hallways, slipping into the shadows just beyond her line of sight. Stiles would’ve hesitated, would’ve worried about what people might think if they caught him trailing her like some lovesick puppy. But I didn’t have those limitations.

I wasn’t Stiles.

She wasn’t paying attention as she opened her locker, pulling out books with mechanical efficiency. Her cheer uniform peeked out from beneath her sweatshirt, a bright contrast against the dull gray of the hallway.

“Y/N,” I said, my voice low and sharp, letting the syllables cut through the air like a blade.

She jumped, spinning around to face me.

“Stiles,” she breathed, clutching her notebook to her chest. “You scared me.”

I smiled—or rather, he smiled. It was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. The kind that made people squirm.

“Sorry about that,” I said smoothly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her brow furrowed. There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, like she wasn’t sure if she should believe me.

“Uh, it’s fine,” she said after a moment, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Did you need something?”

I tilted my head, studying her. She was so… vulnerable. So unguarded.

“Actually, yeah,” I said, stepping closer. “I was wondering if you had a minute to talk.”

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “About what?”

“Chemistry,” I said, letting the word hang in the air just long enough to make her uncomfortable.

It was a lie, of course. But she didn’t need to know that.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

Something wasn’t right.

Stiles was standing too close, his gaze too sharp, his smile too cold. It was like looking at a stranger wearing his face.

“Uh… sure?” you said hesitantly, clutching your notebook tighter. “What about chemistry?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned against the locker beside yours, his arms crossed casually over his chest. But there was nothing casual about the way his eyes bore into you, like he was dissecting you piece by piece.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you’re a lot smarter than people give you credit for.”

The compliment caught you off guard, and you felt your cheeks flush. “I—thanks, I guess?”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, his smile widening. But there was no warmth in it.

The unease in your stomach grew, twisting tighter with every passing second. You glanced around the hallway, hoping to spot someone—anyone—who might interrupt. But the crowd had thinned, leaving you alone with him.

“Look, if this is about the lab,” you said quickly, trying to fill the silence, “I can double-check the notes for you tomorrow. I’m kind of late for—”

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Pretending?”

“You know,” he said, leaning in closer. His breath was cold against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “Pretending you don’t notice the way he looks at you. Pretending you don’t like it.”

Your mouth went dry. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Y/N,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

He reached out then, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt entirely out of place. You flinched, stumbling back against the lockers.

“Stiles,” you said, your voice trembling. “You’re freaking me out.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—something dark and hollow and wrong.

And then he stepped back, his expression shifting so quickly it was like the moment had never happened.

“Sorry,” he said lightly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

But the damage was already done.

You didn’t say anything as he turned and walked away, whistling softly to himself.

And you didn’t notice the way he glanced back over his shoulder, his grin sharp enough to draw blood.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

I was losing time again.

One second, I was in chemistry, sitting next to Y/N and trying to convince myself that the slight brush of her hand against mine wasn’t the best thing to happen to me all week. The next, I was sitting in my Jeep with the engine running, staring blankly at the steering wheel like I’d just come out of a fog.

My heart was racing, my hands gripping the wheel so tightly that my knuckles ached. I didn’t know how I’d gotten here. I didn’t know where I’d gone.

But I knew who had been driving.

“Get out of my head,” I muttered, my voice cracking.

The Nogitsune didn’t answer. Not verbally, anyway. But I felt it, coiled deep inside me like a viper, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It had been quiet for a while, letting me think—falsely—that maybe I could regain control. That maybe I could keep the people I cared about safe.

But I should’ve known better.

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I grabbed it with trembling hands and saw a text from Y/N.

“Can we talk?”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as panic surged through me.

What had he done?

I could barely remember the last hour. The flashes I did recall—the locker, her wide eyes, the sound of my own voice dripping with malice—made me feel sick.

I typed out a response with shaky fingers:

“What happened?”

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, the knot in my chest tightening as I watched the message go through. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

When her reply finally came, my stomach dropped.

“You know exactly what happened. Meet me at the bleachers after practice.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, the phone slipping from my grip onto the passenger seat.

“You’re slipping,” a voice purred from somewhere deep inside my mind.

“Shut up,” I muttered under my breath, digging my nails into my palms until the pain cut through the chaos.

The Nogitsune laughed, a sound that was somehow both inhuman and eerily familiar. “You should’ve seen her face. The fear. The confusion. She looked at you like you were a monster. Because that’s what you are, Stiles.”

“No,” I said firmly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can fix this.”

