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dailynnt · 2 months ago

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ONE NIGHT AS THE PRICE OF A REQUEST

⋆˙⟡ Summary: You hate your neighbor Jungkook, but you have to ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend at a party to get rid of your annoying boss. He agrees, but you don't even imagine what you'll have to pay him with. Everything goes according to plan until Jungkook reveals his true price during the dance: one night with him or your life in the neighborhood will be hell.

⋆˙⟡ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

⋆˙⟡ Age restrictions: 18+

⋆˙⟡ Index of chapters: ≣

⋆˙⟡ Number of chapter: 17/?

⋆˙⟡ Tags: enemies-to-neighbors-to-lover, fake relationship, hate to desire, dom!Jungkook, heated blackmail, one bed trope (later more than one bed), undeniable chemistry, forced deal, mutual obsession, dangerous game, unexpected feelings, passion on edge, impossible to resist, tension and desire, unprotected sex, sexual tension, slow burning

⋆˙⟡ From author: Hello my dear Army 💜 I really hope you are all healthy and feeling well 🙏🏻 So here's a new chapter for you 🥳 I have to be honest with you, first of all I'm very nervous that you liked this chapter, because it is full of events, (I have never written anything longer in my life, this chapter turned out to be 16,200+ words) and those who read to the end will be surprised, very surprised 🤭 Oh how I am excited 😬🥺 And secondly, It was very hard for me to write this chapter, because of the emotions I had to experience while writing it (I don't seem to be a very sensitive girl, but for some reason it happened to me 😅) so maybe the text may be oversaturated, or vice versa I poured a lot of water 😆 Anyway, leave me a small comment that I know how I did, do you like how l managed with the development of events and description of scenes! You know this is super important to me!!! 🥹🥰😘 By the way, there is a mention of vegetarians here. It's nothing special, it's just that my heroine is not a vegetarian, and if someone can be offended by my little dialog, I apologize immediately! I never want to offend anyone with my works!!! If you are a vegetarian and you are offended by that dialogue, just let it go by, or just don't read any further 🥺🥰 I sincerely love all my readers who quietly like, reblog, and those who comment 💗💜 You are my desire to write further ❤️‍🔥 Enjoy ✨

⋆˙⟡ Dedication: to my biggest love @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @someoneelse0109, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle for loving me for nothing. I love you girls twice as much 🥺🤭💜🫶🏻

⋆˙⟡ Tag list: @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @someoneelse0109, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle, @bhonbhon, @ottergirl, @vantelover1306, @deepikhaprakash, @mar-lo-pap, @zeytiable, @lallataegi, @vintagemoonsstuff, @indigomoonchild09, @diame93, @bts-ruu, @asyr97, @taeloversblog, @songbyeonkim, @miniruuu, @hubbytaehyung, @queen1599, @goldenboysmuse , @nikkinikj, @kookiesncreamri, @guwol, @unholyforjk, @hisdecalcomania17, @kooklovee, @theycallmebaepsaee (If you want to be on the tag list, let me know)

⋆˙⟡ Warning: English is not my native language, so please be lenient with mistakes in the text 🥹

Chapter 17. Fate, which destined

You don't remember how you got home. You walked through the crowd, ignoring the surprised looks of passers-by. Tears were in your eyes, and it was getting harder and harder to take one breath. Your legs carried you on autopilot. The pain in your chest never stopped, reminding you how much it hurt to lose everything in an instant.

The apartment door slammed behind you as you stepped inside. Trembling with rage, you kicked off your shoes, tossed your purse to the side, and slowly settled to the floor against the wall. Your chest felt empty and angry. It seemed like someone had put a sandbag on you: it was hard to even breathe. Your eyes were burning, swollen with tears that never stopped flowing. They were hot, burning your cheeks, but they did not wash away the inner pain.

The job you worked so hard for, your project... your chance... And everything is ruined. It all happened because of him. Because of Jungkook. Because of his selfishness and his own self-interest. You gave up so much time, effort, hope, and you were just thrown away like trash.

You barely got up and sat on the couch. You looked at one point, as if there was a sense there. But there was nothing in your head. Even the tears stopped, leaving only hot traces. You didn't want to move. You didn't want to think either. All you felt was unbearable pain that burned from the inside.

Some time passed, but you continued to sit and not move. There was a knock at the door, and you looked at it indifferently. The knock came again. And again, and again. You knew it was him, but you didn't care about him. To hell with Jungkook. To hell his deal, his promises, his entire existence.

You heard another hard knock on the door, and then his muffled voice.

"Open the door! I know you're in there!"

You were silent. Tears rolled down your face in a new wave, blurring the focus in your eyes.

"Y/N, open up! Please!" his voice became softer, almost pleading, "Let's talk... you're angry with me, but I'm asking you to listen to me."

You stood up from the couch and walked to the door on weak feet. Your eyebrows were drawn together, he couldn't see your angry expression, but you could have burned the door with that look.

"Get out!" you shouted, "I don't want to see you anymore! The deal is over! Do you hear me? IT'S OVER!"

Jungkook punched the door and you yelped.

"Open the door, damn it!" he bellowed. "Just... let's talk!"

"No!" you said firmly, "It's over! I don't want to talk to you! Just get out! Get out of my life!" you walked over and slammed your palm on the door too, wishing it was Jungkook, "I hate you! You ruined everything!"

You leaned back against the door and slid down, sobbing hard again. Jungkook was silent. He didn't hit the door anymore, and it even seemed as if he had left. But you heard his voice, calm, firm.

"I'm not leaving! I'll be here, until you open the damn door for me. I want to solve everything normally. No tantrums. No yelling. Just talk......" you heard a light knock - he sat down on the other side of the door. Right behind of you.

You cried even harder. Why can't he just leave? Why won't he let you go?

"I'll sit here," you heard behind the door, "You'll come out sooner or later. A day, two days, a week, I'm not going anywhere."

You closed your eyes. What do you need do? How do you get rid of him? Should you open the door and talk to him? Maybe then he will leave you alone?

But you don't want to see him. It will be painful for you to look at the face that was your lifeline, but now it will remind you that you have lost everything. But it looks like you need to get over yourself so that this can finally be over.

You slowly stood up. You touched the lock and opened it slowly. The door opened and you saw him. Jungkook was standing. Obviously he had gotten up when he heard you opening the door.

His eyes looked at you with undisguised pain. You looked at him angrily, almost hatefully.

Jungkook held his breath as he saw your red eyes, your mascara running, and your hateful gaze.

"Leave me alone. Just disappear. I don't need your excuses or any other words," you said colorlessly. Jungkook stood there, frozen. His heart was sinking when hearing your exhausted voice. He took a step forward and wrapped you in his arms. You walked a few steps away together and Jungkook stopped, holding you tightly.

You didn't have the strength to resist him. You just stood there with your arms down. Your lips touched his shoulder and you smelled his scent, the one you loved so much, the one that used to make you tremble inside, and now was tearing you apart.

You stood in an embrace for a long time and quietly. You could hear his heart pounding and knew that he could hear yours flying out.

"Let go," you whispered. Jungkook squeezed you tighter, letting you know he wouldn't.

"It's my fault," he said desperately, pressing his forehead against the spot between your neck and shoulder, "Everything that happened is because of me. So please let me make it right. I'll get you your place back in the company and make Kang Youngwon pay for what he did."

You exhaled, devastated, empty, languid, right into his shoulder.

"I've heard your promises before, they're worthless," you said without hiding your disappointment. Jungkook froze for a moment, and then leaned away from your shoulder and looked into your eyes, not letting go you from his embrace.

"I didn't know that this bastard would fired you. I thought we had time to work things out."

You smiled crookedly.

"No one knew, I didn't know I was fired either. And I wonder how much more I wouldn't have known if you hadn't wanted to wire me the money for your fucking agreement?" you shoved him away and moved away, not even paying attention to the open door. "Jungkook it’s over. Do you hear me? I don't want to talk to you anymore. Our agreement is off. You can go to hell, I don't need your help. I'm going to start from scratch. And I'm going to do it the way I always do - alone."

Jungkook wanted to say something, but you cut him off:

"You know, I've never relied on anyone. Never. I've done everything on my own. And I achieved it. But... for some reason I thought I could trust you. That was my biggest mistake. Because every time I think someone is going to stay, they leave. Over and above you used me."

"I didn't use you," Jungkook said sharply.

You froze. This rudeness was like a slap in the face. You just smiled crookedly and walked slowly toward him, tilting your head back to look into his eyes, which were angry as hell. When you stopped next to him, half a step away, it seemed to you that he filled the entire space around him. Jungkook bowed his head, drilling you with his gaze.

"You used me, offered me a deal, played on my nerves, made me adapt to you, fucked me because you could. But you did nothing for me instead. You didn't even lift a finger to keep me at work."

Jungkook's jaw clenched. His eyes darkened even more, like a storm before a downpour. You didn't know that he had already done more for you than you could have ever imagined. And he would do more. He will destroy everyone who has hurt you. Even if he is among them.

"I made sure that the media didn't write dirt about you..." he began, and he wanted to speak for your mother and his intentions to free Kang Yonwon, but you interrupted him again, hitting him in the chest with the back of your hand.

"Hero," you exclaimed mockingly, "How could I forget? You did do something after all. Only not for me, but for yourself," your smile disappeared and your face took on that same hateful look. His gaze became icy. "Get out, we no have agreement anymore."

Jungkook nervously touched the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

"You can't just break it off!" he said firmly. You cocked your head to the side and smiled.

"Yes, I can. It's not on paper. And you're not my boss."

Jungkook was silent, staring at your face. Then he straightened up abruptly. He took a step back, but didn't turn away.

"Fine. If you're canceling the agreement... then I'm leaving," Jungkook says. You don't understand what he means by "I'm leaving."

"What?" your eyebrows twitch.

"I'll sell all my damn shares. I'm going to give up everything. I'll just disappear. Because if it's not you, they're forcing me to marry Sukhi. I will become a puppet. And I can't stand it."

You sighed, tired. You don't believe him. You don't want to. His words are like a play, another manipulation.

"How you dramatic..." you scoff. "You can easily find another stupid girl who will agree to play the role of your girlfriend for money. You'll fuck her without feelings and everything will be fine. Don't act like I'm so important to you."

Jungkook closed his eyes, barely able to contain his frustration. Fuck. You important. It's all about you. He doesn't want to lose you. And if you leave, there's no point in him continuing this whole fake relationship farce. You're important to him, but why is it so hard for him to say it out loud? Why can't he admit that he's in love with you?

"I don't want to look for someone else," he finally said, slowly walking up to you. His heart was pounding like crazy, and it seemed like it would jump out of his chest. He stopped too close to you. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to kiss you so damn much, but he knew he couldn't. He had to show you that he respected your space. "Kitten, I'm asking you to trust me one more time. One fucking time and I'll fix everything," he promises you desperately.

His words are quiet but piercing. Sincerity resounds in every syllable. Your soul cracks. Why do you want to believe again? Why not kick him out like you wanted? You shake your head. No. It's a trap. He's already failed you. He'll fail you again.

You have to think for yourself, for your grandmother, not for him. Don't think about how he'll live. It's his problem, not yours.

Jungkook touches your palm. Lightly. His fingers are hot. Yours are cold with worry.

"Make up your mind, kitten. Either we continue the deal, we go to Jeju, I fix everything with your work, I get your reputation back... or you refuse and I sell everything I have, disappear from your life forever. I will accept either decision."

You look at your intertwined fingers and listen to his words. What a manipulator. He has put the responsibility for his life on you. But will he do as he promises? If thinking about both cases? You look up at him and laugh softly. He's playing with you again, with your feelings.

"Manipulator," you whisper, barely audible. He does not answer.

Jungkook waits patiently for your answer. He's annoyed that you're laughing, but he knows you won't give up on him. Because you have feelings for him too. He knows that.

But you think differently. You are not thinking about your feelings for him at this moment. The only thought in your head is to give him a chance to fix everything. Because he is really the only one who can do it. You realize that you have to trust him again. But now everything will definitely be on your terms. Not his.

"Okay," you finally say. And Jungkook can't believe his ears. You take your hand away and back away a few steps. "But I agree on the condition that you fix it soon. I give you no more than a month. If you don't solve everything in a month, I will terminate our agreement completely. I need to see a guarantee of your words to play the role of your girlfriend. You: give me my job back, restore my reputation, and make Yongwon give me back the rights to the project which he stole. If you do all of this, I will play your girlfriend until Sukhi or her father breaks off the engagement. And as soon as they do, we end our agreement and you disappear from my life. Not even a single chance meeting. If you don't keep your promises this time, we'll say goodbye much faster."

You finish your long monologue and look at Jungkook, who looks darker than a storm cloud. His jaw is clenched and you can see his muscles playing.

"It's a deal," Jungkook says shortly and dryly. You nod in agreement.

"I'll go to Jeju with you, but I need time to get ready. About an hour," you say, just as dryly, "I'll text you when I'm ready."

Jungkook exhales heavily, and nods silently. He can't speak even if he wanted to. He is exhausted from this emotional war with you. He silently turns to leave, and at the door, your voice makes him stop.

"One more thing. We have new rules for the deal now," you say more briskly, with a bit of defiance. "Minimal physical contact. I will only allow you to touch me when necessary, not often. I'd like to eliminate kissing altogether, but that wouldn't be believable, so you can only kiss me when absolutely necessary, and very quickly. If I see you breaking these rules, I will throw a tantrum. Do you understand?"

"Y/N," your name comes out of his mouth harshly and threateningly.

"Did you hear me?" you ask again, harshly.

Jungkook is silent again. For a moment, you thought he was going to tell you to go to hell, but he holds back and only answers with a short answer:

"I’m heard you."

He turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him. You look at the door and tears choke you again. You are crying out of despair and fatigue. You are tired of enduring the shit of this life.

You sit down on the couch and cry for a while. But you have to hurry. You have to calm down and clean yourself up so that Jungkook's friends don't notice your red eyes and your face, which is swollen with tears.

The charter flight to Jeju was scheduled for 8.00 p.m. - the late time allowed you to avoid unnecessary attention and the press. You arrived at the Icheon airport with Jungkook, but there had been silence between you for hours. The tension between you was almost tangible.

Jungkook parked the car, and you started walking to the terminal. You walked side by side, but didn't look at each other. The once familiar touching became impossible.

Jimin, Hoseok, Namjoon, and Taehyung were already waiting for you in the VIP lounge, not alone, but with a new girl, not the one who was with him on the yacht. They introduced her as Haewon.

The boys greeted you with joy, and you responded with a strained smile, a downcast look, and a hoarse voice that was barely holding back from breaking.

Hewon shook your hand. When it was Jungkook's turn, she held her gaze on him. He didn't pay attention, continuing to talk with his friends, but you clearly noticed her appraising, overly attentive gaze.

You turned away, pretending to check something on your phone. Her presence irritated you for some unknown reason.

After a brief security check, you were escorted directly aboard the private jet. You and Jungkook boarded together, silently, without exchanging a word, although he looked at you several times as if he wanted to say something but didn't dare.

The cabin was luxurious: soft seats, warm lighting, champagne on a table by the window. Hoseok and Jimin immediately sat down by the window, already joking about something of their own. Namjoon made himself comfortable across from them. Taehyung and Haewon sat a little further away, closer to the tail. You sat next to Jungkook, just as you were supposed to: "fake love" was supposed to sit next to each other.

He gently put one hand on the armrest between you, the other holding his phone. Everything seemed normal. But you could feel him tense up when you accidentally touched him.

"So, are everyone ready for an adventure?" Jimin called out, refilling his champagne.

"Always," Taehyung replied, hugging Haewon, who was giggling too flirtatiously next to him.

The plane took off and everyone relaxed. There was laughter in the cabin, Jungkook's friends and himself were exchanging inside jokes and talking about business, and you were sitting in silence. You tried to smile when it was necessary, but you felt like you were redundant.

Haewon kept approaching you, deciding that you should become friends. She asked you if you flew often, and she looked over Jungkook as if she was looking for something. Her perfume-sickly sweet-stuck to your nose like an intrusive advertisement.

After a while, Jungkook stood up.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he said briefly.

You didn't answer. You sat staring out the window. It wasn't long before you saw Haewon accidentally bump into Jungkook as she exited the same part of the plane. She lost her balance and he gently grabbed her elbow to stop her from falling.

You pretended not to see anything. But inside you felt a stab of jealousy. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that Jungkook had walked toward Jimin and Hoseok, and at that very moment, Namjoon had sat down on the seat in front of you.

"Hey," he called to you softly, but you still jumped, not expecting him to appear. He smiled sweetly at you and you could see the dimples in his cheeks.

"Hey," you said, just as quietly and with a smile, looking out the window. You could only see the clouds and the sun painting them golden pink. It was a breathtaking sight, but you didn't care.

"Are you okay? You look exhausted," Namjoon said. You glanced at him briefly and forced yourself to keep a smile on your lips.

"Yeah," you said, "I'm fine. I'm just a little tired after work."

Namjoon studied your face for a few seconds and then assumed.

"You haven't been crying, have you? Your eyes are red."

You looked at him sharply, slanting your gaze. Again, he was being too attentive to you. He even noticed that your eyes were red.

"I work on the computer a lot and wake up early, so my eyes might be red." You said kindly, not to offend Namjoon, even though his questions were annoying you.

"Oh, I misunderstood, as usual, I'm sorry." He bowed guiltily, and you smiled wider.

"It's okay, don't worry. I've noticed you've been paying attention since the first time we met," you said. Namjoon pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away for a moment.

"Yes, this is my most characteristic trait. I can be overly attentive and meticulous," he said with a smile on his lips. "So get ready to put up with me for the next three days."

You laughed, not loudly, but it caught Jungkook's attention. You were listening to Namjoon telling you about the schedule for Jeju, not noticing Jungkook's attentive gaze. He dropped Jimin that he wanted to go sit down and walked decisively toward the seats where you and Namjoon were.

Jungkook had the same feeling inside as he had on the yacht. Namjoon was right there by your side when Jungkook walked away.

His gaze found yours as he approached. You locked eyes, and you looked away as if you hadn't noticed. Namjoon stood up as Jungkook approached.

"Oh, Jungkook-ah, I tried my best to cheer up your girlfriend, but she's too tired. You need to did something to help her relax," he said encouragingly and walked away, patting Jungkook on the shoulder.

Jungkook sat down next to you and leaned in, very close. But you had already turned away from him. You felt his warm breath on your ear and your insides fluttered.

"We need to do something," he whispered. "If everyone notices that we're not talking, they'll be suspicious. They'll think we've had a fight. Should I take your hand? Or... you could lay on my shoulder."

You looked at him coldly. Let him go hold Hewon's hand if he's so concerned about what others think. You opened your mouth to spit out something scathing, but... held back. You wouldn't win anything by doing so.

Instead, you smiled. You leaned down and kissed him on the lips, barely touching. Briefly, quickly. And then you gently leaned your head against his shoulder.

Jungkook froze. His heart sped up, his breath hitched, and somewhere deep down he cursed everything that prevented him from kissing you sincerely right now. His lips still remembered your touch, and he wanted more. And not just for the "role".

You were lying on his shoulder, looking out the window.

"Now no one will think?!" you whispered angrily, not looking at him.

He leaned his head against yours, hugging you. You looked like a couple. Jungkook wanted you to do this not by force, but by choice. You sat quietly, not speaking, and each of you felt tense, as if on pins and needles.

After a long, and not entirely calm flight personal for you, your feet finally touched the warm asphalt of the island. You could already feel the light humidity of the ocean in the air.

Three black, stylish SUVs were waiting at the terminal exit. The seating arrangements had been arranged in advance: you and Jungkook in the first car. Jimin, Hoseok, and Namjoon in the second. Taehyung and Haewon in the third.

Jungkook opened the door for you without saying a word. You had barely spoken on the plane, and now you were silent too. You sat down, looking ahead, and stared at the lights of Jeju at night.

It would take about forty minutes to get to the villa where you would all spend the next three days, the navigator showed. Jungkook often got calls from manager Lee, and he would talk to him briefly. You tried not to listen to the conversation, focusing your attention on the radio playing softly in the salon, but you still unconsciously caught fragments of the manager's sentences, "...they came to see her today...", "...the debt is 4.5 million won...", "when should I transfer the money?".

You felt very tired. You wanted to rest, finally, because today had been a total disaster. You glanced over at Jungkook, who was giving some quality advice to the manager Lee about company’s business, and you thought that you were likely to share a room with him. You had to accept it, even though deep down you didn't mind at all.

You turn to the window, looking at the landscape around you. For a moment, you thought about how wonderful this trip would have been if you hadn't known you were fired. Maybe Jungkook should have kept quiet? Yes. It would have been better if he hadn't said anything, and you would have believed until the end that you would be returned to work.

The car slowly ascended the illuminated path, and when you rounded the next bend, you saw a majestic villa overlooking the ocean, you involuntarily took a deep breath.

The building had a futuristic architecture with open terraces, cascading staircases, and a fire installation in the middle of the courtyard. There were palm trees and ornamental shrubs all around, and behind the house was a huge swimming pool with a transparent edge, beyond which stretched the evening ocean in the purple glow of the sunset.

When you went inside, the impression only intensified. Light marble, wooden accents, soft warm lighting. The villa looked expensive and luxurious.

Your room with Jungkook was large, with access to a terrace overlooking the pool and the ocean. A private bath in white and gold, a walk-in closet, a TV, two armchairs... and only one bed.

You should have told Jungkook right away that you would not share the bed with them.

Jungkook walked over to the bed, putting his phone and car keys on the bedside table.

"I'm not going to share a bed with you," you said, standing behind him near one of the chairs. Jungkook froze for a second when he heard your words. You expected him to act like a gentleman, to say something like, "Of course I'll sleep on the floor," but he gave you a half-turn.

"If you want, you can sleep anywhere. The house is huge," and he sat down on the bed, take his phone in hands.

You froze, mouth agape. He wasn't even trying to be polite. Sensing the silence, Jungkook looked at you sideways and barely contained his smile - your confusion amused him.

"Are you serious, Jeon?" you asked, irritated. He shrugged his shoulders as if he hadn't said anything wrong.

"Absolutely," Jungkook said without looking up from the phone. "You can go downstairs, sleep on the couch, or try to find another room." He locked the phone and nodded it to the bed. He stood up and slowly walked over to you. Your heart was pounding in your throat. "Or you can just sleep here, in the same bed as me. That way it will be better, and no one will ask any questions."

"I'm not sleeping in the same bed with you." you repeated, almost spitting out each word.

His gaze slid over your eyes, your lips... He wanted to kiss you - very much. But he held back. He will wait. He will wait until you give in.

Jungkook touched his piercing with his tongue and noticed you steal a glance at his lips. He didn't even have to speak. Just make you want to.

"Then sleep on the floor," he said mockingly. You choked on your indignation. Your eyes glowed with anger, and Jungkook remembered that glint that had always challenged him. It was like you were back to being those enemy neighbors again, but there was a much bigger story between you.

"How about sleeping on the floor himself, gentleman?" you asked sarcastically. Jungkook smiled out of the corner of his mouth. No, he won't be a gentleman. He'll make you lie down next to him.

"No. Why should I? I paid a ton of money for this villa, and definitely not to sleep on the floor. If you’re so scared of me, then sleep on the floor yourself," he said.

You didn't know what annoyed you more - his words or the way he said them so calmly. As if it was not you, but he who had the right to be angry. As if you had ruined something, not the other way around.

"I'm not afraid of you, I just don't want to be around you if it not necessary," you said rudely. Jungkook was caught by your words, even though he was sure you were lying.

"Sleep wherever you want," he said in an indifferent tone, taking a step away. "But I'm on the bed." And he walked away. Jungkook went to the bathroom without saying a word. You exhaled a long breath and felt your head hurt. You left your things unpacked and went to the first floor for a change of scenery.

You found Namjoon, Jimin, and Hoseok in the living room. Jimin had just told you that dinner was almost ready and offered you a glass of white wine. You nodded without hesitation.

He handed you the glass and you sat down next to Namjoon, who was trying to tune the TV, joking with Hoseok from time to time. Jimin took a armchair nearby, his gaze repeatedly sliding in your direction, as if he wanted to say something but didn't dare.

"Where's Jungkook-ah?"

You took a sip of your sweet wine and answered kindly.

"Taking a shower."

Jimin nodded and downed his glass. It seemed like he still wanted to keep the conversation going. You were embarrassed.

"We're having beef khanu for dinner, you eat meat, don't you?" he suddenly exclaimed, "I'm so inconsiderate, I should have asked Jungkook, in case you're a vegetarian," Jimin said. You smiled.

"Oh, I love beef, so it's okay."

"Ugh..." Jimin put his hand to his heart theatrically. "I'm already feeling guilty." You laughed shyly at Jimin.

"Please, it's okay. Even if I didn't eat meat, I could get over it," you answered, trying not to show how hard this lightness was really coming to you.

Jimin smiled. He took a sip of his wine without taking his eyes off you.

"I should have been more careful! And to prevent this from happening again, tell me you're not eating."

The conversation with Jimin got so interesting that you didn't even notice Namjoon moving closer, making some room for Hoseok. He suddenly leaned closer to you, pressing the remote a little more to find the right channel. You were close enough that you could feel the warmth of his hand on the couch, right next to you.

You looked at the TV screen as you continued to talk to Jimin. With a peripheral glance, you noticed Jungkook walk into the living room. He was wearing white shorts and a similarly white loose t-shirt that was see-through so you could see his body.

He looked relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on you. And then on the glass of wine in your hand. And how close you were sitting to Namjoon.

Jungkook silently took his glass, poured red wine, and sat down... across from Jimin. His gaze slid between you and Namjoon, and you could feel it in your skin. Jimin told Jungkook that he hadn't asked him about your food preferences, and he just smiled and threw in a curt "uh-huh". You could feel everyone's eyes on the two of you from time to time. It was obvious that everyone was noticing the tension between you and Jungkook.

You thought about getting up and walking over to Jungkook, sitting down next to him, showing all that everything was fine between you two. But at the same moment, Namjoon spoke up loudly, and he abandoned his attempt to adjust the TV and looked at his phone:

"By the way! ‘EON Creative’, a subsidiary of ‘Jeon Group’, won the Seoul Creative Awards 2025. Jungkook-ah, did you see it?"

You froze, and I could feel everything inside you tighten. You reflexively looked at Jungkook, whose eyes were already fixed on you. Your heart sank, and you remembered how horrible today had been.

"Yeah, I know," Jungkook said shortly, looking away from you. You looked down at the glass you were holding and the desire to play the role of his girlfriend disappeared.

"The project is strong," Namjoon praised you without knowing it, "An interesting approach. Natural cosmetics are a real trend. The author of the project knew exactly how to hook the audience."

No one noticed that your hand trembled a little. The wine glass shook, but you quickly pretended to turn it over in your fingers. The taste of the drink didn't matter anymore, it just burned your throat like a memory of the events of the day.

You could feel Jungkook looking at you, studying your behavior, but you stubbornly didn't look at him. You looked up at Namjoon and noticed him reading the article about your project's victory. The others quickly lost interest in the news, but not him.

"It says here that the idea is inspired by own experience," Namjoon leaned slightly towards you, noticing that you were looking at his phone.

"Yes, women trust personal stories. This was the key to the victory of this project, and tradition and environmental friendliness also played a big role. The audience is now very sensitive to naturalness, ecology, and ethics. The idea of combining traditional Korean recipes with a modern approach to marketing is a good one," you said softly.

"Yes, this is what works in today's market. Everyone wants something natural and for little money. I think this product will be very popular among all women." You glanced at Namjoon and a momentary peace of mind settled in your soul. How nice that he praised your work so much, noticing the subtleties you were trying to convey with your product. Namjoon is really attentive.

"It would be a great reward for whoever created this product," you said quietly and a little sadly. Namjoon looked at you. No more than a second, but you could tell he was studying your tone and expression. You smiled quickly so as not to give away any other emotions.

Namjoon tilted his head slightly to the side, looking at you with a slight smile.

"You sound like you... know the author of this project."

You froze, feeling something inside you shrink again. You turned back to your glass, inhaling deeply so as not to give yourself away.

"I just know what it's like when you work so hard, and it's obvious that someone has put a lot of effort into this project," you shrugged, trying not to meet his eyes.

"You're right..." Namjoon said as he turned away, and at the same moment, Taehyung and Haewon came into the living room, saying that dinner was ready and they were waiting for them.

Everyone started moving towards the backyard where there was a beautiful spacious terrace overlooking the evening ocean. At first you walked in front of Namjoon, but for a moment you were behind him.

When you stepped out onto the terrace, you felt an arm around your waist. Jungkook was unnoticed by you. He wanted to hold you close, but you removed his arm a little roughly, making sure no one could see you. Jungkook froze after you, and you quickly walk away to the others.

You really didn't want him to touch you right now. Because your nerves were on edge. You might cry or yell at him again. So he better not touch you today.

You sat down at the table next to Namjoon. There was one empty seat on your left, which was supposed to be Jungkook's. You didn't watch him sit down, but you could feel how tense he was. At one point, when Jimin was trying to pour wine for everyone, you glanced over at him. His eyebrows were slightly drawn together, and his lips were under the torture of his teeth. You could tell he was angry, but you didn't care. You were the one who should be angry.

Dinner was delicious and a few glasses relaxed your nerves. You spent most of the time talking to Namjoon. Your conversation with him was a defense against a nervous breakdown. You talked, laughed, discussed the latest advertising cases, new market trends, and even somehow easily touched on the topic of working in Japan.

Jungkook sat next to you and hardly paid attention to you. He ate and talked with Jimin most of the time. You sometimes turned to him, and you even made eye contact a few times, you were the first to look away.

"Tomorrow we're going fishing!" Taehyung announced, his eyes sparkling. "For tuna! Can you imagine if we catch one? I wish Jin could come with us, he could give his soul to God just to catch one."

"Yes!" echoed Jimin, "We'll catch one tomorrow and dedicate it to him. We'll send him a photo to make him envy!"

Everyone liked Jimin's joke and decided to do just that. Later, they discussed that in addition to fishing, they would be able to go scuba diving to see the reef and swim in the ocean. And if someone wants to, they can order water scooters and organize races on the water.

After midnight, you and Jungkook went into your room in silence.

He rushed to check something on his phone without even looking at you. You went to the bathroom without saying a word.

Hot water hugged your body, washing away the fatigue but not the pain. You slowly put on a light pajama, braided your hair, and came out.

The room was quiet. Empty.

Jungkook was gone.

You slowly laid down on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. You lay there for a long time, looking at the ceiling. No tears came - you were too devastated to cry. Another twenty minutes passed, maybe half an hour. The door opened quietly.

He came in, quietly.

He took off his T-shirt and shorts. You saw his back out of the corner of your eye - tense, like the situation between you. He lay down next to you, turning away.

The distance between you was no more than an arm's length, but it seemed to you that there was a real gap between you.

You opened your eyes and didn't realize where you were for a moment. A few seconds passed before your gaze settled on Jungkook's face. He was lying next to you, facing you, breathing peacefully in his sleep. The distance between you was quite small-not close, but enough to see the line of his jaw, his thick eyelashes that barely moved, and the dark lock of hair that fell over his forehead. It looked like he had accidentally moved closer in his sleep.

You looked at him as if for the first time. His features were calm, soft... and so beautiful. In the dream, he seemed completely defenseless, even gentle. And it was at moments like this that your heart rose to your throat again.

You had no right to look like that. You had no right to feel what was raging inside. And at the same time, you couldn't help yourself.

You wanted to touch him, but you restrained yourself. If not for yesterday's quarrel, you could be lying in his arms right now. His touch... it would always be something your skin would remember, even if you wanted to forget.

Suddenly, he pressed his lips together slightly - that tiny, almost invisible movement that you found infinitely cute. His eyes barely moved under his eyelids, and you suddenly had a terrible urge to find out what he was dreaming about.

Yesterday's emotions had burned out, and now, looking at his beautiful face, you realize that you are no longer as angry with him as you were yesterday.

Even now you realize that you did the right thing to give him a chance to fix everything. You hear his pleading voice saying "I'll fix it" and in your head he sounds even more sincere, that you heard him yesterday.

And that's what tore you in half.

Because you knew you liked him. More than you should. More than you can.

But he shouldn't be in your life. Not after everything.

What you had with him, did it was real? You're smart, right? You have to realise that it’s not. You just... allowed yourself to feel more than you should. You fell in love with the moments, with his touch, with his voice, and with his eyes when they looked only at you.

You squeezed the blanket with your fingers. You made up your mind: from now on, you would play the role of his girlfriend faithfully. To be able to feel his warmth a little more. Just a little more touch. Just a little bit of being close. And you would not allow yourself to believe anymore. And then, when the time comes, you will let him go. Mentally you hit yourself, you have to admit to yourself that it will be hard. Might you never let him go completely.

You got up carefully so as not to wake him up and got out of bed. You tiptoed to the bathroom and closed the door behind you. In the shower, you stood under the warm water for a long time, trying to wash away the confusion of thoughts, images, and... feelings.

The day began sunny. After breakfast, everyone went to the yacht - a luxurious, snow-white yacht with a spacious deck and everything you could wish for an unforgettable vacation. The sea sparkled, and a light breeze brought the scent of salt and sun.

Everyone was in a good mood - at least it seemed so from the outside. You laughed at Jimin's jokes, took pictures of seagulls flying by with Hoseok, and listened to Namjoon tell you something interesting about the depths of the ocean. Jungkook was next to you, but you noticed he kept his distance.

When you said something, he answered briefly, forcing himself to smile. When you took his hand, his fingers kept to slip out of your, and when you decided to hug him a few times, he didn't even hug you back.

You were annoyed by this. As soon as you tried to improve the situation between you, he ruined everything. So if he doesn't want to touch you, then let it be. You didn't try to be near him anymore, and in the afternoon the company on the yacht split into two camps. You were with Namjoon and Hoseok, and Jungkook was with Taehyung, Jimin, and... Haewon.

You couldn't help but notice how she laughed at his jokes, sometimes standing very close to him, her hand accidentally touching his shoulder as she pointed to something on the horizon. Nothing too explicit, but your stomach would clench.

And he... he did nothing to stop it.

So you decided that instead of spoiling your nerves, you should at least enjoy your vacation. You went scuba diving with Namjoon and Hoseok, exploring the coral reefs, colorful and vibrant, like a cartoon. Hosok was joking a lot underwater, Namjoon was showing you something, and you were laughing even though no one could hear you. It was fun, really fun. But somewhere at the bottom of your heart, something else was boiling - disappointment, resentment, jealousy. And a desire for him, Jungkook, to finally do something.

But he didn't. He just watched. You felt his gaze on you again and again. When you laughed with Namjoon. When you grabbed Hosok's hand in the water. When you took off your goggles after diving and wiped the drops from your eyelashes.

But what was the point?

When the sun started to set, you went to admire the sunset. You wanted to take some photos, but your solitude didn't last long. Namjoon came over and handed you a glass of cold champagne.

"Thank you," you said and took a few sips.

"Taehyung said twenty more minutes and then we'll go home. Looks like the tuna dinner is postponed," Namjoon said with a smile, taking a sip of his champagne.

"They didn't catch any all day?" you asked ironically. Namjoon looked at you with a sly look.

"Jimin complained to me that “we scared the fish away with our scuba gear”."

You laughed, but you were outraged that Jimin had blamed you, Namjoon, and Hoseok for their failure.

"A bad craftsman blames the tools," you said ironically, and Namjoon burst out laughing, your expression making it even funnier.

You joked a little more, saying how such rich people didn't think to hire a diver to hook the tuna on their hooks. Then there was silence-not tense, but rather pleasantly calm.

"Is everything okay with you and Jungkook?" he suddenly asked. You felt a sense of déjà vu-this scene had happened before: the yacht, Namjoon, and the same question. You smiled without looking up.

"Yes, everything is fine. We're on vacation, and even in a relationship, sometimes you need a break from each other. We're together all the time, so it's enough that we share a room," you lie and are surprised at how easily it comes out of your mouth.

"You've two barely spoken since we met you in airport. And today you spent the whole day with me, I'm starting to get nervous that he'll think I have plans for you," Namjoon said, smiling.

You flinched a little... and at that moment, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, slide down to your stomach, and lock you in a hug. Jungkook's chest was pressed against your back. When you wanted to look back, he leaned down and touched his lips to your temple.

"Do you?" his voice vibrated right on your skin.

Namjoon - to his credit - did not flinch. He just slowly turned to Jungkook and smiled broadly.

"Of course not. What belongs to my little brother belongs to him alone."

Jungkook looked at him with a smile, but there was no warmth in his eyes, only a silent warning: ‘she is mine’. And Namjoon realized that.

"Oh, come on, Namjoon. It’s not like I’m going to be jealous of my girl because of you. I’m glad you two had a good talk. Seems like you’ve got a lot in common," Jungkook said gently.

But you felt a twinge of unease, knowing it wasn't true. It was obvious that Jungkook was jealous. And what hurt even more was that he had been avoiding you all day, and now he suddenly mentioned your "relationship" to mark you in front of Namjoon.

"I had to make sure," Namjoon said with a wink at Jungkook. Jungkook winked back and leaned into you. You felt his lips on your neck, his wet mark and his hot breath. Your heart was already racing at his closeness, and the fact that he kissed you in front of Namjoon made it almost explode.

"Jungkook…" you whispered awkwardly, hinting at the presence of his friend. But you knew he did it on purpose to show that you were his.

It worked, and Namjoon realized that he had to leave you two alone. He stepped away from the railing, cleared his throat and said:

"I'm going to go check if the tuna got caught on Taehyung's hook by accident."

You smiled, and Jungkook mumbled "uh-huh" over your head, still holding you in own arms. But as soon as Namjoon disappeared from view, he let you go. He took a step back, stood next to you... he didn't even look in your direction. You felt a wave of irritation.

"Decided to remember that I exist?" you couldn't help but ask. Jungkook turned his head to you, stared for a long few seconds, and then turned away indifferently.

"I decided to remind you that I exist," he said coldly. You immediately started shaking, but you tried to control your body. To do this, you grabbed the railing.

"You've been ignoring me all day..." you began indignantly, but he interrupted without even turning around.

"And you decided to find solace in Namjoon?"

You almost choked on your indignation. Your jaw clenched so tightly that it hurt.

"I wasn't looking for solace. I was just resting and talking to your friends. We're here so everyone will believe we're a couple," you said angrily but quietly so no one would hear you. Jungkook turned to you and smiled cheekily.

"Yeah, you had a good conversation. If I hadn't come over, maybe he would have already hugged you to keep you warm," he said, and you wanted to hit him.

"Is that why you came over? To pretend… that I’m yours… You kiss me in front of him like a dog marking his territory?!"

Jungkook straightened up sharply and took a step toward you, a storm in his eyes.

"You are mine, I don't need to pretend," he said with authority, towering over you. Your heart skipped a beat and your legs barely held you up, and you were happy to have held onto the rail all this time. His confidence pierced you to the bone. He said it as if you really belonged only to him. But you didn't. You're not his. And he is not yours.

"I'm not yours," you said, and the words cut through your ears. Jungkook opened his mouth to say something when an enthusiastic shout suddenly rang out over the deck:

"YES! HE CATCHED A TUNA!" It was Haewon, who was almost jumping for joy, and Taehyung, proudly holding his fishing rod, waving his hands to show the size of the fish. You both turned to shout, and then Jungkook gave you a quick glance and walked around to the happy Taehyung who was holding his well-deserved reward for the day.

Everyone was exhausted after a day spent actively on the water and the yacht. The ride back passed in silence. But it wasn’t fatigue that kept you quiet. And it wasn’t fatigue that lived in the silence between you and Jungkook. You sat next to each other in the car, but neither of you spoke after the small argument on the yacht.

He didn’t say a word even when you got back home. And when you entered the room to change and take a shower, the silence between you seemed to grow even thicker. He disappeared into the bathroom first, you followed after. When you came out of the shower, Jungkook was no longer in the room. You went downstairs and followed the sound of voices to the terrace.

The whole group had gathered around the table. The staff serving your villa were busy preparing dishes and the tuna Taehyung had caught. Jungkook stood not far from the table, talking with Hoseok and Jimin. The three of them were laughing hard at something. Your gaze lingered on Jungkook’s laughing face, and then you made your way to the table. You knew he’d noticed your presence, but just like the entire day, he stubbornly ignored you. And it was driving you mad.

You sat in the same seat you had yesterday at dinner next to Namjoon. Whether on purpose or not, you couldn’t tell anymore. You knew Jungkook was jealous of Namjoon, but you needed company to ease the tension he had created. Namjoon was the only one among them with whom you felt most comfortable.

When dinner was ready, everyone sat down. Jungkook sat next to you, but he didn’t seem as cold as he had been a few minutes earlier when you arrived. He pulled his chair closer to yours, so close his knee almost touched yours. You caught him staring at you often, but now it was you who ignored him. What was happening between you two was bothering you deeply, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak about it. You thought that if you reached out again, he would turn away.

He silently handed you a plate, poured you some wine, and then placed his hand on the back of your chair the touch was subtle, but it consumed you the whole evening. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Not enough to forget how he ignored you. Not enough to ignore his behavior. So, you drank. A sip then another. And another. You laughed louder at Namjoon’s jokes, leaned in closer when you were discussing something, and acted like you didn’t notice Jungkook’s eyes darkening with every minute.

As the evening slowly scattered the group around different parts of the yard someone went to the pool, someone went to get more wine Namjoon stood up, apologizing that he had to take a call, and walked toward the firepit. You were left alone with Jungkook. He kept eating, and you, casting a quick glance at him, poured yourself more wine — half a glass. You drank it in one go. And reached to pour more.

Jungkook silently leaned in and took the glass from your hand.

"Give it back," you said, your eyes flashing with irritation.

"You’ve had enough," he replied shortly. "Everyone’s already noticed how hard you’re trying to get drunk."

"I don’t care what they think. Give me my glass," you snapped. He didn’t say a word, just looked straight into your eyes, then turned away.

That was the last straw. You leaned in closer and hissed in his face:

"Who the hell do you think you are to decide how much I can drink?!"

He slowly turned back. Your faces were almost touching.

"I’m your boyfriend. That’s why I get to decide how much you drink," he said in a low voice that sent chills down your spine.

For a moment, you froze at his words and the tone he used. But then, regaining yourself quickly, you laughed right in his face.

"Fake boyfriend. So you don’t get to decide anything," you said loudly and turned away. Jungkook quickly glanced around to make sure no one was nearby.

"Do you even hear yourself right now?" he asked, leaning in close, his voice threatening. You just gave him a side glance and reached for the wine bottle.

He grabbed your wrist sharply and pulled you to your feet.

"Come."

"Let go!" you shouted, trying to break free. You didn’t care about the curious stares now directed your way. But Jungkook didn’t seem to hear, dragging you toward the house. As soon as you entered, you almost bumped into Jimin coming out of the kitchen.

"Where are you two going?" he asked in surprise.

"We’ll be right back," Jungkook muttered and didn’t stop, dragging you farther despite your protests. His grip was strong, like he had broken off a chain.

Once you entered the room, he finally let go and slammed the door shut.

"What the hell are you doing?" his voice was angry. You froze, a bit stunned.

"What I’m doing?" you asked, confused.

"Shit! You’ve been driving me insane all day. Hanging around Namjoon, making my head explode, and now you’re running your mouth. What if someone heard you call me a fake boyfriend?! Do you even think with your head?" Jungkook was nearly shouting. You had never seen him this angry. But his words lit a fire in you twice as strong. You were ready to explode.

"Are you out of your mind?" you raised your voice. "You ignored me the whole day, acted like words cost money, and now you’re throwing accusations at me?!"

Jungkook looked into your eyes, and there was fire burning in them.

"You did it on purpose. You wanted me to be jealous," he snapped.

You froze again, your mouth slightly open. You didn’t mean to make him jealous the truth was, Namjoon had just been the closest one to you at the time.

"You’re insane! I wasn’t trying to make you jealous. I was just talking to someone. And if you’re jealous, that’s your problem. We’re not a real couple," you said, your voice growing quieter. After a short pause, you added, remembering how he called you his on the yacht, "And I don’t belong to you. So keep your emotions to yourself."

Jungkook stepped closer, and you had to force yourself not to back away.

"You’ve really driven me crazy, Y/N," he said, stopping very close. You hadn’t even noticed how your breathing had quickened. "I’m fucking jealous of you like hell. I’m jealous of everything. Even the air you breathe if it’s not in my lungs."

Your heart skipped a beat, your stomach clenched. You were shocked by the honesty in his words… and terrified by how you reacted to them. Because the truth was you liked hearing that. You were glad he cared. But you had to keep your dignity, so you made your voice as indifferent as you could.

"Be as jealous as you want, but you need to know that it’s over between us. Just the deal and only if you can handle it within a month."

You tried to walk past him, but he grabbed your elbow and pushed you against the wall, pinning you with his body. You expected to hit your head from the sudden movement, but his hand was there, behind your head, softening the impact.

Jungkook leaned in so close, there was almost no space left between you.

"You’re testing my patience, kitten. And if you don’t want me to be jealous—stay away from Namjoon. I’ll allow you to greet and say goodbye from a distance. That’s it."

You stared at his lips, felt the heat of his body, and realized how much you missed this. You wanted to kiss him, but his words snapped you back.

"What do you mean you allow me? Are you out of your mind? I’m not your damn pet!" you said sharply, your eyes locking with his. His gaze wasn’t angry anymore it was hungry.

Jungkook ran his tongue slowly across his bottom lip, never looking away from you. His eyes burned, but the fire was no longer rage — it was desire. Deep and raw, the kind that had built up for far too long. He leaned closer, but stopped just a breath away from your lips.

"Maybe you’re not my pet…" he whispered, his breath hot against your mouth, "…but you’re mine."

Your back pressed against the wall, your breathing uneven, your heart pounding so loud it felt like he could hear it. You wanted to say something cutting anything, but your tongue betrayed you. So you said nothing. Neither did he. Just the sound of your heavy breathing filled the space between you.

Jungkook inhaled the scent of your perfume, the same one that had messed with his head since the first night. His fingers slid down from your arm, brushing your waist, then your buttocks and stopped. He squeezed it, hard enough for you to feel how much he was holding back.

"Don’t tell me you don’t feel this…" His voice was rough, thick with pain and desire. "Don’t tell me you’re not drawn to me."

You tried to smile. Defiantly. And not completely successfully. Because there was too much truth in your eyes.

"I…" you began, but your tongue tangled again. Because he leaned in closer and touched your nose with the tip of his. Softly. Almost gently.

"Lie to me and I’ll kiss you," he whispered, and you couldn’t hold it you laughed, nervously, hotly. And in the same moment, he pressed you harder and stole your breath with a kiss.

It wasn’t the kiss of a jealous boyfriend. It was the kiss of a man who was tired of holding back. Hot, dominant, merciless. His tongue slid between your lips, demanding, exploring, tempting. You didn’t resist. Finally you answered just the same. With fury, passion, the hunger you had been building up for so long.

His lips moved to your neck. And even though everything inside you screamed that it shouldn’t happen, your body had already betrayed your mind. You grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer.

"I hate when you do that…" you whispered, breathless, "…when you say I’m yours, like you have the right."

"I do," he muttered back, not lifting his mouth from your skin.

His hands confidently slid over your thighs, your ass, pressing you into his groin. Your hearts were pounding wildly his in his chest, yours in your throat.

Jungkook lifted his head and met your gaze. His eyes no longer showed anger, or pain, or control. Only desire.

He pushed off the wall, grabbed your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his hips, gripping his shirt uncontrollably.

Jungkook carried you to the dresser standing nearby and sat you down on it. You sat, but immediately felt, he had no intention of stopping. His hands went up your legs, spreading them without ceremony. In his eyes gleamed such hungry determination that you reached for him yourself for his collar, his neck, for those lips that had just taken your breath away. You didn’t want to resist anymore. You couldn’t.

His fingers slipped under your light summer dress, the one you picked for dinner, and now you were glad you didn’t wear too much clothes. Your skin flamed from his shameless, bold touch between your legs. He didn’t ask for permission. Because he already knew the answer. Because he felt how your body trembled under his hands.

"Mine. And from now on you need to understand that clearly," he said, his bass vibrating against your neck, then left marks like ownership signs.

"Kook…" you called him. And his insides fluttered. He loved it when you called him that. Jungkook slid a finger inside you, fucking you with it. He leaned toward your lips, and you could feel his hot breath.

Your wetness and moans aroused him to the maximum. He kissed you desperately and passionately, showing you that you would never be enough for him.

You moaned into his mouth, enjoying the kisses and his fingers between your legs. But was it enough for you? Absolutely not.

You ran your fingers down the side of his T-shirt, grabbing the edge and pulling it up, signaling him to take it off. Jungkook obeyed, pulling his fingers out of you at the same moment and in one deft motion, he pulled off his shirt, revealing his perfect torso with your favorite tattoos.

You looked at him greedily, and he couldn't stay away from you for long, so he came up and joined your lips in another kiss.

His kiss was even hotter, even deeper, like a fire that could not be extinguished. Jungkook bit into your lips as if he wanted to leave a mark on them. His hands never stopped exploring you as if it was the first time and the last time at the same time. He took off your dress, throwing it haphazardly on the floor somewhere.

You were left in your bra and thong, which blocked his view of your most private parts.

He pulled away from you for just a moment to remove the belt from his jeans. His gaze slid down your body and he could barely contain himself when he saw how beautiful you were for him.

"Fuck... You don't even know what you're doing to me..." he muttered, his voice sounding desperate mixed with desire.

Your fingers slid over his chest, down to his stomach, and when you touched the waistband of his jeans, Jungkook held his breath. You opened his jeans and pulled them down to the top of his thighs, leaving his boxers on. You pulled him to you and kissed him, filling his mouth with your tongue first. Your free hand went under his boxers. Your palm found his hard cock. You touched your finger to the head of his cock, which was already dripping with pre-cum. At your touch, Jungkook's cock twitched.

You heard him letting go your buttocks and pull down your boxers so you could better move your hand around his cock.

When Jungkook pulled them down, his cock lay easily in your hand, and you jerked him off without breaking the absolutely crazy, hungry kiss. Jungkook moaned into your mouth, and you adored those sounds. His moaning is the sexiest thing in the world.

His moans under your touch made you tremble even more than his tongue. His breathing was getting deeper, heavier, and when your palm came away, Jungkook rested his forehead on your shoulder, gripping your waist as if that would hold back what was coming from inside.

"You don't have the fucking right to do this so well..." he breathed out, pressing even closer, gritting his teeth to keep from breaking down too soon.

But you wanted him to snap. You wanted him to lose control. You wanted him to forget about everything but you. And you were already losing your head.

He pushed back a little, just to look at you, his eyes half closed, but glistening with excitement, with the fierce tension between you. His hand touched your neck again, went down to your chest, brazenly pulled off your bra, freeing your breasts, which he immediately grabbed with his hot palm, hard, rough, just as you wanted.

He smacked his lips against your nipple, his tongue and teeth forcing you to clutch at his hand even harder.

"Kook... please..." you moaned, unable to hold back or play at self-control any longer. He looked at you with a wild glint in his eye, as if he had already lost touch with reality.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" he asked, breathing heavily. You stopped the hand holding his cock in your hand.

"Yes," you said firmly as he looked into your eyes, "Fuck me," your voice was hoarse, broken, you were burning up inside. And this time you didn't hide it.

Jungkook smiled triumphantly. His fingers rubbed your buttocks, pulling you closer to him. He lifted you up, and you wrapped your legs around his waist again. You could feel his aroused cock pressing against your pussy through the fabric of your underwear.

Jungkook carried you over to the bed and laid you on it. You squeezed your legs together, raising yourself up on your elbows to watch him quickly remove the rest of his clothes. When he was completely naked, he reached into your underwear, also wanting you to be completely naked as soon as possible.

You looked at his face, illuminated only by the street lights, and couldn't stop thinking how beautiful he was in your eyes. You were afraid that you had already fallen in love with him. You were scared that it could happen and you didn't know what to do about it.

But Jungkook didn't give you time to think about it. His hands tore the last piece of cloth off you, and Jungkook hovered over you, pausing for a moment. He stared at your face-at all its lines, at those half-open lips, the dilated pupils, the sparkle in your eyes.

"You're too beautiful..." he whispered and kissed you, this time softly, as an antonym to what had just happened. As if he was apologizing. As if he was proving that he would do anything for you.

His palm ran up the inside of your thigh while the other was already wrapped around his hard flesh. And then he spread your legs wider.

"Look at me," he said. And when you looked up, he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance and eagerly, somewhat abruptly entered you, wanting to be inside as soon as possible.

You arched your back and squeezed his shoulders, moaning too loudly. He filled you completely, deeply, greedily, as if he was searching for something long lost in you.

Jungkook froze inside for a second, feeling every millimeter. And you felt his hands begin to tremble. He looked you in the eyes, not blinking, not hiding.

"Don't even think about pushing me away anymore. I can't live without you," he breathed out. Your stomach filled with thousands of butterflies, and you couldn't hold back the emotion of that moment.

Jungkook started to move. At first, slowly, rhythmically, concentrated, as if he was studying you from the inside. He saw your tears and it was driving him crazy. You felt every movement, it was nice, and your tears intensified any feelings that were just tearing you up inside.

Jungkook stopped for a moment and leaned down to hug you, putting his elbows on the sides of your face. He leaned over and licked one of your tears away and you almost suffocated from that. When he did, he immediately kissed you under the eye, as if to erase the traces of tears.

You ran your fingernails over the skin on his back, and he brought his lips closer to yours.

"I never want to see your tears again. Only tears of happiness," he whispered.

You smiled and a new batch of tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes and you confessed:

"They are tears of happiness."

Jungkook gave a push with his hips and you felt euphoric.

"Then why are they so bitter?" he asked. But he didn't let you answer, because he started moving, lifting your hips higher so that he could go as deep as possible.

You stopped crying, replacing your tears with moans of pleasure. Your hips were lifting themselves to meet him. You wanted more. Faster. Deeper.

And he gave it to you. His moved quickened. Wilder, hungrier. His body slammed into you, shattering all vestiges of sanity.

He grabbed your arms, pinned you to the bed, covering your face with kisses. His moans sounded in your ears, mingling with yours.

"So hot... so tight..." he murmured, kissing your neck, chest, lips, and didn't stop.

And when you felt your orgasm coming, he plunged deep into you and stayed there, as if he knew it was going to happen.

"Kook..." you didn't know what you wanted to say. But he heard you. And he responded - with his body. With his movement. With everything.

The orgasm hit you like a storm. You screamed, clutching him, biting his shoulder, losing control. And he-he couldn't stand it either. He came out of you in the last seconds, spilling onto your stomach. His heavy breathing echoed in your ears. He held himself up in his arms, above you, trembling. You could see his heart beating furiously against his chest, just like yours.

Jungkook finally calmed down and just laid on top of you, and you almost screamed as you felt his cum spreading between your bodies.

"Jungkook!" you protested, but he didn't answer your protests. He leaned down and kissed you gently, enjoying your lips.

When he was satisfied, he parted your lips.

"Don't make me jealous of you," he said seriously. You raised your eyebrows.

"I didn't make you jealous. If you don't want another man to make me laugh or spend a lot of time with me, don't ignore me," you argued.

"I had to give you some space. You didn't want to be closer to me if it not necessary," he said, using your words. Again.

You rolled your eyes, looking away, but felt him grab your cheeks, turning your head toward him.

"Don't roll your beautiful eyes at me here. I always do everything for you."

You looked at him and realized this only now. In fact, everything he does was as you asked, but more often than not, it ended up being the way he wanted it. You smiled between the cheeks he squeezed with his fingers. He smiled back and kissed you. You responded willingly.

Jungkook got off you and sat down next to you. You wanted to wash off the sticky cum on your stomach as soon as possible.

"Let's go take a shower and go down to the others. I think they're waiting for us." Jungkook got out of bed and picked you up, which made you suddenly scream. And without letting you take a step, he carried you into the bathroom.

The next day was a day of pleasure. After a stormy night that blurred the lines between desire and feelings, you woke up in Jungkook's arms. He silently kissed the top of your head, as if recognizing that something had changed. You didn't talk about the "agreement". You pretended that everything was back to normal, but you could feel this slight tension between you.

Saturday's activities were similar to yesterday's. You spent almost half a day on the yacht. You swam, jumped off the deck, competed to see who could stay underwater the longest, and then laid on the deck chairs, drank cold wine, and talked about everything but work. Today, Jungkook didn't leave your side a single step. You were constantly holding hands, hugging, and even kissing when you thought no one was looking.

When you returned to the villa around six in the evening to change for the evening and the restaurant, Jungkook became nervous. You came out of the bathroom and saw him talking on the phone on the terrace. Jungkook came into the room and you saw that he was breathing rapidly and his expression was irritated, even angry. But when you asked him what was wrong, he just brushed it off lightly, kissed you on the lips, and went to the bathroom.

So when everyone was ready, you went to an expensive restaurant overlooking the ocean. You rented the whole terrace so that no one would disturb you. It was illuminated by the soft light of lanterns that reflected in the waves. Tables with snow-white tablecloths, elegant jazz that was barely audible from the speakers. You sat for a long, long time. You talked, laughed, drank expensive wine and something stronger. You toasted friendship, freedom, and love that happens unexpectedly.

It was after two in the morning when Taehyung, walking around the terrace with a glass in his hand, came across an advertising poster. His eyes sparkled, and his voice sounded too happy:

"Wedding on the beach? Open around the clock?! Who wants to get married?!"

But everyone was scattered around the terrace, and Taehyung called out to everyone, staggering slightly on his feet. You all came together to examine the advertisement for a beach wedding ceremony.

"It’s like the ones in Las Vegas," Namjoon said, moving closer to read the text. But he almost couldn’t because the letters were blurry in his eyes from the alcohol.

"It's obvious who needs to be married," Jimin suddenly spoke up. Everyone looked at him in unison, not realizing who he was talking about. You were standing in Jungkook's arms, and if it weren't for his hands, you might have fallen. The world was turning upside down in your eyes, and you couldn't think straight at all.

"Who?" you asked for everyone. Jimin looked surprised, but being drunk, it was funny.

"You and Jungkook," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You laughed, as did Jungkook.

"Married?" you giggled, and then continued to laugh, "If the media finds out, I'll be hated even more on the Internet. Have you seen what they wrote when they found out about our relationship?" everyone started to reassure you that who cares what the netizens think, the main thing is the love between you. When the voices quieted down a bit, Jungkook held you close, kissing your neck.

"I will find anyone who says a word against you. And I will make them pay. Expensively." he promised. You laughed again, thinking that this man wanted to try do something impossible.

Hoseok quietly covered his face with his hands:

"God... they are the sweetest. I'm about to cry. You guys are perfect."

Taehyung jumped to the waiter:

"Order a ceremony on the beach! We want to marry these two young people!"

Without further ado, the waiter told him that the administrator was in charge of organizing the ceremony. The guy Taehyung asked said he would call him right away.

A few minutes later, the administrator came up to you and asked who to order the ceremony for, and whether you needed a dress, a suit, and rings.

"Order me the most expensive things. A dress for my fiancée, a suit for me, and the most expensive rings, I'll pay for everything." Jungkook spoke slowly so that his every word could be understood. You laughed at his seriousness and his desire to show off that he had the money, and his friends supported him with whistles and applause.

The receptionist clarified a few more questions and said she would be there when the ceremony arrived at the beach.

Forty minutes later, a mobile wedding ceremony arrived — just like in Las Vegas, with all the entourage: an arch, flowers, music, and even an improvised "marriage officiant." Haewon was dragging you into the room to change. You could hardly stand, you were laughing, you almost fell several times, but Haewon held your hand, helped you with the dress, saying seriously:

"You're going to be such a beautiful bride."

She put on you an off-the-shoulder silk dress with a lace back and thin sequins that sparkled in the light of the garlands. You were barefoot, with ankle bracelets like a sea goddess. Haewon gently fixed your hair and handed you a bouquet of white lily.

You didn't even realize what was happening around you. But this fake wedding was a fun adventure. If you had drunk one less bottle of wine, you would never have agreed to get married, even a fake one.

You were escorted to the arch by Hoseok, the oldest among you, serious and touched.

Jungkook stood swaying slightly, his hands behind his back, in a black and white suit made of thin fabric, without a tie, but with the top button of his shirt undone. His hair was slightly tousled, his eyes black and serious.

When you approached, you giggled and whispered:

"You’re an incredibly handsome groom."

Jungkook pulled you against him, gripping your waist and burning your ear with his hot breath.

"It’s so hot in this," he said. You laughed, covering your mouth. "But you’re much more hot in that white dress. Fuck, I have the most beautiful bride in the world. I can’t wait to take that dress off you… And you’ll remember our first wedding night for the rest of your life."

You laughed again, feeling a wave of excitement.

You had to pull away from each other because the music started and the master of ceremonies spoke:

"We are gathered on this starry night to witness the union of two hearts - free, wild, and... a little drunk."

There was laughter behind you, and you and Jungkook laughed at the joke.

"Before, you will belong to each other, take these rings as a symbol of your eternal love and say the vows that you will carry through your lives. Speak sincerely, as your soul feels. Confess your innermost feelings and promise only what you can fulfill."

You were given wedding rings and you took each other's rings.

"Please, the groom first," the master of ceremonies invited.

Jungkook smiled, took your hand and his, held the ring to your finger, and said:

"I promise to be the one who will hold you on your worst days... and undress you on your best. You are my weakness. And you are my strength. From today, I am yours. All of me. No strings attached. Without fear." He slowly put the ring on his finger, and even in the state of alcohol intoxication, you felt your heart ache, and a wave of incomprehensible emotions burst out.

You lifted his hand and looking into his black eyes, which were shining with alcohol, said your promise:

"I promise not to disappear, even if I'm afraid. I promise to be your home when the world is against us. And if everything goes wrong tomorrow, I will still be with you." You also put the ring on his hand and he squeezed your fingers, not taking his loving gaze off you.

The voice from the other side was almost inaudible to you:

"You have just promised each other to be real. It's not an accident - it's your choice. By mutual consent... I now pronounce you husband and wife! Put your signatures on the certificate."

You put your signatures on the electronic wedding certificate (a kind of souvenir, but it looked like a real one) and the master of ceremonies invited you to kiss to seal the marriage.

Everyone around you shouted with joy and you and Jungkook kissed. You felt him confidently hugging you around the waist, his lips capturing you in a deep, long, loving kiss.

And then you had to celebrate the wedding! Dancing on the sand, toast after toast, music, kisses, laughter... At about five in the morning, you returned to the villa, barely able to stand.

Jungkook took you in his arms like a real man, carrying you carefully, as if you were a fragile work of art. He stopped at the door of the room and asked:

"Are you ready for our wedding night, my wife?"

"Let's see what you're capable of, in this state of mind, my husband."

Jungkook smiled slyly. He will prove to you that alcohol is not an obstacle for him to love you well.

The door closed behind you. The room was immersed in warm, dim light, and the sound of the sea waves crashing on the shore could be heard from the open window, as if to soothe you. Your body still remembered the dancing on the sand, the champagne and his touch... but now everything was calm. Almost holy.

Jungkook put you on your feet, but didn't let go. His hands remained on your waist, big and warm. You were wearing a white dress, tattered, a little exhausted from laughing and wine, but his eyes were as if he were seeing an angel.

"You are my wife..." he whispered, his lips barely touching your forehead.

"And you're my husband..." you smiled, inhaling the scent of his skin, perfume, and salt sea.

He took off your earrings, carefully, gently. His fingers slid to your shoulders and slowly moved the straps of your dress. It slipped down, leaving you almost naked, wearing only lace underwear. He ran his fingers over your collarbone, slowly, wanting to memorize it.

"You're so beautiful..." Jungkook breathed out.

He pulled you closer, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath mingled with yours, and his breathing quickened. At first he kissed you gently, respectfully. But there was something more in that kiss, something urgent. His lips became hungry, demanding, and his arms tightened around your body.

He picked you up again and laid you down on the bed, kissing your neck, chest, stomach...

Jungkook took off his jacket and shirt and grabbed your underwear. He took off your panties with pleasure and put them to his nose. He breathed in your scent, kissed them, and just threw them on the floor. You smiled in embarrassment, and a sly smile played in his eyes.

Jungkook leaned down and kissed you, filling your mouth with his tongue, but it felt like he was filling every cell in your body.

Jungkook moved from his lips to your neck, his kisses moved to your breasts, which he paid due attention to, kissing each one in turn. And then he went down to your spread legs, licking own lips.

His gaze was hellishly hot. He stood between your thighs and ran his fingers from your knee to the inside of your thigh, causing goosebumps all over your body. Jungkook's lips finally touched your pussy, lightly, almost innocently at first. And then... deeper, bolder. His tongue moved confidently, rhythmically, as if he knew all your desires before you did.

He savored you completely, greedily, as if he had been starving for years. He was focused, as if it was the most important thing in the world. And for him, it really was. Your pleasure was his victory.

"That's it, kitten..." he whispered, "give me more. It's so good..."

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging at it as a wave of pleasure began to wash over you. You moved your hips, but Jungkook stopped you by squeezing them tighter. He continued to lick your clit, and when he felt you were close, he pressed down, sucking your center completely.

Your body arched to meet him. You clutched the sheets, unable to hold back your moan. Jungkook didn't stop until your legs trembled, until you cried out his name like a prayer. Only then did he stand up, lick his lips as if savoring you, and smile in a way that ignited an even greater fire in you.

He didn't even bother to to undress completely his clothes to fuck you. Jungkook leaned in again, kissing you so deeply that you felt every nerve in your body tense. His fingers slid over your hips, your stomach, and when you whispered, "Please..." he paused, looking straight into your eyes.

"Beg your husband better, kitten," he said slyly.

"Please, Kook, I need you," you begged, breathing fast. Jungkook looked at you for a moment, then got off the bed and shed his tight pants and boxers.

His big, hard cock was erect. All you wanted when you saw him was for him to enter you. This desire made the moisture between your legs stand out more abundantly.

Jungkook crawled over, opened your legs, and put the tip of his cock against your swollen clit. He ran it up and down and you moaned at the blissful sensation.

"Come in," you begged, realizing that that was not enough.

"Beg for more kitten, I love hearing that," he continued to drive his tip until you felt the orgasm between your legs building again.

"Fuck..." you got out. "Kook... just fucking come in inside me," you couldn't stop yourself.

Jungkook smiled, low, husky, almost mocking. He did it a few more times, then took his cock away from your folds and leaned against the entrance. He lifted your legs, throwing them over his shoulders and entered you with one sharp and painful jerk, making you scream.

Jungkook froze, closing his eyes, barely holding back from the tightness of your pussy. Fuck, it's always so tight in here, like he's never been here before. Jungkook put his knees against your buttocks, lifting you up a little higher. He kissed your ankle and made a slow, careful movement. You raised your eyebrows, feeling both pleasure and pain at the same time.

His moan merged with yours. He began to move and his movements became more confident, rhythmic. He held your hips, pulled in and out again, each time causing a wave of pleasure in you.

"Yes... more, please..." you whispered, and he granted your request — faster, deeper, on the verge of euphoria. He held you close to him, as if he wanted to merge with you into a single whole.

And then he abruptly pulled out of you. You managed to get up, surprised, but he was already turning you on your side. One leg remained on the bed, the other he held and lifted. His cock was at your entrance again - and again a sharp, deep thrust.

"That's it... Hear that? That's the sound of our wedding night, kitten..." he growled, holding your hip and breast at the same time. You could feel him filling you completely, your body shuddering with every stroke of his hips. And the sinful sounds of your sex excited your whole being.

You moaned and held onto his hand until he stopped again.

"Do you want more?" whispers Jungkook, licking your shoulder.

"Yes..." you gasped, barely breathing.

"Then get down on all fours for your man, angel."

Your body obediently moved to a new position - on your knees, your hands resting on the bed. You felt his hands spreading your buttocks, and he stood behind you again. Now it was even deeper, even rougher, and it made your lips fly off:

"Fuck... that feels so good."

You moaned loudly, your head and hands resting on the sheet. He moved fast, hard, catching a rhythm that made the bed shake and your breath get lost among your moans. His hips hit your buttocks with a dull sound, and you could do nothing more than accept him - your man - completely, every thrust, every sigh.

Jungkook leaned down, biting your shoulder, and then straightened up again, watching you tremble beneath him.

"Ready again?" his voice was husky, excited.

"No..." you said, "Please let me cum," you begged.

"Not yet, kitten, I haven't had enough," he said, starting to move sharply and deeply inside you. You gripped the sheet tighter, biting your lip to keep from screaming more loud, because the windows and the door to the terrace were open.

His hand went down to touch your clit, stimulating you along with his deep thrusts. Your orgasm began to build stronger than ever.

"Kook...!" you exclaimed, shaking your whole body as you came. You moaned out a long groan, but even then he didn't stop. While you were shuddering in post-orgasmic convulsions, he pulled out and turned you back onto your back again.

"One more time... the last time. I want to look into your eyes when you cum with me."

He entered you slowly, bending your legs at the knees and pressing them against his body, and then began to move with wild passion. He squeezed you, his hands on your body, pushed his cock deep inside you, reaching your uterus, and you almost went crazy.

"Enough," you moaned. You pressed your hands against his sweaty body. But he didn't hear you, he was ruthlessly fucking you with his cock as if he wasn't tired at all. It was too much for you. "Kook... I can't... Stop," you begged.

"Not long yet," he said breathlessly. But you really couldn't take it anymore.

"Stop," you screamed. Jungkook stopped without leaving your side. You were both breathing heavily. You could barely keep your eyes open. He looked at you for a moment and then leaned down, taking your air from your lungs. His tongue entered your mouth, and you couldn't help but respond to this greedy kiss. It was as if Jungkook had really gone crazy. You had never had such intense sex and you had already cum twice, you wanted him to cum as soon as possible.

Jungkook straightened up, and he didn't leave you. You gasped for air as if you were forced to be underwater and for breath. He touched your breasts, squeezing them. You felt him twitching inside you.

"Kook, do you have a conscience?" you asked exhausted.

"Not when it comes to you — no," he said with a smile as he lowered himself onto you. He propped up your buttocks with one leg and straightened the other, penetrating as deeply as he could, and you felt him get harder, stretching your walls more. Jungkook filled the entire space, leaning down to your lips. "Did you rest, my love?"

You almost fainted from the nickname, so it sounded more special this time.

"I..." you wanted to say that you were not ready, you didn’t rest, but he touched your lips, kissing them quickly, and at the end he even bit them.

"I've been waiting patiently. Can I keep moving now?" he asked, and you didn't close your eyes, enjoying his voice.

"Okay..." you let him, and your words are followed by a push that knocks the air out of your lungs. Then there's another, and another. Jungkook slides his hand under your knee, spreading your legs wider to make it easier to fuck you.

Now that he was holding you so wide, you felt completely open, vulnerable, but at the same time belonging only to him. His gaze was dark, wild, hungry, and each new thrust pierced you to the very core.

"Fuck, that feels so good... Take me to the last, my love," he wheezed, pressing into you to the last millimeter. His sweaty, hot body pressed against yours, and you felt your insides begin to contract again. The orgasm was building, burning everything inside you, and you couldn't speak anymore, only moaning, calling out his name over and over again.

"Kook... Kook... please..."

"I know, I can feel it..." he whispered, his lips brushing against your cheek. His strokes became deeper, faster, each stroke as if memorized by your body. "Come for me, my love... I want you to come looking into my eyes."

His fingers were back on your clit, pressing gently, teasing. You arched your back, pressing into the mattress, and your vision went dark for a moment as your orgasm washed over you in a powerful wave. Your body clenched as if you'd dissolved into it completely.

Jungkook groaned, feeling your convulsions around him. His movements became uncontrollable, deep, and last.

"Fuck... me too...cum…" he breathed out, pressing into you once more, tightly, brutally. And at that very moment, he released himself too, his body trembling, his chest heaving, and a moan escaping from the depths of his throat.

He stayed inside you for a moment longer, lying on top of you, and holding himself with his hands so as not to crush you with his weight. Your bodies trembled in unison - tired, satisfied, tangled in the sheets and in each other.

Jungkook lifted his head with effort and smiled, seeing that he had just destroyed you.

"This is usually where brides and grooms declare their love," he joked. You couldn't even say a word or smile. Fatigue completely filled your body. Jungkook leaned down to your ear. His lips touched your lobe and he whispered. "I think I'm really in love."

You barely opened your eyes. You couldn't fully comprehend what he had just said.

"You can't..." you whispered, hugging his strong body.

"I can," he said, firmly. "I have for a long time," he admitted.

"Kook..." you whispered. Your mind was confused, you were very tired, and you just wanted to fall asleep.

Jungkook came out of you. He gently put you under the covers and sat down next to you.

"Sleep, wifey, we'll talk about everything in the morning."

You closed your eyes, steadying your breathing, and then fell asleep after some time you even didn’t hearing him pull you closer.

You forced your eyes open, and immediately squinted against the sunlight that was coming through the curtains. You slowly felt Jungkook's body hugging you from behind, his warm breath touching your shoulder. But at the same time, you felt a sharp pain in your head, like after a very long, noisy night. You moved and Jungkook moved behind you, sensing that you were awake. He groaned in pain, his head hurt too.

You lifted your arm to open the sheet, because the room was hot. But Jungkook didn't want you to move, because then his head would hurt more. He put his hand on top of yours, intertwining your fingers so that you wouldn't move. But suddenly he felt a wedding ring on your finger.

He lifted your palm and you both froze looking at your hands. You both had rings.

"What that?" Jungkook wheezed somewhere near your ear.

"Wedding rings," you said, just as low, not recognizing your own voice. Jungkook let go of your hand and stared at his wedding ring. You turned to him, propping yourself up on your elbows.

"Why are we wearing wedding rings?" he asked, completely oblivious. You lay stretched, covering your face with your hand. Your pulse was pounding in your temples, and the pain made it impossible to think straight. But fragments of the night were in your head. You was able to remember the ceremony on the beach.

"I think it's those beach ceremonies," you said without opening your face. "Like in Las Vegas, like a fake wedding," you recalled Namjoon saying.

Jungkook looked at you and then smiled slyly.

"So we're married," he said, and you took your hand away from your eyes, seeing that he was smiling slyly.

"Gosh," you grumble, sitting up straight and covering your bare chest with a sheet, "It's a good thing this isn't a real wedding, or it would have been a disaster."

Jungkook pinches your ass and you hiss, turning to him. He laughs.

"I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you," he says defiantly. You tap him lightly on the abs, which makes him tense.

"Shut up, Jeon. Don't touch me, my head is falling apart." you complain to him. He put his hand on your back and began to stroke it soothingly.

"I have a headache too, don't scream so much kitten," he said and suddenly his phone vibrated somewhere on the floor. Jungkook stood up, not even covering himself, and you saw his erect cock and yelled at him to put on his underwear. Jungkook joked that it would be better if you helped him calm down, but you ducked under the covers, hiding.

Jungkook put on his boxers and found the phone that was ringing and almost on the last ring, he picked up the phone.

"Yes?" he answered Manager Lee, who turned out to be calling.

"Hello Jungkook-nim," he greeted.

"Hi," Jungkook replied briefly as he sat down next to you. He found your foot under the blanket and began to stroke it.

"A question," Lee said.

"Yes," Jungkook confirmed.

"Jungkook-nim, why did you get married without telling me?"

Jungkook froze, and you froze, too, with horror in your eyes. Jungkook turned his face to you and you looked at each other in fright.

"Today I came to work and received the mail at the reception. I was sorting through the letters and found a marriage certificate, with Han Y/N. It's registered with the Jeju City Administration."

Jungkook couldn't say a word, and neither could you. You both froze, looking at each other, and even the painful headache and fatigue receded, giving way to panic.

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stevie-petey · 1 month ago

Text

track five: gasoline, pretty please

“Don’t fucking touch her.” Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage? The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin. “Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

Summary: screaming crowds and flashing lights with steves name on everyones lips. everyones lips but yours; the lips he cant forget. when you get offered a job that would force you to leave the februarys behind, steve only has one last chance to beg you for more.

Rating: general, some swearing, blood

Warnings: swearing, reader gets physically assaulted, mentions of blood, heavy heavy alcohol use, please be careful reading, fem!reader, use of y/n

Words: 22.3k (a new writing record. ouch)

Before you swing in: WE'RE HERE !!! THE FINAL CHAPTER !!!! whew. lots to discuss about this chapter for a multitude of reasons. first, it was hard to write. second, i am very tired. third, i would kill for mike in this story. finally, i will be continuing this universe with an extra epilogue chapter and then blurbs upon requests. stay tuned for details :) for now, enjoy this messy and slightly chaotic final chapter for my favorite messy and slightly chaotic love story <3

“I think I was a fucking terrorist or some shit in another life.”

Robin doesn’t look up from her keyboard. She plays a note, frowns, and then adjusts its tune before trying again. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Steve shoves his rings onto his anxious fingers. The lights on the vanity he sits at almost blind him. Each of his five senses heighten unbearably. “I mean, it’s the only thing I can think of to explain my colossally shit luck.”

“Could just be your stunning personality.” Max buttons her shirt, standing behind him in the mirror. She smooths the fabric down and studies her appearance. “Also, you’re the one who insisted we include the song in the album.”

“I just don’t understand why Rosie became the song everyone wants to fucking fixate on.” Steve runs a hand through hair, fixing its odd sticking strands. Any minute now someone will tell him that the show will start soon. He can’t stand the sickly sensation of his flushed skin, overly warm from the idea of singing love sick lyrics in a sold out venue.

Mike cuffs his shirt and shrugs. “A good song is a good song.”

Jonathan helps him with the cuff links. “I don’t know,” he shrugs towards Steve. “It is unfortunately ironic.”

Ironic. What a brilliant fucking way to view the fact that somehow the most vulnerable song Steve has ever written in his entire career has become the number one single from an album currently topping every chart in the country.

If Steve thought recording an album dedicated to every intricate dip of your neck was difficult, performing the song to you each and every night named after an endearment you no longer call him creates a hell that biblical choirs mourn over.

“Thanks, Byers,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Really appreciate the camaraderie.”

“That’s the most you’re getting out of me.” Jonathan checks his own reflection in the mirror. “Like Max said: you wanted Rosie to be on the album. Now it is.”

“Stevie begged for it before he realized what the begging entailed.” Robin snickers, playing another note on her keyboard. She got dressed long before the others. “Now he’s eating his own theatrical words like a pathetic little mouse.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue and say that yes, he had begged for Rosie to be on the album because he thought that one day he’d be able to play the song for you over a record player and lay in bed with you while the lyrics blanketed over your tired bodies. He didn’t think that one day you’d be unable to even look at him, but the stage door opens and Gregory walks in with you following close behind.

On top of the many things Steve has had to force himself to ignore during the first two weeks of tour, you and Gregory becoming practically inseparable sharing a fucking tour bus together is one thing he has to bite through the calcium of his teeth to not wince at whenever he sees you together.

“Good news!” Gregory says with a grand flourish. “Y/N saved Rosie.”

A stray chord scratches on Max’s bass. The ring Steve had been holding pings on the ground when it falls from his surprised hand. Jonathan and Robin glance at each other. Mike coughs awkwardly.

“The stage crew wanted to make the lights red during the song,” you’re quick to fill in the gaps that Gregory created. “I talked to them. It’ll be pink. Rosie. Like usual.”

“Isn’t she great?” Gregory looks right at Steve when he says this.

His eye twitches. “The greatest.”

Professional, Steve has to remind himself. That’s all she asked from you. Professional.

Clearing his throat, Steve tries to abide by your needs. “Thanks, Y/N. Seriously.”

“Of course,” you don’t flinch at the forced niceties. Instead, you smile politely at him and in the dim backstage lighting it almost looks easy for you to do. He tries not to think that, either. “You pay me to get the best pictures, right?”

Steve swallows. “Right.”

“Then that’s what I’m here to do.”

The ease in which you hold onto your end of the agreement tastes bitter in Steve’s begging mouth. He doesn’t understand how you’re able to talk to him as if he wasn’t drunk on the way you tasted the night the crossed lines stitched the two of you together.

He still hasn’t forgotten the taste.

But maybe you have. Maybe it was simply easier for you to forget than to acknowledge anything else. Like choking down chalky medicine meant to soothe a sore throat.

“Good luck out there tonight, guys.” Gregory beams at the band. “I’ll never not be excited to see you guys in action.”

Robin smirks, endeared. “Should we consider you our biggest fan?”

“Oh, definitely.”

The rest of the band laughs, though Steve’s laughter doesn’t join. He remains quiet, only offering a small smile. The more he bites his tongue, the deeper the wound becomes. But it’s for the best.

“Seems I have some competition, then.”

Steve can’t help the way his head turns to the sound of your voice. He looks at you, surprised by what you’ve said, and your eyes shine just a little, just enough to tell him that you’re still watching, still paying attention to him.

Jonathan drapes an arm over your shoulders. He knocks your head together and ruffles your hair. “Not going to let Gregory win this one?”

Childish laughter bubbles in your chest. “Never.”

Gregory feigns betrayal, clutching his chest and gasping for air, and this time the laughter that echoes in the dressing room reverberates back Steve’s own laugh. If he closes his eyes, he can almost trick himself into believing that what’s best for you is also what’s best for him.

–

Sweat drips down Steve’s neck. He will never get used to the heat of the purple and pink stage lights.

A dull ache stitches in his muscles from how tightly he clings onto the microphone stand. A desperate attempt to remain upright. His mouth opens and crass humor and pathetic pleas pour out for the audience to keep demanding more from him.

As long as someone demands more from Steve, he’ll give everything he has to perform how they want him to.

He’ll strain his voice to be heard over the unkempt screams. He’ll toss his guitar to Mike in between songs if it means the audience will cheer just a little louder, just a little harder. His jacket will drape over Robin’s delicate shoulders if it means it’ll placate her nervous smile during songs that cut too deep into Steve’s jugular. His expectant hands will catch Jonathan’s drumsticks and he’ll share his mic with Max for a glimpse of their smiles.

And it works. Somehow, by some goddamn miracle, it works.

The audience screams Steve’s name. They scream their name. The Februarys. Mike’s and Robin’s. Jonathan’s and Max’s.

Begging-soaked hands hold together the band that Steve has spent his entire life dreaming of. He dances with his childhood friends and he laughs with them and he sings the songs they’ve written together—even if the lyrics twist his intestines to perform.

Every night Steve forces himself to smile and coaxes strangers to cheer for the band he desperately wants to preserve.

Yet you’re the only one he performs for.

Always lilac in the lighting. Always centered, always inches from the stage, encased in a barricade that protects you from the mass of people you somehow never seem to notice through the viewfinder that somehow never shies away from Steve’s misery.

He hides behind his voice and his lyrics while you hide behind your filters and film.

“We only have one more song tonight,” Steve says into the mic. A stray piece of sweat-slicked hair falls into his face. He messily shoves it back while a cacophony of displeased boos fills the venue. His chest rises in amusement. “Aw, don’t be like that to me. Aren’t I always nice?”

He doesn’t mean to look at you when he says it.

Steve thinks that his question receives screamed responses and whistling, but he can’t focus on anything other than your exasperated smile and the slight shake of your head. Always performing for you.

“I think you’re plenty nice,” Robin plays a few chords, smiling wide when she’s met with excited cheers. “But I personally think you could be a little nicer.”

He rolls his eyes in a fond, secretive manner. For just a moment his attention slips from you. “Is that so?”

Robin’s lips press into a smirk. “A couple more songs wouldn’t hurt.”

He hums. “And which songs would those be?”

“I don’t know,” she plays coy, leaning into the mic. “I heard that Going is pretty good live.”

More eruptive cheers. While Rosie has topped every chart, Going gets demanded for every encore. One of the few songs from the album that doesn’t focus on love, its energetic beat and lyrics about life on the road amongst friends and uncertainties resonates with more than just a lonely crowd. The raw vulnerability of being young.

One day it’ll be known as a song that defines an entire generation.

Not needing to be told anything else, Steve laughs at the crowd’s enthusiasm, motions for Jonathan to start the count. The cheering grows into a deafening roar and quiets everything else in Steve’s head.

You capture the fleeting moment of genuine exhilaration that rarely shines on Steve’s beauty anymore.

And he allows you.

He looks into the camera. Feels the turn of his lips. Angles his guitar so that the stage lights reflect off its blue in a small, subtle way that you once told him you loved photographing. He still remembers where to place his hands and how to pose his body for you. He still remembers everything, even if you’ve forgotten.

The show ends and Steve thanks the crowd for everything. He exudes gratitude. Despite how often he has to fake the emotions on his face, he doesn’t have to fake the deep warmth in his chest as he thanks everyone.

“Get home safe, everyone!” He waves at the crowd and Robin’s hand falls on his shoulders and she nudges him, reminding him to bow, and together they duck their bodies and laugh at their unsteady balance while Max and Jonathan and Mike do the same.

Backstage Gregory greets the band with unadulterated praise. “Incredible!”

Mike fist bumps him. “Always know what to say, Gregory.”

“Part of my job.”

Max takes his glasses and puts them on her own face. “Sometimes I wonder if Leonard blinded you and that’s why you’ve stayed with him for so long.”

Gregory’s head falls to the side. “Like… Stockholm syndrome?"

“Sure,” she says, indifferent. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I’d call it ‘money is money’.” Mike grabs the glasses for himself. He squints through them and makes a pained sound. “Jesus, maybe you really were blinded by the guy.”

“I don’t know how we ended up here,” Gregory looks between the two kids, amusement slowly turning to concern. “But can I have my glasses back?”

Max looks at Mike. He looks right back at her. At the same time they smile. Then, without saying a word to each other, they run.

“Oh dear.” Gregory watches their figures disappear down the hall. “That’s not good.”

Jonathan pats his shoulder. “I’d start running if I were you, buddy.”

“I feared I’d have to.” The other man sighs and looks at you, extending a hand. “Care to join?”

You gently knock his hand away. “Start running without me. I wanted to show Jonathan some pictures.”

Gregory groans while Jonathan playfully shoves him. “Hope you’re a fast runner.”

“I’m really not.”

Robin pinches his cheek. “Good luck, then!”

The lighthearted wink that Gregory sends your way before he leaves further makes Steve believe that he must’ve been the worst fucking person imaginable in a previous life. Curling his fingers into his palms, he bites his tongue. There are now worn indents in the muscle from how often he bites it.

Sensing Steve’s quickly deteriorating mood, Robin yanks his arm. “C’mon,” she says, blowing you a kiss. “Let’s leave Y/N and Byers alone with their film.”

“Please don’t phrase it that way.” Jonathan gags.

You frown. “You don’t have to sound so repulsed by the idea of making a sex tape with me.”

“Nancy would kill me–”

“We both know she’d agree with me.”

“Okay, no–”

Steve doesn’t hear the rest of the argument, getting pulled into the dressing room by Robin’s insistent tugs. A force as always, she flings him across the room with a childish giggle. He allows his body to bend at her will. He’s just grateful to be the source of Robin’s laughter.

“We fucking killed tonight!” She jumps up on the couch and sways her body to an imaginary song. Pink highlights peek through her blonde hair. A bit outgrown now, but Steve was going to re-dye the hair for her anyways tomorrow. “I think my eardrums exploded during that last encore.”

Alone with only Robin in the dressing room, Steve wanders towards a cooler full of drinks. A courtesy from the venue. He grabs the first beer he finds. Not bothering to look at the brand, he twists its top open and drinks the bitter liquid. It stings the taste of you away.

“Jonathan really nailed the bridge for More.” He agrees, licking his lips before taking another drink. “Max, too. That song is fucking hard but they’re incredible every time.”

“They are.” Robin’s dancing slows. She watches him take his third large mouthful of beer in less than a minute. “Think you should slow down, there.”

Steve drinks again. “It’s only beer.”

“I don’t care,” Robin jumps down from the couch and takes the drink from his hand. “You’ve gone through two packs this week already. It’s Friday. I don’t like it.”

Down the hall your laughter rings through the thin walls. The taste of it lingers on Steve’s lips. How can he explain that to Robin? That he can taste your laughter and feel your heartbeat and yet is expected to pretend that his molecular makeup wasn’t altered by it?

Steve has to somehow forget the very chemical makeup of your skin while somehow hold onto what little of his life he has left. To remain professional while mourning what he could’ve had.

“I won’t drink too much tonight,” he eventually says, not looking away from Robin’s concern. When her frown only deepens, Steve cups her cheek. He hasn’t held her face since they were kids. But something within him tells him to, that she needs the comfort more than he does. “I promise, Robin.”

“That’s what you said last night.”

And the night before that. And the one before that.

Drinking dulls the memories. Its acidity burns the edges off of them. He only drinks enough to soothe the jagged edges, but never enough to jeopardize the Februarys. Not again. He holds onto that promise with bruised knuckles.

But he can’t tell Robin any of this.

“Robin, please.” He grabs for the drink, but she turns away. Gritting his teeth, Steve exhales roughly. “Robin, I’m trying, alright? I am. But if you expect me to survive this entire fucking tour sober then you’re out of your mind.”

“I just don’t understand–” Something catches her eye. She turns away from Steve, closes her mouth when she sees you standing in the doorway as Jonathan walks in. You don’t follow. You haven’t been in their dressing room without Gregory or the rest of the staff members since the tour began.

All the space, the distance. Your well-mannered responses to Steve’s forced quips. How plastic your interactions have become. Held at arm’s length from one another and how stubborn and lonely she knows the two of you are.

Robin breathes out. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asks, noticing the tension.

“Nothing,” she removes herself from Steve. Unable to look as she does so, she returns the drink. “Just don’t make me regret this, alright?”

Steve grabs her hand before she can pull away entirely. “I meant it. I really am trying.”

Blue eyes flicker over his face. They search for any ounce of falsity. They’re sad as they flicker over his lovelorn features. Reluctant, almost. Until finally she sighs. “I know you are.”

“Doesn’t really feel like there’s nothing wrong here.” Jonathan pokes his head between them. He tries not to look at the bottle in Steve’s hand. “We sure everything’s fine?”

Robin smacks him away. “Help me pack up our equipment.”

“You told Nancy you’d stop hitting me!”

“I also told her that I wouldn’t pour arsenic in your drink and have her marry me instead. Be grateful I haven’t broken my word on that one yet.”

Jonathan blinks. “Yet?”

She blows a kiss. “Watch what you drink.”

“Y/N made us give Gregory his glasses back.” Mike cuts in, stomping into the dressing room with you, Max, and Gregory behind him. He falls against the couch with a huff, knocking against Steve as he turns to him. “Tell her it’s complete bullshit, please.”

“Tell her yourself,” Steve shoves him away, uncomfortable with the assumption that you’d listen to what he has to say anyways.

Your fingers pinch Mike’s skin, causing the boy to jump and try to hide behind Steve. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“You can’t just steal a blind person’s glasses. It borders on serious ethical concerns.”

Gregory fixes his glasses. “I wouldn’t say I’m blind, per say, but I do appreciate the concern.”

“You’re blind, dude.” Max pushes his glasses up unreasonably high, giggling under her breath when he wrinkles his face in displeasure.

He says something else, but Steve focuses on the drink in his hand. Uninterested in whatever else Gregory has to say, he studies the rim of the bottle, its dark brown that glows orange. The fizz of the liquid inside. How if he looks hard enough he can see traces of your lips in the way the liquid spills over.

“Hey,” a shoulder knocks against Steve’s and he manages to look up long enough to see that it’s you. “Nice show tonight. Stubbornly amazing as always.”

His grip tightens around the bottle. “Thank you.”

Niceties and pleasantries.

“Of course,” you don’t come any closer. You leave just enough breathing room for you both. “I’ll always tell you how amazing you are. Can’t let you forget it.”

Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget.” His heavy voice drips the undertones of what once was. It burns going down just as the alcohol does. “You know that.”

I could never forget you.

Tender words have a tendency to turn bitter after time has taken its toll.

You know Steve too well. It only seems to burn him.

But he knows you, too.

You don’t say anything for a moment, sitting with his words as everyone else resides in their own world. They talk amongst themselves and laugh and Steve only looks at you and you only look at him. Landlocked in the world you’ve built together.

He knows you. A contradiction of emotions slither over your delicate face. Amusement, longing, contentment. Until they fall back into place, settling on a kind, mindless smile. You can pretend that it had been nothing, but Steve knows what you’re wanting looks like.

“Good,” you exhale, coming back to yourself. “I’m glad, then.”

“Harrington.” A sharp knock on the door. He turns at the unexpected sound and finds a stagecrew member in the doorway. “Brought them over. As requested.”

A group of girls peek from behind the employee. Blondes and brunettes and redheads all stare back at Steve with hungry eyes. Glittered eyelids and red painted lips that mouth their profane comments.

The Februarys have all formed their habits and traditions following a show.

Robin tucks herself into a corner of the bus and reads after every performance. She finds that it staves off migraines and calms her enough to sleep most nights.

Jonathan and Mike decide to try every pizza in every city. They sneak through the stage door exits to not catch the attention of the hordes of fans who wait outside.

Max purchases earplugs and a sleep mask their second show and has taken to falling asleep the minute they get on the bus. She claims it’s for everyone’s safety.

And Steve?

His post-show ritual has just arrived.

“Let them in.” He tells the crew member, no longer looking at you.

The girls swarm Steve before anyone can even recognize their arrival. They fall to his lap and sit across his body and fawn at his hair and unbutton his shirt and smell of overly sweet vanilla and smudged eyeliner.

Always finding him in the haze of lights and smoke, your camera captures everything Steve wishes he could erase. You stand in the center of a universe that he can’t escape. Locked away with no key and no way to beg for release.

The girls’ fingers dig the sensation of your gentle gaze out of Steve’s skin.

It’s the only release he can afford.

Yet you don’t even flinch when one of the girls starts to kiss Steve’s neck.

“And the merry band of thieves have arrived.” Robin sneers under her breath, glaring at any groupie that looks at her.

Max snorts. “Took them long enough.”

“A new record.” Mike grabs Jonathan’s wallet. “Can we go get pizza, now?”

“Why’d you grab my wallet? We get paid the same amount.”

“Spent my last paycheck on flowers for El. Turns out it’s super expensive getting flowers delivered to a different state. Who knew?”

Gregory pulls out his own wallet. “Here, I can pay. I’m craving some pizza as well.”

Mike snatches the money with a wicked smile. “Dude, you’re freakishly nice. It’d creep me out if I wasn’t getting anything out of it.”

Pinching his ear, you start dragging the kid out of the dressing room. “Less talking, more walking to get food.”

“You’re joining us?” Robin looks surprised.

“I’m hungry.” You shrug back, feigning indifference. The dressing room grows hotter every second. The scent of vanilla chokes you. You need air. “And I promised Jonathan I’d help him with Mike more this tour.”

Mike makes an offended noise. “You make me sound like some bratty toddler.”

Jonathan, Robin, and Max roll their eyes in harmony and the small moment makes you laugh. Grabbing your camera, you manage to snag the last second of their exasperation of their dear friend.

“Got the shot?” Gregory asks you, slipping an arm around your waist as the two of you walk out together.

“Mhm,” your body leans into his. He offers support that goes unasked for. “Always do.”

One by one the Februarys exit the dressing room. Jonathan guides, talking to Robin about a melody he’s thought of. His rough timbre floats over Max’s argument with Mike over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. You follow them, leaning against Gregory as you do so.

Steve doesn’t join. He stays behind with the girls. Alone in their adoration.

–

By week eight, the six month long tour becomes a haze of screaming crowds and flashing lights in Steve’s blurry mind. No matter how many years pass or how hard he tries later to remember what his first breakout tour was like, the alcohol consumption during that time leaves a black line of absent memory that he can’t reproduce.

There are snippets Steve remembers, though.

Like being forced to ski in Colorado.

It starts when you barge into the tour bus and throw winter jackets at everyone.

“There’s a ski resort not even ten minutes down the street.” You say, roughly shoving Robin awake and narrowly avoiding her angry fists. “C’mon, I heard it’s best to ski early while the snow is still fresh.”

“What the fuck do you mean there’s a ski resort?” Again you dodge Robin’s fists.

“You guys have a day off and it snowed last night so we’re going skiing.”

Jonathan quickly sits up in bed. “We?”

“You sound French.” You throw a hat at him. “But yes. Or I guess oui.”

Steve remains in bed, simultaneously anticipating the weight of your body upon his and dreading its absence. He pulls his curtain shut. Rolls over and pretends to still be asleep.

“Wake up!” You clap your hands, stomping around to rouse your friends. “Guys, I’m serious. I think this could be really fun.”

“Y/N, I know you’ve become the unofficial tour nanny by taking us on field trips to restaurants and parks, but if you seriously think we’d go skiing together then you’re deranged.” Max says, followed by a thud that Steve assumes to be her thrown pillow.

The bus door opens and suddenly Gregory starts talking. “Personally, I enjoy skiing. I can show you guys how!”

Of course you fucking roped him into your idea.

Another thud. This time followed by Mike’s pained screech. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“I told you to get up!”

“The fucking sun isn’t even up,” Robin jumps out of her bunk and pulls the curtains open. “I mean, I love you, but this is insane.”

“This can either be a team bonding experience or a hostage situation.” Steve pokes his head out from his bunk and has to bite back amusement seeing your crossed arms and determined expression. Your threatening demeanor is adorable. “Up to you guys.”

Jonathan yawns, slowly getting out of bed. “I’ve never liked being held hostage.”

“Yet you’re the one who tied me to a chair multiple times.” Robin jabs him with her foot.

You frown. “Jonathan tied you to a chair?”

“It was Steve’s fault.”

He rolls his eyes to himself. While she isn’t necessarily wrong, he still has to swallow the urge to correct her. If he stays quiet long enough, maybe you’ll forget he’s even there.

His curtain flies open. “Wake up, Harrington.”

“I’m sleeping,” he says, monotone.

“Not anymore. Get up. I’m not giving the ski spiel again.”

Gregory comes up behind you and smiles down at Steve. Fuck him and his height. “You were an athlete, right? This is right up your alley!”

“Does your constant optimism have an off switch?” Steve glares at him.

“No. It’s how I still work for Lenny.”

By now the rest of the band has managed to slide on their jackets and snowpants. No one quite knows where you got them from or how you knew they’d need them, but you’re just relieved they’re listening. The cooperation provides some semblance of peace in the midst of uncertainty. You aren’t the only one desperate to preserve the remains.

This is how you hold onto the Februarys: through forcing them together, through shared experiences and memories.

Steve sees everyone getting ready and groans into his pillow. His head rings. He drank too much last night. Again. “I’m not fucking skiing.”

An hour later Steve stares up at a snowy hill, stiff from his thick snowpants and holding two thin poles that he’s terrified of snapping on accident.

“I’m going to die.” He squeaks out in terror.

Gregory slides up next to him. Being from Vermont, he grew up skiing before even learning how to walk. Another reason Steve hates him. “You know,” he pats Steve’s back. “Legally speaking, Lenny was supposed to have you guys sign a waiver saying you can’t get hurt while on tour to avoid unnecessary show cancellations.”

“We never signed a fucking waiver.”

“Spot on!” Gregory pats him again. “So for the sake of transparency, I highly suggest you don’t break your face.”

“I really don’t like you, Gregory.” “Never assumed you did!” He laughs, pushing off on his skis to go help Max put hers on.

“Asshole,” Steve mumbles, brushing his hands together to warm them up. He’s fucking freezing.

Robin adjusts her hat, puffing snow out of her face. “Be nice to Gregory. He offered to hold your hand down the bunny slope.”

“I’d rather fucking die.”

She ruffles his hair like a dog. “You’re adorable when you pout. C’mon, try to have some fun today, alright? You grew up rich, aren’t you guys supposed to be professional skiers?”

“We chose lake house rich. Not the middle of the fucking mountains in the dead of winter rich.”

Robin hits his arm, laughing under her breath. As much as she wants to hate Steve’s upbringing, she spent countless summers abusing the lake house privileges. Hawkins was boring, sure, but a house on the water helped lessen the burden of being alive.

“I can’t believe Y/N chose skiing.” Steve says after a few moments, squinting his eyes against the harsh white of the snow. You’re a couple feet away with Jonathan, who holds your hands to keep you steady, and Mike, who plops a pile of snow on your crimson hat.

“Hey!” You sputter out in shock, blinking the snow out of your eyes. You lunge towards him and Jonathan has to catch you before you accidentally impale yourself on one of the poles. “Jackass!”

Robin hums, watching the scene unfold alongside Steve. “Not her most well thought out field trip, I’ll admit. I prefer when she takes to parks. Like we’re dogs.”

Steve huffs a laugh, though a slight twist of pain settles in his stomach. He misses the warmth of the summer against his skin and the cool press of his guitar against your body. Fields of flowers and your fingers dancing through his. The sound of running water accompanying whispered chords.

Now only ice remains and the bitter cold of winter. Even his guitar misses your touch.

Eventually Max helps you tackle Mike to the ground. He writhes in pain and taps out in defeat, which Robin high-fives you for. Steve can only manage a curt nod in your celebration. Jonathan stays out of it, a fearful neutral party as he always seems to be.

Gregory inevitably has to break the fight up to prevent any legal misunderstandings on Leonard’s end.

“The waiver wasn’t a joke, guys.” He looks at the group like a concerned father. “If any of you break a bone and can’t perform tomorrow night, Leonard will sue someone. And that someone will probably be me. Which I really can’t afford.”

Max picks at her nails. “You’re not convincing me that your relationship with him isn’t simply Stockholm syndrome.”

“Alright, so let’s get to skiing!”

To Steve’s complete and utter humiliation, Gregory is a fucking fantastic ski instructor. Patient and thorough in how he explains the proper techniques and balance, he actually manages to make the whole ordeal fun. Within the hour he’s able to get Max, Jonathan, Robin, and even Mike up and skiing without any problem.

They fly down the beginner slopes and cheer each other on and enjoy their day in the freshly fallen snow.

Steve, who played basketball all throughout high school, was a life guard and even co-captain of the swim team, rivals a newborn baby deer with how pathetically horrible he is at skiing.

“You should widen your stance,” Gregory grabs his hips before he can shove him away. “Like this. See? Don’t you feel more balanced now?”

“If I told you what I was feeling right now,” Steve hisses through clenched teeth, “you’d let go of me and run.”

“So what I’m hearing is that you feel pretty balanced.”

Sometimes Steve wonders if maybe his aggression towards Gregory is misplaced, considering it was Steve’s bed that you fell into, but then the jackass goes and opens his mouth and sets every nerve in his body screaming.

He doesn’t know what the fuck you see in this guy. And that’s saying something, considering Steve isn’t exactly a saint himself.

Between Gregory’s insistent optimistic guidance and the bragging laughter of Robin and everyone else as they go down all the hills and enjoy their day off in the snow with scenic mountains all around them, Steve thinks he’s about to make the evening Colorado news.

Hungover musician hangs himself using only ski poles and a snowbelt.

Only the headlines never get created. Despite the Februarys all excelling at skiing, you accompany Steve in the failure to remain upright for longer than a second.

“This is fucking stupid,” you clutch desperately onto Gregory’s arms. Somehow you’re worse than Steve is, which he didn’t even think was possible. Your legs won’t stop shaking. If the wind shifts directions even a fraction, you’ll be on the ground. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

The three of you remain near the ski cabin, having not covered much ground since the others left to go explore the slopes.

Gregory fixes your jacket sympathetically. Steve has to look away. “C’mon, it’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who grew up in goddamn Vermont. This,” you risk gesturing wildly behind you at the mountains, slipping at the last second and squeaking out a scream before Gregory catches you. “Jesus. This is basically a gloryhole for you.”

“That’s… certainly one way to put it.”

Steve really hates how endearing he finds your vulgarity and wit. He misses their intersection and all the jokes you used to entertain Mike with during particularly long drives between cities. All that remains on the tour bus this time around are Mike’s snarky comments with no one to bounce them off of.

“Hey, Gregory!” Mike’s shout grabs everyone’s attention. He stands at the top of a severely steep slope, one that definitely exceeds his beginner skill level. He waves wildly, a pleased smile on his face. “Watch this!”

“Oh dear god.” Gregory’s face pales. Mike grabs his ski poles and adjusts them in his hands, preparing to descend, and Gregory quickly drops your unbalanced body. Ignoring your pained cry when you land on the ground once more, he sprints towards Mike, screaming in terror, “for the love of god, do not go down!”

“I say jump!” Robin antagonizes, clapping her hands. She’s the only one next to Mike at the top of the slope. Jonathan made the mistake of walking Max to go grab some water.

It’s the only reason Mike even attempts the dangerous slope now. Less people to stop him.

“If you get hurt, Leonard will genuinely kill me,” Gregory shouts, voicing growing distant the further he runs away from you and Steve, left behind yet again. “I actually like my job!”

Lost in watching his friends nearly give Gregory a heart attack, Steve almost doesn’t hear your quiet plea beneath him.

“A little help, here?”

He looks down, startled to remember that you’re still here. Alone with him. Covered in snow and cheeks flushed a lovely rosie that his chest hurts to admire. An angel in the snow.

Your arm raises, palm open and not so subtly prompting Steve’s attention. “Please? My ass is cold but I’m scared that if I try to get up on my own, I’ll somehow give myself a black eye.”

“Right,” Steve clears his throat. He hesitates, unsure what exactly to do. Your hand hangs in the air, waiting for Steve to grab it, but his heart races. He hasn’t held your hand or played with your fingers or kissed the inside of your wrist since the night that the urge of more drowned you both.

Your hand falls just slightly, wavering in its own hesitation.

Neither of you know how to do this. How to be so distant with each other, civil instead of enamored.

“Steve,” you breathe out. He can’t tell if it’s a plea or an acceptance. “Help me up, please.”

Unable to put the inevitable off any longer, he carefully sets down his poles. Making sure he won’t fall right on top of you, Steve adjusts his footing and slowly, cautiously, grabs your hand. The contact, even through thick layers of gloves, etches a sting of regret into your skin and his.

He’s sure that come tomorrow, there will be a scar from your touch.

With one swift motion he stands you up. Chest to chest, the close proximity threatens to choke Steve. However, your eyes remain downcast in concentration as you try to regain your footing. The close proximity doesn’t seem to affect you as it does him.

“Got it?” He asks you softly, needing something to say, something to do.

You nod, still looking down. Your skis close in on themselves and Steve has to grab your waist to steady you. “Shit, just-just give a minute.”

He bites his tongue, but the words come out anyways. “Widen your stance.”

“What?”

“Widen your stance,” he says again, tightening his grip on your waist. “That’s what Gregory keeps telling us, at least. Something about balance.”

Not looking convinced, you grab Steve’s arms in a death grip and use his steady weight to support your own. Moving a centimeter at a time, you adjust your stance at an agonizingly slow pace.

But Steve doesn’t care. He’ll stand in the snow for as long as he possibly can if it means you’ll hold onto him.

Once you’ve widened your legs, you look back up at Steve. “I’m going to let go. If I start to fall, please spare my dignity and catch me.”

“I’ll always catch you,” he reassures, hiding behind the double meaning of his words. Shaking his head as if to clear his mind, Steve squeezes your waist, unable to stop the familiar habit. “C’mon, angelface. You can do it.”

Your breath catches at the old nickname. A slip of the tongue. Another habit Steve has to learn how to wean himself off of.

Without saying anything else, you inhale quickly, close your eyes, and then let go of him. Your body remains still, unmoving, no sign of struggle against the gravity that has betrayed you all morning.

Opening your eyes, you exhale in disbelief. “I-I did it! I’m standing!” Suddenly you’re in Steve’s arms, mumbling against his chest, “Thank you.”

Weak, he wraps himself around you. “Of course.”

Snow falls all over. Your second winter together.

Too soon you pull away, awkwardly adjusting your hat and jacket in an attempt to hide your discomfort. A line was crossed, though neither of you can agree on which. Forcing the polite smile that you both hate back on your face, you squeeze Steve’s arm like a friendly coworker would.

“Thanks again,” you say. He only responds with a tight lipped smile. Trying to ease the discomfort of knowing each other and unlearning that you do, you wink at him. “At this rate, I’ll be following right behind Mike in no time.”

It works. He lets out a surprised laugh. “Down that death trap?” He points behind him, where Mike has just been detained by Gregory. The slope looks even more threatening in the snowfall. “Yeah, you’re on your own for that one.”

You stick your tongue out, but as you do so, a snowflake lands on it. Your eyes light up in excitement and Steve is helpless to your joy, unable to stop the small laugh that expands in his chest and grows only for you.

–

The soft crackle of the fireplace warms the room in its orange-red glow. Its woody scent reminds Steve of Christmas mornings in Hawkins where Robin would bike over to his house while his parents went to charity events.

She sits next to him on the plush couch, feet tucked beneath her to defrost her toes and bring warmth back to her body. The jacket she stole from Steve looks particularly large over her small frame. He thinks she looks better in it than he does. She always looks better in his stolen clothes.

Mike and Max sit on the floor, closest to the fireplace. The ski resort provided complimentary hot cocoa and their lips are stained from the mocha. Steam rises from the mugs and their whispers intertwine with the murmur of the fireplace. Mike picks pieces of snow from Max’s long hair and she helps him ice his bruised knee.

Across from them Jonathan sleeps on the recliner. Swaddled in blankets with his own cocoa mustache, the sweet drink put him to sleep almost as quickly as the exhaustion from skiing did.

“We can’t tell Y/N how much fun we had today,” Robin whispers, head heavy on Steve’s shoulder. His arm holds her closer, rubbing her side to help keep her warm. “We’d never hear the end of it.”

Steve stares into the fire. “She does a lot for us.”

“The most overqualified concert photographer in history.”

He snorts, though no humor accompanies it. The Februarys don’t tell you enough how much they appreciate everything you do for them. The forced outings, the jokes to keep the tension at bay, photographs of their cherished memories.

“We should tell her that.” Steve says, more to himself than to Robin.

She hums in agreement, understanding what goes unsaid. She shifts, gets even closer to Steve, and closes her eyes. The warmth of the fireplace puts her to sleep, too. He smiles to himself.

You smile as well, watching the small moment from where you stand at the reception desk.

Gregory asked you to help him return the skis to the resort and you’d been happy to help. He started making polite conversation with the woman who works at the desk, but soon she lit up with every word he said and you think you saw him blush under her lovely smile. Within minutes his body leans closer to hers and you take a step back, giving them some privacy.

Your camera hangs by your side. Its familiar weight brings you comfort as you reach for it. The pinks in Robin’s hair shimmers in the fire’s light and the soft lines of content that carve Steve’s face beg you to capture the moment. In the bottom left of the frame Jonathan’s arm sticks out, near the right Max and Mike can be seen huddled together.

November, 1989, the Februarys recover from skiing.

Another picture that will go in your portfolio. Something that will only be for you. Screaming crowds and exploitative tabloids can have the Februarys who create personas to please them, but the raw, delicate, real version of them will be yours only.

“You really wore them out today.” Gregory reappears by your side, nudging you with his shoulder as he nods at the band members.

You lower your camera. “They needed a break from rehearsals and passive aggressive comments.”

“So you force them to go down dangerous slopes instead.”

“Only Mike.” You bite back a smile. “I’m surprised you were able to stop him in time.”

“God, I don’t think I’ve ever been that terrified in my life.”

“He’s really good at doing that.”

Gregory scoffs, “yeah, no kidding.” He pushes his glasses up, rolls his neck as if to stretch out the remnants from his mad dash to save his career earlier. With a tired sigh, he glances at you. “Anyways, before I forget, there was something I needed to talk to you about.”

Your lips turn down. “Should I be concerned?”

“No, not at all. It’s good, I promise.” His smile returns. “Do you remember the Jinxs?”

The mention of the band you shot a few months ago throws you. After the terror of losing your camera and the forbidden thrill of Steve helping you find it, the band had been fun to watch perform. Ultimately you got some really good photos of them during the show. “Yeah, why?”

“They really loved your work. A lot.”

“Where’s this going?”

Gregory’s smile falters. There’s something he’s afraid to tell you. “Well,” he clears his throat, smile becoming a grimace. “They requested you to be their photographer. And they want you now.”

“Oh.”

“They’re based in New York–”

“Gregory.”

“Willing to pay you even more than the Februarys–”

“Gregory.”

He releases a quick breath, body deflating. When he looks back up at you, his green eyes plead. “It’s a really good offer, Y/N.”

“And you should know, better than anyone, that I can’t accept it,” you blink in disbelief. Without meaning to, your eyes draw to the Februarys. It’s only for a second, but the action itself speaks louder than anything else. “I can’t just leave them behind.”

“They’ll come back to you in New York.” Gregory reminds you gently.

Your throat feels cold. “No. No, that’s not the same.”

You barely survived a month without them. All you could think about was how much of their history you were missing. How many moments that went uncaptured. Whether they missed you just as much as you missed them.

And Steve. All you could think about was Steve.

His hands and his eyes and his lips and hair and rings and piercings and his warm laughter on a sunny day or his quiet humming and tender melodies and how vibrant he can be when he trusts someone and how much of himself he gives to others because he can, because he wants to.

“I-I can’t.” You almost don’t recognize the sound of your own voice.

Gregory clenches his jaw. He knew this would be your answer. Risking your relationship, he says, “But can you survive four more months with him?”

Him.

Gregory can’t even say his name.

Yet as much as you want to be angry with him, you can’t. Gregory has been civil and wonderful and supportive despite having every reason not to be. He holds your hand on the tour bus during the nights Robin tells you that she hasn’t seen Steve in hours. He blocks your view of the girls who swarm Steve. Always finds an excuse for you to leave the dressing rooms early. Finds a distraction for you, finds a reason for you to say no.

You’ve leaned on Gregory more than you’re willing to admit these last two months of tour. He’s never once made you feel small for doing so.

Tonight isn’t any different. He’s worried about you. He’s seen how stilted your life has become with Steve.

“I love the Februarys.” You tell Gregory, biting the inside of your cheek to prevent the words from stinging. “All of them. I’m not leaving.”

Gregory exhales reluctant acceptance. “Alright,” his hand falls on your shoulder. “I believe you, but just so you’re aware, the Jinxs aren’t expecting an answer right now. Leonard told them you’d need to sleep on it, and for once I agree with him.”

“I won’t change my mind.” You don’t acknowledge Leonard’s surprising knowledge of you.

“I don’t doubt that,” he squeezes your shoulder. “But at least pretend to consider it, will you? Leonard told me to call him next week, so you have until then.”

Shrugging Gregory’s hand off, you start to walk back to your friends. He follows, silent. Needing to scratch the conversation off your skin, you flick his ear. “So, did you get the receptionist’s number?”

Gregory trips. “I-sorry?”

“Don’t act all shy now. You were practically drooling over her while I was standing right next to you. What did her nametag say? Jackie? Jacey?”

“Jamie.” Gregory corrects automatically, eyes widening when he realizes what he’s done.

You smile wickedly. “Gotcha.”

His face burns a deep red and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this flustered. Laughing at his misery, you tug at Gregory’s sweater and soften the sting of your tease with the offer of hot cocoa before joining the others.

–

Leonard books the Februarys three shows in California.

“You guys avoided the state like it was a fucking venereal disease during your first tour.” He explained. “Which is a shame, considering it’s my favorite place to get a venereal disease.”

Jonathan’s face had twisted in poorly hidden disgust. “You really love to overshare, don’t you Mr. Branham?”

In the end Leonard schedules two shows in Los Angeles and one in San Bernardino.

You haven’t been back to California since you left five years ago for New York. California will always be where you grew up and where all your tender memories remain, but after your mother’s death and your father’s grief, the east coast offered solace.

The homecoming feels uneventful if only because your father now lives in Portugal and the barren desert that surrounds Los Angeles doesn’t at all compare to Berkeley’s lush green that defined your childhood.

“It’s insane that it’s technically winter and yet I’m wearing a t-shirt right now,” Max comments as she looks around the hotel that they’re staying in for the week. Palm trees wave back at her. “Doesn’t feel legal.”

You grab your bag from the bus. “Welcome to Cali.”

Robin squints against the harsh sunlight. “Is it always this bright?”

“I honestly have no idea.” When the band looks at you with varying degrees of confusion and astonishment, you sigh. “California is a huge state, guys. We’re six hours from where I grew up. I’m not a reliable source of weather information.”

Mike’s jaw drops. “So it’s not just desert everywhere?”

“I worry that you were taken out of college too soon.”

He shoves you, offended, while Jonathan shakes his head. “Please don’t say that. Mr. Wheeler still won’t look me in the eye.”

Mike shrugs. “Ted’s an ass.”

From the band’s bus you hear a loud thud and raised voices. Confused, you look around and realize that Gregory isn’t beside you. Neither is Steve.

Robin pieces it together before you can. She stares down at her nails, bored. “Guess Steve still doesn’t want to get up.”

“He’s still sleeping off his hangover?” You ask, fearful of what the answer will be. When both tour buses left this morning, almost eight hours ago, Steve had been too sick to even change out of his clothes from last night. Again. For the fifth time this week.

Max glares at their shared bus. “He spent the entire drive puking his guts out. He only fell asleep when we crossed state lines.”

“Wasn’t a fun drive.” Jonathan mumbles.

Robin doesn’t look up from her nails. Gregory’s muffled voice says something to Steve and the man responds with another scream. Something gets thrown against the window. You flinch at the sound. So do the others.

Unable to stand it any longer, you grab your things. “Let’s go get checked in.”

“Welcome to Cali.” Robin echoes your words from earlier, disdain and disappointment lacing their reflection.

–

Nothing prepares the Februarys for how popular they are in California.

The venue they play the first night in Los Angeles overfloods with bodies despite it being the biggest venue they’ve ever performed in. The rowdy audience pushes and shoves one another to catch a glimpse of the band, to get as close as possible, to demand more.

Screams pierce the band members' ears. Cheers shake their bones. Thousands of faces plead with the Februarys for a show. They won’t accept anything less than that.

And they oblige.

Jonathan beats onto the drums so hard that he breaks five pairs of drumsticks. His palms cut on the jagged pieces. He doesn’t realize that he’s bleeding until after the show finishes.

Max’s bass amplifies through the crowd’s demands and she has to brace herself against Steve during one of her solos, the rush of the performance almost too much.

Mike snaps two guitar strings the first five minutes into the show. The strings hit his wrist as they break and he laughs through the manic pain, replacing the strings without so much as a wince.

Robin slams onto the piano keys and strains her voice to keep up with the frantic cries. Her nails break and her voice cracks and the crowd feeds the desperation.

And Steve clutches onto the mic stand, covered in sweat, charming and beautiful and captivating. His fingers pick through the guitar strings and his biceps strain in the stage lights through every song, through every lyric, the dip of collarbones peeking through his cut off shirt.

He’d be beautiful if his gaunt face and yellowed eyes weren’t physical manifestations of the alcohol he survives off of.

Especially in California where the alcohol is stronger and the girls are even more willing.

It quickly becomes Steve’s favorite state they’ve ever performed in.

“I fucking love LA!” He exclaims, running off the stage after the show finishes. “Holy shit!”

Robin’s own exhilaration leaves her breathless. She leans against the wall, drenched in sweat yet smiling wider than you’ve ever seen. “I feel like I’m floating.”

Steve grabs her shoulders and jumps around, rosie face beaming. “I am floating, Buckley!”

Jonathan cackles and fist bumps the air, his injuries ignored in favor of celebrating. “Did you see how many fist fights broke out in the crowd tonight?”

“I think I saw three.” Max leans against the wall with Robin, who holds her hand to remind the other that tonight was real and not some far-fetched dream.

“I counted four!” Mike pretends to punch someone. “I mean, how fucking sick is that?”

Steve rough houses with the kid, ducking and weaving faux punches. “We’re fucking rockstars, Wheeler!”

Mike screams a cheer and Jonathan echoes it and the three boys all begin to grapple at each other and wrestle. Max and Robin watch with rolled eyes, though their fond smiles are hard to hide.

You take a picture of the childish scene before you. The Februarys wrestling one another, celebrating their biggest sold out show. Your cheeks ache from how hard you smile. The scene reminds you of nights in your apartment in New York, pizza boxes everywhere and empty beer cans with soft rock playing over an old record player.

“Alright, I got everyone’s room key–” Gregory joins everyone backstage, distracted with arranging the multitude of key cards in his hands, and almost walks right into the wrestling match. “Oh. They’re fighting.”

“Don’t worry, they’re just messing around.” You reassure him.

“This time.” Max adds.

Gregory makes an uncomfortable sound and you just shake your head. “Leave him alone, Max.”

“Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Robin grabs a key card from Gregory. “God, I’m glad Leonard is a rich bastard. I’ve missed having a queen sized bed and AC.”

“I like the bunks on the bus.” Max says, though she grabs a key card as well. “I just hate that you’re all on the bus as well.”

Robin flips her off while you point at yourself. “Don’t group me with the band. I’m on the other bus. Far away. Just how I know you like it.”

“That’s a good point, actually.” Suddenly Robin grabs your arm, pulling you towards the boys who are still wrestling. She steps between them and blocks their punches, effectively ending their impromptu wrestling match.

“What the hell, Robin?” Steve asks incredulously. He was just about to put Mike in a headlock.

“Y/N is going to sleep with us.”

“What?” He chokes on his spit.

Jonathan and Mike are no better. Both whip their heads towards you with genuine fear in their eyes. You’d be offended if you also weren’t completely mortified yourself.

You raise your hand. “Hi, do I get a say in who I sleep with?”

“Not this time, pretty girl.” Robin pats your arm. “Don’t worry, we can all hole up in my room. You’re long overdue for a sleepover with the Februarys.”

“Platonically, I hope.” Gregory butts in. “For reasons I can’t legally specify, Leonard has banned intergroup relations.”

Mike looks at Steve and Jonathan jams his elbow into the kid’s ribs. Everyone else pretends not to have noticed.

“As much as it pains me to say, it’ll be strictly platonic.” Robin sighs. “It’ll just be us making Y/N miserable while she tries to develop film.”

“Again, do I get a say in this?”

“No.”

Jonathan rests his elbow on your shoulder. “I’m in.”

Mike shrugs. “Oddly I miss the chemical smell.”

You frown. “That’s not a reassuring answer.”

“If Mike is huffing chemicals, count me in.” Max says. “I’d pay to see that, actually.”

Robin claps her hands. “Then it’s settled. Mandatory band slumber party tonight. Gregory and Y/N will get shitty pizza with Mike and Jonathan while me and Steve get the drinks–”

“I’m not joining.”

The light in her eyes dims. “What part of ‘mandatory band slumber party’ do you not understand?”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. A defensive act. He shifts his weight and looks away. “I have other plans tonight.”

“Harrington.” A stagecrew member knocks on the door. A hallway full of girls wait behind him.

Right on fucking time.

Robin’s jaw tightens. “Is this still you trying?”

I meant it. I really am trying.

Steve finally meets her eye. “Yes,” he answers, calm, unmoving. He doesn’t have it in him anymore to explain what he can’t quite understand himself. All he knows is that he can’t be in the same room as you, not sober, not drunk. He’ll only ruin everyone’s night and he can’t risk losing the band entirely, so he’ll sacrifice fragments of them if it means they’ll still remain whole. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Will we?” Max’s question severs.

He swallows the hurt he knows he isn’t allowed to feel. “You will.”

It’s the most he can promise.

In the silence of the dressing room Steve plasters a smile on his face, fixes his hair, snatches four bottles of liquor from the bar cart, and shoves past the crew member. The hallway explodes into expected feminine cheers.

“Leonard was right.” Robin says through her teeth. “California is where you’ll get a venereal disease."

Something about her words pinches nausea into your stomach and twists your intestines into knots. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, the bitter cold air numbs the sickness within you.

–

Robin somehow ends up with a record player in her hotel room. She sighs in relief when she sees it and promptly demands that Jonathan to dig through his suitcase and play the first record he finds.

David Byrne’s voice floats through the room. Max lays on the bed with a comic, humming softly along to the song while Mike sits at her feet, messing with his guitar and scribbling chord arrangements he likes.

Jonathan and Gregory sit on the couch. The two of them discuss aspects of the music industry that the Februarys don’t necessarily deal with themselves. Jonathan expresses an interest in the business side, asking Gregory a million questions a minute.

You’re hunched over the vanity, carefully placing rolls of film into clear liquid and watching as the images come to life. Robin sits on the table itself, watching with her usual curiosity.

Then, because she’s Robin, she allows her thoughts to be voiced.

“What the fuck is going on between you and Steve?”

You spill an entire bottle of developer onto the table. Quickly standing up, you clear away the film at risk of being soaked. “Shit.”

Robin helps you, though she doesn’t take her eyes off your anxious frame. “Quite a knee-jerk reaction, there. If you try and tell me it’s nothing, I’m afraid I’ll have to tie you to a chair.”

“What’s with this band and tying people to chairs?”

Jonathan gets up from the couch and cleans up the mess with some leftover napkins the pizza joint provided. “Robin’s question came off a little strong, I’ll admit, but we’re really worried about Steve.”

“And while he’s been spiraling into a manic alcohol-induced sexual delusion,” Max scrutinizes you. “You’ve been weirdly normal about it.”

“So,” Mike concludes. “Something fucked up happened that you aren’t telling us.”

“Besides the obvious sleeping with each other in Chicago.” Robin hands you the film she salvaged. “Here you go, by the way.”

Your head spins. “Is this an intervention or some shit?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless we need to make it one.”

“I’m sorry, but when Steve and I crossed the line and jeopardized the band you guys were rightfully pissed off.” Turning around, you face everyone. “But when we agree to remain professional for the sake of our jobs, you’re worried about us?”

Robin narrows her eyes. “What do you mean you agreed to remain professional?”

“We…” Suddenly aware of how naive it all sounds, you hesitate to explain. “We made a deal.”

“Well go on.” Mike opens his arms. “I’m sure this will only further add to our problems.”

You throw a bobby pin at Jonathan. “Can you shut him up?”

“No, I’m on his side for this one.”

“Y/N,” Robin forces your attention back. “Tell us what deal you made.”

All eyes on you, there’s nowhere left to run.

The back of your knees hit the bed. Weak to the fall, you land against it, exhausted. “We made the deal the first gig back in New York.”

“The closet!” Mike exclaims, pointing at you wildly. “That’s when I saw you guys leaving the closet together!”

“You slept together that night?” Max gags.

You quickly correct them. “No. Jesus, have some faith in us, alright? We were in the closet because Steve was a fucking mess performing that night and it was clear there were still some unresolved… feelings, I guess. So I forced him into the closet and we made a deal: remain professional and stop letting our issues affect the band.”

“You forced Steve to be your coworker?” Robin almost can’t believe it, it’s almost too absurd to believe, but really she suspected something akin to it already. You’ve been more distant from the band. Most nights Steve can’t even look at you. Carefully curated sentences silence the laughter that she hasn’t heard since leaving New York.

“If that’s how you want to look at it, then sure. I forced him to be my coworker.”

Jonathan softens his voice. “And you’re okay with it?”

“Of course I’m not okay with it!” Exhausted laughter rattles your empty ribcage. “Of course it fucking hurts when Steve sleeps with yet another girl and of course I’m fucking miserable pretending that it doesn’t hurt. You don’t think I’m fucking terrified he’ll drink himself to death?”

No one says anything, which only makes you laugh even more hysterically. “Jesus fuck, this is my job, this is your job. What else am I supposed to do? Wait for him to get his shit together? Jeporadize everything again just for a small figment of fucking hope?”

“You shouldn’t have to make yourself miserable for us.” A soft hand cups your cheek. When your eyes open, Robin’s mournful regret stares back at you. “That isn’t fair to you.”

Gregory coughs. The action itself doesn’t give away anything. He remains silent and merely observes the conversation, but the cough was meant for only you to understand. Your conversation from Colorado hangs between you. The Jinxs and their offer. His uncertainty that you’d survive four more months of cold civility with Steve.

“Didn’t I tell you that I was the Februarys’ biggest fan?” You try to deflect the rawness of Robin’s grief for you.

Max studies you for a moment. “You don’t take as many photos as you used to.”

“I took almost a hundred photos of you guys tonight.” Entire rolls of film dedicated to the Februarys.

“She’s not talking about the pictures we pay you for.” Mike says with uncharacteristic kindness.

Nothing they’re saying makes sense. “I always enjoy photographing your shows. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“And when you’re not taking pictures of our performances?” Robin pushes you just a little more, just enough to get you to see what everyone else already knows. “What are you taking pictures of, then?”

Once, you would’ve told her that you take pictures of Mike chasing Jonathan with a frog through a national park. Pictures of Max with her comics on the bay side of the bus, a moment of peace between shows. You would’ve told Robin that you take pictures of her as she gets ready in the mornings, a lazy image of her in the bathroom mirror with tired eyes but a warm smile.

Once, you would’ve taken a photo of the way the snow freckled in Steve’s brown hair and how it melts golden in the sunlight. How he looks encased in the green pine of the mountains. The way his hands grip the ski pole and the velvet red of his jacket matching the rosie flush of his face.

But you can’t tell Robin any of this, because it never happened. You never took the photos. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you’d been too afraid to. The memories you want to preserve are the same memories you try to forget. In putting aside your turmoil and grief for the sake of the band, you’ve slowly lost pieces of yourself in the process.

You’ve slowly lost the love for the art your mother left behind.

Gregory coughs again, this time with more force. It’s enough to break the mountainous silence and bring the attention off of you and onto him. “Excuse me,” he clears his throat excessively, putting on a show. “Didn’t someone say there’d be drinks?”

Robin allows the distraction, worried she’s pushed you too far. Tossing Gregory a beer, she offers one to you as well. “Here. You look like you need one.”

“Thanks,” your mumbled response doesn’t make her feel better. You crack the can open, drink the bitter liquid, and it tastes better than the empty realization of tonight.

–

The second night in Los Angeles follows the same as the first night.

Steve stumbles into sound check covered in hickies and a bruised eye. He reeks of alcohol and his normally tanned skin looks grey. The Februarys’ bite their tongues when they see him. At the very least he’s shown up for rehearsals sober, albeit hungover.

You watch them sound check as you normally do. As you watch the band go over the setlist and bicker as usual, the conversation from last night sits heavily in your skin. When Steve shows Robin how to hold a guitar in order to settle a playful argument, you reach for your digital camera before you can second guess it.

The image of them comes out hazy. You were too quick, too ill prepared, but even the lack of skill can’t explain the broken way Steve’s body appears in the photo. The shadows under his eyes are only emphasized in the pixels. The hickies that mar his body look more like cruel bruises than passionate ones.

Unsettled by how devoid his beauty has become, you put the camera down. You don’t want to remember Steve this way.

The show itself doesn’t help the pit of dread in your stomach. The overcrowded audience feeds into Steve’s spiral. They shout his name and jeer crude remarks and toss beer cans for him to catch and crack open after every song because he shotguns them with impressive speed. They’re too blind to recognize that he’s fading.

You break from your usual habit of taking pictures of the crowd. Something about the people in the venue makes you uncomfortable. You don’t like how they treat Steve like their shiny new toy.

Instead you focus on the band the whole night, photographing Robin’s lithe fingers and Jonathan’s exposed neck and Max’s light eyes and Mike’s wild hair and Steve’s lips.

Only the lips you photograph are hard to recognize. Bitten raw and dry and chapped. They no longer resemble the soft lips that used to kiss you to sleep.

The dread in your stomach only grows. Nothing about this is right.

You’re desperate at this point. As soon as the show wraps up you jump over the barricade and intercept the Februarys before they walk into their dressing room.

“Wait, hold on a second.”

They all jump back, surprised by your sudden appearance.

“Someone’s here early.” Robin remarks, eyeing you. “What’s up, pretty girl?”

“I just–” A hickey peeks through the top of Steve’s collar and it punches you in the throat. Your entire body goes numb, yet your nervous system screams at you to run. “Can I take some pictures of you guys? I-I mean, how I used to? After your gigs where I’d take pictures of your guys’ instruments and outfits and–”

“Breathe, dude.” Mike clamps his hand over your mouth. “You’re stressing me out.”

Jonathan slaps his hand away. “You’re all sweaty from performing, don’t be gross.”

“You know fast talkers stress me out!”

“You don’t just shove your hand onto someone’s mouth–”

Robin pushes both boys behind her. While they continue to argue, she grazes your arm. “Take as many pictures of me as you want, babe. You know I love it when I’m your muse.”

Max kicks the boys, causing them both to kneel over in pain. “And these idiots will agree once they get their heads out of their asses.”

“Perfect,” exhaling in relief, you look past the group for the missing member. “And Steve–”

He isn’t there.

Robin lets out an exasperated breath. “Where the hell did he go?”

Your mouth opens to suggest checking the dressing room, but the words die in your throat when a horde of girls run past you. Steve is in the center of it all, already drunk off the attention, tattered in lipstick marks and booze.

–

California feeds the excess of loneliness innate in Steve.

Every night the alcohol consumes him. He drinks to forget how your lips kissed the inside of his thighs and then he drinks even more to feel the phantom touch you left behind. The girls he sleeps with are happy to pretend to be someone else for him.

They all just want to be able to say that they fucked a rockstar.

Steve just enjoys the sensation of being held, if only for a brief second between parting lips and hushed tongues.

He hangs precariously on the thin line he drew out of faulty promises and hurt feelings. A tightrope of his own creation, Steve toes the line between preserving enough of himself for the Februarys and erasing the remaining pieces to forget you.

The morning the band leaves for San Bernardino, he spends the entire drive nursing a hangover. He buries himself in blankets to block out the excessive sunlight and has to clutch onto his bunk railing to steady himself against the rocky pavement that jolts the bus back and forth.

Robin spares him enough sympathy by hand feeding him some crushed granola and even asks Mike and Jonathan to keep their voices down so that Steve can sleep.

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve her in his life, but he’s glad he did at least one thing right.

By the time they arrive at the festival grounds of Glen Helen, it’s late noon.

Max sees them first.

“Holy shit…” She stares out the window, for the first time in her life completely speechless.

“What’re you–” Mike pushes beside her. His jaw drops. “Oh fuck.”

Hours before the Februarys are expected at the amphitheater, a sea of people intersperse through the trees and tall grass of the forest. Thousands lay in the grass and stand with their friends and clink their drinks together and inch their way closer to the stage. A haze of smoke clouds over them, some acrid wood, some herbal.

“Jesus fuck.” Robin can’t take her eyes off the crowd. The bus creeps past them down a private road and it takes several security guards to clear the way. A dozen onlookers try to follow the bus, but they’re denied access.

Jonathan roughly pulls Steve out of bed. He’ll want to see the visceral proof of their success. He has to be reminded of it in order to accept that it’s real. That it’s his.

“What the fuck–” Steve hits Jonathan’s chest as he falls off the bunk, but Jonathan doesn’t even blink. He shoves Steve towards the window instead.

“Remember this,” he tells Steve. “Remember why we do this.”

I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.

A sold out show of thousands, and they’re all waiting for the Februarys.

When Steve was twelve his father taunted him for wanting to learn the guitar. When he was sixteen he was told by his mother that he would only suit a traditional career if given enough luck. When he was twenty-one and waiting tables in a shitty diner downtown all he had to his name were two songs. One Robin wrote, and one he wrote.

Now he’s twenty-four. One EP, one album, dozens of songs, and a sold out show at Glen fucking Helen his last night in California.

And everyone does know the Februarys’ name.

Leonard greets them when they step inside the dressing room. “About time you kids made it to beautiful fucking Hollywood!”

Gregory coughs. “We’re in San Bernardino, sir.”

“Same shit.” The man waves his hand in the air. “I don’t give a damn. So long as the speed is fresh and the women are titty it’ll always be Hollywood to me.”

Max barely suppresses a snarky comment. He’s her boss whether she likes it or not. “We didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I!” Leonard cackles. “But I was bored and own a plane. Bought her after McCartney lost a bet with me. Bastard hasn’t answered any of my calls since. It’s a shame, really. Beautiful wife. She’s who I named the plane after.”

“And you think Paul McCartney hasn’t called you back because he’s upset he lost a bet ten years ago,” you say carefully, tilting your head at Leonard. “And not because you named an airplane after his wife?”

He lights a cigarette. “Who gives a fuck why he hasn’t called back? Moral of the story is that I’m here and expecting tonight’s show not to be a complete ass fuck like Chicago was,” smoke drifts around Leonard. “Tell me, will I be fucked in the ass tonight?”

Steve steps forward, a handsome smile covering the scent of alcohol that leaks from him. “Not unless we have your consent, sir.”

“Aw,” Leonard clasps a thick hand to Steve’s face. “The alchie thinks he can make jokes now, huh?”

Jonathan has to cover Mike’s mouth before the kid can break out into hysterical laughter. He ends up dragging him outside, away from the rest of the group. Leonard watches in amusement. Steve watches in shame.

“We’ll give you a show.” Robin cuts through the silent standoff. She hates how quickly Leonard can turn Steve into a broken shell. He idolizes the man more than she’d care to admit. They all do. “We can promise you that.”

Leonard takes another drag. He lets the smoke simmer in his lungs. You feel his eyes travel slowly from you to the remaining members of the band.

Smoke gets exhaled. “Then let the show begin.”

–

People shove against you and compress your chest to the barricade and loudly talk over one another in an anxious anticipation for the show that will start any minute. Warm bodies and hard limbs stifle your breathing, yet in the deafening chaos of it all you wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Maybe it’s the outdoor sanctity or the loose alcohol or the access to drugs and sweat and tears, or maybe it’s simply the music, but the Februarys have never experienced a crowd quite like this one.

“You guys are fucking rowdy!” Steve whistles into the mic after the second song. The ground shakes beneath him in response. His ears ring from the impact of the screams. Feeling like a little kid given his favorite toy, Steve bites his lip and leans over the mic, “Can you guys scream a little louder for me?”

White, bone rattling noise echoes back.

“That’s what I like to hear!” His laughter rings throughout the amphitheater. Boyish, prideful, charming like honey. The sweet taste of it fills your mouth as you watch Steve enamor the audience. He gets them to bite onto his wit, to eat from his maroon voice.

Stars glisten behind Steve in the dark of the night and yet he outshines the galaxy without even trying.

He decided to tempt the stars tonight by playing into the part himself. Stealing a dress suit jacket from Gregory and pairing it with a tight button down shirt with only the first few buttons done, he drips grungy Hollywood with his silver cross necklace stacked against endless chains around his neck.

Rosie has come out to play.

“This next song is a favorite of mine,” Steve caresses the mic stand and smirks when he gets the reaction he’s desired. “It starts out a little rough, messy, even. But isn’t that what teasing is all about?”

Jonathan starts the count and Robin plays the first few chords. Immediately everyone recognizes it.

Tease sends the crowd into a frenzy. Energetic and sensual and fucking addicting, they dance and scream along and beg for more, just as the song instructs them to.

Steve feeds into their wanting ways. He bounces around and head bangs with Mike and kisses Robin’s cheek and plays right back to Max and even slams down on one of Jonathan’s cymbals and he comes back to life after months of vacant death. All smiles, all love and passion and endearing charm.

This is the Steve Harrington you fell in love with.

Terrified you’ll miss the rare glimpse of the boy you once knew, you take as many photos as you can. You don’t pretend to find anyone else in the viewfinder. The images you take are all of Steve.

His jaw and the shine of his nosering. The cross that nestles against his chest and the buttons that don’t cover anything else. The moles that adorn his melancholy skin. How the pads of his fingers press against his guitar and the thrust of his hips.

He’s a beauty that offers no salvation.

You get lost in it.

That’s when someone slams the camera into your skull.

It happens quickly, faster than you can even fully react. All you remember doing is screaming out in pain as the camera hits the crest of your temple and crying at the blinding pain throughout your entire body.

“Fucking bitch.” You will never forget the way the assailant slurred viciously, unsteady on his drunken feet yet unwavering in his venom. “Blocking my goddamn view.”

Blood drips down your brow. You can’t see out of your left eye. Someone screams your name and pulls you behind them. He sounds like Gregory. You aren’t sure. Your ears ring too loudly from the impact of the assault to focus on anything other than the pain that explodes in your skull.

“Don’t fucking touch her.”

Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage?

The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin.

“Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

“Steve!” Gregory tries to pull him off. You don’t know where you are. Your ears ring and there’s so much blood and you should be doing something. You can’t just let Steve ruin another show for you, but metal fills your mouth and you think you bit through your tongue from the impact.

Security shoves through the crowd. Jonathan jumps down from the stage to help them pry Steve off from the man now screaming out in pain. Gregory calls for more help and suddenly Robin’s familiar and warm and gentle arms drag your body over the barricade.

“You’re okay,” she whispers against your ear as she pulls you from the crowd as carefully and quickly as she can. “Can you move your legs for me? We gotta get you backstage, sweetheart. Help me out, here.”

Numb and overwhelmed you do as you’re told, forcing your legs to move. Robin guides you through a swarm of people. The second you’re backstage, away and alone from prying and public eyes all demanding more, you finally break.

The tears come faster than you can stop them and your body shakes so violently that you’re afraid you’ll fall. Robin takes you into her arms immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she holds you tight to her chest, careful not to touch the bleeding wound on your head. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone get some fucking gauze!” Max screams at any crew member who will listen. She runs around and slams through every drawer she finds, Mike right behind her.

“Is Y/N okay?” He asks, too nervous to look at you.

Robin holds you even closer. “She will be, but let’s just focus on finding something to clean her up first, okay?”

Both kids look so distraught and worried and it breaks something even deeper within you. Weaker than ever before, tears wet your face and the dull ache nauseates. Humiliation coats your skin, fear claws at it.

But it all fades the moment Steve runs into the room.

“Y/N.”

He doesn’t look at anyone else. He doesn’t hesitate or wait or overthink. In seconds his arms replace Robin’s. Fear paints every inch of his face. His hands trace every dip of your skin.

“You’re hurt.” Raw despair drips into Steve’s voice. He cups your face and carefully tilts your head so that he can inspect the injury. He has to hold his breath to steady how irrevocably his heartbeat stings seeing you in so much pain. “Oh, angelface.”

Steve’s touch burns, yet it makes your skin cold and you aren’t sure if you want to pull away or collapse into the cavity of his chest. “You’re okay, yeah? Just look at me. Max and Robin will find you something to stop the bleeding.” He brushes hair out of your face and attends to you in such a delicate way that you never thought you’d see again. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Though your tongue feels raw, you still can’t resist reassuring him. “You’re not the one who hit me.”

He doesn’t respond, instead grabbing the gauze that Robin offers and dabs your temple with a wet rag that Max threatened a crew member for. The cold stings against the wound and you wince with every touch, but Steve shushes you with soothing words. He apologizes under his breath over and over again.

“You can’t be serious.” Jonathan’s raised voice gets everyone’s attention. He stands in a corner with Gregory, who Steve hasn’t let come any closer to you.

“What’s going on?” Max sets down the rag and stalks towards the men.

Mike jabs a finger at Gregory. “This asshole just told us to go back on stage.”

Robin laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, fuck no.”

“You guys sold 20,000 tickets,” Gregory closes his eyes, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. “You only have five songs left, it’d be unprofessional to waste the remaining time–”

“Y/N was just fucking assaulted!” Jonathan’s malice surprises everyone. He doesn’t fucking care what Gregory or anyone else thinks. You’re one of his closest friends and your blood hasn’t even dried yet. “No way in hell are we going back out there.”

“I care deeply for Y/N, and what happened tonight was despicable,” Gregory tries to look at you, but Steve blocks his view of you. Suppressing an agitated sigh, he begs the band to understand. “But I wouldn’t ask you guys to do this if it wasn’t important.”

Steve tightens his arms around you. “We’re done. End of discussion.”

“If you’d just listen to me–”

The door opens. Leonard Branham walks in. “Let them cut the show early.”

Gregory’s jaw drops. “Sir, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m plenty serious. I mean,” Leonard snorts loudly and gestures towards you and Steve, holding each other still. “Look at these two kids. Young and in love. No better drug than that. Even I can be sympathetic enough to that, you heartless cow.”

Max stifles a laugh. Mike doesn’t.

You ignore the way Steve’s fingers dig into your waist when Leonard says “in love.”

Gregory clenches his fists. This is the most uncomposed you’ve ever seen him. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a sold out show. Thousands of dollars that people paid for.”

“And I don’t give a shit. I’ve already made millions off this band anyways.” Leonard claps Steve’s shoulder, reminiscent of a proud father. “Fuck if I care if this kid’s knight in shining armor act makes me lose a few thousand. At least it’s entertaining!”

“But–”

Leonard’s amusement quickly turns to displeasure. He reels Gregory with a steely look. “I don’t pay you to suck my dick, do I? I pay you to do as I say, and right now I’m telling you to go make the announcement that the show’s over.”

Swallowing down humiliation, Gregory nods his head stiffly and leaves without another word.

“Fucking asshole,” Steve says under his breath, pulling you even closer.

“Alright, well.” Leonard adjusts his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He flits through the endless money within it before settling on five hundred dollar bills. He shoves the cash in Robin’s face. “Here, take this. Should be enough to cover the girl’s injury. If you need any legal fees: don’t.”

She accepts the money, albeit reluctantly. “Thank you, Mr. Branham.”

“I repay my investments. Remember that.” He shrugs, looking right at you when he says it. A silent reminder of his offer with the Jinxs that you have yet to accept. “Anyways, I should get going before the horde of angry people pit me like a pig. Good luck.”

The Februarys don’t even blink at his departure. They swarm around you instead, asking you a million questions a second.

“Do you feel sick?”

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“Do you need ice? More gauze? Stitches?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“She’s injured, not blind, Mike.”

“Had to make sure.”

Steve remains silent, holding you rather than asking his own questions. In his selfish ways this is the only thing he knows will keep him calm. Your scent, your soft skin against his, your hair in his face, your body with his.

You try to answer their questions and ease their concern, but as you attempt to reassure Robin that you don’t need stitches, a loud, macabre sound leaks through the dressing room from the audience outside.

They’re booing the Februarys.

A deep, hollow vessel of dread sinks into your stomach.

“You have to–”

Mike cuts you off. “Wait, you know I’m only holding up two fingers, right?”

“The show, you guys can’t–”

“I really think we should get your wound looked at.” Robin touches your face slightly and frowns at how deep the gash appears now that the blood has been wiped away. “I’ll take you. We can use the money Lenny left.”

Max nods. “Use every last cent that bastard left.”

They aren’t listening. No one is listening. “Please, just go back on stage–”

Only Steve hears your pleading. It’s always him. “You heard Lenny, Y/N. The show’s over.”

“But-but I’m fine.” This isn’t what you want. The booing persists and leaks through every crevice of the dressing room and drills into your skull and it only seems to be deafening you. “The fans, they’re upset and-and you can’t just let them down like this–”

“Y/N,” Steve pinches your chin between two fingers, forcing your head to tilt up at him. In his eyes is tenderness. Resentment cannot be found. “I don’t fucking care what the fans think. No show is worth your safety.”

You guys sold 20,000 tickets.

Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.

Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.

The booing outside grows into a nauseating crescendo and Steve looks at you with such softness. You can’t be the reason he loses a childhood dream that’s already been salvaged from ruin because of you.

Desperate, you raise your voice to be heard over the roar of the audience’s fury. “But this is everything you’ve ever dreamed of!”

“And I’m not sacrificing you for it! Nothing is worth losing you! Do you understand that? I’m not fucking losing you. I-I can’t lose you.”

All the air escapes your lungs.

The confession rings throughout the room.

And you stare up at Steve with no resolve or hesitancy or fear of what he’s said, as if you’ve expected it, as if you’ve always known, and isn’t that why you left that Chicago morning? Because Steve couldn’t admit to you what you already knew?

But as he stands before you, breathing in and out heavily, his adrenaline finally abandons his body. It leaves him weak and afraid. Like a shock to his system he comes back to himself, realizes where he is, who is with him, what he’s just admitted.

Everyone looks at Steve and they know. They know he’s in love with you they know he’s going too fast they know he bruised his knuckles tonight because he’d rather be in pain than to have you afraid and they know you’re wound so deeply into his skin and this is all happening too fast he’s going too fast.

Steve lets go of you as if you’ve burned him. Maybe you have.

The door slams shut.

No one calls after him.

–

Robin and Jonathan shove you into the back of a taxi and drag you into the first emergency room they find. Jonathan fills out all the paperwork. Robin holds your hand while a kind nurse cleans your injury.

Two hours later you’re cleared of a concussion and discharged with an ice pack to your head. The nurse instructs you to take it easy the next few days. Robin promises the woman she’ll keep an eye on you and Jonathan picks up your prescription pain meds for the swelling.

You’re just relieved that your camera made it out alive without any damage. Your skull took the brunt of it.

Even though it’s nearly one in the morning by the time you get back to the hotel, Mike and Max are waiting in the lobby. When they see you, they jump to their feet.

“What’d the doctor say?” Mike eyes your bandage wearily. “Are you brain damaged?”

Max pinches his side. “Can you be normal for five seconds?”

Though their worry endears you, the pain meds haven’t kicked in yet and your head feels like it’s on fire. Smiling thinly at them, you manage small reassurance. “I’m fine, guys.”

“No concussion, which is good.” Jonathan steps in for you. “She just can’t do anything reckless for a few days.”

Max snorts. “I’m sure that’ll be easy.”

“Now isn’t the time.” He gently berates her remark. “It’s late and we’ve all had a long day. Let’s just get some sleep. Tomorrow you guys can be your usual asshole selves.”

Mike boos, but Robin swats his chest and looks pointedly at Max. “Do as Jonathan says or I’ll hit you, too.”

She rolls her eyes but yanks the back of Mike’s shirt and drags him to the elevator. Jonathan accompanies them, kissing your forehead with a whispered goodnight as he leaves. The kids send you one last concerned glance before the elevator doors close and they’re gone.

“Do you need anything else?” Robin asks you, eyebrows knit in worry.

You shake your head. “I’m fine. Really.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “I can stay in your room tonight.”

“Robin,” you squeeze her hand, understanding her worry but hating the sensation of it. “I love you, but tonight was overwhelming and I just…”

All you’ve felt since leaving Glen Helen is overwhelmed frailty. The crash of your camera lens to your head, the man’s slurred anger, Steve’s fists cracking his skin, Leonard’s indifference and Gregory’s guilty eyes.

The terror on Steve’s face when he saw all the blood. His desperation to hold you, to search your skin for any other injuries and kiss them better. How raw his voice was when he confessed to you what he’s fought so hard to hide.

Closing your eyes, you exhale the weakness that bites your lungs. “I just really want to be alone right now.”

The edges of Robin’s eyes soften. “Yeah,” she says. “Of course, but if you’ll allow me to be selfish, I’d like to at least walk you to your room.”

You kiss the back of her hand. “Guide the way, Buckley.”

Her soft laughter eases the ache in your head for just a moment. Your hands remain intertwined the entire way to your room. She only lets go of you once you’re at your door, but even then she lingers.

“You know I love you, right?” Robin studies your face, as if trying to find something within it. “You’re still my best friend.”

You want to tell her that of course you know she loves you, but for some reason the words die in your throat. For hours now your body has been locked in a state of fight or flight. A varying mix of emotions heighten and depress every minute and all you want to do is close your eyes forever.

“I love you, too.” You caress her cheek, allowing yourself this one thing. Grabbing the key to your room, you unlock the door. “Thank you for taking care of me tonight.”

Robin cups the back of your head and kisses your hairline, right where Jonathan did earlier. “Always,” she mumbles against the skin there. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.”

You leave her standing in the hallway. The silence in your room somehow amplifies the ringing in your ears. Alone for the first time all day, your knees sink to the floor, too exhausted to find the bed.

You don’t know how long you stay like this, head down and knees pushed against your chest with the hard floor beneath you. Long enough to leave your body numb to the pain, though not long enough to lessen the tugging in your chest that begs for attention.

Not now, you plead to yourself. Please.

The tugging in your chest only continues to constrict. Crawling out of your skin, you throw off your shirt and unzip your skirt and stumble into an old t-shirt before falling into bed. You force your eyes closed. Inside your ribcage something buries itself into the bones there. A million pins prick your skin.

A string ties around your throat and pulls tighter and tighter. Your chest squeezes, rattles your lungs, the begging doesn’t stop.

You have to see him.

Steve’s room is across from yours. It takes you less than a minute to cross the bridge of the hallway that divides you. Your legs carry you to his door, where you stand, hesitating, ears straining for any sign to turn around. That you’re making another mistake.

But there’s only silence in his room.

He’s alone.

Memories of the last time you stood before his hotel door flood your mind. Pleasurable, bitter flashes. The kiss that was on your lips from someone else. How Steve kissed them clean and poured liquid honey down your throat. The screaming the morning after. Vicious words that ruined the sanctity that the night had salvaged.

You knock on the door and wait several heartbeats.

No one answers.

Frowning, you test the handle and find that it’s unlocked. Your breath catches. For a moment you consider going back to your room, but the tugging in your chest pleads for release, it pleads for the reassurance that he’s okay.

You let yourself inside.

What hits you first is the stench of alcohol. Then you see the remains of the room.

Fragments of plates are shattered on the floor. Torn pieces of sheet music litter between the glass. A table on its side, thrown against the wall. Clothes strewn everywhere, torn from their suitcase and left in piles throughout the room. Cigarette butts burn holes into the carpet.

Careful to avoid the mess you’ve made, you step through the ruin.

Steve sits at the foot of his bed, a crumpled body on the ground. His head tilts to the side, knees curled into his chest, more a child soothing a hurt too big for his body than a broken man.

His glossy eyes find you in the dark room. A weak sound escapes his lips. A sheen of sweat covers his face, drenching his body. Paler than you’ve ever seen him, you’re afraid to ask how much he’s had to drink tonight.

“Is this real?” Steve’s hoarse question breaks the last of your resolve. He stares up at you like a little kid, lost and alone. “Are you real?”

“This is real.” You talk to him like an injured animal, lowering your voice, approaching him slowly. “I’m real, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers something incoherent. The sound weakens your knees and sends you to the ground beside him. Back against the bed, Steve’s head falls to your chest and you cradle his frail body that shakes through tears.

You’ve never seen Steve cry before.

You’ve seen him exhale elated laughter, you’ve seen his face twist in moanful pleasure and ecstasy, you’ve seen him spew bitter words and malicious anger, but you’ve never seen him cry.

“I’m sorry,” he cries into your skin, repeatedly, without pause, like a prayer that he begs salvation from. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what exactly he apologizes for. He doesn’t know, either. The only thing he knows is that he’s missed being in your arms and that his mouth can’t form any other words. All he can say is your name and the remorse that builds in his chest and spills down his face.

Eventually Steve falls asleep pressed to your ribcage. Your arms fall numb but you don’t want to let him go. Early morning sunlight creeps through the window and you stare at his sleeping profile like you used to, back when everything was easy with him.

Steve still looks the same as he used to. His freckles align in the same place, eyelashes still kiss his cheeks that are stained with tears. But his pale skin cracks at its edges, dry and lifeless. The warm gold he used to be is gone. You can feel the ridge of his spine through his shirt, the outlines of his ribs.

Sucked dry by the alcohol and sex, Steve has become a skeleton of his potential.

Blinking back your own tears, your finger strokes his cheek. Even in his sleep, Steve leans into the touch.

You can’t keep doing this to him.

The deal had been suffocating Steve. You had been suffocating him, all for the false hope of holding onto the scattered pieces of your relationship with him. There was never any other way for this to end. The pieces settled where they landed for a reason.

His mistaken confession tonight only evinces it.

And I’m not sacrificing you for it.

Steve would give up everything for you, renounce his entire life for the possibility of remaining at arms length of you, to even just breathe the air you exhale.

And it’s killing him. What you have is slowly killing him. It isn’t something that can be messily stitched back together, not like you once naively believed.

Robin was right. You really are a catalyst.

Gregory’s offer nips at the scattered remains of your mind. Go back to New York. Photograph another band. Give up the Februarys.

Tomorrow you’ll talk to them. They deserve to be the first to know what your answer will be. But tonight, you hold Steve and watch the sun rise over the wreckage of a reliquary love.

–

“What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving us?”

You should’ve known Robin would voice her disbelief over the news loudly and with great proclivity.

“Robin–”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

She paces the room and laughs to herself hysterically. When you asked the Februarys to meet you in the hotel’s conference room before leaving for Vegas, she thought you were just going to ask them to pose for a few more photos. Maybe confess that it was really you who ate the last batch of cookies that El sent.

She didn’t think she’d be stepping into the conference room with a goddamn resignation speech prepped and ready.

“This is a joke, right?” Mike looks around the room, as if expecting Leonard to jump out from behind the curtains. When he doesn’t find anything, he aims his disbelief and upset at Gregory, who unhelpfully stands beside you. “What the hell did you do to Y/N in her concussed state?”

“I was never concussed.”

Gregory pushes his glasses up. “And this was entirely her decision.”

Max can’t look at you, arms crossed on the couch as if to protect herself against the sting of betrayal. “Some bullshit decision.”

“C’mon, guys,” you hate the hurt on their faces. “It’s only for a few months. We all still live in the same building.”

“I don’t.” Max’s eyes cut right into you, forcing you to look down at the ground.

Jonathan sits on the couch next to her, his own arms crossed. He’s looking at you like he looks at particularly complex and almost uncomfortable displays of art. You recognize the look from the classes you shared together and from late nights exploring the city to find inspiration for your next film projects.

“Why do you want to leave?” He asks you, no hint of anything in his voice. Emotionless, without any indication how he feels, and in the lack of emotion he reveals the quiet regret that his eyes can’t hide.

“I don’t want to leave, it’s just–” The excuse gets caught in your throat, its jagged edges cut your gumline and stab your teeth. Steve sits alone, in his own seat away from his bandmates, and he hasn’t once looked at you since waking up to you at the end of his bed this morning, tucked away from him.

You aren’t sure how much he remembers from last night. You aren’t sure that you want to know. Not when he remains quiet now, head turned away from you as you tell the Februarys that you’re leaving.

“I miss New York more than I thought I would,” you miss the weightlessness the city provided you, but you can’t say that you miss the city itself. Only the memories you made within it. “And I figured that if I photograph the Jinxs then maybe it’d revitalize my love for photography. Go back to my roots, you know?”

Robin chokes on her spit. “Did you just say the Jinxs?”

You give her a funny look, unsure why that’s what she chooses to focus on. “Yeah. They’re the band that requested me from Lenny.”

“Oh dear fuck.” She clutches her stomach.

Immediately Mike turns on her. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I-I happen to, um. Know Amelia Sloan. Pretty well.” Robin squeaks out, face red and splotchy in embarrassment. “She’s the lead singer.”

Jonathan drops his head. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you.”

“You’re sleeping with the enemy?” Mike jumps away from Robin as if she’s physically injured him. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I didn’t know she’d try to take Y/N away from us!” Robin exclaims, panicking as well.

Max glares at her. “You probably fed the idea into her head.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t talk about Y/N or the band whenever I’m sleeping with a girl.”

Mike scoffs. “Of course you do, it’s how you get laid in the first place. And now you’ve slept with the goddamn enemy. Not even Steve has done that!”

Steve closes his eyes. Jonathan rolls his. Robin tugs at her hair.

Max still can’t look at you.

“Stop saying I’m sleeping with the fucking enemy!”

As the Februarys continue to argue, Gregory gives you a silent can we please get the fuck out of here? look, which you don’t hesitate to act on. Using their argument as a distraction, you slip out the room to go call Leonard and inform him of your decision.

The moment the door closes behind you, Steve throws himself off the seat and grabs his things. “I’ll see you guys on the bus.”

His voice comes out raw from disuse and the alcohol that burned it last night. He can’t stay in the conference room where his friends mourn the loss of you. Not when he desperately wants to mourn as well. Alone.

But suddenly the Februarys look at one another in frightening synchronicity and within seconds they’re jumping into action. Jonathan throws himself onto Steve, hooking his arms tight. Mike and Max gather anything in the room that can be used as a weapon and throw them behind the couch. The giant oval table that the hotel provides in the conference room gets shoved against the door by Robin, locking everyone inside.

“What the hell?” Steve fights against Jonathan, but the guy’s surprising strength has him pinned to the wall. The rest of the band members stand in a circle around them and Steve’s cynical laughter cuts into the silence of the room. “Is this a fucking impromptu intervention?”

“I think we can all agree you’re long overdue for one.” Robin snarks back.

Steve tightens his fists. “Fuck you, Buckley.”

“No, fuck you.” She sneers. “You need to sort your shit out with Y/N, do you hear me? Because I’m not fucking losing her over some petty miscommunicated feelings that goddamn third graders can express more eloquently.”

“We actually really like Y/N.” Max says. “She’s our friend.”

“She takes us to parks!” Mike gestures wildly. “And she actually thinks I’m funny!”

Jonathan nods solemnly. “She’s been good for us, Steve. Even you have to see that.”

“Do you guys think I want this?” Steve’s eyes sting and the cavity in his chest collapses. Baring his teeth to protect himself, never to be malicious, he sucks in a defeated breath. “I mean, fuck. I can’t even go an hour without seeing her and you think I want her to leave?”

His head knocks weakly against the wall behind him. He lets it hang there, tired of holding himself up. “That’s the fucking problem. We aren’t good for each other. If she’s unhappy then I can’t stop her from leaving.”

Mike makes a mocking gag of a sound and stomps over to his bag. “Oh, just shut the fuck up.” He grabs a book from within it and throws it down on the table. The thud echoes throughout the room. “Open the goddamn book.”

Steve tilts his head at Jonathan. “I’m pinned to a fucking wall right now.”

Robin yanks Jonathan off of him and then grabs the back of Steve’s shirt, collaring him, before throwing him onto the table without any gentleness. “And now you’re not. Open it.”

A pulsing ache instills Steve’s body. It screams at him to run. Taunts him to ruin everything yet again. The rusted leather book that gets thrown at him like a stray dog gets thrown a bone persecutes him to open it; it sees through who he is and all he tries to hide.

Inside the book are all of your photos. Steve could recognize the style of your art anywhere after spending hours observing the way you create it effortlessly.

“How the hell did you get Y/N’s portfolio?” He doesn’t understand why it’s being presented to him now.

“Mind your own business.” Mike grunts.

Robin pushes the book closer to him, her eyes now gentle yet again, sympathetic. “Look through the photos, Steve.” She brushes hair out of his face and pauses for a moment, thinking through her words carefully. “Really look at them and finally fucking accept what’s been obvious from the start.”

Steve shakes his head. An image of himself stares back at him, smiling into the mic with your familiar handwriting beneath it, February, 1989, my first time hearing rosie sing.

“I-I can’t–”

“You can,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to his. She breathes in the shaky exhale he releases. “Remember why we stay.”

She kisses the crease between his brow. Steve wonders how he can tattoo the kiss into his skin.

“We’ll see you on the bus.” Max throws his earlier words back in his face, though there’s a lighthearted teasing behind them. She grazes Steve’s shoulder, an uncharacteristic act of tenderness towards him.

Jonathan stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives him a small nod. Mike waves a sad goodbye and Robin leaves with one last reassuring smile.

He’s alone again.

Yet he doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to run. Instead, Steve finds himself wanting to run his fingers through the pages of your portfolio. He loves every picture you’ve ever shared with him, but he’s never seen this collection of photos before. The edges of the book’s pages are frayed and worn from love. Small doodles decorate the gaps between pictures, small comments and thoughts meant only for you to read. The portfolio encompasses who you are, the purest manifestation. A small sense of guilt tinges Steve’s chest at the idea that he’s intruding on something you wouldn't want him to see.

The kiss that Robin left on his skin warms, reminding him of what she’s asked.

A collection of your work resides in the book. The pages start from the very beginning of your time with the Februarys. Within the images Steve recognizes the first night you ever photographed the band, a picture of his face pressed against Robin’s as they share a mic. It’s been a long time since they’ve been so close during a performance.

Steve swallows the remorse down and flips through the photos. They’re a collection of every memory he’s ever wanted to preserve, but within the images he can’t help but notice a repetitive pattern that connects them all together.

All the photos are of him. Each and every one of them contains pieces of him. But it’s not the photos that fill his chest with dandelion fondness. It’s the words you write beneath them.

Snow on his winter jacket with a box in his hands, standing beside a bright yellow taxi in front of your old apartment – Steve, the gentleman who carried all my boxes.

His head buried under a blanket, hair peeking out the first morning he woke up to your laughter – A surprising early riser.

Silver rings around his fingers as he taunts Jonathan for questioning your decision to include a Velvet Underground song – Jonathan might be onto me.

The corner of Steve’s mouth as he smiles at the first crowd you documented for the Februarys – What a dangerous smile.

All the photos contain the same date.

February, 1989.

You’d only known Steve for a week prior to the documented film and yet you captured such a softness to him. You’ve always seen through him, Steve knows this, but he didn’t think the view would be so gentle in the destruction that it brought.

But even in the destruction, the soft way you photograph Steve never quite disappears.

A lipstick mark on his cheek, red and vibrant despite the bitterness that came before it – Rosie with my kiss on him.

Pink lights encasing a halo around him – And he claims I’m the angelface.

His back against a small restaurant window, sitting next to Robin and listening to a story she tells him because he couldn’t bring himself to sit next to you – I love how sunlight is gentle with him.

The photos are dated with different months, different stages of the deconstruction you brought upon each other, yet the softness remains.

And in the most recent photo, dated only yesterday, displays Steve in his suit from Glen Helen, a hand on his hip and his shirt straining against his chest – There’s my rosie.

You must’ve added the picture this morning. Before you told the Februarys that you were leaving, you glued one last photo of Steve into your portfolio, depicting him as the rockstar he pretends to be, captured in a light that makes him feel like he’s worth something.

Steve is your muse just as much as you’re his.

It’s then that he finally releases the breath he’d been holding ever since he ran into his apartment one night, sweating and late for what he thought would only be a simple introduction to a possible new roommate, but instead he found you in his living room golden and holy.

From the very beginning, he’s loved you.

And you’ve loved him.

You still love him.

–

Steve spends the entire three hour drive to Vegas going over and over the portfolio. He memorizes every picture, every line of writing, every small detail and drawing and messily glued on scrap of art and each passing minute his body warms.

No one talks to him during the drive, though the Februarys share secretive glances with one another. He kept the portfolio. He walked onto the bus. They’ve done all that they can. They just have to hope that it’s enough.

You meet everyone at the venue, smiling as if you haven’t just made the band mourn the loss of you. Gregory chose to stay on the bus, worried that his presence would only further upset the band.

“Welcome to Vegas.”

Robin takes your camera from you and places the strap around her own neck. “I imagine this will be your last show with us, considering Leonard doesn’t value anyone’s time or money but his own.”

Opening the stage door for the Februarys, your smile turns into a bittersweet one. “You know Lenny so well.”

One by one the band members step inside, each offering you their own remorseful smile. Max thanks you under her breath as you hold the door open, Mike winks playfully, and Jonathan grabs your shoulder for a brief moment and squeezes it.

“Let’s make this show count, then.” He says, slow, savoring the last moments he has left with you.

You grab his hand. “I like the way you think, Byers.”

Jonathan laughs and walks inside, leaving only Steve outside, the last of his band mates. You glance at him for a moment, unsure how to look at him after the vulnerability he wept last night. His stoic reaction to you leaving hurt you this morning. You’re not sure you know how to be around Steve anymore.

But he surprises you. He always surprises you.

Steve grabs the door and his other hand lands on your waist, his fingers slotting around the skin he once carved his prints into, and gently, ever so gently, moves you to the side so that he can hold the door open instead.

“After you,” he murmurs, a playful lilt in his voice.

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

“Always.”

One word, and still it kisses your fiendish skin.

You walk inside. The venue is beautiful. Mike has already made himself at home, sprawled across a lush cream couch. Robin sits at one of the vanity tables, fixing her makeup and luminescent as ever. A mosaic covers one of the walls and forms an image of a field of desert flowers, its multicolored tiles bright and smooth to the touch, Max’s finger runs over their edges in silent awe. Jonathan stares at the wall of photos next to the mosaic, a picture of every artist who has ever performed in the venue displayed.

An empty frame waits with the Februarys’ name etched into the wood.

You nudge Jonathan’s side. “Think I could take your guys’ photo?”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know if you’re qualified.”

“Hilarious.” Grabbing your camera from Robin, you spin around and clap your hands. Once you have the Februarys’ attention, you point at the mosaic wall. “Listen up, assholes. I’m taking your portrait for the wall and you’re all going to smile and look happy. Understood?”

Mike salutes and Max pulls him to her side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Robin walks from the vanity and stands behind her, placing her chin on Max’s head and smiles wide. Jonathan stands beside Mike, two brothers who stand back to back like a vintage poster. Steve takes his time walking over to them, as if savoring the final moments of normalcy.

He stops next to you. “Where do you want me?”

His question startles you. You didn’t think he wanted your input anymore, not like he used to. “Oh, um,” you clear your throat and try to lessen how tight your vocal chords are. “Stand next to Robin, behind Jonathan. Try to balance the height difference, maybe? And try to be in contact with someone. You’re all linked together, I really like the patterns it forms.”

Steve has a tender look in his eyes that makes you suddenly nervous. Voice dying off, you struggle to finish the sentence. “I-I mean, if that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.” He walks to Robin and presses his cheek to hers, eliciting a giggle, and ruffles Mike’s hair. With an easy, charming smile, he asks you, “this alright?”

Bringing the camera to your face, you can’t suppress the gooey smile that melts into your lips. “It’s perfect.”

The Februarys all knit together in a beautiful and intimate piece of history that only they possess. Childhood friends smile at one another. Their bodies embrace. There are no unattached strings between them, only clean, uniform lines that draw them even closer together.

A family.

Once you’ve taken the picture they break away from one another, though the lighthearted energy remains. An easy peace settles over the dressing room, lighter than it’s been in a long time. Not wanting to lose these final moments of delicacy, you take as many pictures as you can, for old time’s sake.

Your viewfinder captures Robin in the mirror, Steve helping with her hair. He braids the strands together, fingers lithe from years of practice. She winks at the camera and his coy smile sets your heart pounding.

A game of tag breaks out between Mike, Jonathan, and Max. You follow their childish laughter with your camera. Max’s emerald green jacket clashes with Mike’s burnt orange t-shirt and Jonathan’s gold rings that Nancy gifted him for his birthday. Their youthful smiles paint the nostalgic memory.

You take pictures of the instruments in the room, just as you used to. Mike’s sage guitar resting against an amp, nestled next to Max’s red bass and Steve’s blue guitar, an explosion of colors all combining into something iridescent. Robin plays her keyboard for you and you capture the light that spills onto her fingers and onto her pink fingernails.

As you capture every fleeting detail you find, eyes never leaving your camera, you feel someone watching you. The weight of Steve’s gaze, impossible to forget. From the corner of your eye you notice his honeyed eyes. His eyes simmer on your skin, though you’re terrified to meet them.

When a stage crew member knocks on the door and gives the Februarys their usual five minute warning, Steve finally looks away and turns to his bandmates instead. Something akin to content settles into his features.

“We know why we’re here,” he tells them. “We know why we stay.”

“Because it’s only us.” Robin finishes, knocking her head against his.

Steve pulls her close, he pulls everyone close. “It’s only us.” He affirms. “And we know what we have to do tonight.”

Max smirks. “We give them a show.”

As they lean against one another you take a photo of the harmony between them. The easy way the group looks at one another. How bright Steve’s eyes become when he’s with them, when he’s talking to them and laughing with them.

This is how he’s supposed to be, you think. Alive and bright.

Steve leans down, the Februarys follow, and he allows the anticipation to build into barely contained desperation. The seconds spill over and he looks at his friends and bites his lip and can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

“Showtime.”

The Februarys break into cheers.

Steve will never grow tired of the sound.

–

The Vegas venue is one of the smaller venues they’ve performed in. Capped at a capacity of one thousand, the sold out show murmurs conversations and speculation as the audience awaits the Februarys.

You stand at the center, placed in the barricade that only gets built for you. Camera warm in your hands, you breathe in deeply. The excited rumblings of the crowd, the hot stage lights, the scent of bodies and smoke and alcohol in a building meant to be danced in.

You hope you never forget any of it. Already you grieve the loss of this version of you, this part of your life, that you will never get again. Not quite like this. Never the same.

Your reverie ends with Steve’s arrival on stage. He walks up the mic while the rest of the Februarys take their places behind him. The crowd bursts into the cheers they’ll never get used to hearing, that you hope they’ll always receive.

Steve grabs the mic stand, fingers lazily wrap around the metal. His skin glows golden under the stage lights, a thin silk shirt drapes over him in a dream-like manner. “We fucking made it to Vegas!”

More screams and applause. He chuckles, the rough edges of the boyish laughter presses against your chest. “God, you guys know how to make a guy feel special.”

Mike plucks a few strings to the tune of the crowd’s pleasure. Steve nods along, extends his arm towards the kid. “Over here we have Mike Wheeler on electric guitar, arguably better than me,” he bows down, getting Mike to laugh. “Next we have Robin Buckley on keyboard, isn’t she pretty?” Robin plays a few chords and scrunches her nose in flirtatious manner. Steve blows her a kiss and turns to Max. “Here we have Max Mayfield on bass, a fucking monster.” The girl shoves him, but not even she can hide her smile. Finally Steve drags the mic stand to Jonathan and places a messy kiss to his cheek. “And last, but certainly not least, we have Jonathan fucking Byers on drums!”

A series of beats get pounded into the drums and at Jonathan’s cue the crowd goes fucking wild. Whistles and energetic praise all demanding for the show to finally begin, for the music they came for to come to life and become a part of their jugulars.

Steve lowers the mic and gets caught in the moment. He can’t believe any of it is real.

You watch his awe. The volume inside the venue only grows louder and Steve’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. In the crowd his eyes find you already staring back at him, and because nostalgia has always tasted sweeter dipped in melancholy familiarity, he winks at you.

Your heart beats out of its chest. He ducks his head seeing the blush that blooms on your cheeks, and the shyness, though endearing and lovely, lingers in the back of your mind.

“We’re the Februarys,” Steve shouts into the mic, teeth peeking through his confident smile. “Let’s go!”

Jonathan dives into the first drum solo and Max plays along, head banging to the rapid staccato tempo that Mike one day thought of alone in his room one night. Robin accompanies the tempo with a slower set of chords and Steve grabs the mic and the venue drenches in his clear voice.

Throughout the night you lose count of how many pictures you take. It doesn’t matter to you. Your final night with the Februarys will be preserved through the film. This you’re sure of.

Though as the show continues you find your attention drawn to the way the Februarys whisper between the songs. Poorly hidden glances at you follow the whispers. Their behavior confuses you slightly, worries you, but you’re desperate for one final memory of the Februarys that’s painted in lovely pinks rather than remorseful blues, so you push down the disquiet and cheer along with the crowd instead.

The setlist was carefully curated by Mike and Robin the week leading up to the tour. It took multiple days, arguments, and compromises before they were able to settle on which twelve songs to perform from their EP and album. You watched them agonize over the unseen details, such as whether Going should bleed into Lower East or whether it’s better suited as a closing song and if the flow of the music should tell a story or leave the audience unexpecting.

So when the Februarys don’t perform Rosie, a song that nearly broke the band apart trying to figure out where to put it in the setlist, you find it more than a little odd.

None of the band members stumble over the unexpected setlist change. They knew they wouldn’t be performing it tonight. Instead they wrap up their set as they normally do, ending with Going where Steve screams everything he has into the microphone.

Except he doesn’t say anything when the song is over. He doesn’t think the audience for the show or wishes them a good night. He’s completely silent as the fans scream for an encore, for any semblance of more.

Mike moves first, unplugging his electric guitar from its amp. Max does the same with her bass. From his drumset Jonathan unplugs the microphone that sits next to him. Robin turns off her keyboard and goes to the wings of the stage. She brings out Steve’s acoustic guitar. He takes it from her.

You watch along with the crowd, straining your neck to understand what the hell they’re doing. They’ve never done something like this before. The show feels unfinished, yet they take apart their instruments as if it is.

Steve walks over to the edge of the stage. He stands in front of you for a moment, eyes only on you. A hush falls over the venue. Every breath gets held, you’ve forgotten how to release yours.

He sits down. Close to the edge, his feet dangle over the sides, as close as he can possibly get to you given the constraints of the stage layout. Robin places a mic right next to him, angled so he doesn’t have to hold it, leaving his hands free for his guitar.

“We’re going to sing Rosie a little differently tonight,” he murmurs. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

The question is only meant for you. He knows you’ll understand it.

Heart beating in your throat, you nod.

Thank you, Steve mouths back, fingers already playing the beginning notes of the song. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t blink when he swears to you, for everything.

Under the dim pink lights he plays the song he wrote that spilled from his chest and onto a piece of paper one night. Steve had been alone in his room staring at his ceiling. Your laughter floated through the bedroom walls, giggling with Robin about something. He had traced the cracks in the building’s walls, silently whispering to himself rosie rosie rosie, unable to get the sugary saturated way the endearment fell from your lips the night before. No one had ever given Steve a name before with so much charm and sincerity.

You get all rosie. I think it’s cute.

He remembers pulling out the photo you’d taken of him and staring at it, awestruck by how unreal it all felt to be portrayed as a rockstar. Steve had always had the far fetched dream, but somehow the growing recognition and crystallizing music couldn’t satiate the itch. He didn’t feel that he deserved it. But then there you were, somehow able to soothe the overwhelming craving for more that has always plagued him, all with one photo. One moment.

That night Steve wrote Rosie. He still considers it the easiest, and truest, song he’s ever written.

And now he performs it for you. He was always meant to only perform the song for you.

Steve’s lonesome fingers pluck the guitar strings. Mike and Max stand to the side, their instruments at their sides. Jonathan sits at his drums, head down, softly swaying to the melodic chords that remind him of his own love in New York, waiting for him. Robin leans over her keyboard, head in her fond hands as she watches her friend serenade you.

Slow, raw, aching, Steve never once looks away from you as he sings. His ember voice lilts through the guitar’s symphony. Everything he was never able to tell you, that he was afraid to tell you, intertwines within the strain of his voice and the pleading way he plays.

Rock-a-bye-posie?

No, maybe it’s ring-around-my-baby?

Or could it be rosie and falling down with you?

Through the blurry tears in your eyes you watch Steve. The ragged pause of his breath between the lines, his brown eyes a melted toffee adoring you, the darling way his freckles and moles dance across his skin as he sings.

He’s never looked more beautiful begging.

Mixed up all inside my head the rush of lullaby blues.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

Or could it be forever rosie?

Steve plays a little harder going into the bridge. He gasps for air and his wanting turns into a requiem. “Yes or no?” He prays into the open wound before you and begs you to fill it with something holy. “Can I be forever rosie?”

“Angelface,” the scratch of a guitar string cuts the softness of the requiem. He has to tell you. He has to get you to listen and know that has given himself entirely to you. He wants you to forever call him rosie, to always be the cause of the flush on his face. “Pretty please,” he begs under his breath between the lines, broken and aching.

Just before the bridge fades Steve prolongs the melody. He adds to the song, an extension of himself. He will not be left for want and nothing. “Let me be forever rosie,” his timbre softens around the edges of his prayer, finally tying his sacrament to you with the parting words, “forever rosie and falling into love with you.”

The final guitar note echoes irrevocably.

Rosie has come to an end.

All around you there are screams. Loud, blinding screams. The ground shakes and people cheer and throw their hands together in a frenzy that only music can strike. But you don’t hear any of it. The spillage of praise for the boy in front of you fades into nothing when he looks at you.

“Thank you,” Steve acknowledges the crowd, though his heart isn’t in it. His heart resides in your chest. He gets up and turns to the Februarys, linking his arms through Robin’s and Mike’s as they all line up in the center of the stage and take their final bows.

Robin blows you a kiss as she exits the stage. Jonathan and Mike both wink, following her. Max simply waves before she joins her friends. All of them knew what tonight would bring.

Just before Steve steps off the stage he quickly grabs the microphone. He only has one last chance to beg you to stay. When tonight ends, he could lose you forever.

Losing you would be the one thing Steve would never recover from.

“Please don’t leave,” his lips press against the mic, desperate to ensure you hear him. His eyes sink into your chest. The words press into your bones. “Not when I’m finally ready to promise you everything.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t remember jumping over the barricade. You don’t remember running through the crowd, weaving through the onslaught of bodies. You don’t remember the hot desperation that singed your veins or the spiraling need to find him, for more.

All you remember is Steve waiting for you.

He waits for you in the dressing room, one last stand, one last attempt. He draws into himself when he notices you standing in the doorway. Neither of you move. He watches you, tries to read your body language.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

He doesn’t know anymore.

But then you’re running into his arms.

The kiss starts the same way your relationship did. Messy, fast, all encompassing. There isn’t room for anything else. There was never room for anything else.

Steve draws you so tightly into his chest and makes such a delicate sound. You nip his bottom lip, tug at his hair, and he answers your pleads with nails digging into your hips, where he carves himself into the outline of the bones there. The tender flesh welcomes him home, your skin exhales in relief, where have you been?

“I love you,” Steve bites the confession into your lips and soothes them with another kiss. “I love you,” he sighs against the mouth that he craves. “I love you,” he will die a happy man if all he is ever able to say again are these three words, marked nipped into your collarbones with his greedy teeth.

“I’ll stay,” you answer the prayer, merciful face wet with tears. “I love you, rosie,” you feel him smile against your lips. You were always going to end this way. He was always going to be your rosie.

Steve moves his lips to your cheeks, then to your nose, the crest of your forehead, the ridges of your collarbones, etching the same promise into them. It may never undo the hurt you brought upon each other. The scars left behind may not fade, but the tragedy of humanity wasn’t the fall of Eden, but the failure to stay in the garden.

When you love someone, you stay.

“I’ll stay.” Steve promises, human just as you are.

It is the only innate instinct to keep trying to hold onto one another. It is embedded within human history, and you once swore to him that you were going to be a part of his history.

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jungkoode · 25 days ago

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OUT OF LINE | 01

“gominola”

"Some people are immune to charm, allergic to arrogance, and completely uninterested in your particular brand of expensive chaos. Today you meet one of them."

next | index | wc: 8.4k

↦author's note : Okay. Okay. I really went and did it with this one. And I regret absolutely nothing. First of all. Just had to make that clear up front. No apologies will be issued at this time, thank you for your concern. Second of all—and this one's been cracking me up for days—I've been texting Vani like "I'm so sorry. I fear this is my Wattpad fic." Because... it is. Like, it really is. I've gone full ✨she's unimpressed, he's cocky✨ and I need you all to understand: I am aware. I see the trope. I live the trope. And I embrace the trope. This is not innovative. It's not genre-defying. It is what it is, and I'm standing ten toes down in it. Sometimes life sucks and you deserve to indulge in a fuckboy right-back getting stonewalled by a girl in a hoodie and a death glare. Guilty pleasures are called pleasures for a reason. Let me live. That said... this is still a Kiki fic. So yeah, it's Wattpad-coded, but it's also packed with trauma, psychological complexity, and enough repressed emotion to make a therapist cry. Because I can't write fluff. I can't write people who fall in love cleanly. I can only write emotional warfare and painfully specific coping mechanisms. So if you're looking at Taehyung like "he's insufferable," just know that's the point. He is! He's also deeply lonely, emotionally stunted, and addicted to being wanted because he thinks admiration equals worth. (Spoiler: it doesn't.) And her—god. She is not here for the male ego parade. She's grown up in Spain, she's grieving, she's displaced, and she has zero energy for Real Madrid's locker room of dopamine-deficient mascots. That hoodie isn't just a hoodie. It's distance. It's defiance. It's a tether to a home she was pulled from too fast, and a warning sign to anyone trying to get too close. Don't get me started on the symbolism because this will get way too long. Vani knows firsthand. Now. Leo? Oh, Leo. He's the Real Madrid maknae and a walking cautionary tale. He wants to belong so badly he'll mirror whatever's around him. Which, unfortunately for him, is Taehyung and Marco. He's twenty. Impressionable. Already being warped by the dynamic of party-first, care-later. I love him. I want to save him. I might not. Also, let's talk about Jesús—because I had to sneak that conversation in. Chapter 1 is heavy on Taehyung's POV, which means you get all his projection and testosterone-induced decisions and derailed internal monologue. But the dad scene was non-negotiable. I needed you to see her from the inside. The quiet way she's holding herself together with routines, ferrets, gominolas, and the desperate need for control. She's not cold. She's scorched. And her dad? He's trying. He's trying so hard. And maybe that's the saddest part of all. Also—linguistics side note because I'm annoying—I very intentionally wrote her dialogue with Jesús in Spanish (with translations) because I will die on the hill of language realism. It would make zero sense for them to speak English to each other at home. She's grown up in Spain. Her dad's Spanish. That's their intimacy language. Meanwhile, the Real Madrid players default to English—the club is international, and not everyone speaks Spanish fluently (Taehyung included). So yes. In this fic, she's the one speaking a different language. And yes. He's going to learn. Because nobody does language kink intimacy like I do. 🫦 So yes. He's awful. Intentionally. Aggressively. Satirically. This is not a "he's so cool because he's toxic" situation. This is "I am raw-dogging you his character flaws on a silver platter so you can watch him fumble in real time." Let's all unpack that together. Anyway. Welcome to Out of Line. Vani's Between the Lines sister story. My trauma-coded cliché monster. My ode to messy boys and girls who pretend they're fine until they implode. Please buckle your seatbelts. Hold each other's hands. Consider investing in therapy. I know I am.

The new physio better be hot.

That's the first coherent thought Taehyung has after forty-five minutes of mindless drills. Not that he's complaining about the mindless part—muscle memory's doing all the work while his brain checks out, cataloguing last night's blonde (Marta? Maria? Started with an M, ended with her screaming his name, details irrelevant).

The September sun's brutal on the pitch, turning the grass into a furnace, and Coach keeps barking orders like they haven't run this same formation a thousand times.

"Fucking hell," Marco grunts beside him, bent over with his hands on his knees. "If I have to do one more suicide drill, I'm actually going to commit one."

Leo laughs—that nervous kind of laugh he does when he's not sure if Marco's joking. Kid's still too green, still thinks there's some magic formula to fitting in. Taehyung remembers being twenty and giving a shit about what the older players thought. Now he's twenty-four and the only opinion that matters is his own.

And right now, his opinion is that training's boring as fuck.

"New physio starts today," Leo offers, like that's supposed to make the sweat stop pooling in uncomfortable places. "Jesús something. From Barcelona."

So… A man. Boring.

Marco spits on the grass. "Great. We now got a Barça prick to tell us we're stretching wrong."

Taehyung's about to add his own commentary—something about how Barcelona's medical staff couldn't fix their players' egos, let alone their hamstrings—when movement in the bleachers catches his eye.

Hello.

There's someone up there. Female someone, from the shape. Not unusual—girlfriends, agents, journalists, they all hover around the complex like expensive flies.

But this one's different.

This one's got nose in a book (okay, miss 'not like other girls'), completely ignoring the show on the pitch.

And that's…

Interesting.

He shifts his stance, trying to get a better angle without being obvious about it. Hair pulled back, oversized university hoodie despite the heat, legs crossed at the ankle. Can't see your face from here, but the way you're sitting—spine straight, pen moving across the page in quick, efficient strokes—suggests you're not here for the view.

Which is fucking absurd, honestly.

He's shirtless. Marco's shirtless. Hell, half the team's shirtless, and you're more invested in whatever's on that page than twenty-two professional athletes in peak physical condition.

"Oi." Marco's elbow catches him in the ribs. "You checking out the competition or planning to actually train today?"

"Who's that?"

He doesn't point—he's not twelve—but tilts his head toward the bleachers.

Marco squints, then grins. That specific grin that means he's already mapping out his approach strategy.

"Oh shit. That's the new physio's daughter."

So a man—with a daughter.

The information slots into place like a puzzle piece.

Barcelona physio. Daughter in tow. Probably forced to tag along while daddy gets settled into his new job, bored out of your mind, killing time with—he squints—whatever the fuck that textbook is.

"Dibs," Marco says automatically.

"You can't call dibs on people," Leo protests, still adorably convinced that ethics apply to their world.

"Watch me." Marco's already running a hand through his hair, activating what he calls 'the panty-dropper smile,' which Taehyung's seen work on models, actresses, that prosecutor who definitely should've known better. "I give her two days before she's begging for a private tour of the facilities."

Taehyung watches you turn a page, pen tapping against your bottom lip. The gesture is unconscious, academic, completely unaware of the attention you're drawing.

Something about it makes his mouth quirk up.

"Hundred euros says she doesn't even give you her number."

"You're on." Marco's already moving, that swagger in his step that says he's never met a woman who didn't eventually cave. "Watch and learn, boys."

But Taehyung's not interested in watching Marco crash and burn. He's already moving, cutting his friend off with the kind of casual interception that works just as well off the pitch as on it.

Marco's protests fade into background noise—something about fair play and bro code and other shit that stops mattering the second Taehyung gets a clear view of your face.

You're pretty.

Not Instagram pretty, not 'done up for the cameras' pretty. Just… pretty. The kind of face that probably looks the same at 6 AM as it does at midnight. No makeup that he can see, just skin and eyes and a mouth that's currently frowning at whatever you're reading.

He leans against the barrier separating the pitch from the stands, letting his weight settle into the metal. Close enough now to smell something sweet—not perfume, something else. Candy, maybe. The artificial cherry kind kids eat.

You don't look up.

He's standing three feet away, shirtless and sweaty and radiating that post-workout testosterone that usually has women tripping over themselves, and you don't even glance his way.

What the fuck.

He raises an eyebrow, even though you're not looking to see it.

Clears his throat.

Nada.

You make another note in the margin of your textbook, and he catches a glimpse of the page—medical terminology, diagrams that look like someone exploded a knee joint and tried to map the debris.

A physio's daughter studying what looks like physio stuff. Following in daddy's footsteps. Cute.

He waves a hand in front of your face. Not aggressive, just enough movement to break your concentration.

And finally—finally—you look up.

Your eyes are darker than expected, the kind that turns black when annoyed.

Which, judging by the expression on your face, is exactly what you are right now.

He smirks. Can't help it. It's automatic at this point, the expression that says 'yeah, I'm that guy, you're welcome.'

"Hey."

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then go back to your book.

What.

"Studying?" He tries again, because maybe you're one of those delayed reaction types.

Maybe the neural pathways from eyes to brain to mouth need a second to fire up.

Nothing.

He glances at the textbook again.

The words swim in front of him—Spanish, mostly, medical Spanish at that. His comprehension tops out at ordering beer and asking where the bathroom is. Carmen tried to teach him once, spent hours conjugating verbs while naked in his bed, but all he remembers is that 'cama' means bed and 'más' means more.

"I guess you already know my name."

He leans harder against the barrier, angling his body to block the worst of the sun from your page.

See? Thoughtful.

"But it's Kim. Taehyung. First name Taehyung."

You raise your eyes from the textbook. Slow, like it's costing you effort. The look you give him is so flat it could resurface a parking lot.

"And I should care because…?"

It's not quite a question because you clearly don't expect an answer. Or want one. You're already turning back to your book, dismissing him as efficiently as a referee's whistle.

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Tae!" Marco's voice cuts across the pitch. "Coach wants us back!"

But Taehyung's still processing. Still standing there like an idiot while you scribble another note in that incomprehensible textbook.

You've got a red pen now, underlining something like nothing else matters in the world—not even him.

That makes him frown.

The barrier digs into his forearms but he doesn't move. Can't quite figure out why you're not looking.

You're just… sitting there. Ignoring him. Like he's furniture.

Sweaty, expensive furniture that you have zero interest in purchasing.

"Taehyung!" Marco again, louder this time. "Unless you want extra laps—"

Right. Training. The thing he's paid millions to do.

He pushes off the barrier, but not before catching one last detail—a small bag of those candies peeking out from your hoodie pocket.

"Any day now, princess," Marco calls, and that gets a laugh from the others.

Taehyung flips him off, and he knows, technically, the smart thing would be to walk away. Get back to training. Forget about the physio's daughter who clearly has better things to do than stroke his ego.

But Taehyung's never been particularly smart about these things.

"You know," he says, loud enough to make sure you hear him, "most people at least pretend to be interested when someone introduces themselves."

Your pen stops moving. Just for a second. Then continues its path across the page.

"Most people," you say without looking up, "introduce themselves when there's a reason to."

It's so casual, so dismissive, that it takes him a second to realize you've just called him irrelevant to your existence.

Him. Taehyung Kim. Real Madrid's starting right-back. A hundred and thirty-six million Instagram followers. Face of three luxury brands and that unfortunate cologne campaign his agent swears was artistic.

Irrelevant.

"Taehyung, I swear to god—"

"I'm coming!" He shouts back at Marco, then his eyes move back to you.

He glances at your hoodie pocket again, at the candy, sweet-shaped things you're chewing.

"What's that?"

You look up slowly, like you're completely done with this, and he kind of likes the little groove appearing between your eyebrows.

"What's what?"

He nods at the small red jellybean thingy between your fingers.

"That."

"It's called gominola," you say, flat as concrete, like you're explaining colors to a toddler.

Gominola. Spanish word.

He's heard it before, maybe, but Spanish flows past him like water most days.

"Right." He nods like he totally knew that. "Gominola."

You're already deep in your textbook again, like the last two minutes didn't happen. Like he didn't happen.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting salt and something sour. When he finally turns back to the pitch, Marco's wearing that shit-eating grin that means he watched the whole thing.

"So," his friend says as Taehyung jogs back to formation. "How's that hundred euros looking?"

"Shut up."

"No, really. I want to know what kind of flowers to send to your funeral. Roses? Lilies? Something that says 'here lies Taehyung Kim, murdered by a girl who didn't give a fuck'?"

Leo's trying not to laugh and failing. Even Diego looks amused from his spot near the goal, and Diego hasn't been amused by anything since 2018.

"She's playing hard to get," Taehyung says, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink.

The sun's turned brutal while he was standing there like an idiot, and his shoulders are probably fried.

"Right." Marco stretches the word into three syllables. "And I'm playing hard to get with Scarlett Johansson."

"Different game entirely."

Taehyung caps the bottle, eyes drifting back to the bleachers. You're highlighting something now, yellow marker moving in precise lines.

"Trust me."

"Oh, this is gonna be good." Marco's practically bouncing on his toes. "Taehyung Kim, rejected by the physio's daughter who'd rather read about—what was that, tendons?—than talk to him."

"I wasn't rejected."

"You literally just stood there while she acted like you didn't exist."

"She was just busy."

"That's what we're calling it?"

Taehyung grins, and it's the one that usually makes Marco nervous. The one that appears right before he does something spectacularly stupid and somehow makes it work.

"I'm calling it round one."

Because here's the thing—he's been bored. Genuinely, mind-numbingly bored.

Same training, same parties, same faces in his bed.

Madrid's full of women who know his name before he opens his mouth, who laugh at jokes that aren't funny and pretend to be fascinated by stories they've already heard from three other players.

But you? You looked at him like he was blocking your light.

So he spends the rest of training with one eye on the bleachers, and you don't look up once, not even when Leo completely botches a penalty kick and Marco screams creative Italian profanity at the sky.

You just keep reading, occasionally popping one of those gominolas into your mouth, completely absorbed in a world that has nothing to do with the spectacle fifty feet away.

By the time Coach calls it, the sun's turned the pitch into a sauna and everyone's dragging.

Taehyung grabs his shirt from the bench, pulling it on while trying to look like he's not watching you pack up your things.

You move like you have all the time in the world—book into bag, pens into case, everything in its place.

Then you're walking down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time like you've got somewhere better to be.

"So what's the plan?" Marco appears at his shoulder, following his line of sight. "Flowers? Jewelry? Groveling?"

"Don't need a plan."

"Everyone needs a plan."

"No," Taehyung corrects, watching you disappear through the exit without a backward glance. "Everyone else needs a plan."

Marco laughs, but it's the kind that suggests he thinks Taehyung's lost it.

"She didn't even tell you her name."

True.

But he noticed the way your fingers tapped against the book when you were thinking.

Noticed the three different colors of highlighter in your bag, organized by size.

Noticed how you bite your lip on the left side when concentrating, leaving the faintest indent in the pink.

Details.

The kind that matter when you're mapping out a challenge.

"She will," he says, and means it.

Because Taehyung Kim doesn't do rejection.

He does persistence, charm and strategy wrapped in a smile.

And you, with your medical textbooks and gummies and complete inability to give a fuck about his existence?

Oh. You're gonna be fun.

Nube’s stealing your socks again.

You watch her drag the pink cotton across the hardwood floor of your bedroom, tiny paws working overtime to claim her prize.

She’s gotten bold since the move—probably stress-induced kleptomania.

Can’t blame her. You’ve been stress-eating pikotas like they’re a food group.

"That’s my good pair," you tell her, but she’s already disappeared under the bed with her treasure.

Hari’s less ambitious in his criminal endeavors. He’s sprawled across your stomach like a furry hot water bottle, occasionally chittering when you stop petting him. The sound vibrates against your ribs—small, warm, alive.

Better than the silence that fills this house most days.

Your phone’s face-down on the nightstand because checking it leads to Barcelona rabbit holes, and Barcelona rabbit holes lead to wondering what Dani had for breakfast or whether Jungkook’s figured out how to use the coffee machine without flooding the kitchen.

Pointless thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

The knock on your door is soft, tentative. Dad’s signature.

Mom used to say he knocked like he was apologizing for existing.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Puedo pasar?" (Can I come in?)

Hari perks up at your father’s voice, whiskers twitching. Traitor. You scoop him up anyway, settling him against your shoulder before nodding toward the door.

"Adelante." (Come in)

Dad enters like he’s entering a crime scene—careful, observant, ready to back out if needed. His hair’s still damp from the shower, smelling like that medicinal soap he uses. The scent of competence and sterile environments, you figure.

"¿Cómo van los estudios?" (How’s the studying going?) He settles into the chair by your desk, the one that’s supposed to be for studying but mostly holds laundry you’re too lazy to put away.

"Bien." (Good) You scratch behind Hari’s ears, feel him melt against your palm. "La anatomía es anatomía. Da igual si estás en Barcelona o en Marte." (Anatomy’s anatomy. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Barcelona or Mars)

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Never does anymore.

Not since the move.

Not since Mom.

"Bien. Eso está bien." (Good. That’s good.) His fingers drum against his thigh—nervous habit he developed after Mom died. "Oye, sé que este cambio ha sido… difícil. Para los dos." (Listen, I know this change has been… difficult. For both of us.)

Here we go. The conversation you’ve been avoiding for three weeks. The one where he apologizes for taking the job, for moving you from everything familiar, for choosing survival over sentiment.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"No, escúchame." (No, listen to me.) He leans forward, elbows on knees. The posture of a man confessing sins. "Sé que no querías irte de Barcelona. Sé que esto te parece una traición." (I know you didn’t want to leave Barcelona. I know this feels like betrayal.)

Betrayal’s too strong a word. Abandonment fits better.

But you don’t say that because he already carries enough guilt for both of you.

"No pasa nada." (It’s fine.)

"Sí que pasa." (It’s not fine.) His voice gains edge, that firmness he uses with players who claim they’re not injured when they’re obviously limping. "Pero era necesario. Y a lo mejor… a lo mejor es bueno. Cambio de aires. Nuevas perspectivas." (But it was necessary. And maybe… maybe it’s good. Change of air. New perspectives.)

New perspectives. Right. Because what you really needed was exposure to Madrid’s particular brand of arrogance and entitlement.

Hari shifts against your shoulder, tiny claws pricking through your shirt.

Even he’s unconvinced.

"¿Y los jugadores?" (And the players?) The question comes out careful, as if he were asking about your opinion on the weather rather than your thoughts on his new colleagues. "¿Qué te parecen?" (What do you think of them?)

You consider lying. Consider diplomacy. Consider all the ways you could soften the truth to make it easier for him to swallow.

Instead, you shrug.

"Pues qué voy a pensar, papá. Son gilipollas." (What would I think, dad? They’re jerks.)

He barks out a laugh—sharp, surprised. The first genuine one you’ve heard from him since you got here.

"Joder, hija." But he’s grinning now, shaking his head. "No te cortes." (Shit, sweetie. Tell me how you really feel.)

"Me has preguntado." (You asked.)

"Es verdad." (That’s true.) He sobers slightly. "¿Todos?" (All of them?)

You think about it. Really think about it.

Xavi seems decent enough—quiet, professional, treats staff like humans rather than furniture. Diego’s got that aggressive competence thing going on, but he’s respectful. Even Marco, for all his obvious fuckboy tendencies, at least has the decency to say please when he wants extra ice.

Then there’s… him.

Taehyung.

With his lazy smirks and designer everything and complete inability to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around his stupid abs.

"La mayoría." (Most of them.) The admission feels like charity. "Algunos son simplemente… más gilipollas que otros." (Some are just… bigger jerks than others.)

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Face still down, but the vibration makes both you and Hari jump slightly.

Ignore it.

It’s probably Instagram telling you Dani posted another story, or your university group chat discussing assignment due dates, or some other notification designed to pull you back into a world you’re trying to navigate without drowning.

It buzzes again.

"¿No vas a mirar?" (Won’t check?)

"No es nada." (It’s nothing.)

But your dad’s looking at you with that expression. The one that says he knows you better than you know yourself, and lying to him is like lying to a mirror.

You flip the phone over.

@𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐨: BOMBAZO: 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎 𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝, ¿𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚊? 𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚊́𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 (BOMBSHELL: BarcaBarbie and Blake Scott, new couple? The pictures that confirm the romance)

The thumbnail is grainy, paparazzi-quality garbage, but unmistakably them. Blake’s hand around Barbie’s waist, pulling her close. Her face is hidden by her hair, falling between them and the camera.

They’re close. Too close.

The kind of close that could be a kiss or could be an almost-kiss or could be nothing at all, but the angle makes it impossible to tell and that’s exactly what sells magazines.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary. Feel something twist in your chest that you refuse to name.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not longing. It’s just… surprise.

Because Blake is a Barcelona player, and Barbie is Dani’s sister—and the implications are already enough without you having to explicitly connect the dots.

Your thumb hovers over Dani’s contact. The urge to text him hits like muscle memory—does he know about this? how’s he taking it? is he okay?—but then your heart does that thing. That stupid, treacherous thing where it speeds up just thinking about typing his name.

Because he has a girlfriend now.

Carla. Sweet, pretty Carla who met him with a press badge slung around her neck and a voice recorder in hand. Who writes match reports and profile pieces that are perfect and looks genuinely happy in her soft-filtered couple photos.

Of course he would fall for her.

Of course she’s the kind of girl who gets the story and the guy.

Carla who never had to compete with a dead woman’s memory or a teenage crush that should have died years ago.

You swallow the impulse. Bury it under three layers of rationalization and practical thinking.

Instead, you open Jungkook’s chat.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍? 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙱𝚊𝚛?

You wait 2 seconds max before the response makes its way through the chat. Well, of fucking course. It’s no secret Jungkook's always been surgically attached to his phone.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚜

Relief floods your system before you can stop it.

Which is stupid.

Why should you care if Barbie and Blake are together? It’s not like their relationship status affects your life in Madrid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒? 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

The response comes quick. Too quick. Like he’s trying to move past the topic before you can dig deeper.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍?

And there it is. The subject change.

Jungkook’s always been good at reading minefields and stepping around them.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚘𝚏

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because…

You could tell him about Taehyung. About the smirk and the shameless showing off and the way he looked genuinely confused when you didn’t fall over yourself to talk to him.

But that would require admitting you noticed him at all.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛? 🤔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜

Despite everything, you smile.

Because he’s not wrong.

Barcelona players at least have the decency to look good while being insufferable.

"¿Todo bien?" (All good?) Your dad’s voice pulls you back to the room, to Hari’s warm weight against your shoulder, to the conversation you abandoned to spiral over Barcelona gossip.

"Sí. Solo… amigos siendo amigos." (Yeah. Just… Friends being friends.)

"¿Amigos de Barcelona?" (Barcelona friends?)

The question lands heavier than it should.

Because yes, Barcelona friends. The ones you left behind.

The ones who are moving on and coupling up and living their lives while you’re stuck in Madrid petting ferrets and avoiding eye contact with shirtless footballers.

"Sí." (Yes.)

He nods, understanding more than you wish he did.

"Está bien echarlos de menos. Es normal." (It’s okay to miss them. It’s normal.)

"Lo sé." (I know.)

"Y está bien… hacer nuevos amigos aquí. Aunque sean gilipollas." (And it’s okay to… to make new friends here. Even if they’re jerks.)

You look at him then, see the worry lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carry tension like a physical weight.

He’s trying so hard to make this work. To make this place feel like home instead of just a house where you happen to sleep.

It’s not fair to him, to make it feel like it’s all his fault.

"Tal vez algunos sean menos gilipollas que otros," you concede. (Maybe some are lesser jerks than others.)

He smiles. "Sí, tal vez." (Yeah, maybe.)

Your phone buzzes again.

More Barcelona updates, probably.

More reminders of the life you’re not living anymore.

You let it buzz.

Because right now, in this sterile Madrid bedroom with your stress-thieving ferrets and your guilt-ridden father, you’re exactly where you need to be. Even if it feels like exile.

Even if every instinct tells you that Madrid players are trouble, and certain shirtless right-backs are the worst kind of trouble.

Even if your heart still does stupid things when you think about blue and red jerseys and boys who used to treat you like family.

"¿Cena?" (Dinner?) Your dad stands, stretching joints that probably ache from years of fixing other people’s bodies. "Estaba pensando en pedir de ese sitio argentino de la calle." (I was thinking of ordering from that argentinian place down the street.)

"¿El de las empanadas?" (The one with the empanadas?)

"Ese mismo." (The very one.)

Hari chirps at the mention of food, because ferrets are basically tiny, furry garbage disposals with boundary issues.

"Vale. Pero mañana cocinas tú. Esto de la comida a domicilio se está poniendo caro." (Okay. But you’re cooking tomorrow. This takeout thing is getting expensive.)

"Trato hecho." (Deal.) He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "Y cielo…" (And sweetheart…)

"¿Qué?" (What?)

"Dale una oportunidad a Madrid. Solo… una pequeñita." (Give Madrid a chance. Just… a small one.)

You scratch Hari’s head, feel him purr against your palm. Outside your window, the sun’s setting over a city that still feels foreign, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility.

"Ya veremos." (We’ll see.)

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

And for now, that’s enough.

Twenty-two minutes and she hasn't cum yet.

Not that he's counting. Except he is, because Marco's got a thousand euros riding on twenty minutes max, and Taehyung doesn't lose bets. Especially not when the evidence is currently wrapped around his cock, lips stretched wide, dark eyes looking up at him through thick lashes like she knows exactly what she's doing to him.

Fuck.

Her tongue does this thing—this swirl around the head that makes his thighs tense—and he threads his fingers through her curls. Not pulling. Guiding. There's a difference, and he's not an amateur. The curls are soft, springy, wrapping around his fingers like they belong there.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Screen lights up with Marco's name and some emoji combination that probably means he's balls deep in his own conquest downstairs.

Good for him. Great. Love that for him. Now fuck off.

He swipes at the notification with his free hand, types back without looking. Whatever he sends, it's probably not words. Doesn't matter. Marco speaks fluent 'leave me the fuck alone' by now.

She hums around him and his hips jerk. Shit. He tosses the phone somewhere—bed, floor, shadow realm, who gives a fuck—and gets his other hand in her hair. Both hands now, cradling her head like she's precious cargo. Which she is. Absolutely fucking is when she's doing that thing with her tongue again.

"That's it," he breathes, helping her with shallow thrusts.

Nothing too deep. He's not trying to choke her. Not unless she asks, and even then—

The phone buzzes again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He ignores it. Focuses on the wet heat, the way her nails dig into his thighs when he hits the back of her throat.

She's good at this. Really good.

Like, 'might actually get her number after this' good. The kind of good that makes him forget about—

Another buzz. Another. The screen keeps lighting up like a fucking disco.

She pulls off with an obscene pop, lips swollen and shiny.

"Popular tonight?"

"Always am."

He guides her back down before she can respond, and she goes willingly. Eager, even. Takes him deeper this time, nose almost touching his pelvis, and he has to close his eyes.

Close, close, close—

The orgasm hits like a penalty kick to the gut. He spills down her throat with a grunt that's probably too loud for a hotel room with thin walls, but that's what they get for booking cheap venues for these sponsor parties.

He wipes it away with his thumb (gentle, see? he's a gentleman), and she catches his wrist, sucks the digit clean.

Yeah. Definitely round two with this one.

The phone starts actually ringing this time. Marco's ringtone—some reggaeton bullshit that makes him want to throw the device out the window.

"You need to get that?"

She's already climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs like she owns them. Her dress rode up during the festivities, bunched around her waist.

No underwear. Smart girl.

"Nah."

He grabs her hips, pulls her closer. She's warm and soft and smells like coconut oil and that floral perfume every girl in Spain seems to own.

"Got better things to do."

She grins, reaching between them to wrap her fingers around his cock. Still sensitive, but already showing interest again. Twenty-four years old and blessed with the recovery time of a teenager.

Thank fuck for good genetics.

"Another round already?" She strokes him slowly, base to tip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke.

He smirks up at her, lazy and satisfied. She's gorgeous like this—dark skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, curls wild from his hands, lips still swollen.

The belly dancing show earlier didn't do her justice. All that hip movement on stage was just advertising for this, for the way she rolls her body like water.

"Hmm." He nips at her shoulder, tastes salt and coconut. "Think you can handle it?"

She laughs, breathy and confident, already reaching for the condoms on the nightstand. His mouth finds her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin as she rolls the latex down his half-hard cock. Already getting there. Give him two minutes and—

The phone buzzes again. Then again. Then—

"Jesus fucking Christ." He snatches it up, ready to block Marco's number permanently.

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙾𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

She's positioning herself over him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other guiding him to her entrance. Wet. Ready.

Twenty-three minutes and counting, but who's keeping track?

"Ignore it," he mutters, tossing the phone aside again.

His hands find her waist, her lower back, steadying her as she sinks down.

Tight. Fuck, she's tight. Or maybe he's just bigger than her usual.

Either way, the way she gasps and digs her nails into his shoulders suggests this is working for both of them.

"Fuck," she breathes, bottoming out. "You're—"

"I know." He rolls his hips up, cutting off whatever compliment she was about to give.

Doesn't need to hear it. Knows exactly what he's working with.

She starts moving, slow at first, finding her rhythm. He lets her set the pace initially, hands roaming her back, her ass, her thighs. Cataloging reactions.

She likes it when he grips her hips. Loves it when he scrapes his teeth across her nipple.

Mental notes. He's nothing if not a student of the game.

The phone won't stop buzzing.

Fuck Marco, fuck Carlos and fuck the universe, honestly.

Change of plans.

"Gotta make it quick."

He grabs her hips, flips them in one smooth motion. Her back hits the mattress with a soft gasp, legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Better angle anyway.

He braces one forearm next to her head, uses the other hand to push her thigh back toward the mattress. Opens her up just right. Deep. The way he likes it.

"Oh fuck—"

She arches under him as he starts moving. None of that gentle buildup shit. They're twenty-four minutes in and he's got places to be, apparently.

He finds his rhythm quick. Hard, deep thrusts that have her gasping with each one. The headboard's probably banging against the wall but that's what happens when you book the cheap rooms for overflow guests.

Should've sprung for the suite.

One of his hands slides between them, finds her clit. Circles it with his thumb in time with his thrusts.

"Come on," he mutters against her neck. "Come on, come on, come on—"

She's close. Can feel it in the way her pussy flutters around him, the way her breathing goes ragged. Her nails rake down his back, probably leaving marks his physio will question tomorrow.

Whatever. Battle scars.

"Tae—" She can't even finish his name, too busy falling apart underneath him. Her whole body goes taut, cunt clenching around him like a vice.

Twenty-five minutes.

He'll tell Marco nineteen.

He fucks her through it, chasing his own release. Three more thrusts and he's done, spilling into the condom with a groan that's mostly relief.

Mission accomplished. Everybody wins.

No time to bask in it. He pulls out, ties off the condom, and makes the perfect throw into the trash can across the room.

Three points. Still got it.

"I gotta—"

"Yeah, I figured," she says, already reaching for her dress.

No hurt feelings, no "will I see you again?" Just a woman who got what she came for and seems pretty satisfied with the transaction.

He loves Madrid.

He's dressed in record time. Shirt half buttoned but who's checking? Shoes untied. Wallet, phone, keycard. The holy trinity of hasty exits.

The elevator ride down is a lesson in personal grooming. He tries to fix his hair in the mirror, gives up. Checks his phone instead.

Fifteen texts from Marco. Three from Carlos. One from his brother asking if he's seen the news.

What news?

The elevator dings at the lobby and Xavi's right there, still in his training kit because he's Xavi and probably sleeps in it.

"Bro." His teammate's eyes go wide. "Carlos is pissed. Like, nuclear pissed."

"Yeah, I got that from the fifty fucking texts." He's already moving toward the conference room Carlos commandeered for these lectures. "What's his problem now?"

"Check your Instagram."

"What?"

"Just check it."

He pulls up the app while walking.

A ferret account pops up on his discovery page first—weird? Then he checks his last IG story—mirror selfie, hair slightly wet at the tips after showering, navy sweater, gold and white make-shift belt around the loops as a wink to his team—has blown up.

Then his notifications, DMs…

@𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞: 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘

Taehyung flicks his eyes upwards, seeing the story attached in the group chat he has with Marco and Leo in their private accounts.

Some girl from the party, video of him in the background. He's clearly drunk, clearly has his hands on C-something's ass, and clearly doesn't give a fuck who sees.

But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is the red lipstick mark on his neck that's visible in HD clarity. The same one he's sporting right now. The same one that makes it very fucking obvious what he's been doing while Carlos texts and calls and slowly loses his mind.

He swipes at his neck, fingers coming away red.

"Fuck's sake."

"Yeah, it's not looking too good, disappearing from your own sponsor event to—" Xavi gestures vaguely at Taehyung's everything. "—whatever this is?"

"It's called having a good time." He spots the hotel bar, makes a beeline. "Maybe you should try it sometime."

"I have a good time. With my fiancée. Singular. Who I've been with for eight years."

"Boring."

"Stable."

"Same thing."

Marco appears from nowhere, blonde still attached to his arm like a designer handbag. His best friend takes one look at him and whistles low.

"You're fucked."

"Thanks for the insight." He nods at Marco's companion. "Mind if I borrow him?"

She pouts but detaches, wobbling away on heels that should require a license to operate. Marco watches her go with the satisfied expression of a man who's had a very good night.

"Isabella know about your extracurriculars?" Taehyung asks, still trying to rub the lipstick off his neck.

"Isabella knows what Isabella needs to know." Marco produces a tissue from somewhere—the man's always prepared. "Here. You look like you got mauled by a Sephora display."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious. Carlos is going to have an aneurysm. Something about brand image and Nike and I stopped listening after he mentioned lawyers."

Great. Fantastic. Another lecture about representing the club and thinking about his future and all that shit that goes in one ear and out the other.

He's twenty-four, not forty. If he can't fuck random chicks at hotel parties, what's the point of being famous?

"How bad?"

"Scale of one to ten?" Marco grins. "Fifteen. He used your full name. Twice."

Shit.

"Did you at least win the bet?"

Taehyung grins. "Nineteen minutes."

"Bullshit."

"You don't know how to count."

"I have a fucking engineering degree."

"From where, clown college?"

The conference room door is closed but he can hear Carlos pacing inside, the aggressive click of designer shoes on marble.

Taehyung takes a breath, straightens his collar, and tries to look less like he just railed someone into a mattress.

"Good luck," Marco says, already backing away.

"Fuck you."

"Love you too, princess."

He pushes open the door to find Carlos mid-rant on his phone. His manager—all 5'9" of stress and designer suits—spins around and actually growls.

"Finally! Do you have any idea—" Carlos stops, takes in his appearance, and closes his eyes like he's praying for patience. "Is that lipstick?"

"No?"

"Kim Taehyung, I swear to God—"

"Okay, yes, but—"

"Sit. Down."

He sits. Carlos continues pacing, phone clutched like a weapon.

"Do you know what I've been doing for the past hour? Damage control. Do you know why? Because my client—my professional footballer client who makes seven figures a month—decided to get filmed grabbing ass at a party where half of Madrid's press was in attendance."

"It's not that bad—"

"Nike called." Carlos cuts him off. "They're concerned about your 'brand alignment.' Do you know what that means?"

"That they're uptight?"

"It means," Carlos says slowly, like he's explaining to a child, "that they pay you three and a half million euros a year to be a role model, not Madrid's most notorious fuckboy."

Fuckboy seems harsh. He prefers 'socially active'.

"I'll do an apology post," he offers. "Something about focusing on football and growth or whatever."

"No, you won't. Because that admits wrongdoing. We're going with 'private moment taken out of context.' Maria is drafting it now."

Of course she is. Carlos has contingencies for his contingencies.

"Fine. Can I go?"

"We're not done." Carlos finally stops pacing, fixing him with that look that means a PowerPoint presentation is coming. "This is the third incident this month. The referee thing, the Instagram live disaster, and now this."

"The referee deserved it."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?" He's getting irritated now, the post-orgasm calm evaporating. "I'm not breaking any laws. I'm not missing training. I'm playing the best football of my career—"

"The point," Carlos interrupts, "is that you're one scandal away from losing everything. Nike, TAG Heuer, the Korean skincare deal—they all have morality clauses. And you keep pushing boundaries like you're trying to find the limit."

He doesn't respond to that. Mainly because it's true.

"I need you to be smarter," Carlos continues, voice softer now. "I know you're young. I know you're having fun. But this isn't sustainable."

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Taehyung."

"So am I." He stands, ready to end this conversation. "I'll be more careful. Scout's honor."

Carlos doesn't look convinced, but he waves him off with a sigh that's more a cry for help than anything.

"Go. And for God's sake, wash your neck. You look like a crime scene."

He escapes before Carlos can launch into lecture phase two.

The hotel bar's still going strong—Madrid doesn't sleep, just shifts into different versions of awake.

He needs something to wash down the taste of Carlos's disappointment. Not whiskey though—that’s what old men drink when their wives leave them.

Vodka and tonic. Clean. Sharp. Doesn't linger.

The bartender's already pouring before he reaches the counter. Benefits of being recognized everywhere—people anticipate your needs, or at least pretend to.

He knocks back half of it in one go, ice cracking against his teeth.

There's a brunette at the end of the bar. Legs for days, red dress that he bets would look amazingly good on the floor of his bedroom.

She's been tracking him since he walked in—he can feel it without looking, the weight of female attention.

He's already mentally prepping—three minutes of conversation, five if she plays hard to get… His place or hers? Hers, probably. Easier to leave when—

"Tae!"

For fuck's sake.

Leo stumbles out of the elevator looking like someone killed his puppy. No, worse—like someone killed his puppy and posted it on TikTok. The kid's got his phone clutched in both hands, that specific brand of panic that only comes from relationship drama.

Why. Why can't the universe let him get his dick wet in peace? Just once. Just one fucking night without—

"Bro, I need your help." Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung's face. "Sofia saw—there was this brunette—someone posted—"

Instagram story. Leo with his tongue down some brunette's throat, hand up her skirt, zero subtlety. 47 views and counting.

He takes another sip of vodka, holds up a finger to the red dress at the bar—one second—and turns to Leo with what he hopes passes for sympathy.

"Breathe."

"I can't breathe! She posted a story. There's a hand. On her thigh. In a car. A man's hand!"

Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung’s face again.

Instagram story. Some girl’s thigh in a car, masculine hand placement that’s definitely not Leo’s. Caption: upgrade season 💋

"Okay."

"It's not okay! And the girl from tonight, she wants breakfast. Breakfast, Tae. Like, together. In public. She's talking about some place that does açaí bowls."

Christ. Açaí bowls. The official food of women who think one hookup equals a relationship contract.

"And Sofia's probably with that guy right now, and if she finds out I'm getting breakfast with—"

"You're not getting breakfast with anyone." He smiles to the brunette with gritted teeth. "Rule one: never do breakfast."

"But I already said—"

"Rule two: your word means nothing after 2 AM."

"That's fucked up."

"That's reality."

The brunette’s definitely listening now.

Great. Nothing kills the mood like babysitting a teammate through his first real fuckboy crisis.

He catches her eye, mouths "work emergency" with an apologetic shrug. She smiles. Understanding. Patient.

Fuck, she’s perfect, and he’s stuck playing guidance counselor to Spain’s most panicked midfielder.

The bartender slides him a fresh drink. Stronger pour this time. Bless.

"Where is she?"

"Room 412. She wants to leave at nine for this place in Malasaña that apparently has the best—"

"Stop." He's getting a headache. Or maybe that's just the vodka hitting an empty stomach. "You're going to go up there—"

"I can't, man. I can't face her. What if she cries?"

Jesus. Was he ever this young? This fucking soft?

"She texts asking where I am every five minutes." Leo shows him the screen—twelve messages, escalating from casual to concerned to the early stages of psycho. "What do I say?"

He looks at Leo—really looks at him. Sees himself at twenty, before he learned that feelings are just chemicals and breakfast is just carbs.

Before he figured out that the only way to win is to always play defense.

"Give me your room key."

"What?"

"Your key. I'll handle it."

"You'll—how?"

"Just trust me." He stands, checks his reflection in the bar mirror. Lipstick's gone but he still looks freshly fucked. Perfect. "What's her name?"

"Natalia."

Of course it is. It's always Natalia or Valentina or some other name that sounds like a telenovela character.

"You owe me." He grabs Leo's shoulders, makes sure the kid's paying attention. "You owe me so fucking big."

"Anything, man. Anything."

"In five minutes, you go wait in the lobby. And try to look heartbroken."

They need Marco. Marco’s good at this shit—turning disasters into comedy, making women laugh when they should be throwing drinks.

So he texts him.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚊𝚛. 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚎𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙. 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: …𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜. 𝟸 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜

Marco appears exactly 4 minutes later (see, he can’t count for shit)—shirt half-buttoned, hair suggesting recent activities.

He takes one look at Leo’s face and laughs.

"Breakfast? Really?"

"Her name’s Natalia," Leo defends weakly.

"They’re all named Natalia." Marco claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, wait in the lobby. Look heartbroken."

"That’s exactly what Taehyung said."

Marco lifts his eyebrows and then smiles at him.

"Great minds think alike."

Room 412 is four floors up.

They take the stairs because Marco insists—‘builds character’—but really it’s to workshop the lie.

By the third floor, they’ve got it sorted.

"Family emergency," Marco’s saying, taking the steps two at a time. "Classic. Timeless. Nobody questions sick grandmothers."

"Too heavy." He’s already winded. When was the last time he took stairs? "She’ll want to comfort him. Send flowers or some shit."

"Work emergency?"

"At 5 AM?"

"Good point." Marco pauses at the landing, finger to his lips like he’s contemplating world peace. "Ex-girlfriend."

"That’s what I was thinking."

"Specifically, ex-girlfriend in the lobby with new boyfriend. Leo sees them, gets emotional, can’t possibly do breakfast while having a mental breakdown."

Sometimes he forgets why he keeps Marco around, but then shit like this happens, and it all makes sense.

The knock on 412 is soft, nothing about it screams ‘your hookup sent his boys to break your heart.’

She answers in a hotel robe, hair already curled for this breakfast that’s never happening. Of course she’s exactly what he pictured—pretty in that forgettable way, hopeful in that dangerous way.

"Leo?"

Her face falls when she sees them.

"Where’s Leo?"

"Downstairs." Marco’s got his concerned friend face on. Oscar-worthy. "Having a bit of a moment."

"A moment?"

"His ex." Taehyung leans against the doorframe, lets exhaustion sell the story. "She’s here. With her new guy. Showed up right as we were leaving and just… yeah."

"Oh." Her expression shifts from confusion to sympathy.

Incredible, how women always want to fix broken men.

"Oh god, is he okay?"

"He’s…" Marco glances at him, perfect comedic timing. "Processing."

"He wanted to come up himself," Taehyung adds, "but he’s not really in a state to see anyone. You know how it is. First love and all that."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. Like Leo—sweet, fumbling Leo—is the type to have dramatic ex-girlfriend encounters at 5 AM.

Though, considering the whole Sofia bullshit, that might not be too far-fetched.

"Should I go down? Talk to him?"

"No." Too quick. Marco softens it with a sympathetic head tilt. "He’s embarrassed. Grown man crying in a hotel lobby isn’t exactly his finest moment."

"Tell him…" She’s twisting the belt of her robe, searching for words. "Tell him I understand. And last night was really special."

Special. What a powerful word. One that turns hookups into expectations.

"We’ll make sure he gets the message," Marco promises, already backing away. "So sorry about this."

They maintain the bullshit until the elevator doors close.

Then Marco breaks, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall.

"Did you see her face? ‘Last night was special.’" He wipes his eyes. "Fucking hell, Leo really stepped in it."

"He owes us."

"He owes us his firstborn. His kidney. His—" Marco stops. "Is that brunette from the bar still down there?"

"Probably." He checks his phone. 5:23 AM. The night’s officially crossed into morning, that grey area where bad decisions start looking like destiny. "Why?"

"Because you’ve got that look."

"What look?"

"The ‘I’m going to salvage this night if it kills me’ look."

Is he that predictable?

Don’t answer that.

The lobby’s thinned out—just the diehards and the professionals now. Leo’s slumped on a couch, still clutching his phone.

"Natalia?" Leo jumps up when he sees them.

"Sorted," Marco says. "Told her you’re emotionally compromised. She sends her understanding."

"You’re both lifesavers." Leo looks between them like they’ve just cured cancer. "I don’t know how to thank—"

"Learn from this." He claps Leo on the shoulder, harder than necessary. "Next time, no names. No promises. And definitely no fucking breakfast."

"But what if I actually like—"

"Then you’re in the wrong profession."

He can see the exact moment Leo’s moral compass realigns. The kid straightens up, nods like he’s just learned something profound.

Another one corrupted. Madrid’s finest at work.

"Thanks, guys. I mean it."

"Don’t thank us." Marco’s already eyeing the exit. "Thank Sofia for posting that thigh pic. Girl did you a favor."

Leo’s face falls. "Shit. Sofia."

"Tomorrow’s problem," Taehyung says firmly. "Tonight, you go home. Alone. Post nothing. Like nothing. Become invisible."

"But—"

"Go." He sighs. "Now."

Leo goes. Thank fuck. One crisis managed, one brunette to salvage—

She’s gone.

The barstool’s empty except for lipstick traces on her glass. When the fuck did she leave? He was watching her the whole—

No. He was playing mentor to Madrid’s most incompetent Romeo.

"Brutal." Marco murmurs at his shoulder. "She was hot too."

"There’ll be others."

"Always are." Marco stretches, joints popping. "I’m out. Got a hot thing waiting who thinks I’m getting ice."

"It’s been thirty minutes."

"I’m a very thorough ice-getter." He winks and disappears, leaving Taehyung alone with the growing certainty that tonight’s cursed.

But he’s Kim fucking Taehyung. He doesn’t accept defeat.

He spots her immediately—the blonde from earlier? No. Different blonde. Taller. Legs for days in a silver dress that catches light like a disco ball.

She’s typing on her phone, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He doesn’t think. Just moves.

"Lost?"

She looks up. Blue eyes, the kind that photograph well. Her smile’s immediate, recognition flooding her features.

"Just waiting for my Uber." American accent. Of course.

They always love the accent combo—Korean face, Spanish lifestyle, English to make promises he won’t keep.

"Cancel it."

"Bold assumption."

"Safe bet." He leans against the pillar beside her, close enough to smell her perfume. That floral thing again. "Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?"

She studies him for a long moment. He knows what she sees—designer clothes, professional athlete build, trouble written in every line. Her thumb hovers over her phone screen.

"I don’t even know your name."

Lie. She knows exactly who he is.

But he plays along because that’s part of it. The dance. The pretense that this is spontaneous rather than inevitable.

"Taehyung."

"Sarah." She cancels the Uber. "So what now?"

"Now?" He grins, the one that usually seals deals. "Now we get better drinks than whatever shit they were serving upstairs."

By 7 AM, he’s learned three things: Sarah’s flexible, she’s got a tongue piercing, and she looks fantastic in his sheets.

He’s also confirmed what he already knew—he’s still the best at this. Even when the universe tries to keep him in line, he finds a way.

She’s tracing patterns on his chest, already talking about breakfast, when he deploys the usual.

"Early training. Coach will kill me if I’m late."

"On a Sunday?"

"Every day during season." He kisses her forehead. Gentle. Final. "I’ll call you."

He won’t. They both know it.

But she gets dressed anyway, calls her own Uber, leaves with the kind of dignity that makes him almost respect her.

The sun’s coming up, painting his bedroom gold.

Two hours until he has to be human again. Two hours to sleep off whatever tonight was.

He’s already drifting when his phone buzzes.

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

He doesn’t respond. Leo will figure it out. Or he won’t.

Either way, that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight—this morning—whatever the fuck this is—he’s done.

Won a black girl, played mentor, lost a brunette, found a blonde, maintained his record.

The universe tried to knock him off his game and failed.

Because he’s Kim Taehyung.

And he’s simply the best at everything.

next | index

—taglist @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @impossiblecopoaffire @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @haru-jiminn @calmyourtitts7 @sstass

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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debauchery-if · 4 days ago

Note

Helllo! Do you have an if suggestions of any kind? Just something with romance ofc

HMMMMMMM >> (I only did ones with demos at the top and no demos at the bottom ^^)

@untitledrockstar-if which they can't save your love from dying? I think that is what its called. OMG OMG... R, I hate love you sm and THE ROS, hehehe... I love MC as well, I need them.

@suevi-if which they have suevi and I played it two weeks ago, obsessed. I need the ROs (all of them mostly Ing but shhh) and Bellamy is so kind so !

(A LOT MORE UNDERNEATH THE BUTTON)

@woesoftheirwretched-if which they have woes of their wretched, is this based, no (half and half) but I like horror and dark content !

@whentherewasatime-if surprisingly I liked it (I wasn't sure because I was half asleep and really tired and wanted to catch up on IFs, pearl sent me and I woke up and was like damn.)

@darkfictionjude all of their games, at first, just a bit confused with EC because I was a bit dumb but replayed it and fell in love with it. I love their IFs.

@parasitical-if which they have parasitical and I love it, gosh golly gosh ! (I need august) I love and remember playing it but not actually playing it so it felt like a dream for some reason... (that was hard to explain like I played it before but never did ?)

@debtofdeception-if which they have debt of deception and I love A... pathetic loser sighhh~ I NEED more, yum yum ! Also love the MC, I need them as well and I love our child so much, sick child </3

@infamous-if not really hard to explain this, love it. I love all the ros, love the side pieces, love my best friends, love everything and I always cry while playing it (it hits hard ? maybe but its sad and awesome to me)

@velvetalliances-if which they have Velvet alliance and I love court drama or just courts in general. I love the characters' names, its so interesting.

@one-foot-in-if which they have one foot in and I just played it not long ago, I like it so far ! I didn't play for long since I did have to do something but I should continue playing it !

@cosmic-writes-if which they have a game called stillwater which is interesting ! and I played a little bit and it was AMAZING (I am now realizing how many IFs I stopped playing since I had to go to bed, do something... I should get back to playing them on the weekends or some days)

@pressplay-if which they have press play and I legit cry while playing because I love it so much and its sad for me.... how embarrassing ... ANGEL and NVM ALL THE ROS !!

@parasitic-if which they have parasitic and I love the theme of the blog, it looks like seaweed (the background color of the blog) and I NEED the bodyguard and Engima lowkey !

@1966-if which they have 1966 and I AM IN LOVEE with the concept, like ahh ! I need that idea, I should've had it/j but cool game so far.

@pavedinashes-if loved this and the ROs are interesting to me, I at first was a bit iffy about it because it didn't catch my attention but pearl told me to play it and it was golden.

@thewoodshungers-if I only played until chapter 2 since I was busy and I must say I want the knight and the witch hunter like come on, need them.

now for ifs with no demos...

@glitzglamgunpowder-if can't wait for it !

@crescendo-if can't wait again for this, I :D

@sipthegossip-if this sounds interesting from when I read the intro like back then and still can't wait for it.

@bluebellstollstudio market, market, and a market.

@cosmic-writes-if is on here because of another game that they have but no demo which is called sanctum ??? but dark fiction !

@galactic-idols-if this made me watch kpop demon hunters with pearl lowkey and I liked the movie, the songs were interesting and good !

@neondreams-if apparently there's a deadline so I guess they won't be here on this list for long huh ?

@custody-if I can't wait for this and this has been in my mind also I like the goth RO, I wanted more goths... should've added a goth baddie in this IF ....

@nsh-if I liked how the blog looks and pearl founds it interesting so I have hopes as well !

@thesecond-if love it, low-key need father Isaac and HIM also Jonah...... I love the writing so far ! (in the asks that they answered) and I can't wait for It

okay, okay I GOTTA STOP...... its a long list !

#debaucheryif #camera : questions #camera : faq #flash : importance #sin : note to self #sindearst #interactive fiction #twine #choicescript #if recs #if recommendations

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infamous-if · 1 year ago

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CH3 [140K WORDS] UPDATE + A LESSON

Hi guys! sorry for the delay there was a reason for it

I fucked up my files and lost all the work I did over the few months for the chapter 2 rewrite...like all of it, im really bummed out about it. and like an idiot ive been playtesting the wrong, unfinished outdated chapter 2 lol

im ngl I did have a pretty long cry earlier which is why I took a while...and im crying now writing this lol

I know it's a wip and these things happen but I worked really hard on 200k+ words of chapter 2 to see it improved and to see it all gone and fucked up really really sucks. I value infamous really highly and am pretty hard on myself so when I dont feel like I deliver what I want to deliver it's really hard for me to move on from that. I was really excited to have this all out at once and now I feel completely disheartened. I know I just have to pick myself up and just get back to work and rewrite chapter 2 but right now im just really upset

anyway, sorry to kill the mood this is probably the worst vibe killer ever lmao I hope everyone is excited! I said I was going to release chapter 3 for band tier and thats what im doing. You'll play the prologue + chapter 1 but will have to input some variable stuff for chapter 3. I hope having chapter 3 can make up for the loss of chapter 2

Chapter 3 is 140K words.

What to expect:

perform the first week and see the outcome

quality time with ROs

drama

angst

there is an explicit scene with an RO (it's skippable) so be mindful of that !

forgot to mention that I am completely rehauling the stats (again) as well due to the new flavor text options in chapter 1 because I feel like the stats still dont encompass the broad range now that there's different canonical types of MCs but yeah not like it matters rn since you'll just input it in aha!

I find chapter 3 to be the most lighthearted of all chapters for me so I hope you guys like it. if there's any inconsistencies (there might be due to lack of chapter 2 context or whatnot), errors, passages missing etc etc.

ill be around to fix any bugs and stuff but I think im going to take a day or two to refresh because im really fucking sad lol

hope you guys enjoy it!

available for band tier

#update #authors note #forgot to add that the lesson part is me #being the lesson to fellow writers to back up your stuff lol #yeah :(

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theliteraryarchitect · 6 months ago

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5 Reasons NOT to Use Multiple Point of View (and What to Do Instead)

I've been meaning to make this post for a long time. As a developmental editor, I see a LOT of manuscripts that use multiple point of view (where each scene or chapter is from the perspective of a different character), when they really should be using a classic single character POV. Over the years, I've come to the conclusion that writers see multiple POV as a solution to problems that really shouldn't be solved that way. Basically, they're using it for the wrong reasons. And when that happens, instead of making the story more awesome, multiple POV can actually weaken it.

Here are five of the most common reasons writers choose multiple POV (and why those reasons might be a problem). Don’t worry—I’ll also share what to do instead.

1. You Don’t Know What Your Story Is About

Sometimes, when writers aren’t 100% clear on their story’s main conflict, theme, or plot, they reach for multiple POV. It feels like a fix—after all, why focus on one perspective when you can try out a little of this and a little of that?

Here’s the thing: multiple POV actually requires you to be more clear about your story, not less. Readers will naturally look for a thread that ties all the perspectives together, and if that thread isn’t there, the story will feel scattered or aimless.

What to Do Instead: Take a step back. If you’re feeling unsure about what your story is really about, try some journaling or outlining. Ask yourself:

What’s the main conflict?

Who’s the central character?

Why am I telling this story?

Often, writers discover they actually have one protagonist, and a limited third or first-person perspective would work better. If you still feel like multiple POV is the right call, go for it! Just be sure to periodically revisit your outline to make sure the story hasn’t “gotten away” from you. (Multiple POV has a sneaky way of doing that.)

2. You Haven’t Developed Your Characters

Multiple POV doesn’t work unless each character is fully developed. Every POV character needs their own voice, journey, and reason for being in the story. If they can’t stand on their own, readers will notice.

What to Do Instead: Before assigning a POV, ask yourself:

Is this character compelling enough to hold the reader’s attention?

Do they add something essential to the story that no one else can?

If the answer is no, it might be better to stick with a single POV. Sometimes less is more.

3. You Can’t Decide on a POV Character

This one is common, especially in early drafts. You’re still figuring out your story, and it’s hard to choose whose perspective should take center stage.

What to Do Instead: Experiment! Write key scenes from different characters’ perspectives. Often, the strongest voice will make itself known as you go. And remember: just because you write a draft with multiple POV doesn’t mean you can’t narrow it down later.

4. You Need to Share Information Your POV Character Doesn’t Have

Ah, the classic "But how do I show this thing the protagonist doesn’t know?" dilemma. This is probably the most common reason I see writers reach for multiple POV. It’s tempting to throw in a chapter or two from another character’s perspective just to share that extra bit of information.

The problem? Those chapters often feel disconnected from the rest of the story. Every POV character needs to carry their weight, and dropping in a random narrator just for convenience can leave readers feeling unsatisfied.

What to Do Instead: There are other ways to get information across. Here are a few ideas:

Educated Guesses: Let your main character speculate. (“Iris kept tapping her pencil on the desk. Was she nervous about the meeting earlier?”)

Show, Don’t Tell: Use actions, dialogue, or other clues to reveal what another character might be thinking.

Bring in a New Element: Introduce a third character, a conflict, or even an object that reveals something important.

Overhearing or Spying: Yes, it’s a little cliché, but when used sparingly, it can work in a pinch.

5. You’re Looking for an Easy Way Out

Let’s be honest: multiple POV can feel like a catch-all solution to tough storytelling problems. Need to fix pacing? Add another POV! Can’t figure out how to make the ending work? Add another POV!

But here’s the truth: multiple POV is actually harder than other POVs. You’re not just developing one character—you’re developing several, and you have to tie all their perspectives into a cohesive whole.

What to Do Instead: Focus on nailing the story with a single POV first. Once you’re confident the core of the story is solid, you can decide if adding other perspectives will truly enhance it.

In Summary

Multiple POV is a powerful tool, but it’s not a shortcut. It requires careful planning and strong execution. If you’re considering it, ask yourself:

Does every POV character bring something unique to the story?

Am I clear on the main conflict and theme?

Could this story be told just as well (or better) with a single POV?

Sometimes, the simplest route is the best one.

Hope this helps!

/ / / / / / / / / / /

@theliteraryarchitect is a writing advice blog run by me, Bucket Siler, a writer and developmental editor. For more writing help, download my Free Resource Library for Fiction Writers, join my email list, or check out my book The Complete Guide to Self-Editing for Fiction Writers.

#writeblr #writing advice #writers on tumblr #editing #writing tips #fiction #nanowrimo #point of view #multiple point of view #op

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iliketrauma · 2 months ago

Text

Twisted sense of satisfaction

Chapter 0 : Lost...

Platonic Yandere Batfamily X Female Overachiever!Reader

—SYNOPSIS :- You were never much of a talker, you kept to yourself and were always told you were wise beyond your age. Not that you cared since you were more focused on yourself rather than others, were you selfish ? Yeah, but did you care? No. You had your momma who supported you through everything, every step of the way... Until she couldn't...

TW!! :- Child neglect, love bombing, drugs usage, emotional neglect, stalking, reader has Atychiphobia and is an Overachiever, Panic attacks, psychological warfare, manipulation and self-worth tied to achievements.

Words :- 648 words

Note : Hello!! This is my first time writing something like this and I'm honestly kinda nervous, I am here to inform you that updates might not be regular due to school and stuff so I apologise in advance!!

Your momma worked as a lady of the night or in more vulgar terms, she was a prostitute however, you never felt any shame for it, no, she kept a roof over your head and food on your plate. You and your momma weren't doing well financially but at least you had each other.

She tried to give you a normal life, made you go to school so that you'd grow up with kids your own age but then again you weren't exactly normal.

You always wondered if something was wrong with you, you weren't emotional like most kids your age and were widely known in your school as a freak of nature simply because you preferred to be logical over emotional.

Your momma always called you that you were her little lawyer simply because you would argue with people with facts and logic rather than raw emotional need but you didn't care, besides that lady in the store was being mean anyway by calling your momma a whore.

It was one of those nights where your momma met him, Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy or Brucie Wayne which you thought was a ridiculous nickname but your momma smiled when someone called him that so you let it slide.

You knew he existed and knew he was your biological father but you had no desire to see or hear about him, it wasn't because you hated him, no, he had done a lot for the people of Gotham, he had held fundraisers and spent a bull load of money on helping the citizens... Everyone but your momma.

How was this supposed to be fair? Why was everyone else getting help but not your momma? Why did every other kid in preschool have the privilege of having daddy-daughter dates or daddy-son outings but you were left with nothing?

Other kids teased you and said all types of mean things about you and your momma which made you so very very mad. So what did you do? Well, of course, excel in everything you did. If you were teased with not having a father then you'll simply be better than each and every single one of them.

It wasn't hard really, you always DID love books more than people so you simply threw yourself into studies, teachers praised you, parents wanted their children to BE like you and your momma? She was the most proud.

...

So what went wrong ?

...

For the first time ever in your eight years you were alive... You were speechless. The red and blue lights flickered as you heard sirens surrounding the building around you.

There was an accident at your momma's workplace and everyone was hurt, some were crying and others were dead but you?

You couldn't move, you couldn't breathe, all you saw was your momma's cold body on the floor with a pool of blood that you prayed didn't belong to her. You felt your chest tighten, sounds becoming more echo-ey as your vision became blurry.

You heard something about 'Panic Attack' and 'Need help' but you didn't need help. No, your momma needed it more than you. You were fine, you'll live but momma needed help, she needed help, she needed to get help, she had to get help.

No... The cops were surrounding you instead of your momma, you didn't need help and you tried to voice it but for some odd reason all that came out was a pitiful weeze of air, you wanted to scream at them, you wanted to kick them but all you could do was weakly try to reach out to your momma.

If you could see yourself right now, you would have laughed, you looked pitiful, trying to reach your momma with your short hands but you didn't care...

Oh what you'd do to hug your momma again... Just one last time...

♥~ Taglist —

@lovebug-apple @cupid73 @c4xcocoa @alishii @yuyuzi-ling @bakugousimpofawif3 @shqyou

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iamnot-crazy · 5 months ago

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Stowaway Full Post

Summary: The reader is a slave to a nobleman due to her devil's fruit ability which allows her to control the emotions of the people around her. She flees to bump into Trafalgar Law and boards his ship.

fem!Reader x Law,

Word Count: 5,559

A/N: After a vote here is a rewritten version of stowaway in a larger post. I only did chapter 1 - 4 and will do a full rewrite for the next parts in the future but these 4 chapters have a sweet ending so I wanted it in a single full post. To fit this format I did edit and rewrote a lot of the story for a better flow. Please let me know what you think and if you having fun suggestions for me to write next

MasterList

You weaved between buildings as you grew closer to the docks, keeping your head on a swivel, making sure no one was following you. You eventually reached a stack of crates ready to be loaded onto a ship. ‘Perfect,’ you thought. Not only could you hide among the crates to sneak onto a ship, but while you did, you could steal some food to ease your aching stomach.

You noticed one crate was partially open and you snuck over to it, lifting it up slightly more to grab whatever was inside. You pulled out an apple and smiled with relief, taking a quick bite of it. As you relished the taste of the apple, a figure sat on top of the crate. You jumped back in surprise to see a tall figure crossing his legs as he stared down at you, amused.

"Is there a reason you are trying to steal my crew's provisions?" he asked, leaning forward with his chin resting on the back of his hand.

“I… Uh…” You shuddered, “I’m sorry, I am just really hungry.” You lowered your head, expecting punishment, but it never came. Instead, when you looked up, you saw a ball of rice in the man's hand.

You looked up, shocked, as the man raised his eyebrows and pushed the rice ball further toward you. “This will fill you up better than an apple.” You quickly took the ball out of his hand and shoved it into your mouth. The man huffed a small chuckle, “So, who are you hiding from?” he questioned.

“No one,” you spoke with food still in your mouth.

“The sneaking around and the constant looking behind you tells me differently,” he smirked.

You glared at him slightly, clearly he was watching you before you got to the crates. Before you could explain, voices began to echo down the street. Guards were walking down from the mansion, shouting if anyone had seen a woman matching your description.

The man chuckled again, “So, what did you steal?”

You shook your head, “I didn’t steal anything. I just escaped.”

The man’s eyes glossed over hearing the word ‘escaped’ before quickly analyzing you, seeing the condition you were in. The man jumped off the crate and you shuffled further away as he crouched down to your level. His eyes narrowed, looking over your frail body and disheveled state. “Where are you planning on going?” he questioned.

“I don’t care, somewhere far away from here,” you admitted.

The man nodded and stood up, looking over at the guards who were nearing the docks. “I can take you to the next island,” he offered, looking back, “But after that, you’re on your own.”

Your face lit up, “Are you sure?”

The man nodded, looking back over to see a guard approaching one of his crew mates. “I’m going to transport you to my med bay. Do not be alarmed.”

“Transport? What?” You began to question, but you were engulfed in blue before everything blurred and you were now sitting on a hard metal table.

Your head jerked around as you looked around to find yourself somewhere completely new. You were in some kind of medical office. One side of the wall was covered in shelves filled with books and the other side had metal cabinets and a sink with a counter covered in bandages and other medical supplies.

You spotted a porthole behind you and jumped off the table to look through it. You could see the man speaking with one of the guards, shaking his head, while standing next to a standing polar bear and two other men in white boiler suits and wearing funky hats. Your eyes dashed over to the wall where a wanted poster hung with the face of the man who just helped you, with the same polar bear standing behind him while holding a large sword. Your eyes darted back to the window to see the man heading up the ramp to the ship, and you could clearly see the same sword in the poster resting on his shoulder.

You pressed your back against the wall and sank to the floor, ‘Great, you found yourself aboard a pirate ship.’ You held your head in thought, unsure if you should be scared or not. After all, he did just give you a rice ball and promised you travel off this island.

The door to the room swung open, revealing the pirate captain himself. His eyebrows scrunched in confusion to not see you sitting on the table. His head tilted as he scanned the room to find you on the floor in the corner, looking very unsure. “It’s going to be very hard for me to perform a physical if you are on the floor,” he stated, turning to the sink and filling a glass with water.

“Are you a pirate?” you questioned.

The man huffed, “I’m technically a doctor first, but as you can tell from my wanted poster, not everyone thinks that.” He gestured to the poster before handing you the glass filled with water.

You gently placed the glass to your lips before chugging down the water, which felt so nice against your dry tongue. You wiped your lips when you finished the glass and looked up at the pirate doctor with pleading eyes as he took the glass to refill it again.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to conduct a physical on the medical table rather than the floor,” he gestured over to the table before turning back to the sink, filling the glass up again. You slowly got off the ground and lifted yourself back onto the table. The man handed you the glass, which you greedily finished.

“So, what should I call you?” you said, handing him the glass.

The man chuckled, placing the glass on the counter before approaching you with a funny-looking tool that hung from his neck. “Trafalgar Law,” he said before placing the other end of the tool on your chest and listening carefully.

“And what should I call you, little stowaway?” he asked as he put his tool on the counter, grabbing another with a small light.

You paused as you thought about your name. You haven’t been called by your name in years and you nearly forgot it.

“So? What’s your name?” Law questioned as he looked into your ear with his light.

“Uh… it’s… Y/N,” you finally spoke.

Law nodded, stepping back and placing his tool down. “Well, Y/N. You got lucky, you don’t seem to have any infections, but you do appear severely dehydrated and anorexic. But with some help and a slow scheduled food intake, you should start to feel better.”

“Better?” you questioned, tilting your head.

“Yes, better. You look like you’ve been through hell and back,” he stated as he began to write down some things in a journal. “You’re probably exhausted too, so you should rest for the next day. I’ll have my first mate Bepo bring you some clothing and food tonight, but in the meantime, you should rest.” He walked over to the back of the room and pulled down a hammock from the ceiling and turned to one of the cabinets, pulling out a pillow and blanket.

You blinked in shock at the hospitality this man was showing you.

“It’s going to take a week to get to the next island, so you should probably get comfy. But not too comfy, this isn’t a free ride, and after you get some rest, I’ll ask if you can assist with some of the ship’s upkeep,” he continued to speak as he attempted to make the hammock and pillow look comfier.

“Why?” you finally spoke. Law turned around, confused at the question, raising an eyebrow, “Why are you being so kind?” Your eyes started to water.

Law shrugged, “I’m not really going out of my way or anything.” He walked toward the door, “Drink some more water, but pace yourself, and get some rest. Bepo will come by in 2 hours with food and some clothes. I’ll come by tomorrow to do another check-up and then show you around the ship. I’ll see you later, Y/N.” He then disappeared, closing the door behind him.

Your lips twitched as you tried to smiled with tears in your eyes.

As Law promised, his first mate knocked on the door two hours later, bringing rice balls and a white boiler suit that everyone else on the ship seemed to wear. What shocked you was to find the first mate was the walking polar bear, and that he was extremely bashful as he kindly handed you the items and asked if you needed anything else. You were amused by him stumbling way out the room, apologizing to every inanimate item that he bumped into.

The next morning, Law walked in, rubbing his eyes, to find you staring out the porthole as they bounced with the waves of the sea. A small smirk creeped to his face to see you so attentive and bright-eyed, watching the sea. “Good morning,” he spoke with a scratch in his throat before he sipped on his mug filled with coffee. You spun around at the sound of his voice. “something interesting out there?” he commented.

“It’s just so pretty. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen the ocean,” you turned back to the porthole. Law raised a concerning eyebrow, placing his mug down.

“Well, I would ask if I could do another check-up, but you seem ready for the day, so let’s go see the rest of the ship.” He walked over, helping you out of the hammock before stuffing it back into the ceiling.

You followed Law around the ship as he introduced you to the crew and explained how the crew operated. You kept close to Law hiding slightly in his shadow scared of what the rest of the pirate crew was like. When he showed you how the sub underwater you worries was replaced with amazement. As the sub sunk deeper into the sea and the fish swam past the window of the sub. You now understood why everyone wore the boiler suits as the sub suddenly became hotter.

Law gave you a few chores to do around the ship for the next few days, all of which were done alongside another crew member. You quickly became close with Bepo, the polar bear, and his warm personality. Ikkaku, the ship’s engineer, was beyond excited that she was no longer the only female on the ship and insisted you share quarters with her. Shachi and Penguin were a little harder to understand, but once they played a prank on you, slicking the floor with oil, causing you and Bepo to slide around as you attempted to wash the floor, they were around more.

When the final day came, you felt a pang of sadness. As you approached Law’s office to tell him how grateful you were for him and his kindness, you noticed the door was surrounded by Bepo, Ikkaku, Penguin, and Shachi. “Come on, Captain, please! Can Y/N stay with us a bit longer!” Bepo whined with a pout on his face, which the other three tried to match.

“I already told you that’s not my decision. Y/N only asked to go to the next island. If you want her to stay, you need to ask her that,” you heard Law’s voice from inside his office, obviously annoyed.

“And if she says yes, can she join the crew?” Bepo asked, and you halted in your tracks. Your thoughts swarmed with ideas about what it would mean if you joined their crew.

“Yes, if she wants to, she can join the crew,” Law answered, and the group all looked down the hallway, spotting you. “But don’t pressure her!” Law shouted as they made a beeline to you. Law leaned his head out the doorframe to see you turning around to run away from the group.

Suddenly, the ship shook violently, sending you to the floor, and red lights began to flash. You looked behind you to see the group look concerned before running off in the other direction, and Law jumped out of his office, holding his sword and bouncing off the wall. The rest of the crew also began running toward the door to the deck, toward the fight.

You pushed yourself up, and with determination fueling your steps, you marched to the door as well, being the last one to reach the deck. “Trafalgar Law! You have a stowaway that we are under orders to return,” a Marine shouted from the beach of the island.

“No!” Law shouted before raising his sword up and casting a blue sphere.

‘They are here for me?’ you thought before you stormed forward.

“Y/N, get back into the ship,” Law hissed as you pushed your way to the front of the ship.

You ignored him as you reached your arms out and your eyes began to glow white, and a cloud of mist floated out of your hand and toward the Marines, who started to fall one by one as they inhaled the mist. You mist was far more powerful now that you were properly feed and rested that you were unaware of how much you actually produced.

Law's eyes went wide as he watched you easily take out 50 Marines. When the last Marine fell, your eyes fluttered back to normal and you began to fall. Law quickly caught you before you reached the ground. You panted into his chest, feeling dizzy and tired after using so much of your power.

“What the hell?” Law questioned in shock, looking up at Shachi, who jumped off the ship to investigate the fallen Marines.

“They're asleep, Captain!” Shachi shouted after his investigation.

Law raised his eyebrow, looking down at you in shock as you tried to regain your breath, “Prepare to submerge, let’s not stay any longer than we need to!” he ordered, lifting you to your feet and slowly walking you back into the ship while everyone else ran into their positions to prepare the sub.

You mumbled when the door of Law’s office closed behind him, “I’m sorry.”

Law guided you over to his chair, “Sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“The Marines, they were after me. I put you and everyone in danger,” you sulked.

Law chuckled, “The Marines are always after us, we’re pirates. But I am curious as to why they were after you?”

You looked down, fidgeting with your fingers, “I…” You paused with a sigh, “I ran away from my master. I was a slave.”

Law’s eyes widened as he looked over you and your features as the pieces of you fell into place.

“I was sold for my Devil Fruit power, the Feel-Feel Fruit,” you explained as Law sat in thought, his eyebrows pressing together at the fruit name. “It allows me to control people's emotions by touching them. I recently found I can create a mist of emotion.”

You lifted up your hand to reveal colored dots on the tips of each of your fingers. Law pulled your hand closer to get a better look and looked shocked to see it shift colors. “They shift colors based on what emotion I am transferring, but it mostly shifts based on what emotion I am feeling.”

“Interesting,” Law said, twisting your hand in his. “What does each color mean?”

“Black is sad, blue is happy, grey is calm.”

“What does gold mean?”

You looked down to see your tips shining a bright gold, “I mean there are too many emotions for it to read,” you replied but were surprised to watch him place all five of his fingers on top of the glowing dots. His eyes widened as he began to feel your emotions, and when your emotions shifted to surprise and the color shifted to brown, his eyes mimicked yours, shifting in curiosity and surprise. You yanked your hand back, releasing him from your spell before any other emotions could be transferred to him. knowing emotions tend to linger, you shifted the color to grey and grabbed his arm, shifting his emotions back to calm.

He shook his head back and breathed calmly, now feeling a sensation he had never felt before, truly calm and relaxed. "Wow." Was all he could say as he closed his eyes relishing in the moment before it fell off him like a wave.

You watched Law take a deep breath before returning to his own emotions, "So you aren't just making people feel a particular way, you are shifting the chemicals in the brain to make them think they feel a particular way. Interesting."

"Y/N, would you please join my crew?" He asked, standing up straight and holding his hand in front of you.

You paused in thought, “I don’t know. You and your crew have been nothing but kind to me, and I have never felt so happy. Which is why I have to say that if you want me to join for my powers, I can’t. I won’t. I won’t be used for my power ever again.” You took a deep breath, finally feeling confident enough to stand up for yourself.

Law nodded, “I understand… I promise if you join my crew, you will never be asked to use your powers again. Y/N, I am asking for you to join my crew because everyone has taken a liking to you. Your powers are amazing, but you will never have to use them when you don't want to.” You nodded, believing his words. "However, because you were once a slave I suggest you take my offer. The world will not be kind to you and the world government will try to return you. If you join my crew we can protect you."

Your lip began to quiver, thinking about the life you could start to have. “Are you sure?”

Law nodded, “I promise you will never be used again, but you will have to do some chores.”

You smiled with a little laugh, jumping and wrapping your arms around his neck, yanking yourself toward him. Law froze in surprise but smiled softly before patting your back gently.

Over the next few weeks, your role on the crew evolved. You became the caretaker, managing chore lists and listening to everyone’s complaints, a task you happily embraced. The more you listened, the less you had to share about yourself, the less you had to remember your past.

But you were happy, so much so your face muscles began to ache as you started to smile more as each day past. Each time Law watched you smile to heard your laugh he took it as his own small victory. You were slowly transforming and it was evident not just from your smiles but your body too as you began to grow in strength no longer was your bones pressing against your skin. The crew quickly took you in as one of their own; however, Law noticed an odd pattern. You didn't shower with the rest of the crew, opting for late-night showers after everyone else had fallen asleep. He’d often hear you passing his office when he worked late nights.

One night, as you were sneaking down the hallway, you spotted Law leaning on the doorframe of his office with his arms crossed, awaiting you. You bit the side of your cheek before turning around, avoiding eye contact with the captain. “Hold on a minute,” he shouted, pushing off the frame. “Want to tell me why you sneak to the showers every night?” he questioned.

You pouted, turning back to the captain. “You have a crew full of men, and you expect me to shower with them?” You challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Law closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t play me a fool, Y/N, you’re hiding something.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself in comfort “It’s my mark,” you admitted, looking away from the man.

Law straightened up in understanding before gesturing to his office. You nodded, walking into his office with him following behind, closing the door behind him. “Can I see it?” he asked carefully.

You nodded before unzipping your boiler suit and raising your tank top to reveal a mean red scar on your right hip. The burn mark of a dragon claw sign, your ownership by a Celestial Dragon. Law quitelty gasped, hovering his fingers above the scar. You watched with weary eyes, stuck on the sight of the mark and the history and pain it held. Law looked at your face to see a deep frown and the flecks in your eyes shift to black. He gently placed his hand over the mark to divert your attention to him.

“I can get rid of it,” he said confidently while locking his eyes with yours with a determined expression.

Your eyes brightened slightly, “You can?!” you said in surprise. Law just nodded in response. “How?”

“With my Devil Fruit powers, I can rapidly expand and replace the tissue in that area, removing the scar,” he explained before summoning a ‘Room’.

You swallowed before nodding, holding back your tears, “Please. Please remove it.”

Law’s hand, which stayed resting on your hip, began to glow as he pinched his eyebrows in focus, a small sweat dripping down his forehead. You felt a little heat as your body shifted under his powers.

When he finally removed his hand, the scar was completely gone, showing a patch of newly pale skin. Your eyes twitched as you tried to keep the tears from flowing out, but a few dripped out. You looked up at Law, who was looking proudly at his work.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, yanking yourself to him. The tears flowed out of your eyes, soaking the back of his neck, “Thank you, Law. Thank you for everything,” you sobbed.

Law blushed awkwardly, patting your back. “It was nothing, Y/N,” he said.

You pulled off him, placing a quick peck on his cheek. “It is everything to me.” You then ran out of his office, leaving him in a daze as he placed his hand on the cheek where you left the tingles of your lips.

“Everything?” he mumbled as he blushed.

Over the next few weeks, your confidence had grown to a level Law never thought he would see in you. You had elected to purchase bikini tops to wear under your boiler suit, which you would often unzip while outside. Law watched with interest from a distance as you gave tasks to the crew. To Law, this was him admiring his work, his ability to completely remove a scar of that size, something he wasn’t entirely sure he could do but was thrilled to find he could, and the joy it brought you.

With the scar now gone, you were able to lock your horrifying memories away, and whenever a thought crept its way up, you looked down at your clear hip to remind yourself that you were a new person.

This day, the Heart Pirates had stopped at a town to pick up supplies for the ship, and you and Ikkaku took the opportunity to have a girls' shopping trip. While you both started the trip trying on outfits, somehow you both ended up at the hardware stands, finding ways to improve the Polar Tang. It just so happened that those stands were across from the bookstores Law had found himself in.

He stood in the window, unable to stop watching your smile. “Oh, does Captain have a crush on our little stowaway!” Shachi teased, wrapping his arm around the taller captain. Law looked down and glared at his brother. “Oh, come on, Captain, no one would blame you if you did. I mean, look at her! She has completely changed from the day she arrived,” Shachi gave a toothy smile, looking over at you. “Really turned into a beautiful butterfly.” Penguin and Bepo approached from behind. Shachi elbowed Penguin, “Don’t you agree, Peng?”

Penguin nodded with a smirk. Law scoffed at the two, shoving them off him and turning around, “Let’s go, Bepo.”

The bear looked down at his captain curiously, “Captain? Do you?” he asked,

Law snapped his head toward the bear, “Do I what Bepo?”

“Have a crush on Y/N” Bepo questioned causing Law to freeze with a blush creeping onto his face. Shachi and Penguin laughed as they saw his ears turn pink.

Law snapped his head at the two, holding his hand up threateningly, “Laugh at me one more time and see what happens.” The two covered their mouths with tears forming in their eyes as they attempted to muffle their laughs, but their captain’s threatening expression fell short when his cheeks glowed a bright pink.

“Let’s see how long you can laugh without your mouths!” Law shouted, holding up his hand, but a scream sliced through the air, cutting him off.

The four boys quickly turned around to the window, concerned. Shachi’s and Penguin’s jaws dropped to see you being held in the air by a giant man who had his hand gripped around your throat. Ikkaku was being held back by two other men while she screamed. Law’s teeth gritted in anger before he stormed around to the door of the store. “Shachi, Penguin, tell everyone we are leaving!” He ordered, and the two ran off to complete his order. “Bepo, hold this.” He threw a loose book into his arm before throwing open the door.

Ikkaku’s shouts became louder as she screamed at the man to put you down. You gripped at the hand around your neck, but for the most part, were completely frozen in fear.

Law’s eyes twitched before he cast a ‘Room’, sending a blue sphere surrounding the entire plaza. Your captured attention shifted to Law, who stood at the doorway, pulling his sword out of its sheath.

“Trafalgar Law! I heard a rumor you had stolen Barberton’s prized slave, but I’ll be taking her back to her proper owner now,” the man taunted, gripping tighter on your throat. Your eyes pinched in pain.

Law’s jaw tightened at the sight, “SHAMBLES!” he shouted, and you were replaced by a loose book, which was crushed in the grip of your captor. You now sat in Bepo’s furry arms, coughing and holding your neck in pain. Law gave Bepo a quick glance before Bepo took the message and ran off to the ship.

Law glared at your captor, who looked over in surprise as Law and his sword were flying toward him in a flash.

‘Room.’

Law walked away from the destruction behind him as everything fell to the ground when he took down his Room.

Shachi ran up to the enraged captain. “Everyone is back on the ship, and we are ready to disembark,” he informed while he looked behind the captain in horror at the state his captain left the man.

“Good.” Law placed his sword back into its sheath. “Let’s go.”

Law slowly walked onto the ship, his eyes searching for you. Once they landed on you sobbing in Bepo’s arm, he made a beeline to you.

You had curled yourself into Bepo’s furry chest, your hand covering your throat as you sniffled, trying to regain your breath. Law gently brushed his hand over your head, gaining your attention. You looked up at the man with blurry eyes, “I’m sorry,” you wept, huffing in a breath.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Law assured and used his thumb to brush away your tears, “I took care of it. He will never touch you again.”

You nodded, reaching to pull him into a hug, something Law was becoming more and more familiar with. Law leaned forward to allow you to wrap your arms around his neck before gently pulling you out of the polar bear’s arms. Law looked around to see everyone staring at him in shock, “GET READY TO DISEMBARK!” Law shouted, which sent everyone dashing around the ship as he disappeared into the ship and into the med bay.

Once in the med bay, Law gently placed you on top of the medical table as you wiped away your remaining tears. “I was so scared,” you whined as Law gently lifted your chin to get a better view of the forming bruise on your neck.

“I can’t go back,” you sobbed, “I will break. I can’t…”

Law shook his head, grabbing your hands into his. “I won’t let that happen,” he promised.

You felt tingles in your fingers as they touched his. “I froze,” you admitted, “When I saw him, I froze. I felt like I was back at my master’s and he was there to punish me again.”

You started to feel the tingle in your fingertips before feeling a mixture of determination and relief. “You weren’t there and he will never lay a hand on you ever again. Not as long as I am here.”

“You can’t promise that,” you admitted, “My master, he has a lot of power. He will just send more and now he knows that I am with your crew.”

“And if he does, I’ll protect you,” he spoke before glinting into a smile, “Besides, I can promise that he will never touch you again.” Law then lifted up a pair of disconnected hands.

You gasped as you watched the fingers twitch. “Is that his hands…” Your tone was a mixture of disgust and shock.

Law nodded, poking one of the hands, which caused it to form into a fist and try to reach for Law’s finger. “And he still feels everything that happens to it.” Law gave an evil smirk.

“What are you going to do with it?” You ask in alarm all you fears washed away now invested in the man’s hand and your captain who is powerful enough and demented enough to steal the mans hands.

Law shrugged opening a drawer and dropping the hands in, “I don’t know. Probably keep it locked in here until I decided to pick up sewing and use it as a pin cushion.”

Your hand swings up to your hand as you try to cover your laugh. Law smirks hearing your laugh again and seeing you smile again. The next person who takes that smile away will find a fate worse than death he has worked to hard to get that smile to your face.

Later that week Law noticed he could hear your tiny footsteps sneaking past his office door again something he hasn’t heard since you stopping taking your late night showers. Curious Law follows the sound as you walk to the deck of the ship and leaned on the railing.

Law stayed back for a moment watching your hair fly in the wind while you took in deep breathes of the salty air.

“What are you doing up?” He ask as he finally approaches leaning next to you.

You look him up and down before off to the sea again, “I can ask you the same thing?”

Law shrugged, “can’t sleep.”

You bow your head, “Same here.”

Law eyebrow raised, “Bad thoughts?” He asked knowingly.

You sighed, “Ya… I… I guess when he grab me I didn’t realized that was the first time in a while I was afraid to lose something. I was bought by my master 13 years ago when I was only 13 and before that I already lost my mother and didn’t have much in the first place. Now you and your crew have given me so much to love and the thought of losing all it is terrifying.”

Law sighed, “I know that feeling. When I was 10 I lost everything my family, my friends, my island, I was the only survivor and I felt numb and just wanted to end it all. But then someone found me and showed me love again and then I found my brothers and that gave me something to fight for. Now I am terrified every day to lose it all again and somedays I feel like I am destined to live a life full of loses. It’s a thought that keeps me up at night but it also gives me a reason to wake up in the morning and fight for what I have.” Law pressed on his eye getting rid of the tears that threaten to fall.

You placed your hand on top of his with tears forming in your own eyes as you took in his emotions from touching him. You were hit hard with the grief he felt, “Could I help you feel better?”

Law shook his head placing his other hand on top of your, “Being out here with you is already making me feel better.”

You smiled slightly leaning upwards and connecting your lips to his. Law froze for a moment with his eyes growing wide at your face so close to his before he relaxed closing his eyes and lifting his hands to the back of your head. He selfishly held you close deepening the kiss not wanting for this moment to end.

A/N: Thank you for reading if you made it to this point you may like some of my other works so check out my Master List.

If you link this format you might like my latest work brainwaves which is a fun silly story where the reader finds they are control Law's body and the two try to solve the mystery.

Anyways it was fun to come back to this story and I will probably be coming back with a part 2 full post with a similar but different sad ending because I like to make myself cry.

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zorostitties · 3 months ago

Text

Intertwined; 2

⤕ Luffy and you were like two sides of the same coin: opposites in every way, but similar in what mattered the most. Tied by a vow made with the purity of a child's heart, life keeps trying to tear you apart - but the vow that intertwined your destinies would not be broken so easily. Or, Luffy promised to marry you someday when you were kids. This is how he keeps his promise.

pairing: monkey d. luffy x (f) reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, arranged marriage, fluff, angst, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, toxic family relationships, death/grief, when i say slow burn i mean it

rating: 18+

word count: 7k

A/N: HELLO YALL 💋 I can't stress enough how excited I am about this fic - and it's only beginning. Thank everyone that left comments on the first chapter!! I still have to make a proper playlist for this fic BUT a little song rec - I listened to Stay With Me from Miki Matsubara while writing this chapter!! kinda cliche but it makes me feel nostalgic and those are the correct vibes for this one. 🤓 Enjoy <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

➛ 9

One year, zero failures.

Twenty five commissions. Millions of berries in profit to the Scarpia safes.

And finally – five days of freedom.

In the Scarpia family, you couldn’t ask for things. You negotiated. Everything was transactional; that was the soul of the business. To get something, you must give something in return. Different things had different prices.

The cost of your little unsupervised vacation was absolute and obedient hard work. No more running away, no more slacking off, no complaining… instead, improving in every area that mattered to be a better assassin. You took commissions, excelled in training and tests, attended Landon’s classes without fail.

All so you could get what you wanted on your birthday.

It wasn’t an expensive request, but you knew that it costed much more than anything your brothers ever asked for – much more than Urso’s cannon that was exclusive to Marine warships, Saqr’s golden armor armor or Crowley’s actual warship with a full crew. Five days of being away, not being followed by anyone from the family, no questions asked? That was a lot. And so, the price to pay for that was high.

But you payed anyway. Payed splendidly. So your father had to honor the deal.

And finally, after a year, there you were climbing Mt. Colubo again.

You were excitedly making your way up the hill – running, to be honest. It wasn’t hard to remember the specific hill you agreed to meet; you had an awfully good memory for some reason. Your heart beat faster with each step in both excitement and worry. What if he forgot about you? What if he missed the date? You didn’t know where Luffy lived, so you wouldn’t know where to meet him – and it’d take days to scoop the area after him.

What if he simply didn’t care?

The thought made you nauseous.

Well, if he didn’t show up, you still had a mountain to explore and money to rent a room in the city–

The wind brought an unknown voice to your ears.

Your instincts jumped, took control of your body. You immediately hid behind a bush, crouching down, and waited.

“...tired of this!” A young male voice. A boy’s voice. “We’ve been waiting since morning! I swear, if you’re trying to prank me, I’ll kick you off that cliff...”

Then, another boy’s voice – and your eyes immediately widened. You knew that high pitched whine.

“It’s not a prank, Ace! I said I’d be waiting right here, I can’t leave!”

“Yeah, right. Waiting for your imaginary friend.”

“I’m not imagining anything!” An uneasy groan. “Though maybe I missed the date… has it really been a year? She is taking too long…”

“Tsk. I’m sick of this. I’m heading back…”

“No! Wait!”

You got up and sprinted up the hill.

“Luffy!” Your voice cracked a bit while screaming his name… still not used to screaming. One hand kept gripping the strap of the backpack while the other waved excitedly.

And there he was.

The stretchy boy hadn’t changed a thing. Same hair, same height, same scar under his left eye, a bandaid on a different place this time – his forehead –, same battered up straw hat that was still too big for his head, jeans shorts and a blue tank top…

And same grin, big big grin, that appeared as soon as he spotted you… except he was missing his front tooth now.

“Wolfie!” He yelled. Who the hell–? Oh, right. That’s the name I made up. “You came!”

You had almost reached them when Luffy decided to engulf you in a hug.

...You were also not used to hugs and sudden proximity. The part of you that had been sharpened like a blade had the instinct to crush his trachea with the side of your hand. No no no, these are my five days of vacation. No business thinking! You made the conscious effort to push that part away, to lock it in a dark vault inside of your brain, a vault with a very complicated password. No bloodthirst. No kill intent.

So you just hugged him back instead and giggled excitedly.

Luffy then stepped away and grinned mischievously at that other boy.

He stepped behind you and put both hands over your shoulders as if presenting you like an item. “See? You seeing this? Is this imaginary? Call me a liar again, come on! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, I dare you!”

You scanned each other in silence.

This guy was definitely a few years older than Luffy and you. His black wavy hair fell over his forehead, his tanned skin was peppered with freckles. Like Luffy, his brown eyes were so dark that they almost looked black. He wore shorts, an orange tank top, elbow pads, and held a steel pipe… what was that for?

He was much, much more judgmental than Luffy.

And apparently smarter, too.

Luffy walked to your side.

“This one’s my big brother Ace!” He presented.

You were immediately taken aback. Of course, you remembered how Luffy kept talking about someone called Ace. But you didn’t expect him to be a brother.

Just because your brothers are awful, doesn’t mean everybody’s are, too.

You managed to open a tight smile.

“My name’s Wolfie. Nice to meet you.”

Ace crossed his arms and measured you from head to toe – and you had to fight the urge to immediately despise him, because that look was familiar. Stop that. You don’t even know him yet. It’s your vacation! Time to have fun!

Luffy tapped your shoulder with the back of his hand. “Ace here kept saying I made you up, can you believe that?”

Ace side eyed Luffy with a frown. “You can’t blame me. The whole story sounded suspicious.” He focused on you again and tilted his head to the side. “The hell are you from?”

He carefully analyzed your outfit and backpack. Your clothes weren’t exactly fancy: you wore the standard Scarpia children “uniform”, which was basically a white button shirt, a black pleated skirt and the black blazer with the red scorpion on it (you had quickly gotten rid of that family crest from your clothes, however). You brothers, much obviously, wore pants instead of the skirt, but other than that, it was all the same.

You would have picked something different if you weren’t in such a hurry to get to the Dawn Island as fast as possible. Luckily, the last commission was already at some insignificant island of the East Blue – you picked it on purpose -, but the travel still took a days time. You still had to wait until the clock hit midnight to hop on a ship and head to the island (you couldn’t risk making your way with Landon nearby).

But anyway – your whole appearance was very obviously of a foreigner. A well lived foreigner. You couldn’t lie to two locals that you were from High Town, and you had already told Luffy you lived far.

Luckily, you had everything planned.

“Loguetown,” you announced. Ace seemed a bit surprised for some reason.

Big fat lie, obviously.

You’d been to Loguetown once or twice. It wasn’t that interesting of a place despite the mystique around it. Regardless, it was still a pretty big city and an acceptable answer: far, but not too far. Not too suspicious.

Ace quirked one eyebrow up. “...That’s far. What brings you to Mt. Colubo of all places?”

You shrugged. “My father visits the Goa Kingdom once a year because of his business and I like to come along.”

“You like to climb a mountain on your own.”

“I like animals and insects. I catalog them.”

“She draws pretty well. I mean, not better than me, but–“

“The mountain with the giant dangerous animals.” Ace cut Luffy off without taking his eyes off you.

“Yeah, that’s why this place is interesting.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s the problem with that?”

“The problem is that this doesn’t make any sense.”

“What? You think a girl can’t take care of herself?”

“That’s not what I mean–“

“How are you alive? Luffy ate a Devil Fruit, so I get it, but how about you?”

Luffy looked between you and Ace like a ping pong ball coming and going.

And Ace looked very offended.

“What–?! I’m a hundred times stronger than Luffy!”

“Hey!”

“Don’t change the subject!” Ace once again ignored Luffy and pointed his finger at you. “I don’t know how a rich brat like you is even alive in here!”

You let an annoyed groan past your lips and tightened your fists. What an insufferable guy!

But then, you narrowed your eyes and refrained from arguing more. I didn’t come here to argue with anyone. I came here to play with Luffy.

A smug smirk grew on your lips. You held both straps of the backpack and took a small step back.

Then – you sprinted.

It made the wind howl, the trees sway. You had time to hear a satisfying gasp from both of them, but especially from the oh-so-annoying Ace.

In the blink of an eye, you were standing on the lower branch of a tree nearby.

“This is how.” You announced to a shocked Ace while smiling.

Luffy laughed.

He hopped excitedly and shook his arms. “I told you, see?! I told you, I told you!” The straw hat boy then looked at you with a defiant grin and fire in his eyes. “I said I’d be even faster this time!”

“Then prove it!” Now you were the one hopping excitedly. “You’re it!”

Luffy laughed and launched his weird stretched arm in your direction. You deflected him and jumped to another tree.

Ace stood there, still a bit shocked, and watched as you and Luffy chased each other through the trees. Both of you were noisy. Both of you disturbed the small animals like birds and squirrels, made branches shake violently, making a rain of leaves fall over his head. He heard a succession of tag! You’re it! before you said it one last time.

And then he spotted Luffy smiling devilishly at him like a gremlin.

“Are you just gonna stand there?!”

Ace took a step back and sent him a warning glare.

“Luffy, don’t you dare–”

Smack.

“You’re it!”

“I’m gonna kill you!”

Straw hat boy just laughed.

There were three kids disturbing the small fauna now.

“Have you ever eaten crocodile meat?” Luffy asked.

You shook your head. “Not that I remember.”

He smiled. “It’s soooo good. You’re gonna love it. Uh, now I’m hungry…”

“When are you not hungry, Luffy?” Ace side eyed you. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to hunt with us… since you’re soooooo good at everything.”

You shrugged.

Yes. It’s true that you decided to just stand near the river and watch them hunt the crocodile. Not because you couldn’t help them, but because it felt… wrong.

The crocodile was huge. Two times bigger than a cow, maybe. It was now wrapped in ropes as the two boys carried it above their heads towards their home. You’d never seen a crocodile this big, and that’s why you hesitated. Were there even that many crocodiles around?

“I feel bad for it.” You admitted quietly.

The two boys looked at you like you were insane.

“What? You don’t eat meat?!” Luffy seemed flabbergasted.

“I bet you don’t feel bad about cows or chickens,” Ace was much more defensive.

You just sighed and crossed your arms. “That’s not what I mean… whatever. Yes, I do eat meat.” You looked up at the huge animal for a few seconds. “Can I at least sketch it before you cook it?”

“Why would you wanna do that?”

“I already said that I catalog animals.”

“Weirdo.”

You wanted to punch Ace.

“Hey, hey, Wolfie, what’s your favorite food?” Luffy asked.

You held your chin and looked up. “Hmm… crab legs. I think.” Luffy hummed in response. “Or spicy noodles.” He hummed again. “Anything spicy, to be honest.”

It wasn’t without a reason. Your mother was a poison specialist. She made you and your brothers take small dosages of different types of poison not only to be able to recognize it, but to resist it. Turns out one of her poisons burned your taste buds and food became tasteless for months – until you ate a very very spicy pepper from Dressrosa and went oh, I can actually feel the taste of this. Your taste buds had healed, but your liking for spicy food stayed.

You weren’t going to tell them that, though.

“Never seen a girl that likes pepper,” Ace quirked his eyebrow up, clearly questioning you.

“You don’t know that many girls, do you?”

Ace blushed for some reason, but still looked annoyed. “Listen here, you brat–!”

He was interrupted by a growl.

You thought it was a savage animal nearby at first, but the sound was coming from too close…

It was Luffy’s rumbling belly.

“Ugh… I want to eat…” He tilted his head to the side as if he was suffering. “Crab legs… noodles… pepper…”

“You can’t take spicy food, Luffy,” Ace murmured.

“Yes, I can!”

They started arguing and you just watched in silence.

It was… interesting.

They bantered a lot. They punched each other and argued over silly things. Ace usually won most of the fights and arguments. However… you didn’t see genuine anger in his eyes not even once. You didn’t hear genuine insults meant to hurt. It was all silly, superficial – and they always got over it two minutes after it happened.

You wondered if that’s how siblings usually acted.

No. Don’t think of Urso or Crowley or Saqr… that’s not what you came here for.

So you looked ahead and spotted something, which caused you to stop on your tracks.

“Oh!” That caught their attention. “You guys have a tree house?”

It was well hidden in between the branches, but there was definitely a tree house some meters away at the top of an especially tall tree. The wooden structure looked a bit precarious and perhaps even abandoned, yet it immediately picked your interest.

“Did you guys build it?”

Luffy blinked and looked uneasy for some reason. “Huh…”

“It looks pretty cool!” An excited smile appeared on your lips. You gripped the straps of the backpack, ready to run. “I want to see it!”

“Wait, Wolfie–“ Luffy tried to warn you. Which was weird, because Luffy never tried to warn you about anything, so at that moment, you didn’t pay attention to him.

You were running towards the tree.

That’s when Ace yelled “No!”

The ground shook when he dropped the heavy crocodile. In the blink of an eye, Ace was towering in front of you, both of his arms extended to block your passage.

You froze on your tracks.

He… he looked angry.

“You’re not allowed to go there!”

His stance and his voice would’ve triggered normal you’s aggression. But that part of you was locked inside the vault – so all you did was widen your eyes at him.

“But it’s just a tree house,” you tried. That made him angrier for some reason.

“Do not get anywhere near that place!”

Luffy stepped closer, frowning. “Hey, Ace, you don’t need to get so angry–“

Ace turned his attention to him. “If you take her there, I will never talk to you again! Got it?!”

Luffy himself was surprised.

The oldest boy sent a last menacing gaze towards you before taking the crocodile on his own and marching ahead.

You just stood there, too shocked to say anything, for long seconds. Luffy sent you an apologetic look; it seems he didn’t know what to do, either.

...All older brothers are assholes, I guess.

Meeting Luffy’s “family” made you understand him (and Ace) much more.

Their house was deep inside the forest, in the middle of a large clearing. It was a big one-story house with a lookout, though it looked precarious. Many voices came from inside it.

The two boys announced that they had brought dinner. A couple of men wearing white turbans came from inside the house to check it. None of them seemed impressed that the kids killed a monster crocodile, which could only mean that wasn’t unusual. You stood there awkwardly for a while. No one seemed bothered by your presence.

That is, until a big ginger woman came out of the house.

Her hair was long and curly. She wore a white blouse, checkered green pants, a necklace made of red round beads and boots. She had two cigarettes (?) between her lips and the ferocious eyes that could only belong to a leader.

The woman immediately started scolding Luffy and Ace with why’d you take so long?! or which of you used all the sugar?! and your clothes are stinky, you better wash it before tomorrow! and you have to clean all the mess you made! and don’t you dare talk back like that, brat! and I will kick your ass if you don’t watch that tone! and then she finally laid her eyes on you.

She blinked.

You blinked.

“Hi.” You sent her a small wave. “My name is–

“LUFFY AND ACE KIDNAPPED A CITY GIRL!!”

It was like everyone finally noticed your presence at that moment.

The men gasped and gathered around you. The ginger woman fumed like a chimney – and suddenly everything became noisy noisy noisy, with everyone showing different levels of outrage.

“What a horrible thing to do-nii!” Said a short guy wearing a pink polka dotted overall who seemed to be already panicking.

“You guys really crossed the line this time!” Said another tall guy with a brown mustache and a weird wattle on the top of his head, looking at Ace and Luffy disapprovingly.

The woman grabbed the two buys by their collars and lifted them from the ground like they weighed nothing.

“You little psychopaths! This girl’s from High Town, ain’t she?! Why’d you bring her here?! You wanna get us all killed?!”

“What are you–“ Ace grunted, grabbing her wrist. “Talking about, crazy old woman?!”

“We didn’t kidnap anyone!” Luffy screamed. “She’s Wolfie and she’s my friend!”

“Friend?! Don’t make me laugh! Why would a little girl get into the woods like that–“

“Miss.”

She finally stopped to look down when you touched her arm softly.

“They’re not lying. I’m on vacation and came to visit Luffy.”

Silence.

She quirked her eyebrow at you with distrust.

“Where’re your parents?”

“In the city.”

“Where will you stay? It’s almost sundown, there’s not enough time to reach the city before night comes.”

You slipped the backpack to only one shoulder and shoved your hand inside the small pocket.

“I was wondering if I could stay here for two or three days…” You finally showed her what you were looking for – and earned a collective gasp. “...If you don’t mind, of course.”

A wad of cash.

She put the two boys down slowly.

The woman took it from your much smaller hand and removed the rubber band, counting the berries rapidly.

She then looked at you again – and for a moment, it looked like it’d take some more convincing–

But she grinned.

“Of course, darling!” She crouched down to come closer to your eye level – and all of sudden, the aggressiveness and distrust and even the wrinkle between her eyebrows were gone. She was all smiles and blushes and it was like flowers were floating around her head. Even her voice became sweet like honey. “Of course, why wouldn’t we take such a cutie in?! My name’s Dadan. We’ll take care of whatever you need!”

And then all the other grown men were smiling sweetly and blushing too, and the flowers multiplied. You heard I’ll prepare you a bedroom! and I’ll cook you a great dinner! and I can make you cute dresses– wait, why do you know how to make dresses?!

Such a drastic change.

Well. One thing you knew from the world of the adults is that there were just a few things money couldn’t buy.

Ace side eyed you with a frown. Luffy didn’t seem to mind and didn’t seem upset at Dadan despite what she just did.

“Hey, hey, Wolfie–“ He tapped your arm many times. “There are a loooot of beetles around here! And scorpions too! And–“

“Didn’t you said you wanted to draw the crocodile or whatever?” Ace interrupted with somewhat of a pout. “You better do it now before we skin it. I don’t wanna have dinner late because of you.” The older boy walked away with his hands inside the front pockets of his shorts.

“Right.” You nodded. Luffy’s shoulders dropped.

“You’re gonna sit down and draw now? That’s boring! I wanna play!”

“It won’t take that long this time,” you explained while searching for the sketchbook inside of your backpack. Luffy pouted.

You sat down on the grass and quickly started sketching the crocodile’s head from the side. You’d have to check on your Reptile Encyclopedia if this species was already cataloged… you hadn’t brought that book with you – it was way too heavy – and that’s why taking as many details as possible was necessary, so you could compare the drawing with the book images back home.

Meanwhile, everything was noisy behind you.

Luffy, Ace, Dadan, the other guys… they all made a lot of noise. A lot of insults and arguments… but a lot of laughter, too. All that noise wasn’t bothersome. In fact, it was much more comfortable than the mortifying silence that always hovered inside the Scarpia mansion.

You finished the sketch quickly and left everything aside to play with Luffy – and from there, time seemed to run. You played catch and played with a ball and played with a white dog that lived there. You rolled on the grass and jumped rope and played on a tire swing until it made Luffy feel nauseous. You raced too many times to keep count and taught Luffy each different species of bugs you saw inside the forest (though he didn’t remember anything a second after you finished speaking). And then suddenly your clothes were dirty and you were tired but you didn’t mind at all, because that tiredness didn’t hurt.

Finally it was time to have dinner – and the amount of food they cooked was a bit absurd, but everything smelled great. Everyone gathered to eat after bathing and changing clothes. Luffy was quite literally drooling.

“Let the guest eat first, brat!” Dadan reprimanded Luffy with a punch in his head when he tried to grab a piece of meat. You quickly filled your plate with rice, meat and a bit of salad before someone else could complain.

“That’s not fair,” Ace whined with a frown. “Why don’t we get this type of treatment? You never make this many side dishes.”

Dadan glared at him with fire in her eyes. “Because you’re not full of mone– I-I mean, because you’re not a cute, polite girl! