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too-deviant · 2 months

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The three weeks it took for Luke Castellan’s wounds to heal.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader

Summary: Luke comes back from his quest defeated and angry, and refuses to let anyone see him. But he still needs tending to. You are the lucky sucker who gets to do so.

Content: post-quest angsty luke, reader is awkward, i use the word under’t at one point because i think im shakespeare or some shit

Word Count: 7.6k

Notes: Pushing the agenda that lukes scar is gnarrly like it’s nasty !! not just some faint lil line. the boy was attacked by an actual dragon, like pls. also this hasn’t been proofread so sorry if it doesn’t make sense

part two

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The spring that Luke Castellan spent on his quest was a strange one for the residents of Camp Half-Blood.

For years, campers knew who to go to whenever they needed advice. When they needed help. They knew who to direct the new campers to when they stumbled over the boundary line — and knew they were in good hands. Luke’s hands. He was the big brother the whole camp needed, and not just because he was older than most of them. He just had that aura — and he was undoubtedly kind to everyone he came across. Not to mention the guy was insane with a sword, and had this boyish charm that anyone would fall for. Most campers, if not all of them, looked up to Luke Castellan.

So when he left, nobody knew what to do.

It was pretty tame at first, mostly just awkward. Especially in the Hermes cabin, with Chris Rodriguez in charge in his brother's absence. A Hephaestus kid had taken over the sword fighting classes Luke usually ran, which proved to do more harm than good because he wasn’t all that great at using a sword than he was at forging them, and most of Luke’s students were already better than him.

But nothing went wrong — at least for the first week.

But after the initial awkwardness wore off, chaos ensued.

Chris couldn’t keep the Hermes kids in check — once they realised he wasn’t as authoritative as Luke, they began to use it to their advantage. Everyone got pranked, the camp store was raided three times before Chiron decided to close it down for the meantime and dishwashing duty every night was not slowing them down.

You hadn’t realised just how much the camp relied on Luke until he wasn’t there to keep things under control. Fights broke out with nobody to step in between them, and more and more kids were showing up to the infirmary with injuries that they could take care of themselves — something Luke would’ve told them to do instead of bothering you and your siblings. It was actually unbelievable how much a group of about a hundred half-gods relied on the steady hand of one seventeen year old boy.

You couldn’t wait until he got back so you could finally get some peace and quiet.

Luke didn’t return to camp for two and a half weeks, and as the days went by, campers began to get uneasy. Nobody knew what his quest had entailed, or where he had to go, so the longer they went without news the more antsy people got. You didn’t speak to Luke much — maybe a few shared sentences to be polite — but you knew what he was capable of. You tried your best to reassure the campers, as did your brother Lee and the rest of the Cabin Counsellors.

You knew Luke would come back. You knew he would stumble down that hill with his head held high and meet the group of campers waiting for him at the bottom. You knew there would be a celebration, a party, and a lot of kids out past curfew. But you knew Chiron would let it off, because Luke Castellan was back.

Except that’s not what happened. At all.

It was a warm day, and you were helping some of your younger siblings make friendship bracelets by the lake. Your camp shirt clung to the sweat on your back and you peeled it off with a grimace whenever you stood, straightening out your shorts and checking on the next kid. They seemed happy enough to be in the sun — really, you should’ve been too. Child of Apollo and all. But apparently your father wasn’t feeling the love for you today, because while the rest of your siblings were thriving, you were seconds away from jumping into the lake just to cool down — even if it pissed off the Naiads.

Thankfully, when you stood up once more and looked over the horizon, you saw your brother Aden jogging towards you. You took the opportunity to hide under the shade of the trees by meeting him halfway, and greeted him with a breathless, “Hey.”

He spoke your name with a nod and a smile, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “Chiron needs you in the Big House. Looked serious. I’ll take over here.”

“Oh, Okay.” You nodded, turning to the kids and telling them you’d be back as soon as you could, before marching your worn converse through the grass and up to where the house sat on the edge of the hill.

Chiron was in the doorway when you reached the porch, sat in wheelchair form and wearing a grim look. You paused, worried. He nodded at you, “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Usually I wouldn’t do this, but…desperate times. Follow me.”

You followed as he led you down the hall, brows furrowing, “What's going on? Is everything okay?”

He looked at you with a serious expression, saying your name lowly, “I need you to ensure that what I am about to tell you will never leave the walls of this house. Nobody needs to know about this until we have deemed it appropriate.”

“Of course.” You said immediately, folding your arms. You weren’t so warm anymore. “What happened?”

He straightened up, and stared, “Luke Castellan is back from his quest.”

That was not what you expected him to say. Dropping your arms to your side and stepping forward slightly, “What? Since when?”

“Ten minutes ago, give or take.” He replied, brows in a concerned furrow, “Mr D has taken him upstairs. He is injured.”

“Right.” You nodded, “I’ll go and—“

“Wait, child.” You stopped, one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, looking back at him, “You must know something.”

Chiron took in a deep breath, eyes glossed over like whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him, “He is…not in good condition. On top of his injuries, Luke is unfortunately…not in a good state of mind. His quest has affected him, and he requested quite adamantly that nobody should see him until he is ready to see them. I will respect his wishes, of course, but he will still need someone to tend to his wounds. That will be you.”

“Me?” You’d never shared a full conversation with the guy. Maybe some small talk, a polite smile here and there, but you were hardly acquainted, let alone friendly. You told him this.

“Exactly my point.” Was his reply, head held high, “Luke does not want to talk to anyone at the moment, and I’m sure if any of his friends were to be up there, they would simply coddle him. You, on the other hand…”

“I’m a stranger.” You nodded, “Of course. Right. I get that. So, you just want me to patch him up, act like it never happened? I can do that.”

“Not exactly, my child.”

You raised a brow.

“Luke’s injuries are quite extensive. He will need around the clock care until he is healed enough. He will also need someone to bring him food, clean clothes.”

“Oh, so you want me to nanny him.”

He chuckled, but it faded just as quickly as it came, “Unfortunately, he needs it.”

You pursed your lips. It didn’t seem all that hard — it was just like having any other camper in the infirmary. Only this one, everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting for, and you weren’t allowed to tell anyone he was a mere fifty feet away from them, curled up in a bed in the Big House.

No biggie.

i. WEEK ONE

Chiron had ushered you up the steps as soon as your conversation was over, and given you directions to the room Luke was in. Your steps were slow and unsure — you’d never been this far into the Big House before, but Mr D stood idly outside one of the doors lining the second floor hallway, arms crossed and face taut. The floorboards creaked under the weight of your foot when you reached the landing, and he looked up at you.

“He’s in there.” He pointed to the door in front of him, “Careful, he’s a short fuse right now. All the medical thingamabobs you need are in there already. Keep your mouth shut about this.”

Then he slid past you and down the stairs without another word, and you were left alone in the empty hall. Blinking hard to clear your head, you stood a few measly steps toward the door, stopping just outside of it and leaning your ear against the wood.

Nothing tangible. Mostly just the scraping of wood against the skin of your ear, and once you had stopped moving, there was nothing. No mutters, no bed creaks, not even a sniffle. It unnerves you, but you wrapped a hand around the cold metal of the handle and turned it anyway.

Maybe it was because he had been gone for a while, or maybe it was because you never saw him that much when he was around, but you had to blink away the shock at Luke’s appearance. Minus the obvious injuries, he just looked different. His skin was tanned and rough, his jaw taut and his hair hanging messily over his forehead, longer bits curling around his ears after going uncut for so long.

He was sitting on the edge of a bed that had been tucked into the corner of the room. There was a window just above it, but a thin curtain had been pulled over it and blocked out the sunlight that was begging to shine on you. The room was dark, but light enough that you could see what you were doing when you walked over to the desk in the other corner and started shuffling through the medical supplies Chiron had left there for you. Not much, but enough for now. You could always get more later.

Turning, you finally made your way over to where Luke was hunched over, staring at nothing. When you entered his line of vision, his dark eyes slid up to yours, and he blinked. Then he sighed, straightened his back and gave you a look that said do what you have to do and then get out.

But you didn’t move, not for at least ten seconds. Because while Chiron had told you he was injured extensively, he didn’t mention the five inch long scar that ran down the side of his face, cutting through his eye. It was jagged and gnarly, sharp edges carving a path through his skin. It was red all around, and just from looking at it you could tell it needed work. It was fairly new, but he had left it long enough for it to heal over — a thin layer of skin stopping it from bleeding.

He raised his eyebrows at you impatiently, and you nodded, scooting back to the desk and grabbing what you needed before going back to where he sat.

“I, uh…I need to get closer.” You were afraid to speak, to break the silence of the room, but you did need to get closer to his face. You waited for him to turn slightly to his left, hitch a leg up on the mattress and face his scar in your direction. Instead, he just slid his legs apart, inviting you to step between them.

And so you did, albeit a little shakily. You didn’t know Luke well enough to consider him a friend, but you’d seen enough of him to know that he never acted like this. He was never this quiet — all eyes, slow movements. He was charming, always grinning, always offering a hand. His battle instincts and ADHD made him fidgety like the rest of them, but from where you stood between his thighs, he was as still as a picture. It unnerved you more than the scar on his face did. You’d seen nasty injuries before, you’d never seen this.

You picked up a gauze, doused it in rubbing alcohol, and started wiping the area. You started on the outskirts, but when you pressed over the edge of the injury, his brows twitched and you let out a weak apology before lessening the grip. You kept your breaths thin and your eyes on your hand, but he wasn’t looking at you anyway. He had drifted off again, staring at nothing, and you were scared to break him out of his stupor again.

“He’s a short fuse.” Mr D had said. But he didn’t seem that way right now, sitting back silently and letting you do your work on his face. He wasn’t much of anything, if you had to make an assessment. You really wanted to know what happened on his quest, and why he was gone for so long, but you also didn’t want to test Mr D’s words by asking.

“What happened?” He didn’t say anything, again. You pressed on, “I sort of need to know before I reopen it…just in case something—“

“A dragon.” He murmured at once. His voice was rough, like he’d just been screaming. Maybe he had been, and that’s why Mr D had warned you. But it seemed all his anger had dissipated in the time it took for Chiron to get you and explain the situation. Maybe. “Ladon. Poisonous bites.”

So he had been to the Garden of the Hesperides. Presumably to collect some Golden Apples. What for, you didn’t know. You weren’t going to ask. You just grabbed a scalpel, muttered a quiet, “This is going to hurt.”, and started cutting down the scar, following its path across his cheek.

Luke hissed hard, not expecting you to dive in so suddenly, and his hand reached out for something to grab. That ended up being your camp shirt, bunching at your waist from where he gripped it between his knuckles. You didn’t mind it, but when you put the scalpel down and started to clean the inside of his wound, he adjusted his hand so he was holding the side of your waist instead, eyes clamped shut and feet tapping the wooden floor. You paused momentarily, but you couldn’t let him breathe or else it would just hurt more when you went back to work, so you brushed it off and continued your rampage down his face until the whole wound was free of the dirt and grime he had let accumulate inside it while he travelled back to Long Island.

“Sorry.” You finally built up the courage to say.

“S’Okay.” He breathed, “My fault.”

You wiped it over one last time before taping a bandage over the top. You cut it into two bits so he could still see out of his left eye, before stepping back from between his legs and assessing your work. Once you had deemed it good enough, you picked up your supplies and headed back to the desk, feeling Luke’s hand fall from your side.

“Uh—“ You really wanted to leave the room now, “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but how long did you leave—“

“Three days.” He answered quickly. Chiron had probably already asked him that, and you felt stupid for making him repeat it.

You turned to leave, but then remembered what Chiron had said to you before sending you up to Luke’s room. You looked at him.

“Do you need anything from your cabin?” You asked, “It’s, uh, kind of my job to get that, if you do.” You turned to face him fully, “Oh, and are you hungry? Because I have to—“

“Just some clean clothes, thanks.” He quipped. It wasn’t looking like he wanted you around for much longer.

You were quick to leave.

It was hard coming up with an excuse as to why you were stealing clothes from Luke Castellan’s bunk, but you just told them there was a new camper in the Big House and Chiron had run out of spares that morning. They brushed it off, and you ran back up to Luke with the clothes bunched in your arms, and were breathless by the time you dropped them on the bed beside him.

“Did anyone see you?” He asked just as you were about to give him the privacy he needed to change.

You were facing the door when he asked, and turned to answer, but he was already pulling off the marred camp shirt he’d arrived in, revealing his very toned torso. You paused, eyes drifting, but quickly snapped them back up to his awaiting gaze. He didn’t seem to care that he was shirtless in front of you, but neither did most boys.

“No.” You weren’t sure how he would react if you’d told him the truth, even though it was harmless. He nodded and started to unbutton his cargos, and you were quick to turn back to the door and yank it open, “Okay, I’ll…uh, probably be back at…later. Bye.”

The rest of your week was rough to say the least. You had a lot on your plate, and it didn’t help when your siblings kept wondering why you were at the Big House three times a day and why you always made a second plate of food at mealtimes. Eventually, it got around that a new camper had arrived, and you were taking care of them. That's when the rumour mill started running.

“I heard they were older, like twenty or something. Apparently they’re super embarrassed.”

“Well, I heard they were injured super badly on their way into camp, and that’s why nobody’s seen them yet.”

“I heard they got violent when Chiron explained the demigod thing and now they have him locked away in the basement!”

So yeah, lots on your plate. You did little to dispel the rumours, not wanting to allude to the truth accidentally, but when you were the only one who knew the truth, it was difficult to hide from those who wanted it too.

But after a few days, you had developed a routine. Wake up, get breakfast, take food to Luke. Check his dressings while he ate and restock your med supplies if needed. Go to whatever task you were running that day, ignore anyone who asked about the new camper, go for lunch. Take lunch to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Go to dinner. Take dinner to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Lead the campfire sing-along. Check on Luke one more time. Go to bed.

It was a lot, to say the least. But you didn’t complain — if you did this top secret doctor work right, Chiron might make you cabin counsellor when your older sister Alina leaves after this summer.

And just as you had, Luke eased into the routine too. Every time you entered his room, with a polite knock, he would be perched on the side of his bed, legs open and inviting.

You wondered if he actually did this for you, or if he just never moved from that position.

Sunday morning was slightly different — as camp activities were more relaxed and you had more time on your hands. You strolled slowly to the Big House after breakfast — rather than your usual sprint so you weren’t late to Archery — and knocked politely on the door before cracking it open and heading for the desk. With a plate of food in one hand and a fresh bandage in the other, you made your way over to where Luke sat, readying yourself for another quiet twenty minutes of work. It was quite peaceful, now that you’d gotten used to it. More comfortable, less awkward.

“Hi.”

You blinked, almost dropping what you held, but Luke was there to grab the bandage from your hand as your grip loosened in your shock. He attempted a smile, but winced when it pulled at his scar, and chose to nod at you instead.

“Uh…” You put the plate down into the bedside table, straightening your shirt, “Hi.”

He’d never said hi before.

He didn’t say anything else after that, just let you do what you did, but your mind remained a whirlwind. He said hi. That’s a completely normal thing for him to do, and yet you were reeling from it.

Once you had changed his dressings, you headed for the door and allowed him to eat his breakfast. Your hand wrapped around the metal of the handle and turned it, pulling open the wooden door and stepping one foot into the hall before the voice sounded again.

“Bye.”

You chuckled this time, not looking back, “Bye.”

ii. WEEK TWO

It was an average morning, the blistering sun from last week finally fading and allowing you to walk comfortably outside. You never knew what your dad’s problem with you was last week, but you suspected that it had something to do with the cabin counsellor who slept on the second floor of the Big House with a bandage across his eye.

Like usual, you were heading up the stairs, breakfast plate in hand, ready to give your first checkup of the day. If Luke was healing like he should’ve been, you wouldn’t have to change his dressing at lunch, and you were crossing your fingers that he was.

Pushing the door open with your back, you walked in slowly and headed towards the desk like usual. You grabbed the bandage, made your way over to Luke and put the plate down next to his small lamp. Then you straightened up and put the new bandage under your arm, holding it in place while you moved to unwrap his eye.

Before you could, however, Luke was pulling the bandage from where it was trapped against your ribcage and held it in his own hands. You looked at him, and he gave you a weak smile, “Thought it’d be easier if I held it for you.”

You murmured out a thanks and smiled at him, keeping it there even as you peeled back the old dressings and revealed his still healing scar. Usually, it wouldn’t take this long for a demigod wound to heal itself, but because Luke had gone so long without nectar or ambrosia — or any form of medical help, that is — it was in worse condition. You had to scrape out the infected skin from it a few days back, and it left Luke blinking hard to try and hide the tears.

Nowadays he seemed to be better — not as broody as he seemed last week. But you always caught him drifting off, staring at nothing. You wondered if he was reliving it, asking himself what would’ve changed had he done it differently. Your guess? Not much — you’d read up on Ladon the dragon after finding out it was he who caused Luke’s pain, just in case there was something you needed to know before starting the healing process. He was vicious, not even Hercules could get past him. And while Luke was the best swordsman camp had seen in three centuries, even he would struggle going at Ladon alone.

Once you had redressed his face, you stepped back like you always did, your footfalls sounding out the same metronome as they did three times a day. You wondered if you would wear a mark into the floor from your constant repeating path — door to the desk, desk to the bed, bed to the door. You briefly thought that wouldn’t be possible, something like that would take years to indent, but then you looked back at Luke — his forlorn expression, the bandage across his eye and the bags under’t — and wondered how long it would be before he could build the courage to stand up from the bed, return to a camp that relied so heavily on his skill set, and take the weight of his failure with him.

He pulled the plate onto his lap and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone look so sad while stuffing their face with bacon.

“Hey, uh —“ You started, hand on the doorframe in an attempt to look casual. You couldn’t just leave him like that, right? “Do you…know — uh, know where the spare practising swords are kept?” A measly excuse, but it had him looking at you again.

He swallowed his food before speaking, “The wooden ones are in these old boxes in the back of weapon storage, but I think the celestial bronze ones are kept in the Hephaestus cabin now.”

You nodded, tapping your hand against the wood. That didn’t work in the way you wanted it to, but you weren’t going to force it. So you turned, went to open the door and leave —

“Why?”

Nevermind!

You whirled around — not too eagerly! You didn’t want to scare him off, now — “Oh! Uh, some Ares kid snapped one in half the other day, we needed a replacement.”

Luke nodded. Shit, say something else. Get him talking!

“Odd weather we’ve been having.”

What?

His lips parted, and he had the gall to look amused, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, yeah.” You breathed, humiliated. You pressed your lips together, ready to give up, until a thought came to you, “Hey, you haven’t been outside in, like, a week.”

Luke nodded, shadows falling across his face like the mere mention of the fact that he hadn’t been outside was a painful reminder of his circumstances, “Yeah, I, uh, don’t think I want anyone to know that I’m back yet. Not until I’m healed, y’know?”

You knew. You also knew that probably wasn’t the only reason he refused to let anyone know he was safe in the Big House, but you didn’t say that.

“Right, but —“ A breathy chuckle, “You need, like, sunlight. Fresh air.”

“I don’t wanna risk it.”

“Ok.” And that was that. You said goodbye, left him to his own devices, and didn’t mention the sun thing again for two days.

It was on Wednesday that you finally gave in. Now that you’d put the thought in your own head, you kept noticing the effects that being cooped indoors was having on Luke. His skin, once tanned and glistening under the sun, was paling by the hour. He winced whenever he had to straighten his back, and even though his scar was healing nicely, he seemed to be more sensitive to the pain of it than he was a week earlier.

So on Tuesday night you formed a plan, and on Wednesday morning at breakfast you put it into action. It started with asking Lee — ever so casually, of course — what the activities schedule was looking like. He started yapping about their cabin, and you waited patiently for him to bring up the Amphitheatre. Then, when he said the Apollo kids were training at two, you said —

“I thought we trained at twelve on Wednesdays?”

“No, that’s Ares and Hephaestus.”

“Oh, but don’t they train at four?”

“No, Hermes and Athena train at four.”

“Then who trains at ten?”

“Nobody.”

Bingo.

Luke was halfway through pulling on a pair of shorts when you burst into the room. He jumped, yanking them up the rest of the way before turning to look at you — his face was a mix of shock and unbridled anger until he realised it was you, then it softened into something calmer. But you saw him, even for just a split second, and the animosity in his gaze made you take a quiet step back. It was fearful almost — you’d seen him annoyed, irritated. You’d even bore witness to the Carden Cross Hot Cross Bun Incident of 2002,

(Carden Cross was this fifteen year old Ares kid. He threw one too many hot cross buns at the Aphrodite table and a then-sixteen-year-old Luke had wrung him out in front of everyone.

Nobody had ever heard Luke raise his voice like that, and Carden avoided everyone for a week straight).

but you had never seen such indignation in his gaze. It was gone in a flash, and you could’ve told yourself it was never there, but it was. You were hit with the humbling realisation that whatever Luke had gone through on his quest was more damaging than you could ever imagine, and no amount of fresh air would change him back to who he was before.

That saddened you, but then you realised he was shirtless again and all morbid thoughts went straight out the window. You grinned at him, “Sorry. But we don’t have a lot of time.”

He stared at you, then at your hands that were empty of breakfast food or bandages, and asked, “Time for what?”

“For some fresh air!” You sang, throwing in some jazz hands as if they would wipe the hesitant frown that had graced his features, “Put some shoes on, let’s go!”

He said your name softly, “I can’t go outside.”

You straightened up from where you had leaned dramatically into the room and sent him a blank look, eyes still sparkling, “You can. I checked the schedule, the Amphitheatre is free from ten till twelve and it is currently…nine forty-five. If we hurry, we’ll miss the post-breakfast rush.”

Luke looked a little more at ease now, but he made no move to put his shoes on. His body twitched like he was thinking about it, but when he couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to get out of it, he sighed and nodded, “Alright. Doctors orders, I guess.”

“Awesome.” You smiled, “I’ll let you get ready.”

It took some convincing, even after you’d gotten him to follow you down the stairs, to get him out the door. But a few firm words (and a couple of threats) and he was basking in the morning sunlight just as you’d planned.

Well — more like squinting painfully. Turns out, after a week and a half in a dark room, it takes a minute to get used to the sunlight again. You ensured nobody was around and took the long way to the Ampitheatre, letting out a content sigh when you knew you were away from prying eyes. Luke seemed more relaxed already, and you could practically see his muscles getting looser.

“Damn.” He muttered, hand over his eyes, “I needed this.”

“Yeah.” You spoke over an unattractive snort, “I’m an Apollo kid, I know a Vitamin D deficiency when I’m looking at one.”

“Alright.” He rolled his eyes at you, amused, and moved towards the steps. He climbed up two before turning and sitting, leaning back on his elbows and blinking at the sky, “Think your dad made it extra sunny just for me?”

“Probably.” You smiled, standing in front of him — but still making sure you weren’t blocking the sun from his face. “After some convincing from your dad.”

Luke’s smile faded. His eyes remained closed but his hands tightened into loose fists, “I don’t think so.”

Now you were desperate to change the subject. Your eyes darted to the wall, and the rack of swords sitting in its usual spot, “Hey, wanna swing some bronze?”

“Gods.” He let out a rough laugh, and you grinned in satisfaction, “Swinging Bronze. Haven’t heard that in a while.”

You nodded, glad he was back to being somewhat happy, “We thought we were so cool.”

“We thought it’d catch on.”

You shared a laugh, and Luke peeked an eye open, looking at you, “How come we were never friends back then?”

A meek shrug, “We weren’t really friends until a couple of days ago. That's if you even count us as that now.”

He just kept looking at you, and his gaze burned into your skin. You stepped back, closer to the middle of the arena space, “We never really spoke.”

He looked at you as if he was thinking hard about what you said, and what he was gonna say next. Apparently he came up short, because seconds later he was clicking his tongue and pushing himself up, joining you in the middle of the arena, “Alright. Let’s swing some bronze.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding. This was going well. He was outside, he was laughing, he was about to pick up a sword for the first time since he’d angrily thrown his own at the porch of the Big House when he got back a week and a half ago.

He handed you a wooden practice sword, and you raised a brow. Usually the wooden ones were for first-timers, or younger kids. He shrugged, you let it go.

Despite the fact that you and Luke had been at camp together for five years, you’d never actually gone one-on-one in a sword fight with him. It was rare that Apollo and Hermes were paired together for activities, since they were the two highest populated cabins, but even when Luke was running the practice he always picked the people he knew the best for demonstrations. You lingered at the back, watching.

So you were slightly nervous, but you also didn’t want to show it. Sure, on any normal day Luke would reassure you with kind eyes and that Luke Castellan Smile, but he wasn’t exactly himself right now. You swallowed down your nerves, matched his stance, and swung.

Best Sword Fighter in Three Hundred Years — not an exaggeration. His moves were swift, calculated, and he stayed calm the entire time. It was as if he knew everything you were going to do before you did it, and had three counterattacks on the back burner for when you would strike. Your swords clashed every time you made a move and suddenly you realised why he wanted you to use wooden swords — the clang of wood was a lot quieter than the clang of bronze, it was less likely anyone would hear you fighting. It made sense, but you couldn’t focus on that when he was practically parrying your thoughts with sweat dripping down his temple.

You held your own, though. You were quite impressed with yourself when you blocked his swipes and sidestepped his jabs. It was making him groan in frustration, and the edges of your mouth perked up. You didn’t realise how good you were at this.

Then Luke stumbled. He grunted, righted himself, and swung again. You blocked it, and he steadied his shoulders. You slowed, focusing on the way he heaved for breath, taking in gulps of air, while you were hardly breaking a sweat. The way he kept readjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword, and how his fingers shook on his free hand. He went for you again and you sidestepped him, making him trip up. He didn’t fall, but he did let out a long angry groan at his mistake, throwing the sword to the ground in frustration.

You flinched, “Luke.”

“This was a bad idea.” He snapped. He wasn’t looking at you, pacing up and down with his hands in his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“You’re still recovering —“ You tried to reason, but he wasn’t listening to you.

“I’m the best damn swordsman this camp has ever seen. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Why —“

“Luke.” You stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you, “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.” He gritted through his teeth, “I fail one quest and suddenly I can’t do anything anymore? Yeah, that’s typical.”

You shook your head, “You just need time to get better.”

“I was better! Better than everyone else here, I —“ He paused, a faraway look in his eyes that unnerved you for a second before he was looking at you again, “I can hear people.”

You perked your ears up. He was right, you could hear the chatter of camp if you listened carefully enough — but it wasn’t anything to worry about. They were all doing their own tasks, far away from where they were. If someone was coming, it would be more clear. You told him that, but he shook his head.

“I need to go back. This was a bad idea.”

“Hey, it’s okay, we can go —“

“No, not we. Me.” He said firmly, a hard look in his gaze that he didn’t have before, “I’m going back. You’re staying here. And I’m never going anywhere with you again.”

iii. WEEK THREE

You hadn’t seen him in five days.

Chiron had pulled you out of Archery to ask about Luke — and why he had seen him storm angrily back into his room and lock the door. You just told him you thought it was best for him to find someone else to take care of him for the time being. You didn’t think Luke would want to see you again, ever.

All you wanted was for him to be his old self again. The guy you always saw helping out someone else with a smile on his face, the one who made others laugh and laughed with them. The one who waved at anyone who waved at him. The one who was completely oblivious to the flirting and just thought they were being friendly. The Luke Castellan who everyone gushed about, who everyone loved.

That man up there, with the scar on his face and the look in his eye, wasn't Luke Castellan. And maybe he never would be again, not completely. But he could come close — he could still smile, he could still laugh.

But you’d fucked all that up just by bringing him outside.

You didn’t know who Chiron had asked to replace you, because you never saw anyone else get up after breakfast with an extra plate. You didn’t see anyone sneaking out of the Hermes cabin with a pile of clothes. You stood in the fields for hours a day, watching those thin curtains stand stiff at the window, never to open. You thought you’d seen a shadow, but maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you.

The weekend came and went, and you spent the whole time worrying about Luke. Did this new person know that he preferred fatty bacon? Did they know that he liked keeping the curtains closed? Or would they just bring him a plate of pancakes? Ask him too many questions about his quest? Your mind whirred — would they make him worse?

No. That’s not what you were scared of.

Would they make him better?

Would they understand him more than you did? Would they coerce more words out of him? Would they even need to coerce him, or would he be comfortable holding a conversation with them no problem? What if he was better now than he ever had been with you?

You flinched when your name was called. Looking up from the bracelet you were crafting with some younger kids and meeting the eyes of Dionysus, “Sir.”

“Our, uh, special guest is requesting your presence.” He said with a stupid look on his face, “So get off your ass and get up there, I can’t stand his whining any longer.”

You did as asked with a slight roll of your eyes that made the six year old who was next to you giggle into their hands. It brought a grin to your otherwise down expression, unsure of what Luke wanted to say to you.

The room was dark when you cracked the door open — there was no response after you knocked, but you could hear him shuffling inside, so you went ahead and opened it an inch. It was a lot darker than it used to be — or maybe you too had gotten used to the shade after spending so much time there.

You pushed it open more, and there he was, in his usual spot on the edge of the bed. Head down, hands fiddling with something by his eye. He was muttering in frustration, and you stepped into the room in concern. The floor creaked, he looked up, and you gasped.

The side of his face where his scar sat was red with blood — you almost missed the bandage he was attempting to tie around it because it had been stained pink. His fingers were shaking and he pursed his trembling lips at you, “I can’t do it.”

You surged forward, immediately taking the fabric from his hands. He let them drop into his lap as you peeled it back and looked at the damage. You winced — not as bad as the blood had made it seem, but bad enough. The wound had reopened at the top, and the blood was dripping into his eye and along the curve of his jaw.

It took a few panicky minutes, but eventually the bleeding had stopped, Luke’s face was clean of blood, and you were staring at him in shock, your own fingers still red from the damage. He was avoiding your eyes, the only other thing he’d said to you being a strained thank you when you had stepped back.

“What —“ You were at a loss.

“I tried to change them myself.” He shrugged, picking at his fingernails, still not looking at you. “I’d watched you do it so many times, I figured I had it handled. Apparently I didn’t, because I woke up and it was freakin’ bleeding everywhere.”

“Oh, Luke.” You breathed, “Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”

“You never came back.” He said like it was obvious.

“What — so you’ve been doing this yourself for five days?” You asked, a shocked exclamation, “Chiron never sent someone else to help you?”

“He asked me who I wanted,” He shrugged, “I said you. You weren’t an option, so I did it myself.”

“You said —“

“I know what I said, alright?” He stressed, head in his hands now, “It was stupid. I was angry, hurt, whatever. It was at myself, but I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I don’t — “ His voice cracked, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Luke.” You murmured. You took a step closer, kneeled before him, and gently pried his hands away from his eyes so he would look at you. His expression was so…sad. So distraught. “What happened on your quest?”

And he told you everything.

iv. THE AFTER

Luke was ashamed to admit it — but he had no idea what your name was when you started looking after him.

Sure, he’d seen you around. You were one of the Apollo kids who spent more time in the infirmary than on the archery fields, but he was too good at his job to get injured. Hence why he didn’t know your name. He knew your face, he smiled at you and you would smile back. He was friendly with your brother, Lee. But that was about it.

That’s what made it so perfect.

You wouldn’t ask him about his quest. You wouldn’t try your hardest to get him to open up. You would do your job, and leave him to mope. That was all he wanted.

Until he learned your name.

And just from glancing at your smile — all awkward and nervous as you introduced yourself — he knew he wanted to be near you. He knew you were the type of person he could sit in silence with and walk away from it with a happy memory.

He thought he knew enough about you to determine who you were to him (a stranger). But he didn’t know your name, your voice, he didn’t know your touch or your smile — the real one you give when someone truly makes you laugh. Not the one he thought he knew.

He stood stiffly on the porch of the Big House — three weeks was all it took before Mr D was kicking him out, telling him to get a grip and face the music. Luke was ready; physically. His scar was nothing but that — a memory, faded into his skin forever. There was no other reason for him to keep himself hidden other than the fact that he wanted to. If it was up to him, nobody would ever bear the burden of seeing him ever again.

For weeks he told himself that his quest was pointless. He screamed it at the gods, at Chiron, at you. He cursed his dad every night for sending him on a path to failure and not even acknowledging it. He cursed himself for ruining the first chance he had at gaining his fathers pride in seventeen years — he sat in the dark, fists clenched, and asked himself what it was all for.

The five years on the run, the endless monster attacks, the relentless training, the offerings, the prayers. Would his life be any better had he just let that first monster kill him?

No. Because he wouldn’t have met Thalia, or Annabeth. He wouldn’t have seen the brighter side of being a halfblood — he wouldn’t have met his siblings, he wouldn’t have found his calling. He wouldn’t have experienced the joy of helping a new camper, of being the guiding hand he never got to hold.

But what of his quest? His mission for his father brought nothing but pain — a pointless trip, a humiliating failure, a deep jagged scar. For weeks he asked himself why he was given the quest in the first place, and for years to come he will question himself each and every day.

But each and every day he asks himself what the gods had ever given him, he would be reminded of the day he learnt your name. And he would tell himself had he not taken that trip, had he not fallen to Ladon, he never would have felt the searing touch of your fingertips on his skin.

So maybe it was worth it after all.

He stepped off the porch.

#the title is a play on words #cos it wasn’t just the physical wounds #get it?#i’ll shut up #luke castellan #percy jackson and the olympians #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #percy jackson

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freedomfireflies · 5 months

Text

Uppercut*

Summary: The fourth part to Knockout*

The one where Harry is fighting everyone. Even you.

Word Count: 9.1k (I mean at this point it's just tradition)

Content Warning: 18+, angst, smut, exhibitionism

The halls of the subway station are quiet. Empty. A light flickers overhead, casting odd shadows across the concrete floor that lead you toward him.

The hooded figure sits on a lone bench, face downcast toward the ground. His leg is bouncing anxiously, a nervous habit you’d recognize anywhere. His fingers are curled around the seat below, as if holding himself back. Keeping himself still.

And then, he looks up.

Those soft green eyes find yours, and suddenly, everything is okay. Your limbs no longer ache from the strenuous shift at the diner, your heart no longer feels weary. You feel energized and alive, and you’ve never been happier to see his face.

Harry smiles when he recognizes you, instantly leaping up as you approach, and pulling you into his arms.

He hugs you. Pulls you directly into his chest and keeps you there as you laugh and whisper your hello.

“Hi,” he whispers back, lips nestling into the crown of your head. He releases a deep sigh. “Missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too.” You cling to his sweatshirt and allow your eyes to flutter shut. Indulging in the scent of him. The warmth. Stability. “Are you all right?”

“Better now. Are you?”

“Mhm.” You nod but refuse to let him go. “Was a little surprised to get your note, though.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs before finally pulling away. Allowing himself a good look at your face that makes his dimple pop free. “Figured it was the safest way. Don’t wanna risk somebody seeing us out there. And I thought maybe this could be our thing.”

“Our thing?”