The laugh grew louder, echoing in my skull. “Fix it? Oh, Stiles. I don’t think you understand the rules of the game. There is no fixing this. You’re already too far gone.”

I gritted my teeth, gripping the steering wheel so hard I thought it might snap. But I didn’t argue. What was the point? Deep down, I was terrified the Nogitsune was right.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

The bleachers were empty, the late afternoon sunlight casting long shadows across the field as you paced back and forth. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but you barely noticed the other cheerleaders filtering out one by one, their chatter fading into the distance.

Your thoughts were a storm, swirling with questions you didn’t have the answers to.

What the hell had happened in the hallway? That wasn’t Stiles. At least, it hadn’t felt like him. The boy you knew—awkward, sarcastic, endearingly clumsy—had been replaced by someone colder. Someone sharper.

And yet… it was him.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to shake the chill that lingered long after he’d walked away. You didn’t know what you expected to get out of this conversation, but you couldn’t let it go. Not until you knew the truth.

The sound of footsteps pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up to see Stiles walking toward you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. He looked… hesitant. Nervous.

Almost like himself.

But the memory of that cold smile was still fresh in your mind, and you took an instinctive step back as he approached.

He noticed, and something in his expression cracked.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice soft. “I—”

“What’s going on with you?” you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended.

He flinched, like the words physically hurt.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly. “I mean, everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”

You stared at him, your jaw tightening. “Are you serious right now? You’re going to stand there and act like nothing happened?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“You’re different, Stiles,” you said, your voice trembling. “The way you looked at me today—the way you spoke to me—it wasn’t you. So if this is some kind of joke, or if something’s wrong, you need to tell me. Now.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his mouth opening and closing like he didn’t know what to say. And then he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re right,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“You’re right,” he repeated, finally meeting your eyes. “Something’s… wrong. I don’t know how to explain it, but I—”

He stopped abruptly, his body stiffening. His gaze flicked to something just over your shoulder, and the blood drained from his face.

“Stiles?” you said, glancing back. There was nothing there.

When you turned back to him, his expression had changed. His eyes were darker, colder. The slight tremble in his hands was gone, replaced by an unsettling stillness.

“Sorry about that,” he said smoothly, his lips curving into a smile that made your skin crawl. “Where were we?”

Your stomach dropped. “Stiles?”

He tilted his head, his smile widening. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You’re not—”

“Not what?” he interrupted, stepping closer. His voice was soft, almost playful, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Not Stiles?” he continued, his tone mocking. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re smarter than that. You know who I am.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “The Nogitsune,” you said quietly, the word tasting bitter on your tongue.

“Bingo,” he said with a grin, spreading his arms theatrically. “And here I thought you weren’t paying attention.”

You stumbled back, your heart pounding as the reality of the situation hit you like a freight train.

“I wouldn’t run if I were you,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “It’s so much more fun when you play along.”

“What do you want?” you demanded, your voice shaking.

He smirked, taking another step forward. “Oh, it’s not about what I want,” he said. “It’s about what he wants.”

Your chest tightened. “What are you talking about?”

“Stiles,” he said simply, his voice softening in a way that made it even more chilling. “He wants you. Always has. Didn’t you know that?”

You froze, your mind racing. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

For a moment, his expression flickered. His grin faltered, replaced by something raw and desperate. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his whole body trembling like he was fighting to stay in control.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice strained. “Run. Now.”

And then the grin was back, sharp and cruel as ever.

“Too late,” he said with a laugh, his dark eyes gleaming with triumph.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

You didn’t run. You should’ve. Every instinct screamed at you to turn and bolt, to get as far away from him—or it, or whatever that was—as possible.

But you couldn’t move. Your legs felt like lead, your heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. You stayed frozen until the thing wearing Stiles’ face—Void, Nogitsune, whatever it was—turned and walked away, whistling a haunting, familiar tune.

It left you there, alone under the bleachers, the cold wind biting at your skin.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly terrified.

The next few days were a blur. You went to school, went to practice, and tried to act like everything was fine. But you avoided the chemistry lab at all costs, making excuses to Mr. Harris about needing to work in the library or staying late to make up assignments.

You didn’t want to see Stiles.

Or the thing inside him.

When you did catch glimpses of him in the hallways—his familiar, lanky frame, his wide brown eyes scanning the crowd—your stomach twisted painfully. You didn’t know if it was fear, anger, or some awful mixture of both.

You kept your distance, walking the long way around campus if you thought you might run into him. But that didn’t stop him from trying.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

It was unbearable.

Every time I saw her—Y/N—in the hallway, my chest felt like it was caving in. She wouldn’t look at me. She wouldn’t even glance in my direction.

Not that I could blame her.

The memories of that day were fuzzy, fractured into pieces I could barely fit together. But I remembered enough. I remembered the way her voice shook when she said my name. The way she stumbled back, her eyes wide with fear.

I remembered the smile. That awful, twisted grin that didn’t belong to me but somehow felt carved into my face.

I hated myself for it.

“Are you even listening, Stiles?” Scott’s voice snapped me back to reality.

We were standing by the lockers, Scott looking at me with that patented mix of concern and exasperation. He’d been hovering ever since I told him about the Nogitsune. I appreciated it, but it didn’t make the weight in my chest any easier to carry.

“Sorry,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. “What were you saying?”

Scott sighed. “I was asking if you’ve talked to her yet.”

I tensed. “She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Stiles—”

“I can’t,” I said sharply, cutting him off. “I don’t even know what I’d say. ‘Hey, sorry about the whole creepy possession thing. Hope you’re not too traumatized.’ Yeah, that’ll go great.”

Scott frowned. “You can’t just avoid her forever. She’s already scared, and if you keep ignoring the problem, it’s only going to get worse.”

I knew he was right. Of course he was right. But the idea of facing her, of seeing the fear in her eyes again, made my stomach churn.

Still, I couldn’t let things stay like this.

“I’ll talk to her,” I said finally.

Scott gave me a small, encouraging smile. “Good. You’ve got this.”

I wasn’t so sure.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

You’d just finished practice when you saw him standing by the bleachers, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

Stiles.

Your stomach twisted painfully, your grip tightening on the strap of your bag. You thought about walking the other way, but the look on his face stopped you. He seemed… lost. Nervous.

Not the boy you’d seen under the bleachers.

You hesitated, your pulse quickening as he caught sight of you and straightened.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice soft. “Hey.”

You stayed where you were, keeping a few feet of distance between you. “What do you want, Stiles?”

He winced at the sharpness in your tone, his shoulders hunching slightly. “I just… I wanted to talk. To explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” you said quickly, your voice trembling. “I know what’s going on with you. Or with… whatever that thing is inside you.”

He flinched, and for a moment, you felt a pang of guilt.

“I know you’re scared,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t blame you. But it wasn’t me, Y/N. You have to know that. It wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t it?” you shot back, your throat tightening. “It looked like you. It sounded like you.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m trying to fight it, I swear, but it’s—it’s stronger than I thought.”

You looked away, your chest aching. You wanted to believe him. You really did. But every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was that cold, mocking smile.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely audible.

The words hit him like a physical blow. He staggered slightly, his face crumpling in a way that made your heart ache.

“I get it,” he said after a long moment, his voice hollow. “I do. I just… I wanted you to know that I would never hurt you. Not on purpose. Not if I could help it.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of tears. “I want to believe you, Stiles. But I don’t know if I can. Not yet.”

He nodded, his jaw tight. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll give you space. As much as you need.”

He took a step back, his hands raised in surrender. But before he turned to leave, he looked at you one last time, his eyes filled with an unbearable mix of longing and regret.

“I’m not giving up on us,” he said quietly. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll prove to you that you can trust me again.”

And then he walked away, leaving you standing there with a lump in your throat and a storm raging in your chest.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

The way Stiles lingered outside the locker room after practice. How he waited at your usual bench in the library, even when you didn’t show up for study hall. How he kept sliding carefully folded notes into your locker, short and desperate things that you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Except it was.

You didn’t open the first note right away. Or the second. But by the third, your curiosity—or maybe something deeper—got the better of you.

“I’m sorry. That’s probably not enough, but I don’t know what else to say. I’ll do anything to make this right. Please just give me a chance.”

You read it twice, then shoved it into the bottom of your bag.

You didn’t answer.

Over the next week, you couldn’t avoid him completely. Beacon Hills was too small for that. But you made sure to keep your distance whenever you could.

In chemistry, you avoided meeting his gaze, keeping your head down as you scribbled notes or pretended to focus on the day’s experiment. Stiles didn’t push. He kept his voice low and his words few, careful not to overstep.

And yet, you could feel his eyes on you, full of things he wasn’t saying.

It was exhausting.

Your emotions were a tangled mess—fear, anger, guilt, and something softer that you didn’t want to name. You couldn’t forget the way he’d looked at you under the bleachers, dark and dangerous. But you also couldn’t forget the way he’d looked at you since then, with quiet desperation and raw sincerity.

You were caught between the two, unsure which version of Stiles was real—or if either of them were.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

I was losing her.

Every time I saw Y/N—every time I caught her avoiding me in the hallways, her shoulders stiff and her head down—it felt like another piece of me was breaking.

The Nogitsune hadn’t even tried to hide its amusement. It whispered to me in the quiet moments, taunting me with images of her flinching away, her eyes wide with fear.

“Why do you even bother?” it hissed. “She’ll never trust you again. She shouldn’t trust you.”

“Shut up,” I muttered under my breath, slamming my locker shut.

But no matter how hard I tried to tune it out, the voice was always there. Twisting. Digging.

And the worst part? It was right.

The tipping point came on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

You were sitting in the library, headphones on and a textbook open in front of you, though you weren’t really reading it. The rain drummed softly against the windows, filling the silence with a soothing rhythm.

When you felt a presence beside you, you looked up instinctively—and froze.

Stiles was standing there, holding two steaming cups of hot chocolate. He hesitated when he saw your expression, his grip tightening on the cups.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond, your heart pounding as you weighed your options. Part of you wanted to tell him to leave, to walk away and stop making this harder than it already was. But another part of you—the part that still remembered the old Stiles, the one who always knew how to make you laugh during labs—couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

So you stayed silent.

He took that as permission, sliding into the seat across from you. He set one of the cups in front of you, then wrapped his hands around the other, like he needed something to anchor himself.

“I figured you could use this,” he said, his voice low. “It’s from the place by the field. You know, the one that always burns their coffee but somehow makes the best hot chocolate?”

You stared at the cup, your chest tightening. You used to stop there after practice sometimes.

“How did you—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head.

“I remember stuff,” he said quietly. “About you.”

That admission hit you harder than you wanted to admit.

“Why are you doing this, Stiles?” you asked finally, meeting his gaze.

He didn’t look away. “Because I’m trying to prove to you that I’m still me,” he said simply. “That I’m not… I’m not just what you saw under the bleachers. I’m not the Nogitsune. I’m me. And I care about you.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“Don’t,” you said softly, your voice cracking. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” he asked, his voice full of quiet desperation. “It’s true. You can pretend all you want, Y/N, but you know it is. I’ve cared about you for months. And I know I screwed up. I know I scared you. But I can’t let you go without at least trying to fix this.”

You didn’t know what to say. The words hung between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you whispered after a long moment.

“I know,” he said. “And I don’t expect you to just… forgive me overnight. But I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes, for however long it takes, to prove to you that you can trust me again.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes were pleading.

You looked down at the cup of hot chocolate, your vision blurring slightly.

“Stiles,” you began, but your voice wavered. You didn’t know what you wanted to say.

“Just think about it,” he said softly, standing up before you could respond.

He didn’t wait for you to say anything else, leaving the hot chocolate on the table as he walked away.

For a long time, you just sat there, staring at the cup as the rain continued to fall outside.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

You didn’t drink the hot chocolate.

At least, not right away. You sat in the library until the rain stopped, staring at the cup like it held the answer to a question you were too afraid to ask. Eventually, you picked it up, the faint warmth reminding you that Stiles had been there, that he’d gone out of his way to bring it to you.

That night, you tossed and turned, the words he’d said echoing in your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You weren’t sure what scared you more—his determination, or the possibility that he might actually mean it.

The next day at school, you felt like a live wire, jittery and on edge. You’d barely slept, and the thought of seeing Stiles again made your stomach twist uncomfortably. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say to him.

But fate—or Beacon Hills—had other plans.

The attack happened just after third period.

You were walking through the empty hallway outside the gym when you heard it—a sharp crack, like something heavy slamming against the wall.

You froze, your heart pounding. “Hello?” you called out hesitantly, your voice echoing in the stillness.

No answer.

Another noise—this one louder, closer. It sounded like someone was fighting, the scuffle of shoes against tile followed by a low, guttural growl that sent a chill down your spine.

You took a step back, but before you could move any farther, something slammed into the lockers just ahead of you.

It wasn’t human.

You didn’t even get a good look at it before it lunged, a blur of claws and teeth heading straight for you.

You screamed, stumbling backward and throwing your arms up in a desperate attempt to shield yourself. But before it could reach you, another figure slammed into it, knocking it away with a force that rattled the lockers.

“Get out of here!”

The voice was familiar. Too familiar.

You lowered your arms just in time to see Stiles standing between you and the creature, his chest heaving as he braced himself for its next attack.

“Stiles?” you whispered, your voice shaking.

He glanced back at you, his expression tight with fear—and something else. “Y/N, run. Now!”

But you couldn’t move. Your legs felt like they were made of lead, your body rooted to the spot as the creature lunged at him again.

“Stiles!” you screamed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

She wasn’t running.

Why isn’t she running?

The thing—a chimera, maybe, or some other supernatural experiment gone horribly wrong—was fast, but I was faster. Adrenaline coursed through me as I dodged its claws, my focus split between the fight and the girl behind me.

“Y/N, go!” I shouted again, barely ducking in time to avoid a swipe aimed at my head.

But she didn’t move.

I didn’t have time to think about it. The creature charged again, and I threw myself at it, slamming my shoulder into its chest. We hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind out of me.

For a second, I thought I had it under control. But then it twisted, its claws slicing across my arm, and I cried out in pain.

“Stiles!”

Her voice was sharp, panicked, and too close.

I turned my head just in time to see her rushing toward me, a fire extinguisher in her hands.

“Y/N, don’t—”

But she was already swinging it, the metal canister connecting with the creature’s head with a sickening crack. It stumbled, letting out a snarl as it turned its attention to her.

“No!” I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the pain in my arm as I threw myself between them again.

The creature hesitated, its dark eyes flicking between the two of us. And then, with a low growl, it turned and bolted down the hallway, disappearing into the shadows.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Are you okay?” I asked, turning to her. My voice came out rough, strained.

She was staring at me, her chest heaving, the fire extinguisher still clutched in her trembling hands.

“Stiles,” she said, her voice cracking. “Your arm.”

I glanced down, barely registering the blood soaking through my sleeve. “It’s fine,” I said quickly. “What about you? Did it—”

“I’m fine,” she said, cutting me off. “But you’re not. You’re bleeding, and—and you could’ve—”

Her voice broke, and before I could stop myself, I reached for her.

“Hey,” I said softly, my good hand brushing her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m okay. You’re okay.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head. “No, it’s not okay, Stiles. None of this is okay. You could’ve died, and I—”

She stopped abruptly, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“And you what?” I asked, my heart pounding.

She didn’t answer at first. But then she looked up, and the raw emotion in her eyes made my breath catch.

“And I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

The words hung between you, heavy and impossible to take back.

You hadn’t meant to say it—not like this, not with blood on his shirt and adrenaline still coursing through your veins. But it was the truth, and you couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore.

Stiles stared at you, his expression unreadable. “Y/N,” he said softly, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Do you mean that?”

You nodded, your throat tight. “I’m still mad at you,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “And I’m still scared. But… I care about you, Stiles. More than I want to admit.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. And then he stepped closer, his hand still resting gently on your shoulder.

“I care about you too,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around you. “So much it hurts. And I swear, Y/N, I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe. From the Nogitsune, from everything. I promise.”

You believed him.

For the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe him.

And when he pulled you into a careful, hesitant embrace, you didn’t pull away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

The moment between you and Stiles in the hallway didn’t solve everything. It couldn’t—not with the Nogitsune still lurking inside him, waiting for a chance to strike.

But it was a start.

You walked with him to the parking lot that afternoon, his arm draped carefully over your shoulders as you supported his weight. He tried to shrug off the injury, brushing it off with his usual humor, but you weren’t having it.

“Stiles,” you said firmly as you helped him into the Jeep. “You need to get that stitched. No arguments.”

He grimaced but didn’t fight you.

By the time you reached Deaton’s clinic, your resolve had only hardened. If Stiles was going to keep throwing himself into danger, you’d make damn sure he didn’t do it alone.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

The clinic was quiet, the only sounds the soft hum of machinery and the occasional clink of Deaton’s tools as he worked. I sat on the exam table, biting the inside of my cheek as he cleaned and stitched the gash on my arm.

Y/N sat across the room, her arms crossed over her chest and a stubborn set to her jaw. She hadn’t said much since we arrived, but her presence was enough to keep me grounded.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Deaton said once he finished, his gaze lingering on me with quiet concern before he left the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Y/N stood and walked over to me.

“You’re reckless, you know that?” she said, her voice sharp but not unkind.

I winced, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, I’ve heard that once or twice.”

“I’m serious, Stiles.” She stepped closer, her eyes searching mine. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep putting yourself in danger like this. What if I hadn’t been there today? What if—”

“Hey.” I cut her off gently, reaching for her hand. “I’m okay. And you were there. That’s what matters.”

She shook her head, frustration flickering across her face. “It’s not enough. You can’t fight this thing alone.”

“I’m not alone,” I said quietly, squeezing her hand.

Her gaze softened, and she let out a shaky breath. “Then let me help you,” she said. “I don’t care what it takes. We’ll figure it out together.”

Something in my chest ached at her words, but I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Together.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The first step was figuring out how to weaken the Nogitsune’s hold.

Scott and Lydia joined the effort the next day, meeting with you and Stiles at his house. The four of you huddled around the kitchen table, pouring over books and notes that Deaton had loaned you.

“Is there a way to keep it from taking control?” you asked, flipping through a weathered tome on Japanese mythology.

“It feeds on chaos, pain, and fear,” Lydia said, her voice calm and analytical. “If we can starve it, maybe we can weaken it.”

“Easier said than done,” Scott muttered, running a hand through his hair. “There’s no shortage of chaos in this town.”

“Then we keep it focused,” you said firmly. “If it wants chaos, we make it chase us. We keep it distracted while we figure out how to get rid of it.”

Stiles looked at you, his expression a mix of admiration and worry. “That’s risky,” he said.

“So is doing nothing,” you shot back.

He didn’t argue.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

Over the next few days, you and Stiles fell into an uneasy routine. You stayed close to him whenever you could, your presence a steady anchor as he struggled to keep the Nogitsune at bay.

It wasn’t easy. The thing inside him didn’t like being ignored.

Late one night, you were sitting on his bed, helping him sort through Deaton’s notes, when he suddenly stiffened.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice tight.

You looked up, your stomach twisting at the sight of his clenched fists and the flicker of darkness in his eyes.

“It’s trying to take over,” he said through gritted teeth.

You moved without thinking, sliding off the bed and kneeling in front of him. “Stiles,” you said firmly, taking his hands in yours. “Look at me.”

He shook his head, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “I can’t—I can’t stop it—”

“Yes, you can,” you said, your voice steady. “You’re stronger than it is, Stiles. You’ve proven that over and over again.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the darkness receded. “What if I hurt you?” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“You won’t,” you said, squeezing his hands. “I trust you.”

The words seemed to ground him, and he let out a shaky breath, the tension in his body slowly easing.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile. “We’ve got this,” you said. “Together.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

Y/N was saving me.

Every time I felt the Nogitsune clawing at the edges of my mind, she was there, pulling me back. She didn’t have to say much—sometimes just hearing her voice was enough.

But I couldn’t shake the fear that it wouldn’t last.

The Nogitsune was patient. It was always waiting, watching, biding its time. And I knew that one day, it would strike.

But until then, I had her.

And for now, that was enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

By the time the confrontation was inevitable, the exhaustion had already settled deep into your bones.

The days leading up to it blurred together, a constant haze of sleepless nights, endless research, and fleeting moments of fear and hope. Stiles’ strength amazed you, even as it terrified you. He fought the Nogitsune with everything he had, but you could see the cracks forming—each flicker of darkness in his eyes lasting a little longer, his voice slipping into that sharp, mocking tone more often than before.

You couldn’t help but wonder how much time he had left.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

The Nogitsune was growing restless.

It had stopped whispering and started screaming, clawing at the edges of my mind like a caged animal. It wanted out. It wanted chaos.

And I could feel it getting stronger.

Every time I blacked out, I woke up with blood under my fingernails, bruises I couldn’t explain, and memories that didn’t belong to me. The others didn’t say it, but I knew they were scared.

I was scared, too.

But I didn’t tell them that.

Especially not Y/N.

She was already carrying so much—watching me like a hawk, staying up late to help with research, putting herself in danger just by being near me. I hated that she’d gotten dragged into this mess, but at the same time, I couldn’t imagine going through it without her.

She made me feel like me again, even when the Nogitsune tried to tell me I wasn’t.

And I wasn’t going to let it hurt her.

No matter what.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It happened on a cold, moonless night.

You were at the animal clinic with Scott, Lydia, and Stiles, poring over Deaton’s latest notes. The idea was to lure the Nogitsune into a trap—a series of wards and ash barriers designed to weaken it enough for Lydia to use her banshee powers to sever its connection to Stiles’ mind.

But the Nogitsune had other plans.

One minute, Stiles was flipping through a book, his brow furrowed in concentration. The next, he froze, his entire body going rigid.

“Stiles?” you said, your voice sharp with concern.

He didn’t respond.

“Stiles,” Scott said, stepping closer.

And then he turned.

His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them, his expression cold and twisted. When he smiled, it sent a chill down your spine.

“Well,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “Isn’t this cozy?”

“Stiles, fight it,” you said, stepping forward despite the warning look Scott shot you.

“Oh, he’s fighting,” the Nogitsune said, tilting its head. “But not very hard. It’s amazing what a little despair can do to a person, isn’t it?”

“Let him go,” Scott growled, his hands clenching into fists.

The Nogitsune laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. “Let him go? Oh, Scott. You don’t seem to understand. He’s not yours to save.”

Before anyone could react, the Nogitsune’s gaze snapped to you.

“Ah, and here she is,” it said, its tone mocking. “The little spark keeping him tethered to reality. I wonder, what would happen if we snuffed it out?”

Your blood ran cold.

“Don’t,” Stiles’ voice broke through suddenly, strained and desperate. His body jerked like he was fighting against invisible chains, his hands clenching at his sides. “Don’t touch her.”

“Oh, but it’s so tempting,” the Nogitsune purred, its gaze locked on you. “She’s such a pretty little weakness, isn’t she?”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your legs felt like stone, but your heart was racing, pounding so loudly you could barely think.

“You’re not going to hurt her,” Scott said, stepping in front of you. His voice was steady, but his claws were out, his body coiled to spring.

The Nogitsune smirked. “Perhaps not yet,” it said. “But it’s such a fun thought, isn’t it? Watching her break? Watching all of you break?”

“Not today,” Lydia said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

The Nogitsune turned to her, its smile faltering slightly.

“Scott,” Lydia said, her gaze steady. “Get the ash.”

Scott moved quickly, his claws scraping the floor as he grabbed the container of mountain ash from the counter. He started spreading it in a circle, his movements precise and methodical.

The Nogitsune laughed again, but there was an edge of something else in its tone now—something that sounded like uncertainty.

“Oh, I see,” it said, stepping back as Scott worked. “You think this will stop me? You think he wants to be saved?”

“Stiles does,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear clawing at your chest. “You’re wrong about him. He’s stronger than you think.”

The Nogitsune’s eyes narrowed, its expression twisting into something ugly. “We’ll see about that,” it hissed.

And then it lunged.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

You didn’t think. You didn’t have time.

The Nogitsune moved faster than you thought possible, its hand outstretched toward you like a claw. But before it could reach you, Stiles’ body jerked violently, his entire frame trembling.

“No!” he shouted, his voice raw and anguished.

The Nogitsune froze, its grip on Stiles slipping as he forced himself back. His eyes flickered, the darkness in them receding as his hands shot out to grab yours.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice trembling. “I—I can’t hold it much longer. You have to finish this. You have to—”

“Stiles, I’m not leaving you,” you said firmly, gripping his hands tightly.

“You won’t have to,” Lydia said suddenly. She stepped forward, her eyes bright with determination as she let out a piercing scream that reverberated through the room.

The Nogitsune roared, its grip on Stiles breaking entirely as Lydia’s scream grew louder, sharper. Scott finished the circle of ash, and the Nogitsune stumbled, its movements erratic and uncoordinated.

“Now!” Lydia shouted.

Stiles collapsed to his knees, his hands clutching yours as the Nogitsune’s shadowy form was ripped from his body. It howled in rage, thrashing against the barrier of ash as Lydia’s voice carried it farther and farther away.

And then, suddenly, it was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Stiles,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. “Are you—”

“I’m okay,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m okay.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tightly as he buried his face in your shoulder. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you could finally breathe.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The days following the Nogitsune’s defeat were eerily quiet.

The chaos it had left behind—the broken trust, the physical and emotional scars—was still present, hanging in the air like smoke after a fire. You didn’t think you’d ever forget the sound of Stiles screaming, or the cold, mocking tone the Nogitsune used when it spoke through him.

But you also couldn’t forget the way he fought. The way he clawed his way back to you, holding on with everything he had until the Nogitsune was ripped from his body.

Now, you found yourself sitting next to him on the steps of the Stilinski house, your shoulder brushing against his as the early evening sun dipped below the horizon.

Neither of you had said much since you arrived, and the silence between you was heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Y/N,” he said finally, breaking the stillness.

You turned to look at him, your heart squeezing at the vulnerability in his expression. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, his thumbs nervously fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Stiles—”

“No, let me say this,” he interrupted, his eyes meeting yours. “I need to say it.”

You nodded, letting him continue.

“I hurt you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “Even if it wasn’t me doing it, it still happened. And you were right to be scared. I was scared, too. But you… you didn’t give up on me. You stayed, even when you didn’t have to. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for that.”

You felt your throat tighten, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Stiles, I stayed because I knew it wasn’t you. I knew you were still in there, fighting. And I—”

You stopped, the words catching in your throat.

He tilted his head, his eyes softening. “You what?” he asked gently.

You hesitated for only a moment before taking a deep breath. “I care about you, Stiles. I think I always have, even before all of this. And seeing you like that, knowing what you were going through… it scared me because I couldn’t imagine losing you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached out and took your hand in his, his grip warm and steady.

“You won’t lose me,” he said firmly. “I promise. No more Nogitsune, no more chaos. Just… me. If you’ll still have me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek as you nodded. “Of course I will,” you said, your voice breaking slightly.

His lips curved into a small, hesitant smile. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles’ Perspective

I couldn’t stop looking at her.

The way the setting sun painted her features in soft golden light, the way her eyes shimmered with unshed tears but still held so much strength. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and for some reason I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around, she’d chosen to stay.

The Nogitsune was gone, but its shadow lingered. There were nights when I woke up gasping for air, the memory of its voice ringing in my ears. Nights when I thought about what could’ve happened if Y/N hadn’t been there—if she hadn’t held onto me when I needed it most.

She saved me.

And I was going to spend the rest of my life making sure she knew how much that meant to me.

“You’re staring,” she said, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly, though I didn’t look away. “I’m just… I don’t know. Grateful, I guess.”

“Grateful?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Grateful that you’re here. That I’m here. That we’re… okay.”

Her expression softened, and she leaned her head against my shoulder. “We are okay,” she said quietly.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I believed her.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

The nightmares didn’t go away right away.

There were nights when you woke up in a cold sweat, the memory of the Nogitsune’s cruel smile etched into your mind. But those nights became fewer and farther between, especially with Stiles by your side.

He still had his own demons to fight, but you fought them together. On the bad days, you reminded him that he wasn’t alone. And on the good days, he reminded you why you stayed.

One afternoon, as you sat on the bleachers after practice, he handed you a familiar cup of hot chocolate.

“From the place by the field,” he said with a small smile.

You took it, your chest tightening as the memory of that day flashed through your mind. “Thanks,” you said softly.

He sat down beside you, his knee brushing against yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, content to just sit in the quiet.

Then he glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So,” he said, “does this mean we’re officially chemistry partners for life?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I think we’ve earned that title,” you said.

“Good,” he said, his smile widening. “Because I don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon.”

You didn’t plan on letting him go, either.

No matter what came next, you knew you’d face it together.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Epilogue:

Reader’s Perspective

Months passed, and the scars the Nogitsune left behind—both visible and invisible—began to fade. Life didn’t return to normal, exactly. Beacon Hills had a way of making “normal” feel like a foreign concept. But you and Stiles built something new, something stronger than the chaos that had tried to break you.

Your relationship wasn’t perfect. There were moments of doubt, of fear, when you both struggled to fully trust that the darkness was gone for good. But every time, Stiles would reach for your hand, grounding you both in a way that words couldn’t.

“Together,” he’d remind you, and you’d nod, letting his warmth chase away the lingering shadows.

One Saturday afternoon, you sat with Stiles in his Jeep, parked at the overlook just outside of town. It had become your unofficial spot—a place to escape when things got overwhelming.

“Okay,” Stiles said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Picture this: aliens invade Beacon Hills, right? But instead of fighting, they challenge us to a trivia contest. What’s the one fact you’d bet your life on?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’s the dumbest scenario I’ve ever heard.”

“Come on,” he said, nudging you with his elbow. “What’s your go-to fun fact?”

You thought for a moment, tapping your chin dramatically. “Okay. Did you know octopuses have three hearts, and two of them stop beating when they swim?”

His jaw dropped in mock amazement. “What? No way. That’s so unfair. Humans only get one, and half the time it’s broken.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “What about you? What’s your big trivia fact?”

He grinned. “Easy. Did you know that my girlfriend is the smartest, most badass person in Beacon Hills?”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder playfully. “That’s not a real fact!”

“It’s real to me,” he said, his grin softening into something sweeter.

You looked at him, your heart swelling at the sight of his easy smile. He was lighter now, freer. The weight he’d carried for so long seemed to have lifted, and seeing him like this made everything you’d been through feel worth it.

“You’re impossible,” you said, shaking your head.

“And you love me anyway,” he shot back, leaning closer.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice soft. “I do.”

His expression shifted, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to memorize every detail. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because I love you, too.”

You didn’t need any more words.

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his, your hand sliding to the back of his neck as his arms wrapped around you. The kiss was slow and steady, filled with all the things you didn’t know how to say.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, both of you smiling like fools.

“Together?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Always,” you replied.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the town in shades of gold and orange. For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel so uncertain.

Whatever came next, you knew you’d face it side by side.

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