He chuckles to himself and brings his palm to your cheek. Cradling it gently while running his thumb back and forth along the soft skin. “Yeah. Meeting up in the dark subway in the early morning hours. Sneaking around, trying not to get caught. Forbidden love and all that.”

Love. There’s that word again, and it makes your head spin. Dizzy in the best and worst way possible.

“How romantic of you,” you tease instead, reaching up to squeeze his wrist. “All right. This can be our thing.”

“Good.” He dips down and kisses you now. Slow and hard, exactly the way you like it. Keeping you against his lips for far longer than he should, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. “Might steal you away every night.”

With a soft grin of your own, you kiss him back. “You better.”

After allowing you enough time to catch your breath, he leads you back over to his bench. Curling up beside you while simultaneously tucking you into his side. Hiding you away from the rest of the world, and the few stragglers that are entering and exiting the subway.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks, mouth ghosting across your temple as he speaks.

You nod, keeping yourself snug under his arm. “Mhm. Wasn’t as busy as it usually is.”

“Yeah? You make anything good?”

“Snickerdoodle cookies.”

He gasps, rather dramatically, and it makes you laugh. “Cherry, you know those are my favorite.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really, really.” He kisses your cheek almost absentmindedly before continuing. “Especially the way you make ‘em. Told you that, didn’t I?”

“Maybe. Don’t know if I was really listening, though.”

“No? You don’t listen when I talk, sweet girl?”

You smirk. “Sometimes I get a little distracted.”

“With what, baby?”

“Your…mouth,” you admit somewhat sheepishly. “Sometimes I just like to watch your lips move. And then I forget to listen to what’s coming out of them.”

He laughs now, and the sound is infectious. Bouncing around the concrete walls until you giggle. “Is that right?”

“It’s not my fault,” you pout playfully, reaching up to brush your thumb along the pretty, pink fibers at your disposal. They’re healing nicely from the last fight, and you feel relieved. “You have such a pretty face.”

He hums against your finger before pressing into it, leaving a soft kiss. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“So do you,” he whispers, dropping his voice into something soft and seductive. “See your face in mind every time I close my eyes.”

And it shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does, but you find yourself biting back a sigh as you scoot impossibly closer. “You’re silly.”

“Am I?” Another kiss to your thumb before he moves down your hand and toward your wrist. Leaving a trail of them in his wake. “What if m’being serious?”

Your breath catches and you watch his mouth move closer and closer. “Then you’re seriously silly.”

His lips twitch up. “If I am, it’s because that’s what you make me.” Another collection of gentle kisses along the inside of your arm. “Think about you every hour…of every goddamn day.”

You feel lost on him. Drowning in his aurora, and this hypnotic haze he’s lured you into. Unaffected by the people around you, or the way this might look.

All you really notice…is him.

“And believe me, sweet girl,” he continues in a huskier murmur, “the things I think about are anything but silly.”

Your pulse skips from somewhere beneath your chest while a whimper bleeds from your throat. You brace yourself against his stronger frame as his kisses reach the sleeve of your uniform, just beneath your shoulder.

He only stops once to meet your eye. “D’you wanna know what I think about, baby?”

Your first instinct is to nod, but you catch yourself just in time. Forcing yourself to finally say the one thing you’ve been meaning to all evening. “I wanna know what you’re gonna do about Jesse.”

He leans back, and the devious expression falls away.

“I don’t want him to hurt you, Harry,” you rush to explain, allowing him to drop your arm only so you can take hold of his. “I’m worried about you.”

“Please,” he snorts. “Jesse can’t fucking hurt me. Couldn’t hurt me even when he was in the fucking ring with me.”

Your eyebrow cocks up. “…what?”

A nonchalant shrug, almost like he doesn’t realize what he’s said. Or he doesn’t care. “Few years ago, back when he wasn’t such a little shit. He was one of the fighters."

And suddenly…it hits you. Slaps you across the face and leaves a permanent palm print. “How many years ago?”

He seems to realize around the same time you do, eyes softening as he rolls his shoulders back. “Three or four, I think.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. Feel your hands grow shaky and your heart begin to wrench. “He was…he was fighting. When he was with me.”

Not exactly a question. Rather a conclusive statement you both stumble onto as the picture becomes clearer.

There were a lot of things about Jesse you never learned. His anger always being his biggest question mark.

You saw the subtle scars that were occasionally smeared along his knuckles or painted across his back. But his excuse was always a vague, mumbled explanation of, “Oh, just this buddy of mine at the gym. We like to box sometimes. I’m fine.”

And that was that.

You figured what he did at the gym was his own business. And you had no reason to believe it was anything more than a few rounds with a friend. Had no reason to believe it was something bigger. That he was lying to you.

And perhaps, in some ways, he wasn’t lying. He was boxing, just not at the local gym. And certainly not for free.

“Cherry,” Harry calls to you now, reaching out to intertwine his fingers with yours. Tugging your hands onto his lap to recapture your attention. “Baby—”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, a bit airier than you mean to before clearing your throat. “I’m fine. I always knew he was doing something, I just…this makes sense.”

He’s unconvinced, frowning to himself before squeezing your palms. “You might not have known him very well, but I do. Okay, I know this side of him, and I know that he’s nothing more than a bunch of empty threats and a checkbook. And I’m not gonna let him hurt me. Or you. Never you.”

And even though your stomach is turning, you believe him. “I know. But what if…what if he tries to do something? To you, during your fights? What if…what if he sends somebody after you?”

To your surprise, he smirks. “Come on, do you really think I’m scared of some hitman? I know you haven’t seen very many of my fights, but believe me, baby, I can handle it.”

You, however, don't smile. “Harry, I’m serious.”

“I thought I was serious.”

“Harry.” You pout again and tug on his hands. “You didn’t see how angry he was—”

“I did,” he argues, the smug grin slipping away. “I know exactly how fucking mad he was, and all because I lost him a couple of fights. And I don’t give a shit because he’s nothing but a fucking rat.”

“Yeah. But he’s a rat that’s threatening to hurt you.”

The darkened expression returns, and his frown makes you want to cry. He’s far too beautiful to look so anguished. “I don’t care. I told you, he can’t hurt me—”

“But he can hurt me,” you interrupt, and his jaw snaps shut. “By hurting you, he hurts me. I mean, just the way he looked at you. The way he talked about you, it just…it…God, it made my fucking skin crawl, Harry.”

The crasser language that slips from your tongue seems to entertain him and disappoint him all in the same moment.

“Okay,” he mumbles in a lower volume, almost as though hoping to talk you down. “Okay, I know—”

“No, you don’t know,” you argue. “You…you don’t want him to hurt me, and yet he is. And he doesn’t have to, okay? You just have to win, and he doesn’t care. As long as you win.”

The frown seems to get deeper. “Cherry…it’s not just about winning. He’s put a fucking price on my head and expects me to pay it. And I told you, I’m tired of playing his fucking games.”

You squeeze his hands a bit harder, desperate to understand. “Is that why you threw the fights?” you ask gently. “To piss him off?”

Another shrug. Angrier. “Not exactly. I just figured he’d drop me if I wasn’t doing the one thing he wanted me to.”

Your eyes flick between his. “But it’s not that easy.”

“No,” he agrees. “Because he’s a fucking weasel that thinks he can use you to get what he wants from me. And I won’t let him.”

Your heart drops into your toes as the two of you grow quiet. Undeterred by the sounds of the subway entering and exiting the station, the screeching lines and opening doors. You’re immersed in your own little bubble here with him, unable to hear anything past the pounding in your ears.

“So what do we do?” you dare to ask.

He sighs again before bringing your entangled hands to his mouth. Kissing your fingers as he thinks. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly, and it looks like he wants to say more…but he stops.

So, you finish for him. “Let’s leave.”

“What?”

You nod quicky and glance toward the tracks. “Let’s leave. Let’s just get on the train and go somewhere. Start a new life. No more Jesse, no more fights, no more threats. We can just leave.”

A hint of a smile is all you’re afforded before he chuckles and kisses your hands once more. “And I thought I was the silly one.”

“No, I mean it,” you insist. “We could, we could leave, we could start over. We could be happy. Just you and me. And a bunch of pies.”

There’s a gentle beat before his brows begin to furrow. “Cherry,” he mumbles, and you feel your heart sink.

You knew it was a long shot. Knew there was really no logic behind the suggestion, only the need to take action. And for just a moment, you liked the picture you were painting. Of you and him in a sweet little house somewhere out in the country. Working your typical 9 to 5 jobs before coming home to make dinner together.

Perhaps it's a little old fashioned and a bit mundane, but it looks so beautiful compared to what you have now. And you imagine any life would be exciting with him at the center of it.

“I know,” you finally whisper, allowing your shoulders to slump. “But…I had to try.”

His amused grin returns before he tugs you closer in order to kiss you. And it’s quick and playful and everything you’ve ever needed. An almost perfect fix for this ache in your chest.

“And I love that,” he tells you, and the second use of the forbidden word leaves you breathless. Even more so than the kisses. “But m’gonna be okay, sweet girl. I won’t let him hurt us.”

And you want to believe him. Want to be sure that Jesse is nothing more than a footnote in this new chapter you’ve opened together.

But something doesn’t feel right.

Because there’s this look in his eye. The same look you saw that night in the ring. Animalistic and unrelenting. Like he could split somebody in half and never think twice about it.

“And how are you gonna do that?” you whisper, reaching out to tangle your fingers in the hoodie on his chest. “Huh? Are you just gonna beat him up until he changes his mind?”

“Maybe.” He’s smiling, but there’s something serious in the way he speaks, and your stomach wrenches. “What? He’s used to getting the shit beat out of him.”

“Harry—”

“Cherry.” He leans forward and presses his lips to your cheek. “Don’t have to worry, okay? I’ll be all right.”

You’re ready to argue with him, another excuse already locked and loaded, but before you can fire it, he brings his hand to your temple. Sweeping his thumb along your forehead with a much softer expression.

“You know, you get the cutest little wrinkle when you frown,” he tells you, brushing his finger down the space between your eyebrows. “Right…here.”

You bite the inside of your lip to keep from giggling. “Oh, do I?”

“Mhm.” He smooths his touch along your skin before moving to your jaw. Tracing the line almost reverently. “There’s a lot of things about you that are cute.”

“Is that right?”

He nods once before he’s dropping both hands to your hips in order to lead you over to his lap. Placing your knees on either side of his waist and holding you there while you squeal.

And he doesn’t seem to care about anything else but you. Not the people walking by or the chilly gust of wind that dances through the station. He gazes up at you and brushes a bit of hair behind your ear. Taking in the details of your face as if memorizing every inch of you.

“I think you’re beautiful, Cher,” he tells you, and not for the first time. “And I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders as you settle, finding stability in more ways than one. “Well, I think you’re being silly again.”

“Yeah?” He smirks as you dip down to brush your nose with his. “Then maybe I need to prove to you just how much I mean it.”

One of his large hands slides from your hip to your ass, squeezing you just over your uniform. And you laugh as you playfully swat at his chest, although you can’t deny there’s a part of you desperately searching for more.

Ever since the other night, you’ve felt rather insatiable. Distracted by the memory of him in your hand – of the weight and the feel. You see his body when you close your eyes, see the tattoos, and ridges, and lines. The curve of his spine and his hips and his thighs.

And you’re reminded again of exactly how thrilling it was when you feel him beneath you. A gentle, subtle graze of something hard as you’re rocked over his lap. And it makes your breath catch.

“Harry,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

His lashes flutter closed before he ghosts his lips along the edge of your cheek. “What, baby?”

Another pull to your hips makes you sigh, fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. “This isn’t fair.”

“Why?”

“Because…” You stumble over a whine before bracing yourself against his chest. “Because we can’t. Not here.”

“Not here?” he repeats, almost teasingly. “Why not here? Don’t want them to watch, sweet girl?”

You don’t have the strength to shake your head.

“Don’t want them to watch you grind yourself against my lap, like my desperate little bunny?” He grins and it’s so very devious. “Don’t want them to see just how needy you really get for me?”

And maybe…there’s a small part of you that does.

Common sense evades you now as you pant, “I do. I do, Harry, please.”

He’s amused by this. At your determination to take whatever he'll give. Soft, gentle hands slipping their way beneath the hem of your uniform, stroking and groping as though playing with you. Taunting you with the idea of more only to take it away with a kiss.

“Do you trust me?” he asks you now, eyes flicking to yours.

It’s the easiest answer you’ve given all night. “Yes. Yes, I do. Always.”

He smiles, filled with relief before he’s nodding his chin at you. “Okay, baby. Turn around for me, yeah?”

A bit confused, you rearrange yourself over his lap. Settling down with your back against his chest while his hands sneak around your waist to keep you still.

Those beautiful fingers land on your thighs, just above the hem of your dress. They toy with the fabric almost absentmindedly and you whimper beneath a strained breath as you wait.

“Shh,” he coos, resting his lips along the shell of your ear. “I’ve got you. Told you I’ll always take care of you, didn’t I?”

You nod as your head falls back onto his shoulder. Unable to hold itself up any longer while he does this to you.

Your attention lands on the train just a few hundred feet in front of you as it slowly begins to roll down the tracks before taking off. A gust of wind follows, sweeping across your cheek, and sending a chill down your spine.

Your small shiver makes him smirk. “Relax, Cherry. You’re all right.”

There are only three other people in the station, all scattered about on opposite ends, checking their phones, and reading their newspapers. None of them close enough to see what he’s really doing to you, and you imagine even if they could, they wouldn’t care.

Yet the idea that any one of them could look up and glance over is thrilling. Worsening the ache between your thighs as Harry’s thumb finally slips beneath the hem.

“Breathe,” he instructs gently, instructing you to take a deep breath which you shakily do. “If you want me to stop, you tell me, yes?”

You bite back a whine. “I don’t want you to stop. Promise.”

“But if you do,” he insists, slowing the stroking of his hand until you nearly wilt, “you tell me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you agree quickly. “Yes, I understand, I promise.”

Satisfied, he continues. Slipping his touch further up your legs while making sure the edge of your dress doesn’t move. Keeping you covered while he does this, offering you just an ounce of privacy. And you’re so grateful for him.

He crawls higher and higher until he finds the soft lace of your underwear. Tracing the band almost lazily, running up and down the curve of your thigh without ever giving in.

“Harry,” you sigh, reaching for his wrist to compel him. “Harry, please—”

“Shh,” he hushes again, nudging his nose against your cheek. “Said I’ve got you, and I do. M’gonna make it better, baby, I promise. Just wanna play with you first. Wanna feel you.”

You’re tempted to argue that he’s nowhere close to actually feeling you yet, but you realize then that he means more than that. He wants to take in every inch of your skin at his disposal. Wants to feel the softness of your hip, the goosebumps along your thighs. Wants to learn you, study you, memorize you. Simply exist with you in his arms.

You unwind in his embrace, allowing him to indulge in you exactly the way he wants. But the coil in your stomach grows tighter at the tender implication, making your desperation for him that much stronger.

Finally – finally – he moves closer. Brushing the tips of his fingers down the front of you, just over your covered clit and down.

He does it again. Over and over, albeit idly, while effectively worsening your need, making you whimper.

He only grins. “S’that bad, baby, huh?”

And you don’t need to answer for him to know that it is. He can feel it. Can feel exactly how anxious you are to be touched as he continues his soft strokes.

Then…he hooks his finger around the band and pulls.

The brisk morning air instantly finds the inside of your warm thighs, and you gasp. Squirming over his lap until he has to use one hand to hold you still. Shushing you once again while squeezing the top of your leg soothingly.

“I know,” he murmurs, allowing you no more than a few seconds to adjust before brushing his thumb down your pussy. “But I need you to stay quiet for me, okay? Can you do that, sweet girl?”

You nod, thankful that your outburst didn’t draw too much attention from the others in the station. But it seems that was only the start as Harry continues his playful flicks and pulls. Attempting to unravel you as quickly as possible, despite your muffled whimpers for mercy.

He starts with your clit. Circling it a few times with his large digits until he can really wind you up. Slow touches that turn fast, his lips trailing from your cheek and to your neck.

He kisses you as he does this. Nips at your skin, tugs it between his teeth, soothes it with his tongue. Marking you – claiming you. In more ways than one.

“Oh, Cherry,” he hums after a moment, and your insides wrench. “You’re all wet, baby. S’it that bad? S’it hurt that bad?”

You’d like to nod, but you don’t have the capacity. Only enough strength to squeeze his wrist and whisper, “Harry—”

“Mm. I know. Gonna let me have some?”

You finally convince your head to move up and down while he chuckles and brings his other hand into play. One, large digit slipping between your folds and down to where your arousal has collected while the others continue stroking your clit.

And it’s almost too much. This screaming in your head for more. To be filled and fixed by the only man who can help you.

And it’s not his cock, but his finger does feel beautiful. Pushing in to your tightness while your walls are quick to draw him in.

It’s ecstasy. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Happening right in the middle of this dimly lit subway station and the people who might see.

And yet…you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more alive and in control of your own experience. Even if it’s slightly dangerous and perhaps not something you previously would have considered. With Harry it feels…different. Destined. Because you know he means it when he says he’ll take care of you. After all, he always does.

When he reaches his knuckle, you keen, releasing a strangled groan that’s much too loud.

He takes the hand on your clit away in order to smack it against your mouth. Keeping you quiet until you finish.

“Baby,” he warns, but it’s sympathetic, “gotta try for me, okay? Gotta try to stay quiet.”

You nod again as you swallow the rest of your noises. But he keeps his palm against your lips, wet fingertips stroking your cheek. Painting you with your own arousal.

He begins to pump you slowly. Retracting almost all the way only to ease back in. It’s a steady pace he sets, but it’s addictive. Keeping you on the brink without ever actually offering you what you really need. Never scratching that itch.

“Harry,” you try, the sound of his name muffled by his hand.

But he understands, nevertheless, kissing just below your ear before finally lowering his arm. “What? What do you need?”

More, more, more. One, singular word that’s ringing between your ears, loud and insistent. “Please…”

He hums. “Please,” he repeats. “Please…what?”

“Need…need—”

“Need? What do you need? Need me?”

“Yes,” you nearly gasp. “Yes, Harry, please. Hurts…”

And it does hurt. You’ve never felt an emptiness like this. Never felt so hollow and depraved. But he’s the only one who can fix it, and your eyelids grow heavy as you push yourself further back into his chest.

The tip of a second finger begins to tease your opening before he’s pushing both in. And it’s almost too easy, the sound of your arousal being pulled in and out rather loud. And so very lewd. Too much eroticism for you to handle, and it feels as though your limbs have turned to jelly as you slump in his hold.

“Okay, baby,” he whispers, tugging your earlobe between his teeth. “Gonna come for me, yeah? Just give me one. Just need to feel you around my fingers one time.”

And it’s an easy instruction. You can already feel the seams of your sanity coming loose as he returns to your clit and pinches it between his fingers.

The combination of pleasure from both of his hands is almost cruel, and it makes your heart wrench. Because it’s so close, you can taste it. Can swallow it whole, and you’ve never felt so insatiable. The urge to just have him rather prevalent and undeniable. You imagine if you could, you’d wrap yourself around him and never let go.

And you don’t think he’d really mind.

Your hips buck up the moment he curls his touch, a soft sigh fighting its way between your parted lips.

And you’re so enamored by him. So endlessly addicted to the man doing this to you, and you can feel the way your orgasm barrels closer. The way he teases you with the thought of release, dangling it directly in front of you.

“There you go,” he breathes, and you can feel him against your back. The groan that sits in his chest as he works you closer. “So good, yeah? Love the way you squeeze me.”

As if at the mention, you feel yourself clench around his large digits. Pussy fluttering until he’s dropping his mouth to your shoulder in order to stifle his own sounds.

“S’fucking tight,” he mumbles before repeating the action again. “God, you’re so tight, sweet girl. I’d fucking ruin you, wouldn’t I?”

You nod fervently, the image of his cock painting itself behind your eyelids. The length, the girth, the way it looks between his thighs. He would, he’d ruin you. In the best possible way. And you’d thank him for it.

You can feel him beneath you, just below your ass. And he’s glorious. Cursing to himself whenever you squirm over his cock, taunting him about the same way he’s taunting you.

It’s clear he’s losing the battle for control. Whispers of, “Oh, my sweet girl. My fucking girl. Aren’t you? Never knew how good he had it, did he?”

He doesn’t need to say Jesse’s name for you to know exactly who he’s referring to, and your stomach lands in your throat.

You don’t want to imagine him when you’re with Harry. And you don’t think Harry does, either. But he grits the insinuation out through clenched teeth before settling into a faster rhythm.

“Could fucking kill him,” Harry seethes. “Could pull his heart out of his goddamn chest just for fucking looking at you.”

He presses hard into your clit until you’re forced to bite your tongue. Drinking down your whimpers and cries as one of the men across the station folds his paper and begins to stand.

You pray he doesn’t look over, pulse thumping wildly against your ribcage. And yet, at the same time, you want him to know. Want them all to know what your stranger is doing to you. To watch you fall apart by his hand until you’re nothing but a pile of pants and sighs.

“For touching you,” he continues in your ear, a disdained hiss that makes your eyes roll back. “For putting his fucking hands on what’s mine.”

You squeeze his wrist so hard, you’re sure you’ll leave a bruise. But it doesn’t seem to matter because he goes faster. Harder. Plunging his fingers in and out of your cunt at an unrelenting pace. Needing you to cum more than he’s ever needed anything else.

“Come on,” he urges, kissing down your neck with a faint grumble. “God, come on, Cherry. Come for me. Let me feel you, just one more time.”

You’re almost there. Can feel the beginnings of your orgasm brightening the edges of your vision. You need far more than he’s giving you and yet, at the same time, you’ve never felt so satisfied.

“Show me how good you are,” he murmurs. “Show me how good you’re gonna be for me, taking my cock. All laid out in my bed. Tears down your pretty, little face.”

And you can see it so clearly. Sweaty bodies writhing together, tangled in the sheets. The way he holds you to the mattress, using his weight to keep you good, keep you open. His hard thrusts, his strong thighs. His hands pinning yours just above your head, his hips slamming into yours.

You clamp down around his fingers once more and he’s mesmerized. Sliding all the way to the knuckle and holding them there to feel every flutter of your pussy around him.

“Shit, that’s it.” His arm flexes from beside you, and you wish he wasn’t wearing that goddamn hoodie so you could see every pull of his muscles. “Know you’re close. Gonna get you there, baby, I swear.”

And you know he will. He almost has, and maybe there’s a small part of you that doesn’t want this to end. Wants to keep feeling this indescribable rush as he sits with you until the sun comes up.

With all the frantic fumbling, the hem of your dress has slowly begun to ride up. Revealing the disappearance of his hands and the tops of your thighs until there’s no question about what’s really happening underneath.

And maybe you should readjust yourself, but you don’t. Can’t. You’re almost there and all clarity seems to fly right out the window as you decide that you don’t care. Onlookers be damned. If they see, they see.

This is what gets you there. This realization that people can watch him touch you. Even if nobody is looking right at this moment, they could. And it’s wrong, and it’s strange, and it’s so not like you.

Yet you’ve never felt more at ease.

The moment it takes hold of you, he zeroes in. Fucking his fingers into your cunt rather mercilessly while the other hand returns to your mouth. Already anticipating your noises.

You moan against his palm while he tugs you impossibly closer to his chest. Attempting to shield you from everybody else as you experience the come down.

“Shh,” he repeats for a third time, the soothing tone a stark contrast to the unrelenting movement of his fingers. “Don��t want them to hear you, sweet girl. Wanna keep you to myself. Cause your noises are mine, yeah, Cherry? They belong to me?”

Posed as a question, but you both know it’s not. You’ve never belonged to anybody the way you belong to him. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, you allow yourself to whimper against his hand through every second of it. Riding out his thrusts until your stomach nearly caves in. Until you have no further strength to hold yourself upright or keep yourself composed.

“There you go,” he coos. “Just like that. Want it all, baby. Every fucking drop.”

You give it to him. Give him everything you have, everything he asks for. And the soft grunts in your ear nearly bring you to the edge for a second time, but he’s pulling away just before you can find out.

Your exhale is strained when he finally lowers his arm, but he remedies this by wrapping it around your middle and straightening the hem of your uniform.

“How’s that, hm?” He tucks his chin just over your shoulder. “Feel better? Y’gave me a lot tonight, sweet girl. M’so proud of you. You were so good for me.”

You offer a lazy smile at his tender praise.

Soft strokes are circled around your thigh as you both sit in the new silence. Indulging in these few moments you have left.

And just the idea of having to leave him nearly crushes you.

He’s rather addicting, you realize. This man – this stranger – that comes to your diner and sits in your booth asking for pies. Even without knowing much about who he is, you’re so endlessly drawn to him. Hypnotized by his charm and his face and his past. The scars that litteried his hands and body.

And now, after everything else…he’s the only one you truly feel safe with. Comfortable. It doesn’t matter if he’s nothing but question marks, he’s…Harry. He’s your Harry. And you don’t ever want that to change.

You watch his fingers brush at your skin, and your heart feels so full. It’s never felt like this with anybody else. Not during the sex, not during the tender moments. You thought you felt that way with Jesse, but it pales in comparison to how you feel now.

However, the fleeting memory of Jesse sours your smile as you’re forced to remember the reality of this delicate moment.

Even when Harry was touching you, he was so angry. He is so angry. You know he’ll never be able to tame that demon that lives within his heart, but you aren’t sure there’s enough room for both.

You want to believe him when he says he’ll figure it out. But it’s becoming much too clear that he believes the only way to fix it…is to hurt Jesse.

And therefore get himself hurt in the process.

There’s so much more that you don’t understand. So much more that he clearly doesn’t want you to, and you’re devastated. You feel helpless. Because you want to protect him the same way he wants to protect you. You want to keep him from making these rash decisions just because he thinks they’ll protect you.

Because you don’t want to have to lose him or let him go. You want to take him away from all of this and make him happy. Find a way to keep him safe.

You want to find another way.

“Harry?” you venture timidly.

He hums.

“Why did you tell me not to tell Owen where I was going?”

There’s a brief beat before he sighs rather heavily and tightens his hold on you. “When I drove by the diner earlier, I saw Jesse.”

Your eyes widen.

“He was talking to Owen, and my guess is that he was looking for you.” Another pause. “Does Owen know where you live?”

You glance down at his fingers before tangling them with yours. Playing with them as though to prolong your answer. “…yes.”

He sucks in a sharp inhale. “Fuck.”

The heavy sound makes your chest ache, and you quickly sit up in order to glance back and see him. “Jesse would never do that.”

“You don’t know that,” he nearly scoffs. “He’s a fucking baby when he doesn’t get his way, and if he thinks you’re still seeing me—”

“Well, he won’t,” you retort. “He won’t know. We’ll meet down here, and we’ll figure out what to do. And it’ll be okay.”

His eyes flick between yours, and even in the soft light, that gentle green is breathtaking. “I think you have more faith in him than you should.”

Your stomach sinks.

“And I think you have the wrong faith in me, too,” he whispers, reaching out to cup your chin. “M’not sure I’m who you think I am.”

The implication makes you frown. “You’re exactly who I think you are. You’re kind, and you’re smart, and you’re strong. You take care of me, you protect me. I know you, Har.”

His expression falls ever-so-slightly. “Not as much as I should—”

“Harry—”

“You want to save him, and I want to fucking kill him,” he says. “You think he’s worth saving. You think I’m worth saving, and I’m not. We’re not—”

“Stop,” you nearly gasp, surging forward to take his cheeks between your palms. “You are always worth saving. Why do you think I’m trying so hard to keep you?”

He nuzzles his face into your palm before releasing a deep breath. “Because you’re good. You’re so good, Cherry. And I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.”

You tighten your hold. “Stop saying that. You deserve me and I deserve you. Okay, we’ll figure this out. We’re fine. Everything is gonna be fine.”

You know he wants to argue. Has about a hundred excuses and arguments ready for use, but he bites his tongue. Allowing you to have this victory as you dip down and kiss him.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he says, and you understand more than he’ll ever know.

“But I am safe,” you argue, reaching down to tug his hoodie pleadingly. “As long as I’m with you, I’m safe.”

His sigh is gentle as he squeezes your chin. “I know. Just wanna figure some things out first, yeah? Make sure I can take care of you.”

You say nothing as his thumb sweeps across your parted lips, but you’re gutted. Touched by the thought, yet empty without him.

This is how you leave each other. After Harry helps you to your feet and makes sure you’re steady. And it’s quiet as you say your goodbyes. As he holds you against his heart until he has to physically take himself away. Leaving you with a lingering kiss that you feel all the way down in your toes.

“Tomorrow?” he makes you promise before you can slip away.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach very far. “Tomorrow,” you agree. “Right here.”

“Right here. Find me.”

“Always.”

And with that…he drops your hand and walks away.

However, the image of him follows you all the way home. The way his features fell, the way his voice cracked. The anguish so prevalent in his insistence, and the unmistakable rage behind his eyes.

He’s unrelenting. He doesn’t see a way out that keeps him safe. He’d rather risk his life in order to protect yours. And you don’t want to understand it, but you do. Because a part of you wants to do the same for him.

Jesse made his instructions clear. And it should be easy. It should be so easy for Harry to do the one thing he knows he can. To win.

But he won’t. He won’t win as long as Jesse’s his sponsor. And if he won’t win…

You know he can. Saw it happen just the other night. The way he threw his opponent onto the mat and held him down until he could hardly breathe. He’d been losing – he’d been throwing the fight – until he saw you. And once he saw you…the fight was over.

This is what Jesse wanted, and you know it. He wants you to be the reason Harry changes his mind, but it’s clear now that you’re the reason he won’t.

He’ll never change his mind as long as he’s convinced he’s protecting you. As long as he’s sure that his pain is proper payment for your comfort.

And it ruins you. It ruins you this idea that you can’t help him. That he’ll allow himself to be beaten to the brink of death in order to keep you safe. To keep you untouched and unscathed.

Jesse’s threat is real. Frighteningly real, and there’s this ache in your stomach that can’t be mended with kisses and kind words. You can’t convince him, you can’t change his mind, and you can’t find another way.

There’s only one.

It taunts you as you go about your night. It wakes you the next morning. Follows you all the way to work.

Perhaps the only way to solve the problem is to take yourself out of the equation. To force Harry’s hand exactly the way Jesse wants. To show him that it’s okay to save himself. That he doesn’t have to put you first.

But in order to truly take yourself out…you have to take yourself from him. And the thought of removing yourself from his life nearly wrecks you. It’s violent and unthinkable, causing a hitch in your breath before you’ve even decided.

You can’t imagine a world without him in it. You don’t want to. You’re so irrevocably happy with him, and you imagine he feels the same for you.

But if you ever lost him…if your selfishness took him from you, you don’t know what you’d do. And it’s exactly the way he feels for you, but you realize then that you’d rather push him away than lose him forever.

You’d rather have his life than his love.

Your shift goes by far too fast, and when you finally clock out and head for the subway station, your insides are in knots.

You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to have to do this, but it’s the only exit you see. Right alongside the memories of each of Harry’s bruises and cuts. Reminding you of how much worse it could really get.

And when you step up to the subway and see his shadow just across the way…the decision finds you.

A grin splits his face as he strides toward you, instantly wrapping you in his arms and pulling you back into his chest. Exactly the way he left you the night before.

“Hi,” he murmurs, lips burying into your hair as though he hasn’t been able to breathe without you.

“Hi,” you whisper back, throat already growing dry. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t be, sweet girl.” He leans back in order to study you, fingers stroking across your cheek rather affectionately. “Owen didn’t give you trouble, did he?”

“No. No, it wasn’t him—”

“Jesse?” The sound of his name is sharp, and it makes your eyelashes flutter.

“No.” Your voice has gone quiet. Far too quiet, and his brows pinch together. “No, I just…I have something I have to do. And I’m not sure that I can.”

He steps closer. “Then let me help, yeah? We can do it together.”

You want to cry.

Your shift in demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed, and he quickly reaches for your hand in order to drag you toward the bench just behind him.

“Okay, all right,” he murmurs as he brings you to sit. “Talk to me, sweet girl. Let me help, what can I do?”

You stumble over a breath and glance down at your lap. If you look at him, you’ll never do it. “I…I…”

You can’t force the words out. Can’t find what you really want to say – can’t even believe you’re saying it at all.

But you have to. You have to protect him; you have to do what he won’t.

He dips down in order to recapture your attention. “Deep breath, baby, okay? Just talk to me. I just wanna help.”

It hurts the way he speaks to you. Hurts the way he’s still trying to help. The way he cradles your face in his hand in order to comfort you.

“I…” You swallow thickly and revel in the feel of his touch for the last time. “I think…I think we should take a break.”

His head tilts, but he appears unfazed. Perhaps he doesn’t understand or perhaps he didn’t really hear you. “What?”

And you almost hate him for making you repeat it. “I want to take a break. I don’t…I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Now he hears you, but he it’s obvious that he doesn’t understand. Leaning back as his features twist together. “Cherry…”

And suddenly, you feel unsure. Consumed by the idea that you're making a huge mistake. Maybe there's another way, maybe...maybe you just didn't look hard enough.

Because what if letting him go does more harm than good? What if he can't find another way without you? What if you can't live without him?

But then Jesse's threat rings in your ear. The taunt that he'd kill him himself if he didn't do things differently. If he didn't listen.

If you couldn't convince him

And the moment you imagine Harry lying on the ground– dead – you realize that this is truly the only way.

You raise your eyes to his, and it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. “I’m sorry.”

But it appears your apology falls on deaf ears. He merely frowns, regarding you almost suspiciously. “He got to you, didn’t he? He’s making you say this.”

“No…no, he just—”

“He what? S’this about what he said? S’this about what I said? Because I meant it. I’ll fucking kill him—”

“No, Harry, I just…I think you were right. I think we’re never gonna agree on how to handle this and…and maybe there’s a reason.”

He considers this before rejecting it with a soft scoff. “We don’t have to agree. I told you, I can handle him—”

“I don’t think you can,” you argue. “And I think it’s better if we just quit while we’re ahead.”

It’s bullshit. All of it. A bunch of empty lies that chip away at your happiness.

The frown deepens. “Cherry…I don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t understand, and…and I don’t think you ever will.” You force the tears back. “We’re not the same people, Harry. It was never going to work.”

This is what crushes him. This confirmation of your differences and of the very thing he feared. That you’d reject him for being who he is.

You nearly take it all back when you see his expression soften.

“Cherry,” he tries again, “if…if I did something, I—”

“You did a lot of things,” you tell him. Deciding that the only way you’ll get through this is if you fight him at every turn. “But I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”

His shoulders visibly droop. “I know, I…I’m just trying to make it better.”

You didn’t think it could get worse. And you want to comfort him. Want to help him understand, make him see. Have this unshakable need fix the desolate expression on his face. Kiss it away, make it better.

But you don't.

“I know,” you echo instead, offering a just hint of kindness as you place your hand on his knee. “But this is how we make it better. By letting go. And saying goodbye.”

He glances down at his leg as though your touch stings, and you retract your arm almost instantly. “You want me to say goodbye?”

No. Never. “Yes. I think it’s for the best.”

He nods once and his eyes become unfocused. As though he’s lost. Completely checked out of his own body, and it sends the knife directly into your heart.

Then, he lifts his head, and regains a moment of clarity. “I love you.”

The knife twists and the first sob breaks free. “Harry—”

“I love you, Cherry. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to take a fucking break, I…” He stops, and you can see the torment painted so perfectly across his face. “I love you. I can’t do this without you.”

And you know he won’t. You know he’ll do everything he can to bring you back. To change your mind, remind you where you belong. He’ll never let you go.

So, you do the one thing you don’t want to.

“I don’t love you,” you whisper. “I love…him.”

You’ve never seen him look so miserable.

It’s like you’ve slapped him. He leans back so fast, you’re dizzy. Putting a violent distance between your bodies until you nearly lose your breath.

He takes in a quiet inhale that’s more like a gasp, and you want to change your mind. You want to throw yourself into his arms and apologize and tell him you love him and go back to how things were only 24-hours ago. You want to pretend you never saw that look on his face.

But you can’t. You have. You said it and for all he knows, you mean it.

“You love him,” he repeats, and it’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever heard. “You…no. No, you don’t love him, you…how can you love him? How…how?”

“I…I talked to him,” you lie, reaching up to swipe your knuckles across your cheek. “He’s…he’s my Jesse. He’s…I’ve always loved him. I just…I didn’t realize.”

He scoffs again, but it’s riddled with disdain and desperation. “Your Jesse.”

“Yes, my Jesse.” You don’t think your heart has ever broken this bad. “I’ve always loved him. I always will. And he…he explained, and I believe him. I’m choosing to believe him—”

“Oh, fuck that,” he nearly growls, springing onto his feet until he’s towering over you. “No, he…him? After everything he did to you, you fucking…you love him? You want to be with him?”

“Harry—”

“No. How can you…” He steels himself, and another tear falls from your eye. “You can’t love him. You can’t, I know you. Okay, I saw how you looked at him and I saw how you looked at me, and it’s not the same. You don’t love him, you’re just…you’re scared.”

He’s right, you are.

“I’m not scared, Harry, I just…I know what’s best for me,” you murmur. “And he’s what’s best.”

It tastes vile in your mouth. All of it, every lie, every false feeling, and you feel sick.

He steps back, and a part of you almost hopes he simply walks away so you won’t have to keep doing this to him. To yourself.

But maybe this is your punishment. To watch the way you ruin him as you do it.

“You can do better than him and you know it,” he nearly sneers, but it’s sad the way he speaks. “And it doesn’t have to be me, but…fuck, you have to do better than him. You deserve so much better than him, Cherry, and I don’t…I can’t believe you don’t see that.”

Your fingers twitch on your lap, anxious to reach for him. “I’m sorry.”

He only shakes his head and looks away. “Don’t be. S’my fucking fault for thinking I could do better."

“Harry—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, but you know, undoubtedly, that he doesn’t mean it. “If you love him, then you fucking love him. I’m never gonna be able to change that.”

You feel as though you’re being ripped apart from the inside out. You’ve never experienced a pain like this before, and you imagine it’s still only a fraction of the pain he puts himself through in that ring.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whisper, and it’s enough to draw his attention back. “I never want to hurt you, Harry. I really do care about you, I just…”

He looks gutted. “You just care about him more.”

You wonder if he really believes you. You wonder if that small pull of his brows is because he’s hurt or because he knows what you’re really doing.

Either way, he steps back, and takes himself from you. Putting the first few feet of the eventual thousand between you. “It’s fine,” he murmurs once more. “I just want you to be happy, Cher. And if you’re happy with him, then…”

He can’t finish the thought. Can’t force the words between his gritted teeth, and you understand.

“Thank you,” you exhale, and your pulse begins to race. Because you know what comes next, and you aren’t quite sure you’re prepared. “And…I hope you figure everything out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, but there’s something dark in the way he speaks. Something you’re almost afraid to recognize. “I will.”

It’s ominous, but you suppose that’s all you deserve. “Right.”

He moves back even further, and you nearly collapse.

“Harry?”

He pauses, hands disappearing into his pockets as though to shield himself from you.

“Thank you,” you call quietly. “For…for everything.”

His lashes flutter, and even despite the affliction written between the lines of his face, you realize he’s never looked so beautiful. “Don’t have to thank me, sweet girl. I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy.”

And all you can do is look down at your lap in order to shield him from the influx of tears that break free.

A moment passes of your soft hiccups and trembling hands before you hear his shoes shuffle across the concrete. He’s walking away. He’s leaving you behind. He’s saying goodbye. For good. You’ll never see him again, and he’ll never sit in that booth again, and he’ll never be your stranger ever again—

Two hands find your face. Lifting your head until you’re forced to look up and see him.

He’s here.

And he’s tugging you up onto your feet until he can hold you against his chest and really look at you. Thumbs sweeping just beneath your eyes to catch each falling tear.

Then…he kisses you.

You’ve kissed him before. Many times, in fact, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been this…heavy. Never carried the kind of meaning it does right now as he keeps you against his lips for as long as you’ll allow.

Because this is the last kiss.

You don’t want to let go. Don’t want to let him let you go. But he does all too soon and you’ve never felt so alone.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I’m so sorry I couldn’t be who you need.”

And you want to scream. Want to tell him that he is. That he’s all you’ve ever wanted.

But he’s already removing his hands from your face before you can.

And you’re forced to watch as the man that you love turns around…and walks away.

For the last time.

Next Part:

~ Outlawed*

Previous Part:

~ Reckless*

~ Full Knockout Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

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skbeaumont · 4 days

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Five for Five | Joel x Reader Oneshot

“I ain’t stupid.” His tone is heavy now, words grating out of his throat like rusty razor blades. “Last I checked, we had one hundred and two. There’s ninety-seven here. That’s five missing.”

Summary: It was probably a stupid idea to trade five ration cards for a tiny bottle of perfume, and it's not surprising that Joel is angry, but you think it might just be worth it. Tags/warnings: fem reader, smut, dubcon, spanking, punishment, dom!Joel, sub!reader, first time, oral (m receiving), fingering, pet names, unprotected p in v, aftercare. Word Count: 4k

A/N: Forgive me father for I have sinned. This is pure filth. Please mind the tags/warnings.

“Where are the rest?”

Joel’s voice cuts through you as soon as you step inside the apartment. It’s late, already dark out, and the dangerous edge to his words makes you jump as you step inside, shoulders aching, feet numb from the long walk back home through the QZ.

“Jesus fuck, Joel. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds up his hand and shakes the stack of ration cards that are clutched in his fist. The only light is coming from the wonky reading lamp in the corner and it casts an amber glow over the apartment and Joel’s stern face.

“I said,” his voice is steady, clear, but you can already hear the frustration that’s buried underneath it, the anger that’s so quick to rise in him threatening to bubble over, “where are the rest?”

“They should all be there,” you reply, letting your eyes fall down to your boots, toeing them off so that you don’t have to look at his face.

“Well, they ain’t.” He takes a step toward you, his own boots heavy on the worn linoleum floor. “And I wanna know where they are.”

“Did you check under the floor?”

Of course he’s checked under the floor, and of course they aren’t there, because last night you took a handful – five, max – and traded them for a tiny bottle of perfume that’s now stuffed under your mattress. Joel rarely checks the ration cards – he lets you deal with that side of the dodgy business you’ve been running together for the last year and a half – so you’d thought you could get away with it. That he wouldn’t notice. But this is Joel, and he’s noticed.

With this last he slams the pile down on the kitchen side next to you, stepping right up into your space so that you feel his breath – hot and tinged with the scent of cheap bourbon – on the side of your face. You’ve seen him angry so many times, but it’s never been directed at you before, and you’re starting to understand why most people avoid his gaze in corridors, why men cross the street when they see him coming.

“Did you miscount?” You ask, fighting to keep your voice level, light.

“Did I miscount?” He repeats, slow, each word enunciated like it’s a full sentence on its own, and you realise it was probably the worst thing you could have said.

His fingers are hot on your chin when he grabs it, tilting your reluctant face up, dragging your eyeline to meet his. His face is a sight to behold: eyebrows furrowed, deep groves carved out in the lines that surround them, his jaw tense, a muscle twitching as he grinds his teeth. There’s danger in his eyes; a fire behind them that burns as he stares down at you.

“No, I didn’t miscount.” He spits the last word out, eyes tracing the blush that’s crawling up your throat, the way your eyes dart away from his, the flicker of your pulse – fast, rising – in your throat. The trace of the misdirection, the lie, so obvious.

He can read you like a book, always could. But you’re stubborn. You’re not giving anything away if you don’t have to. Those cards are yours as much as they’re his, and this one thing you’ve allowed yourself in eighteen months is worth the way his fingertips are digging into the sides of your face.

“What did you trade ‘em for?” He asks.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs at this, lets your face go and takes a single step back, swings his arm to his side and lets it carry him into a half turn. You slump back against the door, peeling paint sticking uncomfortably to your back. But it’s a short-lived reprieve.

“Fuck me?” He repeats, turning back to you. “After all I’ve done for you, all the shit I’ve taken for you-”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Your voice is shrill compared to his gruff curses, but you continue, adrenaline spiking, “And you’ve been the cause of at least half of that shit, Joel. Don’t make out like you’re some knight in shining armour when we both know the truth!”

The truth: that he’s brutal, feared by almost everyone in the QZ; that people only trade with the two of you because of your hard work and negotiation skills. Joel’s good for enforcing things, for smuggling things in and out, and for sending a message when anything goes wrong, but he’s also a broken man whose anger has got him into more than a few scrapes that you’ve had to get him out of with nothing more than your sharp tongue and quick thinking.

He lets you rally this outburst at him, doesn’t blink in the face of it, until you’ve finished. Then he’s striding back to you, slamming the hand holding the cards hard against the door behind you. It makes you flinch away but his other hand’s back on your jaw, grip tighter this time, forcing you to look up at him.

“Where are the rest?” He repeats, brandishing the ration cards so that they’re inches from your face.

“They’re mine as much as they’re yours.” You say, quietly defiant despite the way your voice shakes.

“You trade them?”

“What does it matter?”

“Nuh-uh,” He twists his hand, turns your face away so that you’re forced to look to the side instead of into his face and he can say the next words into your ear. “This ain’t how this works. I ask the questions, you answer ‘em. Did. You. Trade. Them?”

His face is so close to yours now that you can feel spit landing on your cheek as he speaks, his breath hot in your ear. It shouldn’t turn you on, but it does. You can feel yourself getting wet, slick pooling unbidden between your thighs. It’s hard to ignore a man like Joel, but it’s even harder to get close to him. You don’t think he’s ever been so near to you before, not even when you’ve tended each other’s wounds after a run went south.

You’ve always wanted him to; held a secret flame that’s grown brighter and hotter over the last few months. There’s something undeniably attractive about Joel. The way he moves, the quiet confidence he exudes and the brutal, coiled power of him. You’ve watched him set his fist into another man’s jaw and wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his temper, his passion.

Now, with his face so close to yours, his thick fingers digging into your jaw, you feel yourself sinking into it, relaxing despite the tension of the situation. You want this, you want his anger and razor-sharp focus. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and you feel tears burning at your lower lashline.

“Yes. I traded them.”

A tear slides down you face and Joel’s eyes trace its path as it glides over your check, pooling in the corner of your mouth, salty and unrepentant.

“What for?”

“Perfume.”

He laughs again, but this laugh is full of derision, not mirth. It’s a punch of a laugh, straight from his chest, catching in his throat and distorting into a growl that sends a shiver up your spine and a bolt of lightning through your cunt.

“Perfume.” He repeats, turning your face in his hand so that you’re looking at him again.

His pupils are blown wide, his face a mask of fury and something else that has you pressing your thighs together, seeking friction. He notices you doing it, lets his eyes follow the movement of your hips, the desperate, needy breaths you’re sucking in. He grins, teeth bared.

“And what, exactly, do you need perfume for?” He asks, not giving you time to answer before he’s bending down and pressing his nose into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply, stubble scratching your throat. “Smell sweet enough to me already.”

“Joel, please,” you say, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, because he’s licking a thick stripe up the side of your throat and you think if he stops you might scream.

“Buy it for those boys I see sniffing around you sometimes? Huh?” He asks, drawing back from you and shaking your face in his hand roughly. “Knew you were nothing but a fucking slut.”

“I just- I wanted something nice.” You try to explain, the words catching in your throat as he slides one thick thigh between yours.

“Something nice? What makes you think you deserve something nice, hmm? Ain’t nothing nice in this place, you should know that as well as I do.”

And you do, God knows you do. The QZ is dark and twisted and fucking soul-crushing, but you’d wanted the perfume, wanted it with a deep yearning that matches the way you want Joel to keep going now, to push you and punish you and take what he wants.

“I think you need to learn a lesson, baby.”

You’re nodding into his hand, tears rolling down your face, splashing onto his thick fingers. He lets go of your jaw, takes you by the wrist and pulls you into the room, toward the sofa, over his knee when he sits. Your stomach is pressed into his thighs, face buried in the dirty sofa cushion and he’s got one hand pressing into your spine, the other searching out the button of your jeans. He undoes it, wastes no time in dragging the worn denim down your shaking thighs.

“You’re gonna lie there and take it, you hear me?” He says, splaying a hand over your bare ass cheek, moving the line of your knickers out of the way so that he can squeeze the meat of you, fingers dipping between your thighs, finding the slick liquid that’s leaking from you.

“Jesus Christ, you’re soaked already. Fuckin’ filthy little thing, aren’t you?” His accent is somehow thickening, vowels lengthening, the twang of his consonants increasing.

“I asked you a question.” He says when you don’t immediately reply, and you nod your head, wipe your wet eyes against the sofa.

“Count for me.” He says, and before you can take a breath to prepare, his hand is coming down sharply on you.

The sting is sharp; delicious.

“Count.” He hisses, and you whisper a faint one, breaking off into a moan when he lets his fingers graze the side of your puffy lips.

You wish you could see his expression, see if this is affecting him as much as its affecting you, if he’s watching with something like ecstasy on his handsome, haunting features.

The second smack is harder than the first, sharper and sweeter for it. It makes you jerk against him but he’s holding you down firmly with one solid hand in the middle of your back, pressing you into his thighs, into his lap. The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare stomach, scratching you skin where your shirt’s risen up. The third slap makes you yelp, harder again, but he soothes it immediately with his palm, rubs the flesh of your ass.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Enjoying being bent over my lap and spanked like the dirty whore y’are, huh?”

You can’t believe the filth that’s dripping from his lips. Sure, he curses plenty, and you’ve heard him cuss out entire rooms full of angry men, but this is something else entirely. This is animalistic and derogatory and indecent. And God help you, its sending rushes of hot liquid practically gushing down your thighs.

“Be so easy to slide myself inside you, you’re so goddamn wet.” He says as he sends another harsh slap onto your ass. “Open you up and press myself inside this soaking cunt, hmm? Bet you’d let me, too, let me do fucking anything to you.”

“Yes, Joel, please, anything.”

His third laugh of the afternoon is throaty and coarse, full of self-indulgence. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, makes you clench your thighs together and grind your teeth to stop you from crying out again.

“You gonna come like this, baby?” He asks, sliding his hand over the meat of your ass, down between your thighs to press at your entrance, slipping beneath your ruined underwear. “Come on my lap like the dirty fucking slut I know you are?”

The sweet sting as he pushes two thick fingers inside you almost pushes you over the edge there and then, but you bite into your lip – probably drawing blood, but you’re too distracted to notice. He curls his fingers, drags the pads of them over the soft flesh inside you, seeking out that spot that makes you almost black out, pleasure ratcheting up so suddenly that you gasp, coming hard in his lap, muscles shaking and contracting, cunt squeezing his fingers tight.

“There she is,” He hisses, curling them again, chasing you as you shift against him, overstimulated.

How is he so good at this? You’ve never seen him with anyone – he’s always given the impression that he has no interest in sex, in relationships, friendships, even. But the expert way that he’s playing your body like an instrument, chasing your moans and gasps like they’re the air he needs to stay alive, tells a completely different story. And when you jerk in his grip and he presses you harder against him, shifting on the sofa, there’s suddenly a very clear indication of just how much of an affect this is having on him, too.

“Shit,” His voice is ragged now: This outburst isn’t controlled in the way that the rest of the curses he’s been spewing into your ears have been. It’s unexpected and bitten back behind a grunt as your hip comes into contact with his cock – a solid, hot weight that fills the front of his jeans, pressing the button of his flies into you, his pocket a line of stitches on your stomach.

The next smack is all the harder for the tiny huff of a giggle you let out, which turns quickly into a hiss of pain when his palm comes down hard against you.

“Concentrate,” He warns when you don’t immediately count the spank aloud. “’m teaching you a fuckin’ lesson, here, remember?”

“Four.” You say, pressing your face harder into the cushion, rolling your hips just slightly so that his cock twitches against your stomach.

“Five for five.” He says, soothing your heated flesh with the palm of his hand before bringing it down one final time. “Five. Think you’ve learnt your lesson?”

You twist round in his lap, eyes dancing when you see the flush that’s tinted his cheeks, the way his gaze is lingering on the swell of your ass cheek in his hand, perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

“I don’t know, Joel, do you?” You say, voice teasing, and he snaps his eyes up to your face as he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Fuckin’ mouth on you, you insolent little slut,” he curses, fisting the collar of your shirt and pulling you upright, opening his legs so that you slide between them onto the cold lino floor.

“Think we can find a better use for it, hmm?” He leans back against the couch, pops the first button on his jeans. Your eyes follow the movement hungrily, unable to look away as he slide the zip down painfully slowly, tooth by tooth, the clicks loud in the silent apartment.

He doesn’t take the jeans off, just pushes them far enough down his thighs that he can fist his cock where it sits, heavy and thick, in his underwear. There’s a dark stain at the tip that makes your mouth water, and when he drags his briefs down, too, you lick your lips greedily.

He’s painfully hard – head flushed a deep red, veins standing out boldly against his thick shaft. There’s a thatch of dark hair at the base, and his balls are heavy and full when he tucks the waistband of his briefs underneath them.

He strokes himself lazily a few times and you let yourself look up to his face. His eyes are dark, pupils eating into the deep brown irises, brows furrowed slightly. The amber light of the lamp is casting his face partly in shadow and it only accentuates the strong, curved line of his nose, the deep creases that lines his eyes and forehead. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists, his gaze so sharp and focused it makes you dizzy.

“C’mon then,” he says, running a hot hand up your jaw to grip the back of your neck, pulling you in towards him. “I got no doubt you know exactly what you’re doing here.”

The scent of him is musky and something distinctly masculine, and you bury your nose in the thick hair at the base of him, place a heated kiss to the side of one thigh. This alone make him moan, a deep, throaty sound that lights you up from the inside.

You press your lips to the tip of him, flick your tongue out to kitten lick at the slit.

“Fuck,” he curses.

He’s sensitive. When you wrap a hand around the base of his cock and place your lips around him he hisses, fingers tightening their grip in your hair, free hand fisting the loose cover of the worn couch. You take him further in, suck your cheeks in to caress him, work your tongue over the delicate ridge at the head of his cock. He tastes like salt and sweat and something distinctly Joel, masculine and heady. When he hits the back of your throat you try not to gag, try to swallow him down, throat contracting around him so that he groans and curses.

“Jesus Christ, baby. Your mouth is fuckin’ filthy.”

You grin around his cock, work your hand over the part of him that won’t fit, then pull back and lick one long strip up his shaft, letting your tongue follow one of the thick veins. He presses himself back into your mouth, tightens his grip on the back of your neck and raises his hips off the sofa.

“You want me to fuck that pretty little mouth, baby?” He asks, and you nod, feel hot tears prickling in your eyes when he starts moving, dragging his hips back and then forward, forcing his cock into your mouth, down your throat so that you feel like you’re choking, like all that exists is Joel and his hard cock, his breathy moans and filthy mouth.

“Got such a clever fuckin’ mouth, baby. Just needed to find a way to put it to good use- shit, yeah, that’s it.” He pushes you down once more, groans as he bottoms out on your throat, then releases the back of your neck so that you can pull back.

You’re a mess, tears rolling down your face, saliva pooling in your mouth and joining your lips with Joel’s cock in long strings. Joel’s looking down at you with fire in his eyes, his dark gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes to the open buttons of your shirt and the swell of your ass.

“Get up,” He says, wrapping his hand around your upper arm and pulling you to your feet.

Before you’ve time to get your balance he’s bending you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees on the sofa. He lines himself up behind you, drags the blunt head of his cock through your soaking folds and presses himself inside your cunt.

The stretch is intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, press yourself back against him as he inches inside. He pauses for a split second when he’s sheathed himself fully inside, then pulls out and begins a punishing pace, fucking you into the sofa, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave marks in the shape of his fingertips.

“Pussy’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, darlin’” He says, and something in your chest swells at the sound of ‘darlin’’ rolling off his tongue like that, full of something that’s dangerously close to fondness.

He’s a cacophony of contradictions, greedy hands gripping your hips possessively, then smoothing up your back under your shirt before sliding back down to slap the soft flesh of your ass. His thrusts are hard and intense, cock hitting that spot inside you that makes electricity jolt in your stomach with each movement, but then he bends over you, slows his hips so that he can kiss the skin of your throat. His voice – deep, husky, reverberating in his chest – keeps up a filthy chorus that has you whimpering into the couch, but he’s praising you, offering you gentle encouragement, his words warm and dirty and entirely overwhelming.

Being so good for me, baby, pussy’s so fuckin’ wet and tight around me. Can feel you getting close, you gonna come like this, huh? With my cock buried deep inside this pretty little cunt?

Without waiting for an answer he wraps an arm around you and finds your clit with two of his thick fingers. He starts rubbing confident circles over it, bringing you closer and closer to your inevitable climax. You grip his arm with your fist; fingernails digging into hard muscle.

Then suddenly you’re coming apart, white noise blocking out the sound of his hips slapping into yours and his voice and the low level hubbub of the other apartments, until there’s nothing left but your pleasure and his cock and his clever fingers, his nose pressed into your throat, teeth nipping the tendons there.

The world fades back into existence as you come down, muscles jolting. You feel yourself clenching around him with the aftershocks. Joel gasps into your neck, squeezes your tits over your shirt.

“Fuck, just like that, gonna come in this sweet cunt. Shit, that’s it.” His thrusts falter, hips slamming into yours.

You feel him twitch inside you as he comes, ropes of hot cum painting the inside of you, his stuttering breath at your ear.

You stay as you are for a moment, both gasping for breath, hearts hammering in your chests. His embrace is suddenly tender, muscles shifting as he relaxes against you. You don’t say anything, but he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, and that simple gesture opens a floodgate in your chest.

He pulls out of you but keeps his arm around you, guides you both down to lie on the couch, your back pressed to his front. The light in the apartment feels different than it did earlier, the orange hue warmer, kinder than it was.

Joel peppers kisses along the back of your neck and over each shoulder, his strong arm keeping you firmly against him. He wraps a thick thigh over both of yours and tightens it, anchoring you in place. You sigh in contentment, head quieter than it’s been for months, years, possibly.

“I didn’t hurt you?” He says into your hair, voice low.

“No, Joel.”

“You sure? I’m sorry if I was too rough. I don’t- I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I liked it, Joel.”

He chuckles darkly, hooks his chin over your shoulder and teases the skin under your ear with his teeth.

“Fuckin’ filthy, aren’t you? Always knew you were.” He presses his nose to your neck, inhales deeply. “Perfume’s nice, by the way.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fic #joel x you #joel x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction

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samandcolbyownme · 6 months

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Tangled Around You | Colby Brock

Summary: this was originally a Sam request but in my sleep deprived state last night, I for some reason, had Colby on the mind, but here is Sam’s version of this.

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, flirting/teasing, fingering, choking, scratching, hair pulling, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praising, fluffy then filthy

Word count: 1.6k

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Colby tightens his arms around you, resting his head on your shoulder as he watches one of your favorite movies with you.

Tangled.

"Seven am the usual morning, lineup." You snap your head towards him singing. He smiles, laughing as you continue, "Start on the chores and sweep 'til the floor's all clean.."

He brushes his thumb against your leg, absolutely in awe about how comfortable you are around him. He absolutely adores the way you feel safe with him.

In more ways than one, really.

"And so I'll read a book, or maybe two or three." You sing with a smile, and soon enough he joins in.

He's only seen this movie a million times with you.

"I'll add a few new paintings to my gallery, I'll play guitar and knit, and cook and basically, just wonder when will my life begin?" You sing as you tilt your heads opposite of each other while laughing.

He brushes hair from your face and shakes his head with a smile, "I fucking love you."

You lean in and kiss him, laying a hand on his cheek as you hold your lips on his for a few seconds, "I fucking love you." Your eyes move from his lips to his eyes before leaning in, starting a slow and mild make out.

"Thought you said we were just watching a movie tonight, babe?" He mumbles against your lips and you smirk, "We are." You slowly pull away, smiling at him as you turn your head back towards the tv.

You tilt your head, resting it against his as you hum along to the song. Colby slides his hand up your bare legs, gently grazing his nails up and down your thigh.

You know what he's doing, and it's working.

"Colby." You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and take a deep breath as his hand moves up higher, "Hmm?" He hums, playing innocent.

You fight back a smirk, your eyes staying on the tv but you're not actually watching it. You're thinking of other things that specifically involve Colby.

"We can make it quick, hmm?" He slowly presses his lips up your neck, "Or not. Your choice."

You take a deep breath as you tilt your head, giving him more area for his lips to cover, "What do you want?" You ask him quietly as your eyes stay fixed on the tv.

"I'm asking you babe." He slides his hand up, gently gripping your chin to turn your head towards him. Your eyes meet his, "Like I said, your choice."

You spin around to straddle him. Your eyes are on his face, watching as his eyes close when you run your hand through his hair, "You can do whatever you want to me."

His eyes open and his lip pulls between his teeth. You run your thumb just under his bottom lip and it springs free from grasp of his teeth, "Anything?"

You nod, "Anything."

He keeps his eyes locked on your face as he slips his fingers between your skin and panties, "First, I want to make you cum."

You nod as your breathing quickens, "Please."

He smirks and gently toys with your clit, slowly building you up. Your eyes flutter closed as he applies more pressure, "Eyes on me, princess.",

You force your eyes open, struggling to keep them open when he ever so slowly slides two fingers in, his rings pushing against your skin, "Colby.." you whimper out quietly.

Your face scrunches with pleasure as he slowly thrusts his fingers in and out, "That feel good?" He slides his hand over your hair, "Looks like it does."

You moan out, nodding as you grip his sweatshirt, "Give me a minute and I'll take it off. I'm focused on you right now."

You moan at his words, "Fuck, yes." You gasp as he curls his fingers, brushing against that perfect little spot inside of you, "Kiss me."

You lean in, pressing your lips to his. He lays a hand on your lower back, pressing his fingers into you through his t shirt that draped over your upper half.

He swallows your moans with ease, "I love those sounds you make." He whispers, his lips bumping into yours as he talks, "They're so pretty."

He lays you back onto the couch, fingers still inside of you, "they're even better when I'm the one who gets you to make them."

His lips attack your neck, sucking hickies into your skin. You moan out and tangle your fingers into his hair, "So close."

"Be a good girl and cum for me."

His words make you clench around his fingers, "Colby." You whimper out as you move your hips slowly, "Sh-shit."

"You're so close, babe. Come on." Colby look down at your hips moving to meet his hands, "Fucking hell. You're so hot." He groans lowly, "I can't wait to be inside of you."

His words spill you over the edge. You arch your back off the couch, moaning out as he continues to slowly finger fuck you through your high, "That's it baby, did so good."

He kisses up your neck, and along your jaw before kissing back to your ear, "Take these off for me."

You nod, breathing heavy as you shimmy your soaked panties down your legs. You watch as he pulls his hoodie up over his head in one swoop.

"I'll never get enough of you." You think out loud and he smiles, "Yeah, I feel the same about you." He pushes his sweats down, stepping out of them before sitting down, "Come here."

You move back to straddle him and his hands slide up your arms, cupping your cheeks as he pulls you in for a kiss, "Can I have this?" He asks pulling your shirt up over your head without giving you a chance to say anything, "Thanks."

You smirk and he winks before reaching down to rub the head of his cock up and down your pussy, groaning out along with your moans as he slips inside.

You sink down onto him, letting out a loud gasp as you fall into him, "Fuck, fuck you feel so good."

He wraps his arms around you, pressing his hands to the upper part and small of your back, "I want to cum already." He chuckles slightly but gasps when you clench around him.

"Move baby." He slides his hands down to your ass, guiding you up and down his cock. You keep a hand on his chest as you grip the back of the couch by his head with the other.

He rests his head back, eyes on you, "That's it baby, fuck yes." He groans as you move on his cock, clenching and moaning because you feel another orgasm approaching.

"Go ahead baby, as many times as you want." He bites his lip as his hands move to squeeze your hips, "Just like that, fuck that feels so good." He sighs, "Fucking hell."

He slides a hand up around your neck, gently squeezing and watching as your eyes roll back.

He squeezes your neck, causing a semi muffled moan to escape.

"Not much longer baby, you got it." Colby whispers as he watches you wrap a hand around his wrist. You squeeze, which means you want him to squeeze harder.

He adds more pressure, moaning at your soft squeaks as he thrusts his hips upward to meet yours, "One more time baby, just cum for me one more time."

You look down at him staring up at you, watching and feeling you grow closer and closer. You let out an almost silent moan, sinking all the way down on him. You rock your hips back and forth, grinding on his as you reach your breaking point.

He brings you down to meet his lips, letting go of your throat so he can lay you back onto the couch. He pushes his hips all the way in and your legs instantly wrap around his waist, moaning out loudly.

"Fuck, y/n." He buries his face into your neck, moaning lowly as you clench around him, "Shit, shit. Yes."

You whimper out as you dig your nails into his back and he groans, "Fuck, do that again." You comply, instantly dragging your nails up his back. He groans and reaches up to grab the arm rest of the couch.

He pushes himself up slightly, using his other hand to hold your thigh, spreading your legs more for him as he picks up the pace of his thrusts.

You make eye contact with him and it's game over.

For both of you.

You clench around his twitching cock, your moans mixing with his as you both get each other off together.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours as he smiles, "you good?"

You nod and run a hand through his hair, "I'm great. How are you?" He smirks and nods, "I'm doing pretty damn good."

He pulls out and scoots himself between you and the back of the couch, reaching up to throw a blanket over your naked bodies.

"You know if we stay like this, we won't get to watch the end, right?" You look at him over your shoulder and he kisses your cheek, "That's the point."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

Thank you for requesting!

Just a little psa, I'm down to write anything so don't be afraid to send me those nasty needed ideas because I love them.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

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noisilyscreechingsong · 7 months

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Danny ran away.

The classic reveal didn’t go right/ the GIW is hunting to him/ everyone is dead. You pick.

He’s alone. In Gotham. With nothing.

Staying in the city makes sense, right? Except for the crazy rogues he doesn’t want to get involved in or the straight up normal humans dressing up to fight them. Danny wasn’t touching that with a 10 foot pole. So he travelled further to the outskirts where he hoped to find a cabin some rich family only stays in for the summer.

Instead he finds rich mansions hidden back in the trees with big tall gates keeping everyone out. Most had people living there (he checked), all except for this one.

He’s only seen a kid, maybe ten, go in and out for school and sneaking out late at night.

Danny thinks he’s smart, sneaking in to snag some food and rest a bit when he knows the kid is gone. He doesn’t account for if the boy comes back earlier than normal.

Wide, surprised eyes meet wide, panicked eyes. Danny doesn’t even shove the next bite of Mac and Cheese in his mouth before he’s booking it to the nearest window.

“Wait!” Danny doesn’t wait. “You don’t have to go!”

Danny slows to a stop. Um, what?

He turns to give the boy a look but he doesn’t cringe back. The kid steps forward, almost impulsively.

“You’re the one who’s been stealing food and sleeping in the guest bedroom in the west wing, right?”

How the heck did he know where Danny was taking a nap? He always made sure to fix the bed when he left.

The boy continues without any answer.

“You don’t have to keep hiding. You can stay. I’ll provide you food and clothes and you can pick whatever room you want to stay in.”

Danny doesn’t know what’s gotten into the kid, but he suddenly feels flat footed and so off balanced.

“Why?” He asks incredulously. Why do all that for him? Why trust a strange teenager in his home? Why bother with him? He’s obviously homeless and has been stealing from him.

The boy’s lips thin slightly like he doesn’t want to say. Like he’s embarrassed.

Instead he says, “You had dozens of chances to steal any of the priceless artifacts in this house, but instead you only steal enough food for yourself and to rest.”

Okay. Yea, that was technically true and he could see the boy is thinking he figured out Danny’s personality by just that (it reminds him of Jazz how confident the kid is), but that doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy!

He goes to tell the kid off for thinking he knows anything about some random teen that keeps breaking into his house, but then notices the way the boy is holding himself.

“You’re hurt.”

The boy jolts like he wasn’t expecting Danny to notice at all. He looks down and adjusts his weight a bit.

“Uh…”

“Did you twist your ankle?” Danny guesses.

The boy mutely nods, looking at him with wide eyes with too much emotion to decipher.

“Well come sit down, don’t keep standing on it, dummy.”

The boy quickly makes his way over to sit delicately on the edge of the couch cushion. Danny goes to the freezer where he knows he saw an ice pack once when he was going through it.

Danny helps the kid turn and lay back until he can elevate the foot under a pillow and set the cold ice pack over the sock. The boy is still staring at him with those wide, intense eyes.

“Ice it for a while and after you take a shower I’ll wrap it for you. Where’s your first aid kit?”

“The first floor bathroom.”

“Which one? You have three.”

“Four actually. You missed the one in the laundry room.”

Danny gives him a look.

“Kid.”

“Tim,” the boy corrects happily. “My name is Tim. Timothy Drake.”

Danny just looks back for a few moments at what is undoubtedly a flicker of hope in those blue eyes. He sighs.

“I’m Danny.”

And a weird friendship was born. Or more of a sibling-ship? Brotherhood? They teeter over the line of friend and family daily.

Danny did stay and Tim was thrilled to have someone else in the house, someone that wasn’t cold or professional towards him. They played games together and joked and taught each other things.

Danny was good at fixing anything that was broken and was the one to do any errands while Tim was at school. He was also the one who had to teach Tim how to be a brother.

Tim on the other hand seemed to be good at everything but letting himself relax. He was a hyper and intelligent kid whose mind was always active, so Danny had to accommodate and come up with crazy games and tasks for the boy in the disguise of requests, but he also made the boy sit down with him to watch crappy movies and just relax together.

They had fun, but they also had bumps and misunderstands. Danny nearly blew his top when Tim snuck out to spy on Batman and Robin without telling him (and wasn’t that a conversation to remember when the Danny found out what he was really doing at night). And Tim had a problem with lying to try and make Danny not worry, which ended up doing the opposite.

They got through those hiccups together though because they were both too possessive to let the other go that easily.

Tim created a fake identity for Danny saying they were cousins. The same black hair and blue eyes kinda sold it with a backstory of Danny’s mother being disowned by Janet’s parents. Jack and Janet weren’t home enough (or invested enough) to confirm or deny.

It was funny though watching Tim stare after Jason Todd-Wayne longingly for a while, but enough was enough. If Tim secretly wanted to befriend his idol, then Danny would make it happen. And he did of course. He made friends with the butler after ‘losing’ a frisbee in their yard and asked if they could get together for dinner one night so Tim and Jason could hang out outside of school. Alfred obviously knew Danny was pushing for Tim’s sake, but he still agreed easily enough.

So became a normal for the Wayne’s and the Drake’s to eat dinner together at least once a month. And after many meetings Danny mentally checked them off as ‘okay enough for vigilantes’ and stayed behind while the two younger boys ran off to go play a game before they headed home next door.

“Mr. Wayne?”

“Come now, you know you can call me Bruce, Danny,” the man smiles. It’s a little too wide, but Danny understands he’s still trying to put on the Brucie mask. He really wish he wouldn’t.

“Right, Bruce.” He fidgets for a second with his hoodie strings and he can feel Bruce’s attention zero in on the motion. “I need to ask you a favor.”

The air turns tense with the silence after that.

“What’s wrong, Danny? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine! Promise. I just- I just need you to promise me something. Please.”

Danny felt so awkward. He has never relied on an adult before, always doing everything himself or with other kids, something Tim and him have in common. So to turn to Bruce Wayne was out of character, but he wasn’t really. He was asking Batman, and him Danny could trust a little more.

“Promise you what?”

Danny could hear the barely covered suspicion in his voice.

“If- If something happens and I’m not around anymore, I need you to take Tim in,” he states, looking at the man full on to show how serious a matter this was.

The man stares back equally serious.

“What would happen to you? Are you in some kind of trouble?” Bruce asks.

Danny shakes his head hard.

“I’m not into drugs, Bruce. Or a gang or gambling or anything like that okay? I don’t owe any debt someone’s coming after me for. I just need insurance, some piece of mind that if something did happen that meant I couldn’t take care of Tim, there would be someone to look after him.”

Bruce stares back, thinking, for several moments.

“Tim has parents, Danny, I don’t know what you expect me to do. And what do you mean you take care of him? Don’t you boys have a caretaker?”

“Of course we don’t. We look after each other, but I’m the oldest. His parents are never home. I’m not exaggerating, they were in Gotham for only fifty-four days last year. They missed Tim’s birthday, holidays, everything. He’s still a kid, he needs someone to be there for him and if I’m suddenly gone then he has no one. Promise me that won’t happen. Promise me you’ll take him in, that you’ll figure out a way to keep him with you so he at least has Jason and you and Alfred.”

Bruce is silent for a while and Danny knows what he’s struggling with. He didn’t really want to use his trump card, but desperate measures.

“We already know who you are. You don’t have to worry about him finding out your secret.”

All traces of the Brucie mask drops at that confession and Batman analyzes him.

“How?”

“Tim is a really smart kid,” he just says with a fond smile. “He’s known for a while too, so you know he won’t go blabbing to the media or whatever.”

“What about you?”

“If I wanted to blackmail you, don’t you think I would have led with that? I don’t care what you do in your free time, but it’s not my business to tell.”

Danny shrugs and tries not to squirm under being scrutinized.

“Since you know who I am, if you are in trouble or ever need help, you can come to me.”

Danny blinks.

“Yea, that’s what I’m doing. So do you promise?”

Bruce nods once, very controlled.

“Yes. I promise you that I will take care of Tim Drake if anything happens to you,” the man vows solemnly.

Danny smiles back, shoulders sagging in relief.

“Thank you.”

When Danny somehow saves Jason from dying, and two months later goes missing, Bruce has to honor that promise while also tracking down the teenager to bring home to a very distraught Tim.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #story ideas #tim drake #bruce wayne #jason todd #batman and robin #Tim knows #Tim and Danny are like brothers #Danny just wants Tim to be happy and safe #Tim strong arms his way into helping the vigilantes find Danny #probably GIW’s fault

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solarmorrigan · 4 months

Text

Hands Where I Can See Them, Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The only thing Eddie is dreading as much as Steve’s return for his things is Wayne’s inevitable question about where Steve is at all.

After all, Steve has practically been living with them for weeks – something that Eddie may not have allowed himself to consider the significance of, but which Wayne cannot have failed to notice. Though Steve had (apparently) felt the need to do things around the trailer to stay in Wayne’s good graces, he really didn’t have to worry about it; Wayne likes him, and he’ll be asking sooner or later just where Steve has gone.

‘Sooner’ comes two nights after Eddie royally fucks things over. It’s Wayne’s night off, and there’s really no avoiding him; their new trailer is bigger than the last, but it’s still close quarters, and Eddie gets caught when he passes through the living room to get a drink from the kitchen.

“Noticed Steve isn’t here tonight,” Wayne says, blunt as hell, because he doesn’t see the point in doing things any other way.

“Nope,” Eddie says shortly, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it from the tap.

“Wasn’t here last night, either,” Wayne goes on.

“He was not,” Eddie confirms.

“Wasn’t here when I got in yesterday morning,” Wayne says.

“You are a veritable font of observation tonight,” Eddie says, only a little snarky.

Wayne shrugs. “Hard not to notice when he’s here nine days out of ten, then suddenly up and disappears,” he says. He pauses a moment before adding, “Stuff’s gone from the bathroom, too.”

Eddie occupies himself with slowly swallowing down half his glass of water before he answers. “Yeah.”

“Don’t suppose he’s going on a trip,” Wayne doesn’t quite ask, and Eddie lets out a bitter sort of laugh.

“Loving the optimism from you, but no, not… not so much.”

There are a few beats of silence, and then Wayne lets out a slow sigh. Eddie knows him well enough to understand the sound of it – he’s just decided to get involved.

“You two have a fight?”

“Something like that,” Eddie mutters.

“Well that’s vague as hell, son. You have a fight, or didn’t you?” Wayne prods.

Slowly, Eddie shakes his head. “No, I– I don’t think so. I think it was all me,” he says, finally looking up from his glass and meeting Wayne’s questioning gaze. “I fucked up, Wayne.”

There’s no immediate judgement coming from Wayne, no suspicion or scorn, not even a shake of the head and some variation of “Of course you did.” There’s only a measured sort of curiosity in his stare, the same way it’s been since Eddie was a kid and Wayne was trying to figure him out; it’s sort of comforting in its familiarity, in its neutrality.

“You wanna tell me about it?” Wayne asks.

Eddie knows that if he says no, Wayne will let it go. He might keep sending curious and worried looks Eddie’s way, he might ask a few more prodding questions over the next few days, but he won’t make Eddie say anything he doesn’t want to. And Eddie doesn’t really want to – but he thinks that maybe he needs to.

“If… you had to define mine and Steve’s relationship, what would you say?” Eddie asks after a moment.

Wayne cocks an eyebrow at him. “I’d say that feels like a trick question.”

Eddie lets out a little huff of a laugh. “It’s not, I swear. I’m seriously curious,” he says. “There are no wrong answers – go.”

“Well,” Wayne says, still eyeing Eddie consideringly, “I don’t know if you kids put labels on things these days or what, but from the outside, I’d say you’re dating. I’d say that boy is fully in love with you and that you’re at least halfway to loving him back.”

“Right.” Eddie gives a jerky nod. “Seems like that’s what pretty much everyone thinks.”

“But that’s not what’s going on,” Wayne takes a guess.

“Well, that depends on your perspective,” Eddie says, a little high and tight.

“Well, the only perspectives worth a damn here’re yours’n Steve’s,” Wayne shoots back. “So what would those be?”

Eddie drains the last of his water, turning away to put the glass in the sink. “Steve… shares your perspective. Or, uh– he did. But I… I didn’t realize he was so serious. I thought we were just kind of messing around.”

The silence from behind Eddie is so thick that he can’t help but finally turn around and meet Wayne’s gaze again.

“That’s a hell of a blind spot, Ed,” Wayne says simply, and Eddie folds in on himself a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. His main defense has always been to become larger than life – to make big gestures and even bigger speeches, but everything about this situation makes him feel like nothing so much as small.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

“So, what, you figured out how serious he was and thought you didn’t want that?” Wayne asks, and Eddie hunches a little further in on himself.

“Nope. No, that– would’ve been better, actually. If that’s what happened. But that’s not what happened, because did I mention I fucked up? Because I seriously fucked up.” Eddie’s rambling is stemmed by an expectant look from Wayne. “It’s just – the other night, when the guys were over, we got to talking about it. The whole… me and Steve thing. As in, they thought me and Steve were a thing. And they asked me about it. While Steve was out of the room. And then he, uh. Hm.” Eddie rubs a hand nervously over his chin. “He walked back in when I was in the middle of telling them that he's just a friend and that we’re just having fun. And that’s… when I found out how serious he was.”

“Eddie…”

“I know. I know!” Eddie doesn’t even have to look at Wayne to catch the disappointment coming off of him, so he doesn’t. He scrubs hands over his face and then just leaves him there, telling the rest of the story to his palms. “He was so fucking upset, Wayne, I think– I think I actually made him cry? And the only reason he hasn’t been here to get the rest of his stuff out of the trailer yet is because he was down with a migraine the next day. Like, I hurt him so badly I made him physically ill. So I didn’t just fuck up, but I’m actually a horrible human being and should probably spend the rest of my days living in isolation so I don’t ruin anyone else’s life.”

Wayne is silent for so long that Eddie is eventually forced to peek out from behind his fingers.

“You’re not gonna tell me how bad I fucked up?” Eddie asks, still a bit muffled.

“Seems like you have that covered already,” Wayne says, then he holds up one arm in offer, nodding towards the empty spot beside him on the couch. “C’mere.”

He doesn’t need to ask Eddie twice. No matter how old he gets, Eddie doesn’t think a genuine hug from his uncle will ever stop being comforting, and regardless of whether or not he thinks he actually deserves it right now, he’s going to take it. He crashes down onto the couch and leans heavily into Wayne’s side, sighing as Wayne wraps his arm around his shoulders.

“You’re not a bad person, Ed. You made a mistake, s’all,” Wayne says, and Eddie scoffs.

“Pretty big fucking mistake,” he mutters.

“Yep, that was a doozy. You hurt someone you care about, and you might not be able to fix it all the way. But that doesn’t make you terrible. Makes you human.” Wayne gives Eddie a comforting squeeze. “And Steve ain’t a bad person, either. He’ll know you mean it when you tell him you’re sorry.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly.

“You think about what you’re gonna do when he does show to get the rest of his stuff?” Wayne asks.

“Besides grovel?” Eddie shoots back.

“I mean, what’re you gonna grovel for?”

Eddie lets out a long breath. “I… I know I might not be able to fix it, but I just – I want the chance to try. I’m hoping he’ll just give me that chance.” Eddie pauses for a moment, choked by the dread of the thought that Steve might not give him that chance. “Things don’t have to go back to the way they were, but I at least want him to know that even if I’m shit at showing it, I do care.”

“Sounds like a decent place to start,” Wayne says.

“Think so?” Eddie asks.

“Mm.”

“Well… I hope Steve thinks so, too.”

Wayne gives his shoulders another squeeze and says nothing more, but he doesn’t really have to. He’s already settled Eddie’s nerves more than he’d thought possible; just this is more than enough.

Now Eddie just has to try to hold onto the feeling long enough to talk to Steve.

It turns out, Eddie doesn’t have to hold onto the feeling for very long at all; the very next morning—two days after Robin had read Eddie the riot act and left him to begin tentatively planning—another knock comes at the door.

It’s ten in the morning – not as early as Eddie had expected, but early enough that he’s not long out of bed when he opens the door to find Steve on the other side.

In contrast to Eddie’s sweatpants and t-shirt, Steve looks like he’s trying very hard to look like he’s alright. His polo is clean and tucked in, the collar is straight, his hair is as perfectly styled as ever – but there’s still something off. There are dark circles under his eyes, stark against a paler than normal complexion, and none of the ease or contentment that Eddie has grown used to shines from his face. He feels a little like he wants to mourn its absence.

“Hey,” Steve says, nodding in greeting.

“Hey,” Eddie says back, because for all his thoughts and planning, he hadn’t really considered how to start this encounter.

“I came to get my shit out of your way,” Steve says, and Eddie frowns.

It’s not in my way, he wants to say. You’re not in my way. Leave your stuff. Stay.

“Uh. Yeah, sure,” Eddie says instead, stepping aside to let Steve in.

Steve is carrying a cardboard box, but doesn’t seem to have anything or anyone else in tow. For as spread throughout Eddie’s life as Steve has become, he wonders if all of him will fit into that one box.

“Kinda surprised you didn’t bring Buckley to help pack,” Eddie says, glancing back out the screen door, as if Robin might appear out of nowhere.

“Just dropped her off at work,” Steve says. “I figured she probably already had… words for you when she picked up my meds, and I didn’t think any of us needed an encore.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says quietly. “The stuff she said got me thinking.”

In the process of grabbing a jacket he’d left behind off one of the hooks by the door, Steve only glances back at Eddie. “I’m sure she had a lot to say,” he says, carefully neutral.

“Yeah. She, uh – definitely did. Can we talk?” Eddie asks.

Steve sighs. “Eddie…”

“Just hear me out, please. Then I’ll get out of your way and let you pack in peace, I promise,” Eddie says.

“We don’t– have to talk about it,” Steve says, turning back to face Eddie. “Look, I’m sorry for putting my weird expectations on you. I was reading into stuff that wasn’t there, and I made assumptions instead of just talking to you, and that’s on me. So I’m gonna just – get out of your hair, and you won’t have to deal with my stupid, delusional bullshit anymore.”

“No, that’s not– Steve–” Eddie reaches out for Steve as he tries to brush past on his way to the bedroom, where most of his belongings are. He gets a hand around Steve’s bicep and, though Steve doesn’t jerk away this time, he goes stiff and still beneath Eddie’s touch, prompting Eddie to let go.

It hurts; even though Eddie’s done it to himself, the reaction still hurts. He’s always reached for Steve in the past, always had his hands on him, and Steve had always welcomed him, even before they’d started sleeping together. Now, Eddie takes a step back, forcing himself to give Steve some space.

“That’s not what I want to say at all,” he says. “I mean – I would’ve liked if we’d talked about it, because then I would’ve known, and I could’ve appreciated what it was – what we were doing.”

Steve turns back to face Eddie, his gaze snapping straight to him with equal suspicion and confusion. “What?”

“Steve, you weren’t reading into things that weren’t there, you’re not– you’re not stupid or delusional, I was just – I was sending you mixed signals,” Eddie says. “I was so wrapped up in thinking that I knew what was going on, that I didn’t look at what I really had, and I’m sorry. But if I knew, if I’d just gotten my head out of my ass, you have to believe that in a heartbeat, I would have–”

“Don’t,” Steve cuts in sharply.

“Steve–”

“I don’t need whatever this is, Eddie,” Steve snaps. “You don’t need to have pity on your pathetic ex-whatever I am to you, okay? It’s okay, just– just let it go.”

“This isn’t pity,” Eddie insists with an incredulous little laugh. “It’s fucking not, I swear! This is me saying that I fucked up and I hurt you and I want to make it up to you. I haven’t done anything to deserve it, but I want the chance to show you how sorry I am and how much you mean to me– in whatever capacity you’ll let me.”

“Whatever capacity?” Steve stares at him, brows furrowed.

“Whatever you’ll be comfortable with. As a friend, or… as more, if that bridge hasn’t burned,” Eddie says.

“What, so now I’m relationship material?” Steve asks, pointed.

Eddie winces. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said any of that, and if I could go back in time and slap myself upside the head before I let any of that shit out and hurt you with it, I would. I know that… I know I didn’t pay enough attention to you, but I also wasn’t paying very much attention to how I was feeling,” he says. “Because honestly? I’m kind of a moron, Steve. I’ve never had sex with someone I really liked, with someone who was anything like a friend, and when I started wanting to be around you all the time, and always wanting you within reach, and when every little thing started to remind me of you, I just thought… yeah, this is what friends-with-benefits feels like. Y’know, like a fucking idiot.”

Steve doesn’t laugh. “I don’t know if I can trust you on that,” he says softly, and that’s fair.

It hurts, but it’s fair.

“Then let me earn your trust back. Please, Steve, just… give me the chance,” Eddie implores, doesn’t even care that he’s basically begging – Eddie doesn’t beg, but for Steve, he’ll make an exception. For Steve, he thinks he’ll do just about anything.

Pursing his lips, Steve looks at the floor beside Eddie’s feet for a long moment, and Eddie gives him the time to sort his thoughts out.

“I want to say yes. Part of me just wants to accept your apology and pretend that none of this happened. Just keep going the way we were,” he says. “But I can’t keep doing that – ignoring shit. I just… can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Eddie says. “I don’t want things to be like they were before, I want – I want to be better. I want to do better.”

“How?” Steve asks, both challenging and curious.

“I want to do it right. I want to show you how much I appreciate you, and how much you mean to me. I want to treat you like you deserve to be treated,” Eddie insists. “And if that’s just by being the best friend I can be, then that’s what I’ll do, but I would love—love—if you’d let me romance you.”

That briefly breaks through Steve’s stony façade, and he lets out a huff of a laugh. “Romance me?”

“Shit, yeah. Flowers and chocolates and candle-lit dates – the whole nine yards,” Eddie says with a slow grin. “All the things you’ve given other people but that no one has ever given you.”

“I…” Steve starts, his own humor fading quickly. “I don’t know.”

It’s better than an outright ‘no.’

“That’s okay,” Eddie promises. “You don’t have to know right now. I can wait. I’m a patient kinda guy.”

(That’s an absolute lie, and they both know it, but Eddie will find all the patience in the world if Steve needs time to think.)

Slowly, Steve nods. “I think… Just, give it a couple of weeks, okay? Really think about it, and if this – if I’m something you still want by then, come talk to me again,” he says. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” Eddie nods rapidly. “As much time as you want. I’m not going to up and change my mind. Two weeks, I’ll ask again.”

Steve shrugs, taking a step back towards the bedroom.

“I will,” Eddie promises – not defensive, but certain. He can wait two weeks. He can wait as long as Steve needs him to. Maybe he can take the time to get his shit together.

He does care about Steve. He does pay attention – and he’s going to prove it.

But in the meantime, the only thing Steve has asked for is space, so Eddie gives it to him. He retreats to the kitchen to let Steve pack up in peace, trying hard not to feel bereft at the thought of the gaps Steve will be leaving behind.

If he’s lucky—if he’s very, very lucky—it won’t be forever.

Part 5

Tag List (drop me a line if you want on or off the ride): @bushbees @y0urnewstepp4r3nt @gleek4twd @hellfireone @westifer-dead @anne-bennett-cosplayer @starman-jpg @mugloversonly @swimmingbirdrunningrock @alycatavatar @y4r3luv @rhapsodyinalto @vinteraltus @lilpomelito @tillystealeaves @noctxrn-e

I did my best to catch everyone, but there were a few people Tumblr wouldn't let me tag. Sorry if I missed you!

#steddie #eddie & wayne #eddie munson #wayne munson #steve harrington #stranger things #eddiesteve #solar wrote #I write wayne once a year so here's my annual allotted amount I guess #listen you know I love hurt/comfort and I love happy endings but one thing you should never expect from me is consistent chapter lengths #things happen as they happen!

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love-bitesx · 11 months

Text

: ̗̀➛ PROTECTOR. hobie brown x reader

summary: spider-man makes a point of walking y/n home every night, but after befriending them as hobie brown as well, his feelings get complicated. words: 3.5k REQUESTS OPEN ! warnings: non-explicit sexual harassment (a man is very creepy to reader), reader isn't gendered! but be aware, author is female, so possible afab bias, i tried my hardest i swear. all characters are adults :) author is british so this is my interpretation of his silly little slang from what ive experienced hehe also divider credit: cafekitsune a/n: may feel a little ooc, but in my headcanon, when he's pining the way he is for reader, he's so soft. also, spider-man and hobie r completely different personalities u cant tell me otherwise. first time writing hobie so pls give me opinions ty. enjoy!!!!!

“is it home-time already, darlin’?”

there he was. the familiarity of routine washing over you, turning your head to see him propped up against the brick, spikes on display and guitar pick flipping in between his clothed fingers.

“spider-man, my hero,” you sighed and clutched your non-existent pearls, a smirk on your lips.

“you know i hate that,” kicking off from the wall of the pub you just clocked out of, he stuffed his hands into his patched up jacket, his bouncy stride meeting yours on the pavement.

“i know,” you smiled, allowing your bag to fall from your shoulders and into his outstretched hand, as always.

it had become a routine, over the course of a few months, that the one-and-only spider-man would escort you home from work in the late hours. at first, it didn’t seem real. why would he decide to spend valuable time most days walking you home, when he could be out fighting whatever darkness lurks in the shadows? you’ve asked him, almost every time, but he always gives the same, vague answer;

“who else is gonna keep you safe, love?”

his legs were longer than yours, by a mile. so he had to slow his usual pace for you. naturally bouncy, his booted feet tapped against the pavement like a kick drum, and you wondered whether that was the radioactive blood in his veins, or his natural energy.

laughter flittered through the dark streets as you caught up, it had only been a day since you last saw him, but being a crime-fighting, fascist-killing superhero, there was quite a lot to pack into a 24 hour day.

he bounced off the walls of passing buildings, recreating his fights with the air that hung between you both, throwing in some exaggerated punches here and there, to elicit an extra giggle or two from you. you almost got lost following his animated recreations, but he kept an eye out for the roads ahead. he’d memorised all the paths leading to your apartment.

it had all started a few months prior, after a particularly long shift at work. constantly over the span of a few hours, this guy would not leave you alone. no matter how many times you refused his advances, a smile on your face, masking the unsettling pit in your stomach at the sight of his grin. drink, after drink, after drink, he ordered just to stare at you the whole night, crude gestures and words thrown your way.

you’d gotten used to it, working at a pub in the depths of london, it wasn’t ever unusual to get unwanted advances. but something about this guy, you couldn’t shake it. ~

“what time do you finish, ay?” his accent was thick, you placed him somewhere up north.

“i’m not sure,” you muttered back, forcing a smile.

“oi, come on! ‘course you know what time you finish,” his words were slurred, and his eyes hadn’t left yours once, “was thinking we could ‘ave some drinks together, tha’s’all.”

“sorry, i can’t tonight, i have to be up early tomorrow,” you giggled, and if he wasn’t so drunk, he’d definitely have picked up on the nerves lacing your words.

“come on,” vowels drawn out, he made an attempt to stand up to meet your height, the proximity of him sending a shock of fear to your heart, until a strong hand clapped against his chest, the force almost sending him backwards.

“pack it in, dickhead, they said ‘no’,” a deep, almost calming voice spoke, contrasted completely with the stern, threatening tone of his words.

you looked to meet your protectors gaze, and it almost stunned you. he was tall, taller than you, for sure. dark, smooth skin with an aura of pure mayhem, silver piercings protruding from his face. adorned with a ripped, skin-tight plain top and denim vest, littered with badges, patches and just about any accessory known to man.

his eyes were what really held you. a heavy look, dark brown with the most unique feeling of strength and power that you’d ever seen. you could’ve easily gotten lost.

deciding you’d stared at him long enough, though, you broke the eye contact, diverting it back to the man who looked a humorous combination of terrified and offended at the same time.

“‘s alright mate, we were just talking, back off, yeah?” his liquid courage built up, ignorant of the taller man’s hand still pushing against his chest, ring-clad hands seeming to leave an imprint.

“think it’s time for you to leave, mate,” he spat back, mimicking his slang.

a moment of silence followed. you’d fully expected the drunken creep to swing a punch, or at least bite back, but under the weight of the taller man’s stare, he seemed to lose all fight he had in him. with a final murmer of something you couldn’t quite hear, and unsure you really wanted to, he stumbled backwards, slipping into the crowd.

“thank you,” you broke the silence, to which the man shrugged.

“he was a pig,” he brushed it off like nothing, and you couldn’t help but smile at his attitude. raising his newly free hand, he stretched it towards you, tight in a fist.

“hobie, hobie brown,” he greeted, and his accent completely erased the ‘h’ from his name.

“y/n l/n,” you smiled, accepting his offer and spudding him, the cold metal of his rings against your knuckles. you couldn’t help but grin at the oddity of his presence.

hobie kept you company for the rest of the night, ranting about his thoughts and opinions of various important subjects, ranging widely from drinks of choice to the existence of capitalist propaganda in modern media, all of which you hung onto every word of.

it wasn’t long until he’d managed to book him and his band into a few slots on the pub’s makeshift stage that stood empty on the other side of the room, smiling to himself at how authentically excited you seemed to hear his music.

when he left, his vacancy was immediately obvious. the booming pub feeling oddly silent without him.

after closing up for the night, you grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder, switching the lights off with one hand and fiddling with the keys in the other, shaking the door to double check you locked it well enough. body aching from being on your feet all day, you yawned, stepping autopilot into the darkness. the night air was chilling, causing you to wrap your jacket tight around your body. cursing at yourself for not bringing another layer, or pre-ordering a taxi home.

“oi,” you heard from your right, turning quickly to the familiar call.

stumbling on the pavement, the drunken creep from earlier pointed towards you.

shit.

you hadn’t expected him to actually wait for you. it’d been hours since he left, he was insane. what was he thinking?

grabbing the keys from your pocket, you gripped them in your freezing hands in defense.

“where’s your little friend, huh?” he spat, clearly enraged by hobie’s interruption earlier. he stepped closer, and you stepped back, trembling as you tripped slightly on the pavement.

“ay, is this twat bothering you?” a voice called from above.

wait, above?

craning your neck up, you made eye contact with possibly the last person you expected.

“spider-man?”

and from that night, he’d met you every time. waiting outside the pub doors, no exception, to walk you home.

“hey!” spider-man’s upbeat calling snapped you instantly back to him, jumping slightly as you finally noticed he was directly in front of your face, white eyes narrowed on your demeanor, “where’d you go, huh?”

“sorry,” paying him an apologetic smile, “just thinking.”

“wanna clue me in, darlin’?” his tone was playful, but the soften of his masks expression felt genuine.

“just thinking about the day i’ve had,” you lied, unsure whether his spidey senses could tell. not that it was rare for you to think about how you met, but you didn’t want to bring it up again. if he could tell, he didn’t let on.

“whataboutit?” he sped up, slipping back to your pace and slinging his lanky arm over your shoulders, basically hanging onto you as you walked. he liked walking with you like this. it made him feel powerful, like he was keeping you extra safe.

“hobie’s band played again!” you exclaimed, and if he’d been paying attention, he would’ve seen the way your face lit up at the memory. unfortunately for him, his eyes were trained on webbing a chocolate bar from a passing vendor. god knows why it was still open, but he was glad it was.

“hobie, again, huh?” taunted spider-man, punching your arm playfully with the fist that gripped the newly stolen snickers bar, “starting to think you’re replacing me, love.”

“never,” you teased back, elbowing his side, hearing the jingle of his badged vest, “hobie’s just…”

ears pricking, he clung onto the words you were speaking, anticipating possibly hearing something he didn’t want to.

“he’s just so cool,” you breathed with a smile, and he almost verbally sighed in relief, stopping himself in order not to rouse suspicion. he smirked under his mask, “just got this feel about him, so easy to talk to, and he’s so talented! you know, i’ve almost learnt all the lyrics to his songs.”

his heart just about exploded. in fact, he thinks he could pinpoint the exact moment it did.

he played off his burning cheeks, clearing his throat and incredibly glad his mask hid his flustered expression.

“you should come see him, you know,” you looked up at him, and though you knew his answer was ‘no’, it was worth a try, “i can hide you in the back if you don’t wanna be seen.”

“come off it, love,” he dismissed, avoiding your gaze, but his back was tingling like pins and needles under the warmth of it, “i’m not keen to meet the man stealing you from me.”

“fuck sake,” you laughed and pushed his arm off you, brushing off his playful flirting.

his confidence was excelling. the friendship you had formed over the prior months had stemmed from his childish charm, and it hadn’t faltered once.

“well, here i am,” you brought your pace to a halt, hovering in front of the door to your apartment building.

“i’ll miss you tonight,” he fell against the wall, eyes stuck on you. you couldn’t see it, but you could feel his smirk.

“i’ll see you tomorrow, i finish at 11,” you stepped towards him.

“i’ll be waiting,” he kicked off from the bricks, raising his hand to ruffle your hair, much to your protest, before practically disappearing in front of your eyes.

you were left grinning to yourself, much like every night.

“what’s up, bruv?” hobie’s friend elbowed him harshly in the ribs, causing him to rip his eyes from you.

“nothing,” he huffed, but by the lack of sustenance and playfulness in his reply, his friend was less than satisfied. hobie was a carefree, reckless guy with a constant spurt of irony, and seeing him with a sullen expression and no bite back, was worrying.

“come off it, hobie,” another one piped up, sitting across from him with an empty pint in one hand and cigarette in the other, pointing the latter in his face. he huffed, “you’ve been slumping for like 3 months now, and you’ve only been writing sappy love songs.”

the table snickered, and even hobie’s lips curled into a smirk. his friend was right, he wasn’t even nearly like his usual self. he blames you for that.

“who is it then, huh?” his friend pushed, cigarette still hanging in front of hobie’s face, ash crumbling off the end, “has our ol’ hobie brown got himself a partner?”

“oi, you know i hate labels,” he smirked again, knowing he was lying. not that he didn’t usually hate them, but he couldn’t avoid the fact that every time you made your way to the front of his mind, he was urged to call you his. his partner. his person. his love. just his.

he always did hate consistency, anyway.

“another round, guys?” your voice ripped him from his thoughts, your scent somehow drifting above the sticky smell of beer and cigarettes, he pinned that down to his spider abilities, but he’d be a fool to ignore that he had simply just memorised the aroma.

“please, darlin’,” hobie’s friends chirped up, grinning at you thankfully. he cursed the burning feeling in his chest.

“i could do you guys a deal,” you smirked playfully, and he looked up to meet your eyes. you looked beautiful tonight, like usual. he was fucked.

“if you lot give us a song, it’ll be on the house,” you smiled hopefully, taking note of their usual orders just incase they agree.

“sounds like a plan,” hobie reached his hand out to you, open for a handshake, to which you took. soft hands falling into his calloused ones, he couldn’t help but notice how nice it felt.

turning away, you left to get their usual set up sorted, feeling him still watching you, to which you threw him a smile over your shoulder.

it wasn’t unusual at all. his eyes would always find you. at the table with his mates, his gaze would swim through the crowd to yours. even on stage, lost in the moment with himself and his guitar, it was you he always found his eyes trailing back to. it wasn’t like the other men in the bar, it wasn’t predatory desire or lust, but it was warm. it was safe.

he had three options, really; confess himself to you as hobie brown, coming clean about the way he felt about you, the warmth in his heart that spread across his spine whenever you smiled at him, eventually having to come clean about his alter-ego. he could confess as spider-man, to which he’d have to come clean about his actual identity. or option three. stay silent and suffer in his own pity. bite his lip and pretend his heart wasn’t yearning for you.

but, he prided himself in being able to speak his mind without hesitation. confident in his word, suffocated in his silence. he would always say: if he ever bit his tongue, to kill him there and then. well, here he is; begging for mercy at the barrel, his tongue bleeding from keeping his heart locked in his chest.

he was fucked. well and truly.

“anything special happen today?” spider-man nudged you, taking a worried note of your unusual quietness recently. it was the same night, he’d picked you up like normal, and hopped along beside you.

“the band played again,” a swelling smile bloomed on your lips, “other than that, not really.”

your voice was hollow tonight. easily mistakable with your naturally soft tone, but to his trained ears, it didn’t feel right.

stopping immediately in his path, his bouncy steps ceasing, you quickly copied him. confusion slipping behind your eyes.

“what’s up?” you questioned.

“you know you wanna tell me,” he stepped around you, arms falling over your shoulders from behind, heavy with his full weight. something about the mask, it gave him a confidence with you that he’d quenched as hobie.

you sighed and rested your head back against his chest, taking him by surprise. there was something intimate about the way your eyes were closed, body resting against him. your brain was hectic, he didn’t need his spidey senses to see that.

“there’s just…” you spoke, eyelids feeling heavy as you opened them, looking up to see him. head split in two, you were unsure if you even wanted to say it out loud, “there’s this guy.”

it was almost cruel how fast his heart dropped, plummeting like a boulder into the pit of his stomach. body stiffening, his head was spinning so fast he didn’t even have the conscience to mask it.

“i just can’t get him out of my head, it’s so stupid,” if your wistful look wasn’t answer enough, the outpour of dissonance he could feel from your body told him it was serious.

“not another fella tryna steal you from me,” he chuckled, but his voice was weak, vulnerable. you hadn’t heard it like that before.

untangling yourself from his weighted grip, you leant against the wall of the building you were stood in front of, staring up into the night sky. there was something so embarrassing about admitting a silly little crush.

“not another one, technically,” you spoke softly, a hint of a smile tickling your lips at the thought of him, he stepped closer, “i’ve already told you about him.”

and he stopped dead in his tracks. mind racing a million miles an hour, picking apart every word you said. was he stupid? was he reaching? seeing something that wasn’t there? he was the only one you’d spoken about, but surely not, right?

shifting closer again, his body begun to feel the heat radiating off you, barely an inch between you both. he towered you, as always, the spikes on his jacket and mask hitting the streetlights perfectly, giving him an orange glow. you bought yourself to look at him, and though you couldn’t see the eyes beneath, you felt his gaze.

insufferably close, closer than you’ve ever been, you could feel your heart in your chest. a tension that you hadn’t quite felt before, bubbling in the air between you.

“say his name, love,” his voice was low, lower than normal, and a twinge of familiarity hit your chest hearing the deeper tone, one you couldn’t quite pinpoint. chills dripped down your spine at the new found feeling.

gulping, you could feel his name in your throat, struggling it’s way out.

“hobie.” your voice was barely above a whisper, but considering he almost had you pressed against the brick, he heard every syllable. and god, did it sound good.

“again?” he croaked, just wanting to confirm, needing to hear it again, needing to hear you say it, relish in every beat.

“hobie,” you repeated, louder this time, more conviction in your chest, “i like him, like a lot.”

he went silent. dead silent, barely moving. heat radiated from him, and you could’ve sworn in the vacancy of sound that you could hear his heart pounding against his chest. reaching up, your hand trembling slightly, you placed it there. on his chest, feeling the material of his suit, the humanity of his heartbeat. he melted into it.

“are you o—“

“i need to tell you something.” he interrupted you.

it was your turn to be silent, eyes heavy with intrigue, begging him to continue.

without a word, his ring-clad hand ghosted your skin, drifting past the air between you and to the base of his mask, sliding along his neckline for the seam, and dragging it up over his face, revealing the man within.

your heart stopped, a thousand things flashing through your head, through your heart, surging in your bloodstream. you didn’t even know what to say, what to think, how to comprehend it.

“hobie?” your voice was small again, shrunk beneath the look in his eyes, the desire.

embarrassment waved through you for a moment, a sudden panic of the earlier confession, your chest pounding at the possible rejection.

he didn’t even leave the thoughts enough time to fester, however, because his hand that was holding his mask was suddenly flush against your jaw, the material falling softly onto your neck. thumb trailing the comfort of your cheek, revelling in the feel of your skin, warm against his hands, he leaned forward.

his lips were on yours, without a word. gentle, but rough. the tension escaping through the feeling of him pressed into you, desire leaping out of every shared breath. his other hand fell to your waist, and yours stayed firm on his chest, bunching the fabric in your hand to bring him closer. he obliged, of course, and the kiss deepened. his head spun.

pulling away for breath, you kept your eyes on his lips, disbelief swimming around your brain, colliding with the need to kiss him again.

“y/n,” his hand brought your eyeline to his, “i like you, too.”

you couldn’t help but smile, relief washing your body out.

“like, a lot.”

he kissed you again. and again.

a/n: hope u enjoyed!! pls let me kno if ur did, this is my first time writing for him <3 thanku!!!

#hobie brown #hobie spiderverse #hobie #atsv hobie #hobie my beloved #hobie x reader #spiderman atsv #across the spider verse spoilers #across the spiderverse #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #spiderpunk #spiderverse #spiderverse x reader #spiderman #spiderman x reader

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taexual · 8 days

Text

sleepwalking ● 23 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, mentions of drugs (nothing graphic), descriptive SMUT (pet names and a sprinkle of worship included, beware), fluff and too much flirting to be allowed, some angst, SLOW BURN

words: 19.8k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 23 ► in this open warfare, i won't fight fair, and in your waking moments, i will be there

The next morning, you and Jungkook took Minjun, Luna, and Maggie to a small restaurant—unreasonably far from your hotel in London—to have a late breakfast and to plot. The five of you were a lot more concerned with the latter, and the bacon and egg sandwiches on your plates were relegated to mere decoration.

You had already discussed your plan with Luna and Maggie over the phone last night, but you wanted to meet everyone in person to ensure you were all on the same page, and to inform Jungkook of his role (which was intentionally non-existent).

You believed that the fewer members of Rated Riot got tangled up in Sid’s slimy web, the lower the risk of collateral damage. Ideally, you would have left Jungkook out entirely. But his friendship with Sid made him a linchpin in the machinations of your scheme—he would be the most affected if something went awry.

“This plan relies heavily on the circumstances, I admit,” you said, while your friends feigned interest in their food to avoid the disapproving glances of the restaurant staff. “But maybe that will work to our advantage because we will hardly have to do anything. We will draw the authorities’ attention to Sid, and that’s it. He’ll do the rest himself.”

“Yeah,” Minjun added as your primary accomplice in this scheme. He was busy trying to stop his napkins from blowing away in the fierce wind on the restaurant’s terrace. “And that’s why we need Jude to let us into their hotel room—”

“Wait,” had become Jungkook’s new favourite word. He used it now, too. “And are we sure that Jude won’t change his mind?”

Maggie and Luna turned to you, mirroring Jungkook’s skepticism.

“We’re not,” you admitted. You were aware of the risk, but time has never been more of the essence, and Jude was your best option. “We’re not telling him too much and hoping for the best.”

“And to be honest,” Minjun added, “the fact that she gave him that laundry list of shit to do—”

“Wait,” Jungkook said again. “What list?”

You waved off his question, but Minjun answered on your behalf, clinging to this as if it was the only convincing evidence the five of you had against Jude changing his mind.

“Like, vitamins and stuff,” he explained. “To ease his withdrawals. I don’t know if he followed her instructions, but anyone could see how much it meant to him, just the fact that she cared enough. Maybe that’ll be what keeps him on our side, even though he’s back with Sid right now.”

Maggie wrinkled her nose in clear disapproval, although you knew she would have reacted the same way if she’d seen Jude—her heart was bigger than her head, bless her.

“He’s done nothing to deserve this from you,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, he—yeah,” Jungkook agreed, the confidence in his voice wavering as he alternated between gratitude for your concern about Jude, and guilt for putting you in this position. “You didn’t have to help him.”

“He’s really not doing well,” you said. “And don’t think I’m so kind, I acted largely out of my own self-interest. We need him for our plan.”

Jungkook recalled Jude’s sneezing, his shivers in forty-degree heat, and his nausea. All of his symptoms always came and went without warning, but the memory of someone going out of their way for him was likely to stay.

“Okay,” Jungkook acquiesced. “That’s—let’s keep going.”

“We won’t need to involve Jude every step of the way, though, right?” Luna clarified. “I mean, I assumed we’d mainly need him to get rid of whatever Sid has in his phone gallery.”

“Yeah, but not just—we’re not just deleting the videos with Jungkook,” you said, glancing at Minjun, who had supported you wholeheartedly when you mentioned this part of the plan to him. He nodded now, too, encouraging you to explain. “We’ll delete everything he has in his Cloud storage and factory reset his phone. I doubt Sid had enough sense to back up his files to an external drive, so this will clear every copy of everything he has on there.”

Maggie’s eyes finally lit up with lively excitement, Luna nodded in agreement, and you felt a smile forming on your own lips, too.

Jungkook, on the other hand, appeared almost disappointed.

“W-we don’t have to go through all of this just to delete those videos,” he said, fixing his gaze on his untouched cup of matcha latte; the artwork on the surface had begun to blur. “Those things happened. I did all of that shit, and Sid recorded it. That’s who I was back then, and maybe I shouldn’t try to—”

You interrupted his words—the ones you’d already heard before—with a gentle touch of your hand over his restless fingers, and Jungkook stilled, turning to you.

“No, those videos are not who you are. You are the one who decides who you are,” you reiterated once more and the table fell silent around you as if everyone had witnessed something they were not supposed to. “And if you want to leave those things in the past, you should be able to. Sid has no right to bring it up now.”

“But if we lock Sid up,” he persisted, “then maybe those videos won’t matter anyway.”

“He could publish them,” Minjun countered. “He sent them directly to you now, but he could post them publicly later. I’m sure he’d find a way to do that even behind bars.”

Jungkook felt a rush of dizziness and he was very grateful that you’d pressed your hand on his. Minjun was right. Sid had done something like this before when he’d posted your picture; he clearly wasn’t above making private matters public.

“We would leave the videos be, let Sid have them, whatever,” you continued, reading the colour on his face, “but he wants to use them against you. He’s cutting them up to paint you as an irresponsible asshole. And you’re not an asshole, Jungkook.”

“Yeah,” Minjun agreed. “And I talked to Jude about an hour ago. He sounded sober, which is shocking to me, but, anyway—Sid has plans to go out tonight, so Jude should be able to do this tomorrow morning while Sid’s still passed out.”

The whole terrace of the restaurant seemed to hold its breath in anticipation as soon as he said that, the clink of cutlery and the muffled chatter around you growing tense.

Jungkook, even dizzier now, turned back to you once more. You gave him a small nod.

He took a breath and nodded back. “Okay. Alright. Fine. Let’s do it.”

“Good!” Maggie cheered from across the table. She turned to Jungkook, and you watched as her reassuring tone chased the last doubts from his eyes. “Even without those videos, we need to do this to get back at Sid. And I know this will do just that. I’d be tearing my hair out if someone cleansed my Cloud.”

You noticed that Maggie was much more vigilant with her phone today, hardly letting it out of her sight. She’d improved her security measures and had to enter her passcode every time she wanted to reply to a text today, because the facial recognition struggled to recognise the wind in her hair. This was the reason she hadn’t bothered with it before, but Sid had taught her a valuable lesson.

You gave your friend an agreeing nod and settled against the back of your chair.

Luna sat on your other side, leaning her elbows on the table, and she quickly noted the way Jungkook’s eyes widened when you pulled back, as if you had torn off a piece of his skin. She glanced at Maggie, who noticed nothing and kept checking the time on her phone as if she was late for another meeting to plan someone’s arrest.

Somewhat disappointed, Luna turned back to you, her grin doubling in size to compensate for her lack of company in teasing you.

“One big problem,” you said, focused on the intricacies of your plan and, therefore, unaware of your surroundings, “lies in our next steps. If we manage to get Sid arrested, he will likely weaponise his friendship with Jungkook. He’ll try to make it seem like they’re as close as brothers, and if he’s going to jail for meth possession, then Jungkook is probably doing drugs, too.”

You pulled your phone out from your bag and allowed for the weight of your words to settle on the table like a heavy grey tablecloth while you opened your gallery.

“So, this morning,” you continued, “Maggie and I put something together. This is a list of people who are banned from Rated Riot’s shows.”

You passed your phone to Luna first. She looked at the screen, nodded, and handed the phone to Maggie, who smiled to herself right away—she had designed the layout of the list and was very pleased with it.

By the time your phone reached Jungkook, he was already squirming in his chair. As he examined the list of names, displayed in bold white letters on a black background with a crumpled paper texture that Maggie had crafted and digitalised herself, he realised that the only name he recognised was Sid’s.

He looked up. “But if you post that—that’s—isn’t it supposed to be confidential?”

“I won’t post it,” you said. “We’ll leak it.”

“Oh.” A gleam of affection suddenly sparkled in his eyes. He felt a little like he’d just met you for the first time, all over again. “Can we do that?

Maggie reached across the table, snatching your phone from Jungkook’s hand to see the picture of the list again. She scrutinised the names for a minute as if trying to uncover the social security numbers of the people listed.

“No,” you replied. “But Sid never played fair, so we’re simply levelling the playing field. The other names on the list are made up anyway. They’re generic enough to match someone on Facebook, but no one will know which person is on this list.”

“But they’ll recognise Sid,” Maggie pointed out, squinting at your phone. “Even though he’s listed as Isidore here. Right?”

“That’s him, yeah,” you confirmed. “And you’re right. Everyone will recognise Sid. We’ll leak this before he gets arrested, and anything he says after that will just be taken as blatant slander.”

Jungkook took another deep breath and glanced at your phone, which Maggie slid towards you across the table. It bumped against the corner of your empty water glass.

“Won’t there be consequences if something else leaks?” he asked, his teeth grazing his bottom lip.

“Yeah, I was thinking that, too,” you admitted. “But then, Luna texted me a brilliant idea last night.”

You gestured towards your friend, and she continued.

“It’ll be accidental,” she explained. “Maggie usually posts backstage pictures on her Instagram. She has almost as many followers as the main account of your band at this point. So, later today, she will post a new set of pictures, and this list of names will just happen to be visible in some shots. Just a coincidence, really. And then we hope that one of your fans will notice it, zoom in, catch Sid’s name, and share it.”

Jungkook looked down, nodding to himself. He realised that Sid stood little chance against the collective resolve of everyone at this table.

“They will notice it,” he said. “I don’t doubt it.”

“We’ll have to rely on them to spread this,” you added. “Even though this list isn’t really something we need to hide. It’s just, you know, sort of customary in the industry to keep your dirty laundry to yourself.”

“Alright,” Jungkook said, sensing the weight of everyone’s gaze on him. He had the feeling that everyone was waiting for his final approval to move forward with this plan. “So, uh, Maggie won’t get into trouble for posting it?”

“Hmm?” Maggie looked up from her phone at the sound of her name. “Oh. No. I’m the photographer. As long as I get good shots, I never get in trouble. And this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken a picture that reveals more than I intended.”

She gave you a sheepish look, and you shook your head, sensing where the guilt in her eyes stemmed from. Maggie knew that Sid was behind the chaos caused by the bathtub picture, but she still felt a gnawing sense of responsibility because she was the one who had taken the picture.

“Alright. You, uh—you guys really put a lot of thought into this,” Jungkook remarked, looking at you first, then at your friends, and finally at Minjun on his other side. “I’m, uh—I-I’m actually a little afraid of you.”

Luna and Minjun snickered—Maggie was back on her phone, but she was smiling, too—and their excitement made you feel much more optimistic.

“Good,” you said, reaching out to touch Jungkook’s hand again. He immediately turned his hand round and firmly clasped yours—to ensure you wouldn’t pull away this time. “Sid should be, too.”

A tense silence settled over the table, punctuated by the subdued conversations on the terrace.

For the first time since you arrived at the restaurant, Jungkook finally took a sip of his coffee. It tasted bitter and lukewarm. You refrained from touching yours, but accepted a bite of Luna’s tiramisu. Everyone else at the table seemed to remember simultaneously that they had ordered food when they got here.

“Uh,” Maggie spoke up after a second, still chewing on the brown crust of her bacon and egg tart. “Is this a safe space for us to voice our, uh, concerns?”

You straightened in your seat, bracing yourself before she’s even said anything. Jungkook sensed your growing anxiety and squeezed your hand.

“Of course,” you replied, keeping your voice steady.

“Okay.” Maggie swallowed and set down her fork after taking exactly one and a half bites. “Well, I’m worried that Sid will say something provocative and one of us will end up getting arrested for assault.”

There was something absurdly comical in her question—or the potential outcome it suggested—and you could see Minjun quickly lower his head to conceal his broad smile.

Jungkook, meanwhile, was extremely pleased that no one turned to look at him, the person who had, more or less, already assaulted Sid before. It comforted him to know that everyone here would have loved to smack Sid upright in the head, too.

“That’s a great point,” you said, clearing your throat. “If he provokes you—well, then you might have a legitimate reason to, uh, land a good punch. You probably wouldn’t be held in custody too long for that. There’s no premeditation, you acted on impulse because of something he said.”

Minjun raised an eyebrow at you from across the table.

“I thought our focus was drug laws,” he said. “Did you research assault, too?”

“I researched assault laws the day I met Sid,” you deadpanned.

He snorted. “Yeah, fair enough.”

“Not to mention, we can always argue it’s self-defence,” Luna added, prodding her sandwich with a toothpick as if it were a not-quite-dead bug. “Sid is very—let’s say, aggressive.”

“That’s true,” Minjun agreed. “Especially when he’s irritated.”

The energy around the table had increased considerably; everyone seemed to have something to say about possible reasons to hit Sid. Maggie was already listing five ways to throw a punch that would knock out your opponent—she had a WikiHow article open and was illustrating it with enthusiastic demonstrations on Minjun.

You realised, quite suddenly, how happy you were to sit here with your friends. They were smart and cunning enough to rob a bank, escape a prison, and start a money laundering scheme all in a week, but they chose to be sweet and loving and a little vengeful instead. You felt almost giddy.

“He wouldn’t throw the first punch, though,” Jungkook interjected with a hint of frustrated sorrow. Maggie halted her research, retracting her fist from Minjun’s cheek. “He’ll just keep running his mouth until you strike him. And he’ll make sure the provocation is very minimal.”

“Well, sure, but who at this table will attest to any of that?” Luna questioned, undeterred. “Everyone who witnessed Sid throwing the first punch, raise your hands.”

All of you raised your hands in perfect synchronisation, and Jungkook felt himself smile again.

He had never doubted the success of your plan, even if he doubted the details. But sitting here now, while all of you held your hands up, he was fully convinced that this meeting marked the beginning of the end for Sid.

“Right. Okay,” he said. “I like how this is looking.”

“Me too,” Maggie said, locking her phone and slouching in her chair. “I feel better now. Didn’t want to spend the night at the police station.”

“You wouldn’t,” Luna assured her. “We’d bail you out.”

She snickered. “That’s good to—”

Jungkook suddenly jumped up in his chair, interrupting her.

“What about Sid’s bail?” he asked urgently. “Can he—could he pay for his release?”

Everyone at the table turned to you once more. When you and Minjun did your research yesterday, your focus had quickly turned from penalties to potential loopholes that Sid might use with his money, so you understood their sudden concern.

“No,” you said. “Apparently, it doesn’t work like that here. They would give him bail automatically; he wouldn’t have to pay. But they need to charge him with a specific offence first, and they won’t know the exact charges until they know what, uh, substances he was carrying on him and keeping in his hotel room—oh, and how much. Not to mention, bail may be denied if there is a risk that he’ll commit further crimes. And we know Sid is violent. He will not sit idly in his little cell.”

“Yeah,” Minjun agreed. “We’re 95% sure he won’t be given bail.”

You nodded, grateful for his confidence.

“So, we definitely won’t be in London by the time they charge him,” Maggie concluded, frowning. She regretted not ordering whiskey instead of espresso; alcohol helped her think.

“Definitely not,” you confirmed. “Our plan concludes with Sid’s arrest, everything else is not our problem anymore. And we’re only participating in this as the staff of Rated Riot, so the only people who will have to speak to the police are those who will be present when they arrive at the venue tomorrow. So, ideally, only Luna, Mick, and me. That’s it. That’s as far as we’re getting involved.”

“Wait,” Jungkook said. He understood the need for Mick’s presence and felt comforted that you’d have someone from security with you, but now he was worried about your friend. “Why Luna?”

“We need an additional witness to observe Sid’s erratic behaviour,” Luna explained. “We thought it’d be better to have someone random, and not just your manager and head of security there.”

Jungkook kept his gaze on hers. “How do you know he’ll behave erratically?”

She gave him a look.

“Right.” He leaned back in his seat. “Good point. Okay.”

He already knew that the odds were good that Sid would try to provoke you tomorrow, but now he realised that even if Sid suddenly decided to be docile, it wouldn’t matter. The five of you were tight as a glove—Sid could sit in a corner, purring and meowing, and you would all collectively claim that he was threatening you.

Finally, Jungkook realised that he had narrowly escaped something dreadful, and he felt very grateful to find himself at this table, and not on the other side of this plan.

“I, uh—this isn’t a concern exactly,” you said after a minute. “But I have to say that a lot of this hinges on Sid trusting my word, and I’m—well, I’m not sure if he’ll care about anything I tell him.”

Minjun looked almost offended. He was the one who devised this strategy after you told him that you needed a way to quickly draw the attention of the authorities to Sid.

Why don’t you call him? Minjun had suggested. And invite him to meet you.

You had thought he’d decided to go insane right before talking to you. But you’d kept your suspicions to yourself because, ultimately, calling Sid seemed like the only option. It felt unfair, however, not to mention your doubts now.

“Actually, I agree,” Jungkook said, giving you a long look. “I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with any of that. You’ll have to be alone in a room with Sid. And we can’t be sure that he won’t—”

“Sid will care,” Minjun asserted, ignoring everything Jungkook had said. He kept his gaze on you, his certainty almost as intimidating as it was comforting. “Maybe not because he has feelings for you, but because you’re Jungkook’s girlfriend.”

Maggie looked up from her phone, surprised about the possibility of Sid having any feelings at all, and turned to Luna. The two of them finally exchanged the look that Luna had been waiting for.

“And you’re okay with doing this?” Jungkook asked you, his gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips. He was careful not to miss any hint of dishonesty.

“I’m okay if this actually works,” you said. “If Sid shows up. If we get him arrested. I’m willing to try this if you’re all sure that we’ll succeed. And I wouldn’t be all by myself anyway.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that part,” Maggie said to Jungkook, rolling up her sleeves for emphasis. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be at the scene tomorrow, but she felt she had a personal debt to settle with Sid, so she would find a way to interfere if she had to. “I can fight.”

Jungkook looked at her in a way that was more amused than it was skeptical—Maggie was very small in size, but very big in energy—and she tried to flex her arms to prove her point.

“I believe you,” he said, a smile breaking through his uncertainty. “I just don’t like that this will all be happening during our show. I won’t be there with you.”

“That’s just the plan,” you said. “We need to keep you away from him so that anything he says later won’t carry any weight. He’s obsessed with you and he has problems, and you’ve been distancing yourself from him for some time now. We’ll release an official statement about your, uh, separation once we’re done with him. And the leaked blacklist will back up our claims.”

A resigned acceptance clouded Jungkook’s features: he understood that this was the right decision, but he couldn’t help feeling unhappy about it. However, although he would have typically complained and whined about this—and you expected him to—now his posture was stoic.

You felt a little dispirited. You knew you wouldn’t joke around much today, but Jungkook’s unusually serious demeanour emphasised the gravity of the situation even more.

“Okay,” Minjun said. “Any other concerns?”

You shifted your gaze to him.

“Actually, I have another one,” you said. “I’m also worried about how this will affect your parents.”

The two girls beside you exchanged another glance—you hadn’t explained Minjun’s family’s dependence on Sid’s mother yet.

“If Sid’s in prison?” Minjun asked, unperturbed. “Well, their stocks will probably drop, so it will be weird to throw a party. I think we’ll celebrate quietly.”

You glanced at Jungkook, and he met your eye with an amused grin.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked Minjun then.

“Are you kidding?” Minjun looked optimistic and upbeat. He seemed ready to take on the world, and locking up Sid was just the first step. “We should have done this years ago.”

Maggie suddenly slammed her palm on the table, forcing everyone’s coffee cups to rattle against the plates.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” she exclaimed, and her excitement quickly spread to the rest of the table.

“I agree,” Luna added, much quieter. “But maybe it’s time we headed out. The people at the next table are whispering and, uh, pointing at Jungkook.”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows and turned to you instead of looking around, his expression filled with a shocked wonder. He had only been recognised in public a handful of times since Rated Riot started out, and each instance had left an indelible mark on him.

You gave him a smile and a nod that spurred him out of his chair and towards the people at the neighbouring table, all of whom held their breaths when he stood up.

You glanced back at your friends—all smiling as they watched Jungkook introduce himself and singlehandedly cut off the air supply of four different people—and you thought about how wonderful it would have been if you had met Maggie and Luna earlier. If Jungkook and Minjun had stopped entertaining Sid’s whims sooner. If you and Jungkook had never broken up at all.

Perhaps, you thought, there was an alternative universe where you’d known and loved these people your whole life. You felt very close to that universe now.

Just as you finished your breakfast—where the five of you consumed one cup of coffee and half a slice of tiramisu in total—you executed the first step of your plan and sent a text message to Sid. It was innocuous, just a conversational, “are you ever going to stop doing this?” but it was meant to serve as a subtle precursor—so as not to approach him out of the blue tomorrow.

Then, as the five of you exited the restaurant, Maggie got enthralled by the most gracious little corgi sitting at a table, and dragged Luna and Minjun (who looked like he was not sure what was happening) back inside to ask for pictures. You and Jungkook opted for a scenic route back to the hotel instead.

Although the day was overcast, the sky did not look particularly ominous, offering instead an unexpected serenity that you thought you could use to clear your thoughts.

Interestingly, fresh air was not what you really needed at all. It was his hand holding yours as you strolled past extravagant hotels and expensive restaurants near Hyde Park, weaving through crowds of rushing tourists and cranky locals.

You felt significantly lighter with your hand in his, but Jungkook still appeared troubled. The shadows on his face were far more pronounced than those in the sky.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked.

He let out a weary sigh as he met your gaze. He seemed overwhelmed—as though his head was trying very hard to grow twice as large to contain all his thoughts, while the rest of his body fought desperately to resist the growth.

“I—well, I didn’t want to say this in front of everyone,” he started slowly, “but I’m worried about you.”

“Me?” You frowned. “Wh—because of Sid?”

“Because you’re doing all of this on top of your other responsibilities,” he said. “I don’t want you to burn out.”

Your expression visibly softened, but dark edges of guilt still coated the appreciation in your eyes. You felt disappointed in yourself—for letting it get so far that, over a week later, Jungkook still sometimes looked at you as though you might faint any second.

“That won’t happen,” you replied, your tone gentle, but determined. “I promise. And I’m not alone. I have so much help. And this won’t—it’s just a few days. We deal with it tomorrow, and it’s over.”

“Okay. But what if it’s not?” he questioned then. “We’re heading to Paris right after we, potentially, deal with Sid. And what if it doesn’t work, and we’re not here to fix it?”

You had to admit, this same possibility had been weighing on your mind ever since Jude first mentioned the bags of drugs in Sid’s hotel room. However, as soon as you saw Jungkook’s solemn features, you found yourself resisting all these worries. You would figure it out, no matter what happened, just so he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Then it won’t work.”

“He’ll be furious,” Jungkook said. “Even more vindictive than before.”

“I know,” you replied. “But no matter what he decides to do, we won’t back down, either.”

Jungkook frowned so deeply that several new wrinkles declared permanent residence between his brows. He dreaded the idea of spending a lifetime seeking revenge.

You sensed the reason for his apprehension—you wanted this over quickly, too—and instinctively squeezed his hand.

“I’m with you,” you said, reaching for your phone to check if Sid had reacted to your text. “And I told you, I’m not entirely convinced that this will work, either. I mean, here, look. Sid hasn’t replied. But if this plan falls through, we’ll come up with something else. Maybe something—well, less grand.”

He glanced at your phone, toying with his lip ring between his teeth. The prospect of failure felt more daunting with each second that Sid remained free to do whatever he pleased.

Jungkook didn’t want to do something else. He wanted this to work.

“Maybe he hasn’t replied because Jude deleted everything,” he suggested, searching for a plausible explanation that aligned with your plan. “Including the texts.”

“No, that’s tomorrow,” you reminded him. He groaned. “We need—Sid needs to notice my texts first. Then we delete them. I’ll use a disposable SIM card tomorrow, so there’s no trace that I ever contacted him.”

Jungkook felt like his head had already grown far too large for his body. He was a bit unsteady on his feet and clutched your hand tighter.

“Right,” he said. “Okay. That—yeah, no.” He lifted your intertwined hands to scratch something at his forehead. “My head is spinning. I can’t remember that much.”

You gave him a sympathetic nod. “That’s fine.”

“I’m not saying that I’d be too dumb to follow a plan like this,” he felt the need to insist.

“I didn’t think that.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued. “There’s a lot.”

You nodded in exaggerated agreement again. “Mhmm.”

His eagerness to prove his intelligence to you was very endearing. But it was a little funny, too, and Jungkook stopped walking to study your expression more closely. After a moment, he came to an appalling conclusion.

“You think I’m dumb,” he said.

A wide smile finally broke out on your face. “I think you’re very pretty.”

“Very pr—okay.” His expression shifted as you laughed, pulling on his hand to continue walking after an elderly couple gave you a rather well-deserved disapproving look for blocking their path. “Pretty and dumb. Is that your type?”

“It is,” you said, grinning. “That’s why you’re the only boyfriend I’ve had.”

He raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “Oh—wow. Wow. I am both very flattered and very offended.”

You chuckled, gently pushing his shoulder with yours. Jungkook shook his head and finally smiled, too. But right as he prepared to say something else, he ended up having to quickly yank your hand, pulling you into him and out of the way of an oncoming bicycle.

“Shit,” you were breathless against his chest as the bike drove past, your hair whipping forcefully in the wind, “thank you.”

“Pretty and dumb,” he said, allowing you to take a step away from him now that the danger has passed, “but with great reflexes, huh?”

You laughed again, leaning into him when you did and successfully dissolving everything sharp and uncomfortable in his chest.

“I know you’re not dumb,” you said. “And let’s be realistic: Minjun and I had been simmering in the details of this plan for days. You just barely learned about it a few hours ago. We’ve got this. I wanted you to know what we’ll do, but I don’t want you to be involved at all.”

“Yeah. I—no, I just…” he faltered, weighing his next words. The thought of everything that would happen tomorrow made his stomach feel very heavy. “I feel like you’re trying to protect me from Sid by keeping me out of this, and I’m—I don’t know how that makes me feel.”

“We’re not just keeping you out, we’re keeping the whole band out,” you said. “I want to protect all four of you. And if anything, you’re the only member who isn’t entirely excluded. Does that… make it any better?”

Jungkook considered this for a moment.

“Not sure,” he said. “Because I’m still not participating.”

Exhaling softly, you looked around, searching for a quiet spot on the pavement where the two of you could step away from the crowd. Nearby, there were two traditional phone booths that tourists were gathered around, obstructing your view. Once you passed them, you noticed a parking meter right by the park gate that everyone seemed to avoid. You decided to pause there.

Jungkook glanced around before stopping in front of you, slightly unsettled by the large, dark green hedge covering the park fence, and all the bugs that emerged from it—bees, mostly. They all seemed very curious about him.

“Okay, look at it this way,” you began. “Sid has known you and Minjun since you were kids. He knows all your weak points. He can predict exactly how you and Minjun will react in any situation. Sure, you took him off guard when you gave up your Katana, but he can still read you very well. He doesn’t have that luxury with me, Luna, or Maggie. He’s less certain about our reactions. Who else could do this if not us?”

“Right,” Jungkook murmured. “But you’re still going out of your way for me, and I feel—”

“And why wouldn’t I?” you interrupted. “I love you.”

He thought he died for just a second and it felt surprisingly nice: he could feel something soft and warm against his skin—the phantom shivers of every time you’ve touched him before—and he could taste a sweet, lingering flavour on his tongue—from every time he felt your mouth against his own.

He would never tire of hearing you say you loved him. The only downside was that his chest usually attempted to collapse in on itself right after that, leaving him speechless for anywhere from a minute to several days.

“Not to mention,” you continued while Jungkook fought against the haze in his mind and the bumblebees around his neck. “Sid has long stopped at just you. With the videos and pictures he’s sending you, he’s threatening everyone on this tour. Anything that affects your reputation, affects the band and the staff, too. So, when you look at it like that, we’re really doing this for everyone.”

Finally, Jungkook managed to stop his thoughts from pulling him in every direction and anchored himself to this pavement right here—with you, and the persistent bugs, and the chattering of people as they walked past you.

He squeezed your hand that he had not let go—not now, and probably not ever, really—and exhaled.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said. “But I was the one who brought him here, and that’s—I guess that’s what’s bothering me right now.”

“You did bring him here,” you agreed.

“I—oh.” He looked up, his eyebrows knitting together. He had expected something else. An ‘I told you that was a shit decision’ or a sarcastic ‘yeah, and thanks for that’—but your kind expression did not change. “Y-yeah. I did.”

“But we’ll get him out,” you said.

Jungkook held your hand and observed you, trying to process this while simultaneously trying to figure out what was it about him that attracted these British bees to him so much. It couldn’t be his cologne, because you loved him far more than he’d allowed himself to believe. It couldn’t be his clothes, either, because you were looking at him like you believed anything was possible in this world, and he thought it really was.

He realised that to you, he must have appeared as if he were struggling to interpret prehistoric cave wall paintings, and this process was causing him immense pain. He cleared his throat.

“You don’t blame me?” he asked.

“For making a stupid decision?” you replied, and shrugged your shoulders after he nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He pressed his lips together, his expression a mixture of incredulity and pure delight.

“Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

You were smiling again, and he was a little too proud to admit how much your loving eyes and your great mood soothed his anxiety.

“And what would I gain from punishing you?” you added. “You’ve already seen through Sid. You’ve had enough. You learned your lesson. You’re good.”

Jungkook felt his chest swell as though he’d swallowed the swarms of bees around him, and now they’ve built a cosy little home right on the hills of his heart.

“You think so?” he asked, his eyes glistening.

“Why do you look so excited?” you countered. “Do you have more dickhead friends I haven’t met yet?”

He chuckled, waving his hand around his face. “Can I answer that inside the park? I’m afraid these bees are in love with me.”

You had already noticed his struggle with the bees—it was hard not to, one was perched right on his shoulder—and you found your own apparent immunity to this new bee predicament especially entertaining.

“Want me to fight them for you?” you suggested.

“Oh, in a battle of who loves me more?” he quipped, swatting vigorously at three stubborn bees that were particularly intrigued in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said. “We’ll all sting you at the same time, and whoever dies first, wins.”

He snorted. “These are bumblebees. They don’t die after they sting.”

“Oh, so maybe we should just stay here,” you teased. “You all seem to know quite a bit about each other already.”

He squinted at you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you jealous I’ve grown so close to these bees?”

“Of course. They’re all over you.”

“I’d rather have you all over—”

“Public park!” you interjected hastily, cutting him off.

His laughter in response was unapologetic and infectious—you found yourself shaking your head to suppress a treacherous smile.

“Did you also research public indecency laws?” he asked, turning past the menacing, bee-infested hedge.

You followed him through the gates into the park, your fingers intertwined with his. The clouds above had thickened, and the wind had picked up, but there was nothing about this afternoon that Jungkook did not enjoy.

“Actually, I did,” you replied. “Because of that stunt you pulled in New York last year.”

Recognition flashed in his eyes for just a fleeting moment before he pursed his lips, distancing himself from the memory. A gentle breeze swept through the park, rustling leaves and carrying the scent of damp earth; it would rain soon.

“I don’t remember,” he declared.

“Really?” you responded wryly. You both knew very well that he remembered. “Nothing familiar to you about the busking that turned into half-naked dancing in the middle of the street?”

“Nope,” he said. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“There was a lot more grinding than actual dancing, now that I think about it,” you pressed on. You noticed, through your peripherals, the way he scrunched his nose and furrowed his brows, evidently despising the memory he claimed he did not have. “Someone had drawn a crown of thorns on your forehead. You had a—sort of a cloth wrapped around your waist, and nothing else. Almost everyone on the face of the earth accused you of being in a sex cult after those pictures came out.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he insisted. “They must have confused me with someone else.”

“Sure. They must have,” you relented, pouting your lips in mock-sympathy. “There are plenty of people in sex cults out there.”

“Exactly,” he replied, finally meeting your eyes.

Something about you bringing up this incident—“incidents” were a prominent category of his actions in his mind—reminded him of the videos Sid had sent him. However, with you, the feelings in his chest were vastly different.

You were playful. Lighthearted. Your love language was teasing the hell out of him.

Sid was venomous. Arrogant. Vile. His intentions were humiliation and destruction.

You were joking about a matter for which Jungkook undoubtedly owed you another apology. He could tell that you knew he would apologise eventually, but you were hoping—with every jest, every tender smile, every affectionate bite you sent his way—that he would not plunge himself into self-loathing again.

He wouldn’t. He had matured significantly since the day under discussion. He knew he had, even if it was easy to forget.

“I’m surprised how well you remember all that, actually,” he commented. “Are you secretly into sexual rituals?”

Your scoff returned his smile to his face.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said. “I keep a picture of you from that day on my desk at home. I look at it every night before I fall asleep.”

Jungkook kicked a few dry, scattered leaves on the pavement. When he glanced back at you, his grin bordered on ridiculous.

“I am aware that you’re trying to mock me right now,” he said, “but I feel obligated to inform you that I’m taking absolutely everything you say as a compliment.”

You nodded sagely. “I would expect nothing less from you.”

“Good,” he replied. “Please tell me more about how you look at pictures of me before you fall asleep every night.”

You tsked reproachfully at his grin.

“I take back what I said about you being smart,” you said. “You are the biggest idiot I’ve met.”

“Oh,” his face was jubilant, “but that just means you love me that much more, right?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’m afraid so.”

He felt the swarms of bees in his chest, and they were buzzing incessantly—eager, restless, and yearning. They took every emotion he felt and spread them across his skin.

“I knew it,” he said, delighted by the look on your face. You were so captivating when you were trying to resist smiling; it was why he never stopped teasing you. “This must be awful for you.”

“Mmhm. It is,” you said. “You’re like a disease.”

He nodded, attempting a formal tone. “How bad is it?”

“Chronic and untreatable, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, thank you.”

A deep, vibrant laughter finally erupted from his chest, and he stopped walking. Tugging on your linked hands, he drew you closer and wrapped his arms around your waist before you could say another word.

“I love you so much, you know that?” he whispered, his voice low against your neck. “It’s not even funny how much.”

He rocked gently on his feet with you in his arms, and you could not tell if the vibrations you felt came from his chest or yours.

“More than the bees love you?” you asked, your hands sliding over his shoulders.

“Much more than the bees love me.”

“Oh, must be quite a lot, then.”

“It is,” he said, chuckling hopelessly. “It really fucking is.”

He tightened his already firm grip until he felt your deep exhale against the side of his neck. He held you and his heartbeat chased after yours while the bustling crowds, the rustling leaves, and the solemn park benches whispered incomprehensibly around you, their frustration about your public affection lost on you.

When he pulled away a minute—or ten—later, he realised that his cologne had brushed off on you. There was something wildly intoxicating about you smelling exactly like him, and he needed a minute to make the park stop spinning.

“I, um—” he started to say, but his voice broke. He cleared his throat, took your hand in his to continue down the park, and tried again. “Jokes aside, I feel—I really appreciate what you do for me. What you’re doing to fix my shit right now, and what you—what you’ve always done to fix my shit. I don’t say that enough. Thank you. For taking care of Sid, too.”

You shook your head. You knew you couldn’t tackle Sid alone—probably no one could.

“This is a team effort,” you replied. “If this works, you can bake us all a cake later.”

Jungkook no longer had even half of a doubt that this would work, one way or the other. And if he’d stayed with you longer, he would have easily started to believe that Rated Riot would be elected presidents, too—one after the other.

“I’m not much of a baker,” he said.

“I’ll help,” you offered.

“Your help,” he responded, his smile turning mischievous, “usually consists of walking around, eating chocolate sprinkles, and distracting me.”

It was your turn to look offended.

“I’m the only one who remembers how many eggs the recipe needs,” you retorted, dignified. “How do I distract you?”

“How can I remember the eggs when you’re dancing and singing around me?” he countered.

He noticed the way your chin quivered as you fought to maintain a serious expression.

“Well, that’s on you,” you said. “Any skilled chef knows to keep their staff busy so they wouldn’t have time to sing and dance. Also, don’t play good songs when we’re in the kitchen.”

“Alright, we’ll bake in silence,” he decided. “And you’ll do everything while I sit and order you around.”

The corners of your lips finally curled into a smirk.

“That’s interesting,” you said, your thumb lightly brushing over his as he swayed your hands. “Switching up the dynamics.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, very intrigued by the insinuation in your words. “You want me to order you around?”

“I mean…” You shrugged. “I’d like to see you try.”

He stopped walking suddenly, right in the midst of a group of senior ladies, forcing a few of them to gasp and walk around him with very exaggerated expressions of disbelief as though they’d never felt more wronged (there were a few obligatory comments about “kids these days,” too, of course).

Jungkook, undeterred, took a step to the right until he was standing in front of you.

“Kiss me,” he said.

The demand in his tone caught you off guard, but you tried to blink away your surprise. “I didn’t mean right now—”

“Kiss me,” he repeated more assertively.

You felt your stomach lighten and go for a little float inside you, like a loose helium-filled balloon.

“We are in the middle of a busy park,” you said, looking around. “We’re blocking—”

“Kiss me,” he interrupted again, his voice firm but lively, “or I won’t move.”

You poked the inside of your cheek with your tongue, torn between amusement and apprehension as you battled his self-assured grin, while passersby shot disapproving glances at the two of you.

“See, there’s ordering people around,” you said, “and there’s acting like a three-year-old.”

He simply shrugged, relentless. “I see no difference.”

“Do I sound like a toddler when I tell you to do things?”

“Sometimes.”

His satisfied grin only gained prominence when you scoffed and looked away, rolling your eyes.

You questioned, sometimes, how you managed to put up with him for so long. But then you also questioned, much more often, how you’d survived without him at all.

“If I were a teacher,” you said, “you’d be in detention for disrupting everyone’s day.”

“Oh! And what would I have to do?” he teased, mischief gleaming proudly in his eyes. “Write an essay on the importance of respecting authority?”

“That might do you good, actually,” you retorted. “Maybe you should consider writing it anyway.”

He shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side. “Kiss me and I’ll do it.”

He looked so utterly unfazed that you did feel very compelled to lay your hands on him and do something.

He might have been one of the most exasperating people you’ve met in your life, always ready to say something cheeky no matter what you told him, always causing trouble wherever he went, never letting you breathe in peace for just one second.

You were outrageously grateful to have found him.

“People are staring at us,” you said, but there was no conviction in your voice. “We look like idiots.”

Jungkook admired your cautiousness, but he wanted you to let go of it. People would always stare; he just wanted you to kiss him.

“They’re staring because you’re defying authority,” he countered easily.

“Jungkook, just—”

“Oh, see?” he cut in, his tone triumphant. “Maybe you should be the one to write that essay.”

You groaned very demonstratively, but he saw the corners of your lips lift. Finally, you took a small step towards him and pressed your lips to his in a quick peck. He pulled you into him just as you attempted to pull away, and kissed you properly.

At last, the crowds disappeared, allowing you to dissolve in the warmth of his lips and come back to life with all the shivers that ran down your spine when he touched the back of your neck. You felt his smile and felt your own, too, when he brought his tongue over yours, deepening the kiss.

“You are insufferable,” you managed to mumble between kisses, and the affection in your voice was impossible to mistake for something else.

“I love you,” he whispered in response, each word sweet and sugary against your lips.

You kissed him once more—to soothe your racing heart—and then once more again—to soothe his—before you pulled away, whispering back, “I love you.”

Jungkook only managed half of a pleased “I—” before he felt a few soft, cold droplets land on his forehead and both of his cheeks. He raised his head.

“Is it me, or is it—”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, looking up at the angry clouds. “It’s raining.”

“Do you—should we go inside?” he asked, looking around.

There was no specific “inside” anywhere close to the two of you, but you looked at him again and spotted something at the very edge of the park behind him, right across a busy bike lane.

“There’s a little gazebo over there,” you suggested, pointing.

Jungkook turned around and seemed to have an epiphany when he noticed the crooked structure.

“In the—in the park,” he mumbled to himself, feeling a little weak in the knees. He took your hand in his again. “Let’s go.”

He led you straight into the bicycle traffic as he crossed the road, causing a commotion and undoubtedly endangering everyone’s lives—and not even realising it in his eagerness to get to the gazebo. You attempted to raise your hand in apology to the cyclists, but quickly realised that the smile on your face likely made the gesture seem mocking.

It occurred to you that you and Jungkook were being very disruptive today, very annoying, very much in everyone’s faces about your relationship. And you realised, as he pulled you past the groups of people running from the rain, that you did not actually mind this all that much. Or at all.

There was a certain beauty in the unapologetic way that people in love behaved in public—grinning at their phones, kissing at bus stops, holding hands on narrow streets barely wide enough for one person. Running across the park in the rain and stumbling into every puddle possible.

When you and Jungkook finally reached the gazebo, you were both drenched and breathless. And you realised, belatedly, that it was not a suitable shelter at all: there were no railings or benches, the roof was not only crooked, but obviously decaying, and the rain splattered you if you got too close to the edge.

But you’d been here before: caught in the rain on your way to the restaurant for your first date seven years ago, seeking refuge under a much sturdier roof of a similar gazebo in an empty park, while the vividly green trees—almost a rarity so late in September—whispered wearily from the heavy rain on their leaves.

You’d been here before, and you did not want to go anywhere else.

“I’m starting to think,” you began, “that there’s something about us that attracts rain.”

Jungkook was thinking this very thought and laughed so heartily that the rain stopped for just a second, shamed into silence by a sound far more charming than the eager pitter-patter against the roof.

“You think we could make some money out of it?” he joked, his eyes energetic. “Maybe add a little performance to it? Rain dance?”

“We might have accidentally performed one already,” you said, stepping closer to the edge of the gazebo to watch the raindrops splash against the damp ground.

“You’re right,” he agreed, taking your hand in his and guiding you to face him. “Let me see.”

He brought your hand to his chest and you watched, puzzled, as he closed his eyes and pretended to concentrate very hard on the sounds around him. People across the street screeched as they ran from the rain. A stubborn gull was screeching in the exact same way somewhere overhead.

Jungkook clutched your hand tighter and hummed. He was joking, clearly putting up a show, but you heard the faint sound of distant thunder, and the joy on his face turned luminous.

“I knew it!” he exclaimed as you laughed, and the rain, encouraged by your approval, began to pour even harder.

You watched him revel in this delightful coincidence—or an elusive sign—and allowed his radiant smile to bring back the memories that you had locked away in a box you didn’t dare touch unless you were half-asleep.

It had been raining on your first date seven years ago, but it had also been raining when he suggested that date. You’d felt invincible then, the only one staying dry in the whole world, as you nearly sprinted home from the party where he’d asked you out. You stumbled over the threshold of your dorm room, your shoes wet and slippery, and landed on your knees, shouting the news to your roommate, who was startled out of bed by your loud entrance.

This was the beginning of the happiness you’d felt almost every day since then. But this happiness came with a price: you would come to class and you could not rest, could not find it in yourself to calm down, until Jungkook arrived and took his usual seat behind you. You wouldn’t even have to look, you’d always know he had come because you’d feel a sudden sense of peace—and then you’d lock eyes with him across the room.

For years after this, even today, when you tried to find a period of your life where you’d felt the happiest, these were the moments that your mind returned to.

“What are you thinking?” Jungkook asked, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek and bringing your focus back to the rainy moment with his touch.

“It—it’s been seven years and now we’re back in the rain,” you replied, distracted by the lingering echo of the years that have passed outside this gazebo. “Nothing’s changed.”

A faint smile danced on his lips.

“Yeah. Nothing important has,” he agreed. “I still love you.”

You met his gaze, a little thrown off. “W-what do you mean, still? That was our first date seven years ago.”

“Yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows at the confusion on your face. “Oh, did you think I asked you out right after I saw you? No, no. I spent a whole year absolutely fucking pining after you before I finally mustered the courage to ask you out.”

You assumed he might have liked you a little, based on the way he’d introduced himself to you. But you obviously didn’t know about his alleged year-long pining that preceded your first date. And you weren’t sure if you wanted to believe him, given your own year-long pining. It made little sense for the two of you to like each other for so long and not do anything about it.

On the other hand, considering the past few years, perhaps it made perfect sense.

Your heartbeat had sped up, so you argued childishly, “no, you didn’t.”

“I did. Ask anyone,” he said, grinning. He wasn’t as embarrassed about this as he used to be—and your surprise made it easier for him to admit everything. “I never knew how to love you quietly. But it still took me ages to talk to you even with everyone’s encouragement. And that, uh—our first conversation didn’t go very well.”

“Wait—what do you mean? It went very well,” you disagreed. “I remember everything you said word for word. ‘We have Sociology together, I saw you sleeping in class, very cute by the way, the professor does not know how to shut up, have you seen that new Studio Ghibli film, I recently watched their classic with some friends, My Neighbour Jungkook, I’m Totoro by the way, I thought maybe—wait—no—’”

He interrupted you once your smile had grown dangerously wide. “Don’t you dare make fun of me.”

“I would never!” you said through laughter. “I think I knew I was in it for life the moment you said all that.”

He had to look down because the bees inside him had multiplied, spreading rapidly to his head and his lungs and his stomach, and he was a little concerned that he’d start buzzing, too.

“Not one period, nothing,” you continued, a melancholic haze in your eyes. “Just commas and an endless stream of thought. You could have asked me to bury a body, I would have said yes.”

He smiled, but everything inside of him was turning upside down, returning to normal, then turning downside up.

Every time he remembered how he approached you seven years ago, he either felt a little uncomfortable or completely mortified. He’d never thought you’d remember that day so well and with such fondness.

“By the way,” you added when he did not speak, “you did look a little like you were about to confess to accidentally murdering my roommate when you started to speak.”

This finally made him chuckle, and he felt his skin thaw from the frozen state of amazement. He remembered hoping that you’d forget all about what he’d said that day. Now he realised he had never felt more thrilled that you remembered.

“I know,” he said. “I was shaking.”

“Yeah. I, um—” you trailed off, needing another minute. “I had a crush on you, too, actually. For a long while.”

His smile faded, replaced by a look of criminal disbelief. “You did not.”

You recognised your own suspicion in his words and smiled. However, unlike Jungkook, who owned up to his stressful pining and memorable first impression, you did not feel ready to confess to your silent sulking quite as easily.

“I did,” you said. “But you turned away every time I looked at you on campus, so I thought, oh, okay. That guy hates me for some reason. Nevermind.”

“I didn—I never—”

“I actually made a playlist before we met,” you added quickly before you could change your mind. “And I, uh, kept updating it throughout our relationship.”

You did not look at him when you said this, so you missed the befuddled look on his face.

“A pl—you made a playlist?” he repeated, his thoughts momentarily derailed. He couldn’t even hear the rain anymore. “And you never told me?”

“And I will continue to act like you don’t know about it,” you said.

He was too ecstatic to care. He hadn’t dared to imagine that he would have such a strong presence in your thoughts that you would create a playlist about him—for him? (he thought he might faint)—before you even met.

“No, b-but I’m supposed to be the one making grand gestures in our relationship, and you have a playlist about me? Ab-about us?” he questioned, almost frantic. “Is it—well, what songs are in it? About our relationship?”

You tried to put your words together, your slow, calculated breaths a stark contrast against his passionate energy. Another clap of thunder, unusually intense, rumbled in the sky.

“Sort of,” you finally answered. You thought that a playlist did not come anywhere close to everything he’d done and attempted to do for you, but you still struggled to articulate yourself. “Or songs that we both liked. Songs that we listened to together. Songs that we discovered on roadtrips—just, uh, stuff like that.”

He shook his head, every part of his skin itching with an unfathomable urge to hear these songs.

“You have to let me listen to it,” he stated.

“No,” you said, giving a determined shake of your head. “It’s enough that you know it exists.”

“I will absolutely never shut up about this,” he retorted, gesturing with his hands to emphasise his commitment to being annoying, “and I might end up telling more people.”

“I will kill you if I have to,” you warned.

“So I will haunt you, then,” he returned. “Is it on Spotify?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s private.”

“I am not above pulling a Sid and stealing your phone,” he said, resolute.

You snorted despite yourself.

“Okay. Fine,” you said. “Maybe I’ll give you the link after.”

Jungkook waited for further clarification, but you decided you’d said enough.

He was confused. He no longer had any clear delineations of time in his life—ever since he found you again, his whole life had shifted to “after.”

“After—after Sid?” he asked.

“After everything,” you replied, unintentionally ominous as your gaze wandered to the fragmented reflections of the clouds on the rain-soaked pavement. “After we leave London. After we deal with the label. After it stops fucking raining every time we go out together.”

Jungkook thought he could already see these things: the Parisian streets after you’ve left Sid in London, the peace after you’ve told the label about your relationship, the sun in the sky after the rain lost its courage to threaten you again.

“Okay,” he relented, his features softening. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Your lips curved into a gentle smile. “I know you will.”

He hummed, stepping on a loose floorboard with the edge of his boot.

“Now, then,” he said, “tell me about this crush you supposedly had on me.”

“It was a crush,” you insisted, your voice growing more fervent right away.

Jungkook smiled but tried to remain collected. He had decided it was better for his sanity not to believe you.

“I liked you ever since I saw you at that first freshman party,” you continued and he realised that he was absolutely, without a doubt not collected at all. “I spent that entire night scrolling through the list of people invited to this event on Facebook until I found your profile. But I didn’t dare to send you a friend request, because—well, you know. We hadn’t talked or anything. I thought maybe you’re not interested.”

He thought his heart might stop because this freshman event was where he first saw you—and for every waking and sleeping moment since then, he had been interested.

“I noticed you around campus after that,” you continued. “And I would have talked to you first, I think. If you hadn’t looked like you dreamed of my violent death every time you met my eye.”

He groaned, rubbing his eyes with the pillows of his palms.

“Well, obviously, I liked you too much to look at you and not glare,” he said, even though none of that was obvious. “I actually thought I developed some sort of an allergy right when I first saw you.”

You raised your eyebrows. “An allergy?”

“Yeah. Shortness of breath, just feeling hot all over, sweating profusely,” he elaborated, moving his hands away from his face to reveal his faint, nostalgic smile. “That had never happened to me before. It was either the dust in the room or you. And there wasn’t a lot of dust.”

You pursed your lips before your cheeks could stretch any further.

“I don’t know,” you teased, “they don’t clean the building that well.”

“It was you,” he stated firmly. “Got my breath catching in my throat. Gave me butterflies, made my heart race—made me feel all the things that people write embarrassing bubblegum pop songs about.”

You looked down to collect yourself before all the signals that your heart was sending to your brain could reflect on your face.

“Catchy songs, though,” you murmured.

“Catchy, sure,” he agreed, his tone wistful. “Until all those things they sing about happen to you, and you feel like you’re drowning.”

You felt a little like you might drown just now as your heart pounded in your chest, angry at you for another wasted year.

“I’m really happy we finally ended up together,” he said. “Seven years ago, and today.”

You finally looked up at him and remembered all the times when you used to worry that you had already lived through your happiest moments, and any little joy you’d come across later would pale in comparison. You knew better now.

Jungkook was your happiest moment, and he was right here. He’d always been right here.

“I love you,” you said, a little suffocated by the overwhelming warmth in your chest. “I’ve loved you every day for all these years.”

He was smiling so widely that his lip ring dug into his stretched lips. He reached out to caress your cheek, resting his palm on the side of your face for a moment, his eyes bright and glittering.

He kissed you slowly, his bottom lip lingering between your lips while the rain washed the noise of the city away. He tasted love and longing on your tongue, and he had never in his life wished for the sunshine to stay away longer.

The rain listened. It had become a fundamental part of your present and a prophet of your future: the two of you were going to spend the rest of your lives listening to the rain and falling in love.

Since Rated Riot had a day off and the other members let you know where they were by bickering continuously in the groupchat, you and Jungkook locked yourselves in his hotel room when you returned.

You changed into dry clothes first, and then noticed that Sid still hadn’t replied to your text. In case he really hadn’t received it, you sent another one—with just question marks—hoping that he’d interpret your repeated messages as a sign of your desperation to talk to him.

You put your phone away and climbed back into bed. The sun had already set outside the window, casting faint, elongated shadows around you in the room. You and Jungkook listened to the music playing on his phone and returned to the snacks he had bought for your film night a few days earlier.

As the song switched to the latest Bad Omens collaboration, you closed your eyes to nod along, and he reached over to snatch a chocolate-covered cherry bonbon from you, causing a spark of static electricity to pass between you.

“Sorry,” he said, chuckling after he heard you gasp. “It’s from the bees, I think. They must have somehow electrified me.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely something that bees can do,” you played along, sitting up on the bed and unwrapping another candy for him. “Maybe you should take an ice bath to avoid these after-effects.”

He accepted the candy with a grin. “No. I like shocking you when I touch you.”

To be fair, he didn’t need bees or electricity for that—but you decided not to point that out.

You realised how much peace you felt here: listening to music and eating sweets with him across the bed from you. You didn’t think there was anything you still needed in life. Watching him close his eyes as the chocolate melted on his tongue, and hearing him hum with childlike delight as he swallowed, filled an emptiness inside of you that nothing—no trips abroad, no late-night drinks, no shopping sessions—could have filled.

This random moment in his hotel room was nothing at all, yet it was everything.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed, startling you both.

“Sid?” Jungkook asked eagerly, letting the remaining chocolate melt slowly on his fingers while you reached for your phone.

“No,” you replied, checking the screen. “It’s Maggie. She just posted the backstage pictures with our list.”

His expression tightened. “Oh.”

“There’s nothing from Sid,” you added.

Jungkook finally popped the rest of the candy into his mouth. He decided—quite abruptly—that he’s had enough discussions about Sid and everything you’ve been through because of him.

“You know what we should do?” he asked, licking the remnants of the chocolate off his fingers. “We should go to the sea after the tour ends.”

“Oh—we—yeah?” you asked, stumbling over your words. You thought it was very unfair of him to ask you this while running his tongue over his fingers all in the same breath. “We—but we don’t know when that’ll be.”

“Whenever,” he said with a shrug. “Let’s go.”

It took you half of a second to say “okay,” and he didn’t think he’d ever learn how to stop his heart from soaring every time your agreement came so quickly, so easily.

To be honest, you didn’t know why he even asked. It was fairly clear that there weren’t many instances where you would have refused him.

However, your response still painted his features with every warm hue in existence, and he settled back on the bed, resting his head on the pillows and closing his eyes. As you watched him, you were forced to acknowledge one more time that witnessing him like this should have required an admission ticket—and a sign reading, “do not touch the exhibit.”

“I feel like I have everything,” he said, unknowingly echoing every sentiment you felt. “I don’t even care if Sid replies to you and if our plan works.”

You leaned against the pillows on the other side of the bed and turned to your side to face him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” he replied, a melodious hum in his tone. He opened his eyes to meet yours and placed his hand on the pillow beneath his head. “We’re—you’re here with me. The tour is going well, it’s—that’s it. That’s my whole dream.”

He looked beautiful in an almost devastating way. He looked like every extravagant adjective that sounded made-up when you encountered it in writing for the first time: transfixing. Beguiling. Effulgent. Pulchritudinous.

You really wanted to touch the exhibit.

“Do you know how we formed Rated Riot?” he asked suddenly, distracting you.

You raised your eyebrows, then turned your gaze away. Jungkook realised you probably didn’t understand where his question had come from, but you didn’t ask him anything, so he did not explain.

Truthfully, you did not know the complete story behind how Rated Riot got together. You only knew what each of the boys was doing when they first met.

“I don’t know much,” you admitted. “I know that Hoseok kicked things off.”

“Yeah.” Jungkook nodded, then stopped. “Or maybe Namjoon, actually? Because Namjoon saw Hoseok at some gig that he went to. When he asked about his band, Hoseok gave him, like, fifteen business cards. But even though he filled in for all these bands, it was still only maybe one gig per week. That’s nothing. So, Namjoon told him he’s too talented for that shit. He said he needed his own band.”

You recalled Yoongi mentioning that Namjoon was the first producer that Rated Riot have worked with, but you hadn’t realised this was before the band was even formed.

Suddenly, the broken air conditioner in the room whirred back to life, interrupting your thoughts.

“S-so, they started talking,” Jungkook said, momentarily distracted by the loud noise. “Hoseok wanted to be independent, and Namjoon didn’t push him to sign with Jett Records back then. He helped him. Unofficially, I guess. They found Taehyung very randomly at this one after-party for somebody at our label—well, our future label. Namjoon took Hoseok there to network, and Taehyung just happened to be there. No one knows why, but you know Taehyung. He’s always going to be right where he needs to be.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding knowingly. Taehyung always seemed to find his way to the people and places meant for him.

“Yeah, so he was at that party,” Jungkook continued, “and he overheard Namjoon and Hoseok discussing the plan for Hoseok’s band. They were saying that they needed a bassist first. And Taehyung just chimed in like, “I play bass.” Just out of the blue. Namjoon asked him who he was, and he introduced himself. Namjoon then asked what he was doing here, and Taehyung said, “I’ll tell you if you let me join the band”—which he never did, by the way. We still don’t know what he was doing at that party.”

You chuckled softly. Knowing Taehyung, nothing in this story surprised you, but you were still impressed by how quickly his energy captivated Hoseok and Namjoon.

“So, they let him join?” you asked.

“Namjoon claims he auditioned for them first,” Jungkook said, clicking his lips questioningly. “But one time when Hoseok was very drunk, he admitted that he’d felt desperate. Namjoon was busy and couldn’t help him much, so Hoseok had to figure things out on his own. He said he called and invited Taehyung to join right away. He thought they could find a proper bassist later, and Taehyung could fill the spot for the time being. Funny.”

“Oh,” you said. “Because he hadn’t heard him play yet?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “He hadn’t seen Taehyung even holding a bass before. So, he had doubts. I guess I get that. Anyway. He invited Namjoon to their first rehearsal and Taehyung blew Namjoon the fuck away. That’s it. Hoseok said that after that, he was worried Namjoon would sign Taehyung and leave him behind. Not that Namjoon would do that, but uh—yeah. Taehyung was that good.”

“They’re both that good,” you said. “Hoseok never acknowledges his own talent.”

“Right?” he nodded eagerly, turning to his side to look at you. There was a warm smile on your lips that Jungkook really enjoyed. “They’re both amazing.”

“So, how do you come into the picture?” you asked.

He took a breath before answering.

“I saw Hoseok and Taehyung playing at this dive bar that Sid dragged me to,” he said.

Your eyebrows arched in surprise. “No shit?”

“Yeah,” he said, running his tongue over his lips. “He said I was annoying and mopey, so he kept taking me to a new place every night. There were hardly any people at this bar that night. Taehyung was singing, but he sang, like, one verse, and then they launched into the longest instrumental break I’ve ever fucking heard. And it was incredible. Shit, I—I’m more into vocal music. But seeing Hoseok and Taehyung play together—there was another guitarist with them, actually, I don’t even know who it was—anyway. It made me realise how powerful instrumental music can be on its own.”

A dreamy fog had descended upon his face, and only now did you realise that the air conditioner had stopped working again, seemingly calling it a day. You appreciated the silence and the way Jungkook looked when he played back the memories in his head, his eyes shimmering with the bright lights and the sounds of the bar that night.

“I didn’t know that Sid met the other members before you joined the band,” you said.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “He also said he could be a better bassist than ‘that guy.’”

“He—of course,” you groaned. “Wait until Luna hears this. She’ll take care of Sid for us on Taehyung’s behalf, I think.”

He nodded, snickering. “I bet. But Sid actually left the bar before they finished their set. I stayed back. After they wrapped up, I went up to Hoseok at the bar and told him how much I enjoyed their performance. Told him I was thinking of picking up drums—”

He paused abruptly, noticing your surprise before you remembered him mentioning this to you.

“Oh, was this when you and Sid were planning to start your own band?” you asked. You had assumed they were joking.

“Yeah,” he replied, snickering. He had been joking, but he still found drummers to be effortlessly cool. “So, Hoseok delivered the longest fucking speech about what his job was like. Don’t ask him about it, by the way, or you’ll have to sit through three hours of him making drum sounds. But anyway, I was pretty drunk by then, and I don’t know, I guess I hummed along to some song that was playing or something.”

You nodded. Jungkook was almost always humming something.

“Then Hoseok said they needed a vocalist for their band,” he continued, “because Taehyung didn’t want to do it. And he noticed me humming, so he jokingly asked if I happened to sing. I said sometimes, nothing serious. Everybody sings sometimes. He told me to sing something for him. I told him to get fucked, we’re in a bar.” Jungkook had to pause here to let you finish laughing. “And Hoseok just shrugged, like, “no one’s at the mic, why not?””

“That did it for you?” you asked.

He nodded. “That fucking did it for me.”

You laughed again, knowing that he would never shy away from anything that resembled a challenge.

“What did you sing?” you asked.

Jungkook gave you a look. There was only one song that always lingered at the back of his mind. You could have guessed it, really, but you were a little frightened about its significance in this context.

“You—you sang Biffy Clyro?” Your throat was dry all of a sudden and useless questions continued to pour out of your dumbfounded chest. “At that bar? In front of Hoseok? “M-Many of Horror?””

“Of course,” Jungkook said, as if there had never been any other song he could have chosen to perform that night, besides the one that followed you and him throughout your relationship. “It—it really fucked with me, though. We had just broken up maybe a month ago, so it was still fresh, you know? And this was my first time singing “Many of Horror” in public, on top of that. And I was—I didn’t do well. I think I missed half the lyrics in the last chorus because it was too much.”

He snickered lightly, trying to lessen the impact of his words. You felt frozen.

“I-I was standing there,” he continued, and you could almost see it, “hiccuping to the I still believe, it’s you and me ‘til the end of time, while Hoseok just watched me, expressionless. And then I drank half the bar right after I got off stage.”

He sang the two lines of the song as he shared the story, his voice quiet and tender, and you thought you must have resembled Hoseok right now—so lost in all the emotions brewing inside you that you did not immediately realise he had stopped speaking, and it might have been appropriate for you to reply.

“Y-you still sounded great, though,” you managed. “Obviously.”

“Yeah, maybe four people clapped. Out of the ten or so at the bar,” he said, chuckling. “Hoseok told me he had to make a call, told me to stay right where I was, and then he disappeared. He returned twenty minutes later with some dishevelled guy in a turtleneck with a little hole in the collar.”

You recognised the description. “Namjoon?”

“Namjoon,” Jungkook confirmed, the smile on his face matching the one hesitantly spreading on yours. “I was fucking wasted. They were saying I had to meet with them for rehearsals, they wanted to see how I’d sound with them. And I’m—I couldn’t fucking think straight. They were telling me they wanted me to join the band, and all I could think about was that you weren’t here.”

The excitement in your eyes quickly turned into pain as a sharp twinge of longing pierced through your chest. It cut into every open crevice of your heart, reminding you of the way it had bled in those first few months after you broke up—even on this particular day, while Jungkook was struggling to get himself together in the face of his future, and you were likely at home, tossing and turning in your bed because you did not know what to do with yourself.

“I wanted to tell you so badly,” Jungkook admitted, his eyes fixed on the bedsheets, his voice filled with incorrigible regret. “But we weren’t talking anymore. I thought—there was this one moment where I thought, well, what’s the point? What’s the use of joining this band if I can’t even tell you about it? A-and they weren’t even a full group when I met them anyway. It took about two more weeks for Yoongi to join.”

You made a conscious effort to swallow the lump in your throat, and shifted your focus to Yoongi to allow for the sudden ache in your chest to subside.

“Yeah, uh—Yoongi mentioned that he was the last to join,” you commented, hoping to steer the conversation back to a less emotionally charged topic. “He used to play for a different band before, right?”

“Yeah. Somnia,” Jungkook said. The name did not sound familiar to you. “They weren’t—um, going anywhere. That’s a very blunt way to put it, but they were just stuck. And Yoongi and Namjoon go way back. So, Namjoon called him one day and lied that he was producing for this new, promising band in need of a permanent guitarist. Said they had a solid rhythm section, but their artistic direction needed some refinement.”

“And, uh,” your voice was a little lighter, “I assume they had a great vocalist, too?”

Jungkook smiled. “They did, yeah. I was trying to be modest, but you brought it up.”

You snickered, offering a nonchalant shrug. “Just trying to help you out.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “Yeah. So, Yoongi was the last one to join. He’d—he has a lot more creative freedom with us than he had with Somnia, which still isn’t a lot. But it’s something. And I think that was the main reason why he left them.”

“And they were okay with him leaving?” you asked.

Jungkook turned on his back and sighed.

“I assume they weren’t,” he said, briefly glancing at the ceiling before turning to look at you. “That’s why he doesn’t talk much about it.”

“Ah.” You nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Yeah, but anyway, Yoongi joined and we were complete,” Jungkook continued. “We released “Haunting” independently. That—okay, that was in June. Some time after that, this radio DJ that Yoongi knew played our song on his radio show as a birthday gift to Yoongi. Namjoon and Christian Jett—”

“CJ, apparently,” you cut in.

“Right. CJ,” he repeated. “They heard the song at some event. Apparently, CJ loved it, so Namjoon told him about us. When CJ found out we weren’t signed to a label, he reached out to us. It took Taehyung and me three days to convince Yoongi and Hoseok to go to that meeting. They both had some shitty experiences with record labels in the past. But we persuaded them to at least show up. CJ had us perform “Haunting” and “Cursed” for him, the only songs we had released at the time, and he signed us on the spot. Well, after Yoongi finished negotiating with him about our contracts.”

Your heart started to race as if you had just realised how much the universe had to align, how many intricate coincidences had to happen to lead Jungkook to his band, and to bring the two of you to this moment in his hotel room.

“We started working on our album,” he went on, “and about four months later—in July, right?—the record started to finally come together. That’s when CJ started to look for a manager for us.”

You took a breath and finished for him, “and reached out to me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “All CJ told us was that he found someone. He mentioned that this person was already working under the label and that the band they managed had recently broken up.”

You did not interrupt the silence that followed, because you thought that Jungkook had paused for a few seconds. But he stopped speaking altogether, waiting for you to share your perspective.

“I-I was, uh, Nick’s assistant at the time,” you said, realising what the silence was for. “We were working with The Jungle Will Get You.” You turned to Jungkook and he shook his head. “Yeah, they were—they weren’t popular. And the members weren’t really motivated, especially towards the end. They split up, eventually. Nick moved on to manage Reconnaissance, and I took on administrative tasks for various bands under the label. It was only for a few months, but I thought I’d end up buried in endless piles of papers. So, when HR called me in to tell me about Rated Riot, I pretended to know exactly who you were to get that job.”

He was smiling next to you on the bed, lost in the memories that did not hurt anymore now that he shared them with you.

“I doubt even HR knew who we were,” he said, gazing up at the ceiling and clasping his hands on his stomach. “I’m just—I’m constantly—I don’t know. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that it was you that they chose for us. I mean, you’re amazing, you could have worked with any band out there. But they picked you for us.”

You grappled with the same impossible coincidence.

“I’m thinking about that, too,” you said. “You had so much potential and CJ... I wasn’t sure if he even saw it when he reached out to me. Not to mention, you and I were—we were broken up for two years at that point?”

“A year and seven months,” Jungkook replied.

“Right,” you said, slightly out of breath from the precision of his answer.

He turned to face you. “Did you ever consider turning down that offer to work with us after you found out I’m in the band?”

You exhaled what little oxygen you had left in your lungs. You’d considered many things when you saw him again that day, and you realised now that you still hadn’t fully grasped all the thoughts that had passed through your mind at the time.

“For maybe half a second,” you said. “I was very confident that we could move on from our relationship.”

He grinned. “Look how well that worked out for us.”

“Mhmm, right?” you agreed, meeting his gaze. “So professional.”

He chuckled, intoxicated by your proximity and the peace he found in the knowledge that the universe had put in a good effort to lead you two here.

“I know that—well, it seems like everything just fell into place to get all of you together for Rated Riot,” you said. “But it wasn’t that easy for you guys, was it?”

“Yeah, no, it definitely wasn’t,” he agreed. “After Yoongi joined, we struggled to write one fucking original song for months. We thought the band was going nowhere.”

You could see the sadness in his eyes. “It was that bad?”

“Yeah. Everything we tried to work on was shit,” he said. “We were getting drunk every night, trying to find something that could work as our first song. And nothing worked.”

“So, what happened?” you asked.

“You,” he answered simply.

Your brows creased. “How—what do you mean?”

“Namjoon pushed us to release something authentic for our debut single,” he began. “And the other guys decided to kick my ass and force me to work. They knew I was writing something, but it—it wasn’t anything serious. Not like what they write. You know I can’t just create shit on the spot. My lyrics have to be about something that I’ve been through. And you’re—you are every single meaningful experience that I have had in my life. The guys—they wanted to use that. So, you’re sort of the main reason why Rated Riot are where they are”

You exhaled slowly, your mind filled with thoughts just like it had been the first time you walked into Rated Riot’s meeting room and saw Jungkook there—looking only slightly different from the music video Luna had shown you before, and remarkably different from your memories.

“And that—this is why I brought this up now,” he said. “It’s all because of you. We broke up, and Sid dragged me to that bar to help me get over you. I sang our song to Hoseok, and he brought Namjoon to convince me to join the band. I wrote “Haunting” about you, and CJ heard it and decided to sign us. We put out several albums, filled with songs I’ve ever written for you, and now we’re on this tour. If it weren’t for you, I just—w-we wouldn’t be here.”

You felt your skin prickle, the sensation quickly turning to a painful sting, and you looked away. Frankly, you did not believe that your influence was this significant—not even after Jungkook had told you that it was. These events seemed like an unbelievable sequence of coincidences that he decided to treat as signs, and you found that you couldn’t breathe if you looked at them as signs, too.

You felt his eyes on you and only meant to glance at him very briefly, but he held your gaze for a few moments longer, watching as a shuddering breath passed your lips. Then he propped himself up on his elbows.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he declared, the look in his eyes so final, so determined that you were almost afraid to move when you met his gaze. “And then I’m not letting you go. I don’t care if Sid texts.”

Your voice was very small. “I don’t care, either.”

“Fuck,” was more of an echo than a real whisper as his lips finally collided with yours. The kiss was deep and vehement and full of everything that had built up inside you over this day alone.

But then his tongue met yours and you realised that this day wasn’t all that special. You could have kissed him at any point of any day, and you would have still felt overwhelmed and aching, and you would have needed him right at the tips of your fingers as much as ever.

He tasted like the chocolate-covered cherry bonbons that he’d bought you because they reminded him of the summer nights you’d spent together. He tasted like the sticky homemade candy that the two of you baked when there were no other sweets in your dorm room and you craved something, but refused to leave, refused to pull away. Like the moments on the balcony of his house after you snuck away from his cousins. Like the rainy walks to class when your hair would be sticking to your face, but you couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop looking at each other.

All the thoughts that had been screaming at you for the past fifteen minutes suddenly quieted down as he leaned closer until he was hovering over you, one of his hands on the side of your face.

He felt shivers on the back of his neck when your tentative fingers found their way to his hair. He exhaled softly against your mouth and stilled momentarily when he heard your quiet whimper in response to his kiss, to his breathing, to him.

The room suddenly spun completely out of control around him.

He needed you so much and for such a long time that every time you were with him, every time you kissed him, he worried that he was dreaming again. So he kissed you harder, held onto you tighter—not wanting to find out if he was asleep, not wanting to wake up.

He unbuttoned your denim jacket without pulling away and slid it off your arms, holding the side of your neck with one of his hands. His kiss was so deep, so riveting that you felt your lungs give up, felt them pack up and leave, forcing you to breathe him instead.

His hands caressed your shoulders, finding the straps of your shirt and sliding them down your arms—and then stopping abruptly when he realised that you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

Exhaling shakily, he pulled back—lightheaded and winded and completely obsessed with you—just to look at you for a minute. There was a playful grin on his lips when he kissed you again.

You pulled away enough to ask, “what?”

“Nothing,” he murmured in-between kisses, “you’re fucking perfect. But I want this off.”

He pulled you closer and you instinctively bucked your hips off the bed, causing a momentary hitch in his breath. He lifted the hem of your shirt, pulling the material up and tracing the invisible symbols on your skin along your ribs, your chest, and your arms. Tossing your shirt aside without looking, he leaned back in, yearning for the feel of your lips on his again and accepting that he could not last one minute without you. Perhaps not even one second.

He felt your hand on his chest, trailing down to the edge of his black t-shirt and distracting him from the kiss with the softness of your touch. You lifted his shirt up to his chest—as far as it would go without breaking the kiss—and felt him hiss at the cold sensation of your bare fingertips on his stomach.

“I’m sorr—” you began, but the second you pulled away to apologise, he leaned in to capture your lips in another kiss.

“No.” His whispers were frenzied against your lips. You could have electrocuted him with your touch, sliced him into pieces with your fingers, and he would have thanked you for it. “No. You—d-don’t apologise. You’re perfect.”

He heard the way you cursed under your breath—under his breath, too—and he found it hard to inhale against the pressure in his stomach, against the tightness in his jeans. He was humming with near desperation when you pulled him closer, running your hands over his arms, your touch gentle enough to truly kill him.

He was frantic, eager to touch you, to feel your arms, your thighs, your chest, your neck—all of you—before someone interrupted you. Before his time with you ended. He knew he had the rest of his life to spend with you, but now he worried it still wouldn’t be enough.

His tongue moved over yours, his kiss deep, rushing, dizzying. He did not need to look to find the button on your pants, unclasp it, and slide the rough material down your thighs, swallowing a moan when he felt you shivering under his touch.

He quickly pulled his own shirt over his head and tossed it aside before kissing you again, high on the sound of your lips smacking against each other. He shuddered when your hands unexpectedly met his on the belt of his jeans.

“Let me do it,” you asked in a whisper—but he was wholeheartedly yours at that moment, and you didn’t even have to ask.

“Okay,” he complied, allowing you to gently push him back onto the bed.

Closing his eyes, he savoured the newfound sweetness from your kiss on his tongue. He felt you shuffle closer to him on the bed and had to take a sharp breath when one of your hands slid down his abdomen to his jeans.

You leaned over to kiss him again, and he broke—only capable of lying idly for so long—reaching for you and caressing your shoulders and your arms. He made it almost impossible for you to keep doing what you were doing; unruly wildfires blazed everywhere he touched you.

Jungkook was determined not to break the kiss even as you undid his belt and unzipped his jeans. He thought he did well. But then he lifted his hips off the bed to help you pull his jeans off and you brushed your fingers over the bulge in his boxers—your touch featherlight against the material—and he was very nearly finished.

He whimpered lightly into the kiss, his breaths growing heavier, his hands growing greedier. You made sure to hold one of his hands in yours to prevent him from flipping you over on the bed, and he responded to that by cheating: he held onto you tighter and attempted to pull you closer every time he gently bit your bottom lip and you got distracted by the pleasant sting.

Finally, you managed to slide his boxers down his thighs, catching each of his heavy breaths on your tongue. You pulled back, and he was about to protest until he saw you throw one of your legs over his, straddling his hips.

He watched you slide your panties down your legs while hovering over his thighs and he wasn’t sure how long ago he’d stopped blinking. Mesmerised by the sight, he didn’t immediately rush to assist you in maintaining your balance as you lifted one knee off the bed.

Once he recovered enough to remember to inhale, he sat up and pulled you flush to his chest. You gasped in surprise when he hooked his fingers behind the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs faster.

“I said let me do it,” you reminded him with a pout, and he kissed you instead of replying, too impatient to wait.

Your hands slipped down his chest and your hips bucked into his just barely, but he exhaled deeply, breaking the kiss. You used the moment while he was dazed to push him back into the pillows.

He fell back on the bed, knowing very well that he’d been in this position before—with you on top of him, your fingers tracing over his length before finally wrapping around the base—but he still shivered, throwing his head back into the pillows. He still kept his eyes fixed on your face when you started to move your hand in gentle strokes, killing him a little more with each movement of your wrist.

“Fuck,” he sighed. “At least let—l-let me touch you.”

He phrased it like a request, but he did not mean it like one. You didn’t resist when he reached for you, his hands travelling over your thighs, lingering on your lower back, squeezing your ass, and pulling your hips into his.

One of your hands had come to rest on his chest for support while you continued to stroke his length in deliberately slow, languid motions. You could feel him getting harder under your touch, and you closed your eyes, your teeth sinking into your lip.

He could not look away from you. He wanted to be the one to bite your lips, but he couldn’t move close enough to you with your hands on him. He settled for exploring the skin on your hips, sliding his hands up and down your thighs. Soon, you felt the tips of his fingers brush lightly over your stomach and then descend lower to slip between your folds.

He exhaled deeply through his mouth when he felt how wet you were, and that was enough for him—he would have found a way to hold you tightly against his chest even if you were across the world from him.

In a flash, he was sitting up, connecting your lips again and bringing his tongue over yours while he gathered the wetness between your folds with his thumb. Your grip on his length tightened instinctively, and Jungkook groaned, automatically applying more pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves on your clit—just enough to have you arch your back into him.

He felt you move faster, squeezing the base and speeding up until your fingers brushed over his tip. Trying to fight back a moan, he reflexively bucked his hips into your hand while two of his fingers teased your entrance, sliding over your wet folds in a teasing, tickling motion. You broke the kiss, sighing and dropping your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t give you much time to catch your breath—you didn’t give him any of that, so he thought this was only fair—as he kissed along your jaw, gently sucking on a spot on the nape of your neck. His fingers continued stimulating your clit with a combination of light, fast circles and harder, slower strokes that he knew would make you break for him.

“F-fuck, wait,” you exhaled, grabbing his wrist to stop his movements. “I w-want you.”

“You have me, my love,” he whispered back, running his tongue over the faint mark he’d left on the sensitive skin of your neck and humming, his tone gravelly and rasp, when you hissed at the feeling. “All of me.”

You gripped his wrist tighter. “Lie back.”

He didn’t immediately obey, opting to use his only free hand—the one you couldn’t hold, because you needed both hands to stop his determined fingers from drawing you any closer to the edge—to squeeze your ass and pull your hips over his length instead.

“Lie back,” you ordered again, your words firm, but breathless. It started a raging flame in his lower stomach, but he still resisted a little more—kissing you again, sucking on your tongue, sliding his hands over your thighs, and nearly making you lose it before he finally leaned back against the pile of pillows.

Jungkook still thought he was doing fairly well, considering the burning on his skin and inside him, but watching you unwrap a condom package and slide the latex down his length—torturously slowly, it seemed to him, to really test his limits—he thought he might lose it, after all.

You felt him jerk slightly in your hand, sensitive as you rolled the condom down his length, and your deep exhale blended with his sharp inhale. He locked the sound of your breathing somewhere deep in his mind, too focused on your touch to revel in it right now, but far too inspired by the response your body had to his to forget it altogether.

He bit his lip, his eyes locked on yours as you positioned yourself over his length. He was convinced that you were teasing him on purpose when you brought his tip closer to your entrance and then paused. He could already feel the wetness of your folds on him, and the second he lifted his hands to touch you, he was forced to let them drop in utter defeat when you finally slid his tip in.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his eyes rolling back at the feeling of your tight, warm walls as you struggled to take all of him in at once, and stopped, most cruelly, halfway in.

You looked breathtaking on top of him and there wasn’t a single coherent thought in his mind, so he couldn’t offer to help you anymore, couldn’t even guide you down on his length. He could barely stay still, biting his lip and clutching the sheets so he wouldn’t ram his hips into yours.

“You’ll kill me,” he whispered in a strained voice when you lifted your hips again, sliding his length over your folds, but not slipping it back inside.

Finally, you lowered yourself on him again, taking all of him in, inch by inch, and a soft sigh escaped your lips before you could stop yourself. “O-oh.”

You had to suppress another whimper when your hips met his, the stretch of his length stinging pleasantly. He hissed at the feeling, his hands flying to your hips to keep you in place.

His touch reminded you of Amsterdam suddenly: of the way he had held you, the way he had felt after all these years.

You wanted him so much that it no longer felt like a simple wish. He felt like a necessity and you could not understand how you’d ever managed to go on with your day when he wasn’t in the room with you.

You needed a moment to adjust to him and Jungkook watched you all through it. Even though he was barely able to keep his eyes open, he took in all of your reactions as the initial sting subsided and your hips twitched against his.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Move for me, love. Please?”

You sighed as his endearing words—and the loving lilt in his voice—lit up your stomach and made you involuntarily clench around him. He groaned, digging his fingers into your hips. You had told him to lie back, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could obey.

Finally, you began to move and he threw his head back, swallowing hard at the feeling. You rotated your hips in slow circles, allowing his entire length to delicately rub the walls inside you, and he could not remember when he’d last felt you like this. He could not remember anything outside this room, and when you rested both of your hands on his chest for balance, he seemed to forget his own name, too.

“Fuck,” was a soft, jagged breath that got caught in his throat as he watched you in the dimly lit room. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to make out your silhouette, and he squeezed your ass tighter so he wouldn’t immediately lose it at the sight.

You drew back all of a sudden, placing one hand on his chest and resting the other against the mattress, right by his arm. You pulled your bottom lip in with your teeth as you lifted your hips, then slowly lowered yourself on him again. It took you a moment to find your rhythm, and Jungkook parted his lips, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth every time your thighs met his.

You shifted your weight to your knees to increase the pace and he nearly choked on his breath when you placed your hands on his shoulders and bounced your hips against his, his length gliding against your velvety walls.

“Y-you—oh, fuck. You look s-so beautiful,” he stammered, his hands travelling from your hips to your waist, then back down again.

Love and lust burned in his darkened eyes when he looked up at you, his hair falling in messy curls around his face. His chest rose and fell underneath you, the muscles on his abdomen tightening each time you sank down on him again.

You watched him like this and you changed your mind about describing him; an adjective that would fit him had not been invented yet.

You tried to respond to his words, but he suddenly lifted his hips off the bed to meet you halfway and knocked all breath out of your lungs, forcing a soft whine to pass your lips instead as you leaned into him, losing your balance.

It was starting to get too much—how deeply he reached inside of you, how tightly he held onto you—and Jungkook noticed it right away. Squeezing your hips, he adjusted his position by bending his knees for a better angle and bouncing you on his lap very slowly once, then twice, before pulling you into his chest and thrusting into you faster.

Curses and almost desperate whines fell from your lips, matching the rhythm of his skin slapping against yours. He knew he had hit your sweet spot when he felt your nails digging into his chest, when you tightened around him, when your strained breaths got louder, when your teeth grazed his collarbone—and he growled, gripping your hips tighter and trapping you against his chest with his other arm.

“Jungkook—” you panted, barely able to speak, and the sound of his name on your lips ignited the room around him.

He grunted softly and flipped you both to your sides, pulling your back into his chest by wrapping his arms around your waist and chest, his grip firm, deliberately inescapable, but his fingers gentle as he teased your nipples. His thrusts were slower at this new angle, but now they were deep and hard. It was your increased breathing and louder, uncontrollable chants of his name that encouraged him to speed up.

“Fuck,” he exhaled. And again, louder when you clenched around him, “f-fuck.”

This position allowed him to reach even deeper inside you and the way your walls sucked him in was as blissful as it was worrisome—he wanted this to last, and he didn’t think it would. Not when he had you so close to him, inhaling the scent of your apple shampoo, peppering breathy kisses on the side of your neck, feeling the goosebumps that he brought to your skin when he caressed your nipples, and thinking he might actually explode every time your body jolted against his with each one of his thrusts.

He slid one of his hands down your navel and kept his palm right above your entrance for a distracted minute, feeling himself move in and out of you, and groaning into your shoulder before lowering his hand to your clit. You writhed against him as he rubbed on a soft, gummy spot there, bringing you dangerously close to your high.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you whimpered, almost helplessly clutching his arm that was wrapped around your chest. “I’m—s-so close.”

“I’m here, my love,” he whispered. “Come for me.”

Anything you were going to say died on your tongue when you felt his lips on your neck again. His fingers continued to massage the soft spot between your folds and your walls clenched and pulsated around him with each thrust of his hips. White clouds gathered on the edges of your vision and a low moan passed your lips as the knot in your stomach tightened.

Jungkook felt you tremble in his arms and pulled you into his chest harder. Keeping quiet had stopped being an option for you when he pressed on your clit with the pillows of his fingers, his hips continuously drilling into you—he remembered the spot you liked, and he made sure to hit it every time. He felt you tighten again, so close to your peak, and he relished in your loud whimpers.

Pulling his lip ring in with his teeth, he held you tightly against him to maintain a steady pace, his strokes assured and calculated, to push you completely over the edge. He fell impossibly more in love with you when his name got caught in your throat with your breath.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he cooed as you writhed in his arms, coming down from your high. “S-so pretty—oh, fuck, my love—when you come for me.”

The anticipation of his own climax soon caused his hips to start moving with a certain frenzy, and he pulled all the way out before plunging himself into you again and fully bottoming out.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” he grunted breathlessly, twitching inside of you.

His hips stilled completely and he cursed again, spilling himself into the condom. Groaning deeply, he drove his hips into yours instinctively, this way prolonging his pleasure and the time he spent watching you bite your lip in an attempt to stay quiet. He thought he heard you whisper a breathless I love you and he was convinced he came again just at the sound of it.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck and his voice cracked in the middle of his breathless chants, “fuck, I love you so much—I-I love you so fucking much—”

He still didn’t release his grip on you, lifting his head to kiss your neck again, while the two of you tried to recover and accepted, eventually, that you probably never truly would.

“Fuck,” he exhaled. Then, again, from the back of his throat, “fuck.”

You turned around as much as you could with his arms around you, and met his lips with your own, humming into the kiss and causing him to lose his sanity again—although, to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure if he’d even regained it yet.

Your bodies remained locked in an almost desperate embrace for another minute, your lips moving leisurely against each other as your breaths mingled and the room—but not your hearts—quieted down.

Unfortunately, you had to strain your neck to kiss him from this position, and Jungkook ended up having to let go of you. He pulled out carefully—the gentle contact still making you hiss from sensitivity—and helped you roll to your other side to face him.

After pressing another kiss to your lips, he grabbed a stray pillow and placed it next to your head. He touched your chin gently, prompting you to lift your head so he could slide the pillow underneath.

You smiled at the unnecessary, but very appreciated gesture. “I love you.”

His chest contemplated bursting.

“I love you,” he replied. “So much that I am not—I don’t want you to leave this room. Or my bed, actually. I want to stay with you every second of every day, and I’m okay if every court would qualify me as insane for that.”

You snickered into the pillow, your expression radiant. “I don’t think you’re insane.”

He grinned and got up to discard the condom before climbing back into bed.

“And I want to stay, too,” you added, closing your eyes.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek as he got comfortable on the bed. “Not just tonight, but always?”

“Of course,” you whispered, your voice turning lighter, “but I do have my own room.”

He settled in his spot next to you and draped an arm over your waist with a soft grunt. “Fuck if I knew why.”

He pulled back slightly to see your laughter. You didn’t seem like you were going to object or tell him that you should leave, but he still caressed your cheek, bringing his fingers over the smile lines by your lips that he had caused. His heart fought fiercely against his mind at the sight of them. He was almost ready to call Rated Riot’s next song “Smile Lines” and just sigh dreamily into the microphone for five minutes while Yoongi played gentle piano chords in the background.

“I think you should stay with me everywhere we go,” he said, leaning in to connect your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. His voice was a whisper against your mouth, “so we could do this again. And again. And again.”

You broke the kiss—and he would have been very upset about that, but you did that to laugh again, and he understandably forgot everything he was thinking of doing.

“You have a show tomorrow,” you reminded him gently, your eyes warm.

He shrugged. “So we’ll have to take a break for a few hours.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to contain your smile to an appropriate level. “Hmm.”

He rested his forehead against yours. “Sounds good?”

“You are messing with my head,” you whispered.

He grinned, pressing his lips to yours again. “I love you.”

You kissed him back but made sure to click your lips in feigned disapproval as you pulled away. “What did I just say?”

“You messed with mine first,” he countered, his quiet laughter blending with the warmth of your kiss.

He had already stolen all air from your lungs, robbed your mind of every thought you possessed before him, and kept your heart hostage—and now he was beaming like he knew very well he’d done all that. Like he wasn’t one bit sorry about ingraining himself in your life so much that it felt like you shared one soul, and it had stayed with him after you broke up: forcing him to suffer from the weight of it, while you searched for something missing inside you.

“I love you,” you said again. Your words were a whisper and they got lost on his tongue but found their way to his heart anyway.

Planting a few quick, butterfly kisses to your lips, he leaned back against the pillows, keeping his palm on the side of your face so he could rub gentle circles over your cheek with his thumb.

He loved you, and sometimes this love was all that he could think about.

Other times, however, the shadows in the room grew just a little darker.

“Sid hasn’t replied, huh?” he asked quietly, reluctantly.

You sighed, shaking your head. Your phone had been silent all night, and the more you tried to ignore the silence, the more noticeable it became.

“Should I text him?” he suggested. “To poke the bear a little.”

You frowned and felt your stomach sink—a feeling that Jungkook made even worse by pulling away from you and allowing for the brutal, cold air of the room to fill the space where his hand had been.

“What do you mean?” you asked, sitting up.

He rolled over to grab his phone from the nightstand.

You moved closer to be able to see the screen over his shoulder. You frowned the whole time, but it really did not take Jungkook more than a minute to compose a message that almost sparked an argument between the two of you.

After some relatively mild back and forth—consisting of your annoyed, “I told you I want to keep you out of this” that was followed immediately by his melodramatic, “I’m doing this because I love you”—the two of you reached a compromise.

Look, his text to Sid read. I know you’ve been texting my girlfriend. Stop. Let’s keep this shit between us.

This wasn’t the full truth. After sending you a few mocking texts after he posted that picture to his Instagram, Sid hadn’t texted you anything else. You weren’t sure if this would even provoke a response, but Jungkook was convinced. He sent the text and pulled you back onto the pillows despite your protests.

“I’m sure it’ll only be a few minutes,” he said. “Until he texts you.”

Sure enough, he did.

Just as you lied down next to Jungkook, just as he intertwined your hands, his fingers toying with yours, just as you were about to forget your phone altogether—just then, the text finally came.

Your eyes widened, but Jungkook had the decency not to gloat. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you until the beating of your heart returned to a reasonable pace. Then he let you sit up again and reach for your phone.

Sid’s message read, “eager to talk to me now?:)” and you breathed out a sigh of relief as soon as you showed the text to Jungkook.

“Alright,” you said, content. You didn’t even need to respond to him anymore, he’d already started the next step of your plan. “Now we’re good to go.”

Jungkook, smiled, nodding and extending his hand to pat the bed. You lied back down and he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to feel your skin against his again. His breathing was soft on your neck and you smiled back, finally losing yourself in the calming darkness of his room and the warmth of his touch.

For one blissful minute, you focused on his breathing and traced the edges of his tattoos, and felt as though nothing bad, nothing hurtful or upsetting had ever happened to either of you.

“Will we be okay, do you think?” you asked wearily. “Tomorrow.”

He was taken aback by the question, you could tell from the way his breathing increased, but his response was quick and certain.

“We’re already okay,” he said. “Today and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day—”

“I love you,” you interjected softly, successfully stopping him.

“Thank you,” he said. “I would have kept going.”

You grinned. “I know you would have.”

He snickered, pulling you closer until you nestled your face into his neck and rested your hands on his chest, tapping, every now and then, to the beat of his heart.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “For a few hours, at least.”

You leaned your head back enough to press a gentle kiss on the corner of his lips instead of replying.

Jungkook hummed and melted into you, easing his grip to give you some space to breathe, but still remaining attached to you like he was a part of you and you were a part of him.

He could have stayed with you like this, he thought, for the rest of his life. And for at least a hundred more lives after that.

chapter title credits: sleep token, “give”

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blueicequeen19 · 10 months

Text

The Help

Warnings: unprotected sex, blackmail, coercion, fighting, Rafe being a dick

You barely get a moment to catch your breath then he's inside you, pumping his hips and filling you painfully deep as he fucks you. Your legs wrap around his waist, your mouths smashed together in a passionate kiss as he hammers into you like his life depends on it. You're supposed to be making this quick anyway. You hear footsteps in the hallway, causing you to freeze for a moment but he doesn't stop despite being the one to demand discretion. Can't get caught fucking the help.

"I don't have a condom." He growls, burying his face in your neck as he licks and bites and kisses while railing you into the desk. Your back arches, your head thrown back as you near your release. One of his large hands fists the back of your hair, making your chest push out further as he trails his mouth down your collar bone.

"Don't stop." You rasp, your legs pushed open painfully wide as he hauls you even closer. He grunts, pulling back to look at you with swollen lips and blazing blue eyes before he's kissing you again, swallowing any sounds you might make.

"Fuck, I'm going to cum." Rafe growls, pushing your back flat on the desks surface and hammering into you with sexy deep grunts of pleasure. Your fingers slide between your thighs, eagerly stroking your clit until your body tightens and you cum with a choked cry, signaling his own release. You both continue to pant and moan as his thrusts slow, his cock pumping every bit of his seed deep inside you.

Finally, Rafe slows to a stop, remaining inside you while his chest heaves with every breath. You feel boneless and weak, your insides warm and euphoric as you try to grasp what just happened. You peek up at him to see his expression hardened as he withdraws his emotions then finally, the hard cock still throbbing inside you. He casts his eyes down as he steps back and turns away, making your body heat with humiliation. What's worse is when he starts to drip back out of you.

"Here. Go to the pharmacy." Rafe digs out his wallet and tosses a couple big bills on the desk, not meeting your eye as you lower your feet to the floor, your knees still weak.

"Um--."

"And call a doctor. I want you to get on birth control. I don't like condoms." Rafe sniffs before turning away and marching towards the door. You stand frozen for a moment before anger swells in your chest and the next thing you know, you've launched the lamp at him. It hits the door with a crash and Rafe freezes in place before slowly turning to face you, a brow raised.

"That's it? You fuck me, tell me to go get a plan B, then go see a doctor so you can keep fucking me?" Your body trembles with anger as Rafe's eyes narrow at you. He takes a warning step towards you, his hand outstretched like he's trying to calm a wild animal.

"Keep your voice down. This benefits us both." He hisses. When you shake your head violently, he bolts around the desk, grabbing you and shoving you down on the couch. You open your mouth to scream when his hand slaps down on your mouth, your body pinned beneath his.

"Stop it! What are you freaking out about? You don't want to fuck me again, is that it?" Rafe demands, removing his hand from your mouth to catch your arms as you try to lash out.

"I don't want to just fuck you, Rafe Cameron. I'm not that type of girl." You snarl, bucking beneath him as he chuckles darkly.

"Trust me, you are now, darlin'." Rafe leans down and kisses you hard. You try to resist but his tongue forces its way into your mouth, stealing your ability to think.

"You'll serve me during the day and warm my fucking bed at night." Rafe murmurs against your lips before gently pulling your bottom lip between his teeth. You whimper, your resolve slipping with each passing second.

"You'll get on birth control so I can keep cumming inside you and you'll do so immediately." He continues between kisses, his knees suddenly pressing between your wet thighs.

"You're going to keep your mouth shut and not tell anyone anything because I'm going to take care of you. And you're going to let me." Rafe sits back on the couch, yanking you onto his lap as he frees his cock again. He scoops his own cum off your thighs and uses it as lube as he pushes back inside your sensitive pussy.

"So be a good girl, do as you're told and shut up."

#smutwarning #outer banks smut #obx2 #rafe x y/n #rafe smut #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron drabble #Rafe Cameron smut #dark!rafe cameron

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loveshotzz · 2 months

Text

I guess it’s never really over

mechanic!steve harrington x fem!reader exes to lovers

chapter two -

I might kill my ex, not the best idea

Eddie warned Robin that a game of never have I ever was a bad idea, and you should know better than to go snooping where you don’t belong.

warnings: 18+ drinking, smoking (hey it’s a summer time barbecue in the midwest), you thought there was a lot tension the last chapter? baby, you haven’t seen nothing yet. jealousy, spicy things are revealed about all of them during a drinking game.

wc: 9.5k

series masterlist | series playlist

June -

It’s been one week.

One entire week without even so much of a glimpse of that permanently messy head of hair, and god, you hated how much it bothered you. Ears perking up every time you’d catch the cadence of his voice through the receiver of Robin’s cordless phone the few times he called her to check in. Like an unwanted guest who wasn’t taking the hint, his broad shoulders and full pink lips that somehow always look like they need to be kissed haunt your unsuspecting dreams at night.

You hate it, you hate him, and you try not to spiral about why it feels like the opposite.

“We’re going over to Steve’s tonight,” Robin practically hums around a mouthful of fruit loops, completely unaware of you already stewing about the boy whose name just rolled off her tongue this early in the morning.

“What?” You snap, tearing your eyes from the slow pour of the coffee maker in front of you, grouchy and wound up from a dream about his big hands pulling your legs apart so perfect white teeth could nip at the inside of your thighs.

“Steve, you know that guy you told me you’d try and be nice to. The one who’s fixing your car?” Sarcasm drips from her tone as she scoops up another bite, “We’re going to his house.”

Of course.

“That’s cool with me.” You muster up enough effort to twist your lips up into a smile that feels more like a grimace. The smashed rainbow Robin reveals in her mouth when she laughs tells you it is.

“Do me a favor, and never go into acting.” Swallowing loudly, she drops her spoon back into her bowl with a clank. “I do appreciate you trying to pretend like you’re okay with it, though, and in all seriousness, we haven’t gone this long without seeing each other in like, forever. He says you're keeping me hostage.”

“I’m keeping you hostage?!” You scoff with a roll of your eyes, turning your back to finally pour yourself the cup of coffee you’ve waited so patiently for. “He’s the best friend stealer.”

“I’m not going to lie, I think I like you two fighting over me,” she laughs, looking a little too smug for your liking as she brings her empty bowl to the sink, Garfield slippers scuffling across the tile, too lazy to pick up her feet from the floor.

“Yeah, 'cause you’re sick.” A real smile curls up into your cup, inhaling the rich scent into your nose. “What are your plans to torture me with his presence this time?”

Robin narrows her stare at you in a silent warning, pulling herself up to sit on the counter, orange cat covered feet dangling freely as you meet her gaze with softened eyes in a silent apology.

“Eddie’s off tonight, so we’re having a little reunion barbecue, and Steve’s gonna grill.”

Choking on your coffee, you sputter your sip back into your mug, turning her freckled face sour.

“Since when does Steve know how to cook, let alone grill?”

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you know you’re skating on thin ice, but all the built up tension that tightens your muscles, and buzzes incessantly at your fingertips makes everything feel impossible to control.

“He’s not seventeen anymore - “

“Really? He had me fooled shoving his tongue down some pretty blonde’s throat at Rick’s the other night.”

“That’s - come on, you know that's not fair. He didn’t even know -”

”Why stop at just the four of us, let’s invite Vickie, make it a real party.”

The name of your best friend’s ex leaves your mouth before you can stop it, instant regret making a heavy home in your chest that feels like it might cave in when her mood shifts with glassy eyes and it’s completely your fault.

“I take back what I said, I need you to start acting again.”

Jumping off the counter, you set your mug down so you can grab her arm before she can take those few steps out of the kitchen.

“Hey! Look, I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”

She doesn’t put up much of a fight, even though you deserve it, the blue in her eyes turn to ice when she looks at you.

“I’m sorry.”

She holds your stare until she can tell you actually mean it, melting glaciers with a heavy sigh.

“It’s fine, I get it.”

Her words come out soft, just like the lines that smooth on her face.

“I know this is weird and like totally against friend code or whatever, but I think that just goes to show how much he must mean to me or even a testament to how much he’s changed if I’m even asking you to just try and do this. Just try, that’s all.”

“No, you’re right,” you fluster, doing your best to reassure her in a shaky voice, “I just slept badly and had a really weird dream. It just threw me off a little. I’m being so awful and I’m sorry.”

Flashes of the way his hands gripped your hips and the dirty things he whispered in your ear has your palms start to sweat, making you loosen your grip on her arm before she can notice.

Robin searches your face for the reassurance that she needs before a small smile finally tugs at the corners of her lips.“This is why you’re my best friend.” She pulls you into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around your neck.

“Only if you tell him that.”

Snaking your arms around her waist, you let out a shaky laugh, silently preparing to see the man who hasn’t left the crevices of your mind since you stepped foot back in Hawkins.

———

It feels like you’re back in high school the way you can’t stop looking at yourself in the mirror, the nerves still feel the same.

Your gaze wanders up and down your reflection, turning from side to side, overly critical eyes take in your curves that are on display a little more than normal and you wonder if Robin will notice. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, better yet you wonder if Robin will notice and have something to say about it.

“You’re certainly spending a lot of time on an outfit.” Your best friend whistles low as she leans against the open bedroom door confirming your fears with a cross of her arms.

“Just trying to remember what I brought is all.” You don’t engage with the amusement that hides in her tone, smoothing down the short black skirt that flares over the tops of your thighs, before adjusting the straps on your matching tank top.

“Riiiight,” she snorts, earning the kind of glare that has her raising her hands in defense before a shit-eating grin cracks wide across her face. “I’m going to need you to hurry up, though. Do I need to remind you that we’re walking?”

“I’m done!” You huff, sock covered feet digging into her cream carpet as you make your way toward her, “I just need to put on my shoes.”

“You’ve got twenty secon-” she agonizes before three hard knocks on her front door cut her off. Her cheshire smile falters as she turns confused.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get to finish that sentence,” you warn in a harsh whisper, grabbing your Converse that had been haphazardly kicked off earlier in the corner.

Robin puts a ringed finger to her lips, like the possibility of a kidnapper being on the other side is extremely probable, and it’s her turn to glare when you roll your eyes at her dramatics. Following her out to the living room, you plop down on the couch, watching her slowly creep to the front door. Both her hands find the blue painted wood pushing up on the toes of her Reeboks to look out the peephole.

“Steve?!”

The name makes your stomach flip, a shaky breath pushing its way through watermelon flavored lips because you thought you had more time than this. Keeping a poker face, you take your time tying your laces as she swings the door open. Head down, your eyes keep their focus on how the dirty white strings move between your fingers.

You’re not ready to look at him. Not yet.

“After taking you to school at 7am every day after I graduated, you really thought I was going to let you walk?” The smile in his voice is evident, a fond memory you’re not a part of but you can still feel the warmth inside it by the way he speaks.

“Thank god,” she starts, the insinuation of the words that are going to follow making your eyes snap up, narrowed and shooting daggers at your best friend, catching Steve’s attention in the process.

“We were going to be late.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks, his gaze claiming yours and holding it against your will, the beginnings of a smirk playing on his full lips and suddenly it’s so much warmer in her living room than it was two seconds ago. “Why’s that?”

He somehow looks even better than the last time you saw him, a bad habit you’re quickly learning that he has. The honey colored tips of his chestnut hair curl at the ends, sticking out of the sides of his backwards baseball hat. A well worn black cotton shirt with the sleeves cut out has the arms that you’d dreamt about on full display. The summer sun somehow dotting even more freckles across his shoulder blades that flex everytime he spins his car keys around his finger. The dark cherry red basketball shorts he wears hit the bottoms of his hairy thighs, the red mesh even more vibrant against his tan skin, just like the white leather of the Nike Cortez’s that cover his feet.

“She’s just being dramatic,” you grumble, finally tearing your eyes from the dark moss that covers the chocolate inside his, doing your best to ignore the heat of them wandering the bare skin of your legs as you finish tying your shoes.

“You changed your outfit like sixty times!”

This is the moment that you decide you’re going to kill Robin in her sleep tonight.

“Well, I’m ready so you both can stop being annoying now.” Standing, you tug down the bottom of your skirt that suddenly feels even shorter with his full attention on you like this.

“Wait, why am I annoying? I just got here.” Steve argues when your words finally sink in, snapping him out of his daze, catching the keys in his palm.

“You’re always annoying, Harrington,” you sigh, hoping your deflections are working, but the small smile that never leaves his lips tells you it’s not.

“Shotgun!” Robin calls out like it’s something you would have argued over. Your shoulder brushes with his as you push your way out the door, sending sparks to the tips of your fingers and making your hair stand on end. Steve and the summer heat warm your skin.

“It’s all yours,” you concede with ease, ignoring the butterfly wings that wreak havoc in your rib cage when the spice of his cologne makes its way into your nose.

It was going to be a night.

Steve keeps the windows rolled down, the muggy air making your bare thighs stick together and to the hot leather of his backseat. It drowns out the music as he speeds down the back roads, making the conversation between him and Robin upfront almost inaudible.

You don’t worry about what they might be saying, not even when they both start gesturing wildly with their hands. Taking advantage of the time left alone, you put all of your focus into preparing yourself for the next few hours, doing your best to push the lingering thoughts of your dream deep down to a place that no one can find. A task that proves to be much harder while avoiding his gaze that dares you to meet it in the rear view mirror the entire way.

The memories you have of the back of his car don’t help either.

Pulling into Forest Hills trailer park, you’re surprised at the facelift they finally gave it after all these years. Lush green grass grows where the yellow and brown shrub used to be, and a wooden gazebo that looks like it’s missing a finishing coat stands tall, replacing the picnic table where you and the metal head used to smoke. Even the gravel that paves the road looks new and gray, not the dirt brown mud that it used to be.

It’s still a struggle to wrap your head around the fact that Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, the former king of Hawkin’s and Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson not only work together, but live together too. You would have laughed in anyone’s face if they told you this five years ago.

The BMW’s tires crunch loudly against the rocks as Steve pulls into the driveway of a hunter green trailer. It sits in the back of the park, almost touching the edge of the woods behind it. A faded white line running along the length that matches the metal railing of their front entrance and the overhang that covers it. The paint peels from parts of the metal in the heat, revealing spots of the gray hidden underneath. A worn in deep maroon couch sits on the porch just like the dirty brown one at Wayne’s trailer, and you already know Eddie spends his mornings there. You internally groan when you catch yourself wondering if Steve does too.

“Home sweet home,” he hums, cutting the engine off and pulling you out of your thoughts.

You dare to meet his eyes for the first time since you left the apartment when Robin jumps out of the front seat, and you immediately regret it. He smiles wide, finally catching your attention, those perfect white teeth baring themselves at you as he pulls off his hat to run a hand through his sweaty bed head. The long strand he’s always at battle with falls through the opening in the back when he puts it on again, because, of course it does.

“Good to see you finally slumming it with the rest of us, King Steve,” you snort, pulling on the handle to let yourself out, ending any chance of conversation.

If it wasn’t for your Eddie barreling out of the front door to greet you and Robin with a big dimpled grin and a freshly rolled joint, you would’ve thought a little harder about the way Steve winced at the nickname.

The Munson/Harrington Bachelor pad anomaly isn’t exactly what you expected it to be, but even then you weren’t entirely sure what that was. It’s cozy just like how Wayne’s used to be but where there’s hand me downs that have been through the short line of Munson men’s hands, there’s an equal amount of obviously perfectly well kept new. Like the shiny big TV in the center of their living room, and the well-loved lazy boy in front of it, that still had cigarette burns from its previous owner, next to the rich tan leather couch right by it.

It smells like it has just been cleaned, a sanitizing lilac still lingering in the air, trying its best to cover the smell of all grease stained clothing in their hampers and the smoke from joints like the one Eddie’s about to put out in an ashtray full of ones just like it.

He sits at the head of the table with a lopsided grin that pushes up the apples of his cheeks and reveals the deep dimples in the center of them. Droopy lids frame his bloodshot eyes that meet your own. Orange and pinks paint the darkening sky through the sliding glass door behind him.

“I still can’t believe you’re actually here,” Eddie chuckles with a fond glint in big brown eyes leaning back in his chair that squeaks under the redistribution of his weight.

“Back by popular demand,” you smirk, pointing at Robin, who sits just on the other side of the table, glassy eyed with an unwavering smile.

You try to ignore how the empty chair next to her bothers you, or they way your eyes keep looking toward the kitchen through the small opening of their little island, giving you the perfect view of Steve prepping dinner. His thick eyebrows are furrowed as he digs through spice racks and drawers, front teeth digging into the plushness of his bottom lip deep in thought.

“I think this calls for a fire,” Eddie announces loudly, bringing you back to the conversation with a slap of his palms on the wood of the table and the kind of smirk that tells you that you’ve been caught.

“We told Janice next door weekends only after last time,” Steve’s voice startles you, making his presence known, leaning against the wall with crossed arms.

“It’s Thursday. Practically the weekend. Besides it’s a special occasion, look who’s here Stevie boy.” Something in Eddie’s tone makes Steve’s eyes narrow in a silent threat that only makes the metal heads' lips twist up into something more devilish.

“You have to put it out before bed then, I’m not dealing with it like last time.” Steve accepts defeat quicker than anticipated, “And if she calls or comes over to complain at all, that's all on you too.”

”Deal,” Eddie agrees with five fingers across his heart, the silver of his rings catching in the low light of their trailer.“I think she’s got a crush on me anyway.”

“She’s married,” Steve dead pans with a deep sigh, taking his hat off to run another hand through his hair and you hate the way it has your thighs meeting under the table. “Who’s helping me with dinner then?”

He knows better than to look at you, so his gaze falls onto his roommate and best friend.

”Don’t look at me!” Robin argues, raising her right hand to show off the faded scar on her palm. “Last time I tried to help, I had to get stitches, remember?”

”The fire’s a full time job I’m afraid,” Eddie shrugs, standing up. Not missing a beat, they both look at each other like they're in on some secret that you and Steve aren’t apart of before their eyes land on you.

”You know I’m not a good cook,” you whine, refusing to meet the heat of Steve’s stare that burns against the side of your face.

”I’m sure Steve’s more than willing to help teach you, princess.” Eddie grins, and it makes you want to slap the dimples clean off his face.

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine, I can do it by myself,” Steve interjects with a sigh before you have a chance to respond with something that he knows will just egg the metal head on and get his ego even more bruised.

He’s not expecting the way your eyes snap to his, or the way they narrow with something fiery deep inside them.

”We’re grown adults, Steve. I think I can handle helping you cut some vegetables or whatever it is you need me to do.” Standing up with a shove of your chair, he doesn’t even attempt to argue about how that’s the exact opposite of what you just said.

”There we go! Problem solved.” Eddie’s grin is mischievous, and so is the wink he throws at his roommate before opening the sliding glass door, ushering Robin out and leaving you both alone.

The tension inside the kitchen hangs thicker in the air than the humidity outside weighing down your shoulders, making the words stick in the back of your throat as you try to navigate the close proximity to Steve. Neither one of you is sure of what to say first, and the sound of Eddie and Robin laughing outside filling the silence between you somehow makes it worse.

The weed twists the knots in your stomach tighter, and the cedar that always seems to linger whenever he’s around turns suffocating without an escape. You lean against the sink across from him while he digs through the icebox in the fridge. Shoulder blades moving with the motions of his wrist, plastic crinkling loudly every time he moves a bag out of the way. Muttering to himself, you watch goosebumps rise on his tan skin from the cool air, muscles twitching from the shock.

This was a mistake.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you tear your eyes away in hopes it will stop the dull ache between your legs from getting worse when you’re brought back to the way those same arms caged you in while his hips pushed you deeper into the mattress in your dreams last night. Looking out the small window at the beginning flames of the bonfire, a shaky breath pushes past your glossed lips, and you wipe your palms on your skirt before turning around to wash your hands.

”You don’t have to help, you know?” His voice comes out just loud enough for you to hear over the running water, the small smacking sound of the fridge closing behind it, “If you’re that uncomfortable, I can do it.”

Cutting the water, you shake your hands in the sink before tearing off a paper towel from the roll next to you. Working up enough courage to finally turn around to look at him, you finish drying your hands with a softer expression.

”No, I can help.”

He holds your stare, silently giving you another out while his fingers make quick work of unwrapping a head of lettuce, an onion, and a few peppers from their plastic confines. No matter how much you want to look away, you don’t, standing firm in your choice despite everything inside of you screaming to run away, and it’s enough for him to nod his head. The slight twitch of his lips while he rolls the bags in his hands doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I just need you to cut the onion into thin slices for the burgers, and same with the jalapeños.” He instructs, turning his back to you to throw away the wrappings.

The sudden movement has the deep cut sleeves of his shirt fluttering open, giving you a glimpse of the thick patch of hair on his chest, and how it tapers off and down past his belly button. Your thighs find each other again, and you look up to the ceiling silently, trying to regain all the strength you thought you’d just found.

“And the lettuce - uhh, are you okay?” Steve’s confusion makes all the blood in your body rush to the apples of your cheeks as you try to hide your internal struggle with a smile.

“Yeah, we’re good. Never been better. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” you ramble, brushing past him to the station he’s set up for you.

“…Right,” he starts with a pause before choosing to leave it alone, “I just need you to kind of rip the lettuce up, you can cut it if you want but I think bigger pieces would be better.”

You aren’t expecting his voice to come from right behind you, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against the back of your neck. Your own goosebumps rise, dotting across exposed skin and you hope he doesn’t notice but the way he lingers in your space for a little longer despite the nod of your head makes you think otherwise. The spice of his cologne grows faint along with his footsteps against the tile floor, finding a home on the other side of the kitchen, busying himself with what he had started before.

Eddie turns on the radio, easing some of the tension from your muscles, and relaxing your shoulders as you get a good grip on the handle of the knife.

You could do this, easy.

You really start to believe it too when you cut all the jalapeños, even humming along to an old Judas Priest song that you and Eddie used to blast in his van after school. Peeling the onion, you pretend that you don’t see the reflection of Steve staring at you from the glass of the microwave as you sway your hips and bop your head to the beat.

“So, New York huh?” He finally breaks, and your eyes flutter to the reflection to see him putting away all the spices he’d pulled out while you were smoking. “You likin’ it?”

Your movements freeze for a second, and your tongue feels heavy in your mouth with all the things you’ve dreamed of saying to him. Years of coming up with all the ways you’d tell him how much better you were without him. A recurring fantasy of a ten year reunion where you’d show up with your famous screenwriter husband you’d met on the Subway, turning your nose at him and whatever Hawkin’s girl he’d managed to knock up. But instead, the universe has you here five years too early, and Steve isn’t the same guy you’d left even if you don’t quite trust it yet.

Picking up the knife again, you roll your shoulders with a quiet breath before cutting into the onion once more as you search for the words to answer.

“Yeah, I like it. It’s big and it can be a little scary sometimes but I can be myself there,” it comes out a little quieter than intended but you still twist your hips to meet his gaze from across the kitchen where he stands with crossed arms giving you his full attention. “No one really cares what you do.”

“Who are you trying to be out there?” He asks like he has no idea what small talk is, the greens in his eyes shimmering against the last bit of sunlight that shines on his face.

“Someone stronger than who I was in high school,” you whisper, turning back around to focus on the task at hand and not your ex trying to dig into the depths of your soul while you cut onions.

“You were always the strongest person I knew,” he counters, and you can practically hear the shrug that you know follows his words.

”You certainly liked to test it.”

It comes out before you can bite your tongue, your knife slicing right into the center of the onion and hitting the cutting board roughly, adding dramatic effect.

”Ouch,” he hums with a small laugh, silverware clanking against the metal of the sink behind you as he finishes cleaning up his mess, “I guess I deserved that one.”

“Steve.” You stop cutting, dropping the knife to look at him, unintentionally swiping your eye in the process, “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that. I promised Rob- oh fuck!”

The burning in your right eye becomes unbearable, the tears spilling freely down your cheek blurring your vision with a harsh sting.

”Oh, oh no. Did you touch your eye?!” Steve sounds panicked, sneakers scuffling against the tile as he hurries to grab a washcloth from the drawer.

“It was an accident!” You whine, closing your eyes as tight as you can, willing the burning tears to stop, the sound of water running from the sink filling your ears, “God it hurts so bad, Steve.”

”I know baby, I know,” he coos in a soothing voice, and in your panic you almost don’t catch the old nickname that slips off his tongue with ease. Long fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling you closer to him, “Let me see, stay still.”

The coolness of the rag provides instant relief when he presses it gently to your eye. Taking a deep breath, you feel the warmth of his palm rub up and down your arm soothing your irritated nerves more. The sting doesn’t fully go away, but it subsides enough for the tears to slow down as he applies a little more pressure before removing it to wet it again. Blinking past the burning, you finally realize just how close you are to him now.

Chests practically touching, you can see the beginnings of stubble lining his jaw despite being able to tell that he shaved today. The vampire bites on his neck that used to be your favorite to kiss taunt you for what feels like the millionth time this week. With cedar and musk filling your lungs, it feels impossible to breathe.

He cuts off the water, turning towards you again, and you aren’t prepared for the depth in his eyes meeting yours from this distance. They’re soft when they look at you, the chestnut inside them warming gold as you stare back at him a little dazed. Calloused fingertips stop their path up your arm to gently grab your chin, tilting your face up to his so he can get a better look at the damage. He’s sweet with the way moves your head around, the pad of his thumb smoothing the skin under your irritated eye.

”I think you’ll be okay, I don’t see any seeds or anything trapped inside,” he whispers, thumb never stopping its movements while his gaze flicks down to your lips that pout on their own, something electric charging in the air.

The sliding glass door opens behind him before you can answer, Robin and Eddie making their presence known in a loud burst of energy. Snatching the wet rag from his hand, you’re quick to put distance between you. Placing the cool cloth against your face, you make your way out of the kitchen before anyone can ask you anything about what happened. Muttering a “thanks Steve '' on your way to assess just how ruined your makeup is in the bathroom.

Your heart pounds in your ears feeling the ghost of his touch everywhere, chest tightening because your body won’t stop screaming for more.

You stay in the bathroom long enough for the burning to subside, mumbling words that resemble some kind of pep talk while scrubbing your hands. Fingers that still shake with nerves fix your smudged mascara, listening for the moment their voices go quiet behind the sliding glass door before you decide to finally venture out. The sound of Steve’s laugh catches in your ears, as you make your way through the empty trailer, the corners of your lips curling on their own as you tug on the handle that separates you from them. The humidity is quick to turn your skin sticky despite the sun disappearing behind the trees.

”There she is! I heard Harrington tried to blind you,” Eddie chuckles from his place crouched in front of the fire. A half smoked cigarette dangling lazily from the side of his mouth as he ‘stokes’ the flames, the crackling wood competing with the buzz of the cicadas that surround you.

”Riddle me this, Steve, why is it that whenever someone ’helps’ you cook, they end up in the hospital or worse, almost BLIND!”

From her spot sitting on one of the many faded red plastic lawn chairs they have circled around the pit, Robin doesn’t hesitate to turn it into a dog pile with dramatics that could rival an Oscar winning actress.

Steve rolls his eyes, the warm light from the smaller flame of the grill glowing underneath him, highlighting his sharp features. His gaze meets yours, ignoring his friends, and you swear even from here, you can see the green inside each eye shine. You know there’s a million questions he wants to ask but there’s only one that comes out, and it’s soft just like the way he touched you inside.

”Are you okay?”

It’s hard for you to look anywhere but his face, remembering just how pretty it was up close. Your eyes trace the straight line of his nose, and the curve of his full bottom lip before finally meeting his eyes. The small smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth reminds you that you haven’t answered him yet but he doesn’t say anything. He lets Robin’s low whistle do all the talking.

”Uhh, yeah, I’m good. Crisis averted,” you mumble, snapping out of it, cheeks warming up enough to compete with the fire pit you stumble around, landing in the seat next to your best friend. “No jalapenos on mine, I think I’ve had enough for today.”

Steve laughs again, just like the one you heard on your way out and the sound burrows in your heart, making it swell, giddiness roiling deep in your gut. You ignore Robin’s obnoxious toothy grin next to you, doubling down even more when she starts to wiggle her eyebrows. The two beer cans at her feet tell you everything you need to know.

Without a cloud in an almost completely dark sky, you start to see the twinkling of the stars you’ll always miss begin to appear. They battle for your attention against the fireflies that flicker through the tall grass and into the woods. Lighter fluid stings your nose when Steve squirts more onto the burning coals, switching from hot dogs to burgers like he’s been grilling for a family of four his whole life.

A couple of beers calm your nerves that threaten to give you away, watching Steve in his element like this, the holes cut in his shirt showing off every flex of his muscles as he flips the patties. Cheese melting over the burger meat, just like your body that sinks further into the lawn chair that sticks to the backs of your thighs. He throws you a knowing look, making you clear your throat. Straightening your posture, you try to join in Robin and Eddie’s conversation like you hadn’t just been caught. Taking another long swig of the bitter semi cold liquid, you hope it’s enough to get you through dinner.

It’s not.

Steve takes the seat across from you when he’s finished cooking, manspreading with his paper plate in his lap. You fight the urge to look at the tan line of his inner thighs that are revealed by his loose fitting shorts, laughing a little too loud at Eddie’s jokes, desperate to keep your struggle hidden. Even going as far as acting interested when Robin starts talking about her reasons why she likes to buy certain things from the three different grocery stores in town.

It’s when a dribble of ketchup lands on top of Steve's hand after a large bite that you lose your cool. Right between his thumb and index finger, he hums with cheeks full of food before those full lips of his wrap around the spilled sauce, cleaning it with a flick of his tongue.

”I’m gonna throw my plate away, is anyone else done?” You squeak, standing up abruptly, your chair nearly falling backwards in the process.

“Jesus, easy tiger,” Eddie snorts, finishing off the last of his beer before crushing the tin can in his hand, tossing it on his empty plate, “The trash isn’t going anywhere.”

“Just trying to be a good house guest is all,” you lie, making Eddie quirk an eyebrow, the dimples in his cheeks coming out to play again.

”Uh huh.” He smirks before handing you his plate that Robin quickly piles hers on top of. “Sure.”

”That’s very sweet of you,” Steve chimes in, with a lopsided grin on his face that makes you want to punch the air and get out of here.

“She’s pure class Harrington, get it right,” Robin comes for the save with a knowing wink that only makes the heat growing in your cheeks worse.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you mumble quickly turning on your heel, feeling all their eyes on you as you make your way to the back door of the trailer.

”Hurry back. We're gonna play Never Have I Ever,” your best friend calls out over her shoulder making you wish you could just stay inside when the sliding glass door closes behind you.

Embers spark and pop from the fire before they disappear into the night sky, the full moon’s white glow stopping just along the dark edges of the trees that surround the backyard. The four of you sit around the pit with fresh beers in hand. The buzz of the alcohol turning Steve’s gaze heavy as he stares at you from across the flickering flames. Tucking your bottom lip between your teeth you look everywhere but his direction, and hope he doesn’t see the way your thighs press under the heat of it.

“Are you sure this is a good idea Robin?” Eddie whispers, big brown eyes glancing between the both of you, and your bouncing knee.

”It’s fine, they’ll be fine. Right guys?” She waves the metal head off, nudging you with her elbow, completely unphased.

”Of course we’ll be fine, why wouldn’t we be fine?” You snap, tugging the bottom of your skirt down, all the built up tension turning into aggression. Steve smiles into his next gulp.

“Whoa, whoa. I was just asking, but you do seem a little tense.” She raises her hands in surrender, both her eyebrows disappearing behind her shaggy bangs while Eddie distracts himself by poking the fire.

“Relax, it’s just a game,” Steve sighs, settling deeper in his chair, the warm amber in the flames bouncing off the mischievous gold in his eyes that keep their hold on you. “Besides, we’re friends now, right?”

Your gaze narrows, the grip on your beer tightening enough to hear the pop of the metal.“Yep,” you manage to get out, shooting Eddie a glare when he snorts.

“If you guys say so,” he starts, ignoring your scowl while getting cut off by Robin who’s practically vibrating in her seat now.

”Let’s have fun already. I’ll start.” Robin shushes him before acting like she’s deep in thought, turning to face you with the kind of grin on her face that tells you she’s up to no good, “Never have I ever…let some Wall Street douchebag go down on me in the backseat of his Rolls Royce.”

“That’s weirdly specific- oh wait! Damn! Princess!” Eddie whoops when you take a swig with a roll of your eyes, flipping Robin the bird.

“Gotta try everything once, right?” You shrug, holding his gaze with a smirk, not even trying to hide that you’re taking great pleasure in the way Steve’s jaw clenches at the new found information of your life outside of here. “He had a nice mouth when he wasn’t using it for talking.”

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose, the mossy greens in his eyes turning dark as you lean back in your chair smugly.

“She’s a wild one, I’ll tell ya,” Robin giggles fondly, passing the baton to you with a proud smile.

Maybe it was the beer or the incessant way Steve’s presence drove you to the brink of insanity by rageful lust. Or even just the way he sat across from you with his legs spread wide like he ruled the world, whatever it was, that's what’s to blame for the question that rolls off your tongue.

“Never have I ever taken someone’s virginity.”

Robin’s jaw drops, guffawing with a harsh slap on your leg, mouthing a ‘you said you’d be nice’ but the buzz of the alcohol keeps a lopsided grin on her face. Eddie drinks, nervously watching the staring contest going on between you and Steve. Like a dog and its owner trying to establish dominance, both of you refuse to be the one who looks away first. Taking two gulps for good measure, he smacks his lips loudly when he’s done, wiping the foam off his upper lip with the back of his wrist. Raising his eyebrows at you in a silent challenge.

“This isn’t awkward at all,” Eddie grumbles, taking another sip of his beer to help the uncomfortable tension that threatens to settle over the circle.

”Who’s next? Who's next?” Robin urges with a flick on your knee, forcing you to fold and give her your attention with a blink of your eyes and it feels like the first time in hours that you finally look at someone other than Steve.

Your teeth clench, grinding at the thought that even after all this time he’s still got this kind of hold on you, and it has you riding the thin line between wanting to give him a black eye or have him take you for a spin in his beemer for old times sake.

“Eddie,” raising your can in his direction, he meets you in the middle with a cheers that doesn’t quite touch before slinking back in his chair with an exhausted huff.

“Hmmm, what do I want to reveal about myself?” He hums deep in thought, metal rings clinking against tin in a familiar tune as he taps his fingers around his beer can, “Never have I ever… been in a threesome, despite being titled ‘freak’ of Hawkins.”

“Really?” Robin seems genuinely shocked, making you giggle.

“Yeah, I know. It’s crazy to me too.” Eddie shrugs, with a knowing grin that doesn’t quite sit right in your gut.

That’s when you see it. Steve taking a drink.

”WHAT?!” Your best friend squeals practically jumping from her seat, clearly something that's not common knowledge being revealed.

Jealousy is an ugly monster, and it finds a home deep inside your chest tonight, turning you green with it. Your half empty beer can crunches the more your fingers dig into the tin, eyes narrowing when he just responds to Robin with a coy smirk and a shrug bringing his attention back to you.

”Gotta try everything once right?” Steve mocks, full pink lips curling up at the corners as he takes another sip.

Your heart sinks with your stomach, the muscles in your face doing the same before you have a chance to stop it. Visions of red nails and pink lips that don’t belong to you dance through your head, and the smug smirk he probably wore while his big hands gripped their hips taking turns making them moan his name. The sound of your can completely collapsing in a loud crunch gets everyone’s attention, and you ignore the softened expression on Steve’s face trying to capture your gaze again. Eddie clears his throat, throwing you a life line before opening a new can of beer with a suggestion you’ve never been more grateful for.

”Alright Steve, your turn.”

Steve nods with a tight lipped smile taking one last glance in your direction before sitting up in his chair with an idea that makes his cheeks push up and his eyes sparkle against the light of the fire. “Alright, never have I ever pretended to not only have a driver's license but also own a car that actually belongs to my best friend so I can hook up with a girl in the backseat.”

A quiet sigh escapes your lungs, shoulders relaxing just a little when Robin groans loudly at the attack that’s clearly focused on her. Oblivious to the fact that you’re hanging on by a thread next to her, you stare fixed on the way the flames lick up into the night.

“Look, she was a college senior, okay? I was only a sophomore and she was way cooler than me. Judge me all you want, but it worked didn’t it?” She argues, lifting her beer to the sky before taking a sip proudly. “No regrets!”

Her smile is contagious, easing some of the tension when you and Eddie giggle meeting each other's eyes from across her honey blond waves. You can feel Steve’s stare burning a hole in the side of your head, the heat of it in direct competition with the fire that thrives off the light breeze that rustles through the trees.

“Aright, alright, never have I ever faked getting off.” She wiggles her eyebrows with a toothy grin, looking at Eddie specifically who gives her a dead stare in response, clearly something told to her in confidence.

Biting your lip, you really weren’t going to add more fuel to the fire but when you finally meet Steve’s eyes that have been begging for your attention this whole time, you can’t help but douse the flames with the whole can of gasoline. Another flash of different shades of lipstick staining the freckles you loved to kiss so much sending another wave of rage down to your core.

”I can think of a few times.” You snort loudly, holding his gaze and pointedly stealing everyone else's attention before polishing off the last of your crumpled can.

Steve’s jaw clenches hard enough that you swear you can hear his teeth crunch together. Nostrils flaring with a gaze so dark it threatens to swallow you whole, all traces of honey and warmth gone, leaving you chilled to the bone.

”I think we’re done with this game Robin,” he grunts, standing up with a kick of his chair and for once his eyes don’t search for yours as he stomps across the yard towards the yellow light of the trailer.

“Seriously!” Your best friend groans, slinking back in her chair with a hand running down her face, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

”Yeah, genius! I told you, but nooo, you didn’t want to listen to me.” Eddie scoffs into his beer can, using his free hand to poke at the fire.

”Can you go, like, talk to him or something?” Robin turns to you with an almost pleading look that gets more prominent the more your face turns sour.

“Me?! I have to go talk to him? Seriously? He’s the one who stormed off,” you argue, crossing your arms.

”Yeah, well you clearly hurt his feelings.” She points at his pacing figure through the kitchen window and it takes everything inside of you not to tell her that he hurt yours first.

The two of you stare each other down, the wills of stubbornness at battle until her eyes go soft, big and glassy.

“Please,” she begs, pulling out the big guns, and jutting out her bottom lip.

You hold her gaze for a few more seconds before surrendering with a roll of your eyes, huffing loudly when you uncross your arms to stand up, making her face light back up.

”I hate you. More than anything.”

Eddie cackles loudly at your lie, digging in his front pocket for a smushed pack of cigarettes.

“We all know you don’t mean that,” she hums with a content smile, leaning over to snatch the freshly lit tobacco from the metalhead’s mouth, waving at you as you start to follow Steve’s path up to the trailer. “Please don’t kill him!”

Closing the sliding glass door behind you, a shiver runs up your spine when the coolness of the air conditioning hits your sticky skin. The sound of running water catches in your ears from the kitchen along with the murmur of his voice under its rush.You can’t quite make out what he’s saying to himself, even when you reach the doorway.

Hunched over the sink, his shoulder blades flex with every harsh scrub of the pan. His hat rests on the counter, and you can’t help but notice the wild way his hair sits on the top of his head from wearing it all day, sun kissed tips curling from the humidity. Clearing your throat just loud enough to alert him of your presence, you watch the way his whole body goes rigid. It only lasts for a moment before he recovers, shutting off the water with a lazy slap of his hand. Turning around he grabs the dish towel next to him to dry off, meeting your gaze with a little more color in his eyes, flecks of gold trying to shimmer in a raging storm.

Having his full attention on you, alone like this, is enough for your tongue to go numb. The back of your throat turns into sandpaper, making it impossible for words to find their way out. A big hand runs through his hair, fingers getting caught on a knot at the end that he works out with ease, a gentle sigh deflating his defensive chest just a little before he speaks.

“Hey.”

Anger still boils under all of the attraction, along with the jealousy you aren’t willing to acknowledge.You aren’t ready. You can’t do this yet.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” you excuse yourself, turning on your heel and leaving just as quickly as you arrived.

You ignore the way he calls after you, seeking solace in the place that's become your hiding spot for the night. Fingers wrap around the handle to the familiar room, you stop in your tracks when a warm patch of light leaking out from a crack in a door that wasn’t opened before catches your attention.

You can smell the cedar from here.

Glancing over your shoulder to see if he followed you, it changes the course of your direction when you discover that he didn’t. Taking a few steps across the hallway, you’re careful not to let the hinges creak when you push his bedroom door open a little more. Your senses quickly become overwhelmed with everything that makes Steve, Steve. You throw another cautious look down the hallway before crossing the invisible line. Closing the door like how you found it, you let your curiosity get the best of you.

It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be now that he doesn’t live inside the Harrington’s massive house anymore. His bed is bigger, the twin sized mattress that you used to squeeze into traded in for a queen. The navy blue comforter that looks soft to the touch is laid out messy on white sheets, a digital clock with glaring red numbers that read 10:30 pm on the nightstand next to it.

The carpet under your feet is a heather gray, and you can tell that it’s scratchy even with your shoes on. Patrick Swayze watches your every move from the Roadhouse poster hanging on his wall, the floor creaking as you make your way toward the small work desk in the corner. Your eyes linger on the impressive way all his dirty clothes manage to be in his hamper before they find the framed pictures spread over his desk.

There’s one of him with the middle school boy you knew as Dustin Henderson perched on his back, only he looks much older than you remembered. The curls still give him away despite the braces free smile. Both of them grin hard enough for their eyes to crinkle in the corners like they had finally stopped laughing long enough for someone to snap this picture.

You fight back the way your cheeks threaten to push up, not surprised to find one of him and Robin at what looks like Lover’s Lake, both of them striking the same pose with inflatable tubes around their waists wearing matching bucket hats and sunglasses.

The guy in these photos doesn’t seem anything like the one you remember and it’s hard for you to wrap your head around it. They look the same.

”I don’t think this is the bathroom, do you?” Steve’s voice makes you jump, heart stopping in your chest for a split second before you meet his questioning stare with a guilty face of your own.

His arms are crossed over his chest as leans against the door frame, unintentionally pulling the collar of his shirt down giving you a glimpse of the patch of hair and the gold chain underneath. The softness in his eyes from the kitchen is gone as he stares you down, it’s replaced with something you can’t quite put your finger on but the intensity of it raking over your body has your thighs meeting for what feels like the millionth time tonight. His full pink lips twist into a sarcastic smirk as he pushes off the wood, taking the next few steps into his room.

”Did you really mean what you said out there?” He questions, dark eyes sparkling the more you squirm under the heat of them.

”Mean what? I said a lot of things out there. We all did.” Narrowing your gaze, you try to take back some semblance of control, squaring up your shoulders at him but the dark chuckle you get in response tells you it’s a futile attempt.

“I didn’t say anything about you specifically though, did I?” Steve counters, stopping just a few feet away from you, tongue poking at the side of his cheek, “No, I don’t think I did.”

He hums, uncrossing his arms to mimic your stance in a silent challenge, eyebrows raised waiting on your response.

”I didn’t say anything about you specifically either.” Jutting out your chin in defiance, it's your turn to cross your arms now. Maturity at its finest.

He doesn’t answer you, instead he holds your eyes with his own and it takes everything inside of you not to look away. Your tongue swipes against your bottom lip as he starts to take a few steps closer, broad shoulders making the room feel small when the toes of his sneakers meet yours.

“I don’t think you ever faked anything with me.” He looks down his nose at you, smelling like summer nights and everything you’ve tried to forget.

”You think or you know?” Cocking a brow with a shit eating grin that tells him you aren’t going to fold easy, the backs of your thighs hit the edge of his desk.

He sucks at his teeth, rolling his shoulders with the kind of laugh that makes the dull ache between your legs turn into a throb.

“I know. Trust me.” He smirks, gaze lingering where the soft dough of your thighs meet before finding your eyes again, “Guess what else I know?”

It's hard for you to catch your breath when he looks at you like this and you wonder if he notices the quick heaves of your chest or the way your eyes glaze over from being this close to him.

”W-what?” Your stutter gives you away, but at least you tried to fight one last time before he went in for the kill.

The whites of his teeth show in the kind of smile that tells you he was hoping you’d ask just that. Leaning in, his palms land on his desk finding purchase on either side of your hips, caging you in. He’s close enough for the tip of his nose to brush against yours, close enough to smell the wheat from his beer on the warm breath that fans against your lips.

“You wouldn’t still look at me the way you do, if I hadn’t made you feel good honey. And you know what else?”

His voice goes deep as he whispers, nose nudging at your cheek before his lips hover right by your ear making you shiver, goosebumps making their second appearance of the day. Your hands find the edge of his desk, chest brushing against his in a deep breath feeling the slightest touch of his lips against the soft spot right behind it.

“I know I can make you cum harder with my tongue than some Wall Street asshole, who doesn’t even know what to do under the hood of that fancy car he spent so much money on.” His grip on the desk tightens at the thought, wood groaning under the stress of it and it has your thighs spreading for him on their own.

“Steve -”

His fingers grab your chin like at the shop with just a firm enough hold for you to pull away if you want to but you can’t bring yourself to do it when his eyes threaten to swallow you whole. You wonder if it's just a mirror reflection of your own as he takes some of the new space you’ve given him, so close now that you can feel the heat of his body where yours screams for him most. His brows furrow when your noses brush and he swears he can taste the watermelon of your lip gloss, and then he knows he can when he feels your fingers curl into his shirt tugging him closer.

“I think,” he breathes into your mouth, hesitating just enough to soak it in a second longer before pulling away with an almost pained expression that he quickly tries to cover up, “I think it’s time for me to take you and Robin home.”

He steps back and out of your space, a nervous hand running through his hair like he did something he wasn’t supposed to do. His eyes meet yours again and there's something apologetic that swirls in the deep forest that watches you tug your skirt down straightening up.

”I’ll uh, I’ll give you a minute while I go wrangle Robin.”

He takes one last look at you like he really needs to be sure of something before finally walking out and leaving you alone to wonder how the night ended with you here. Skirt rucked up, trying to catch your breath in Steve Harrington’s room.

———-

🌻 beta’d by @superblysubpar

🌻 chapter three

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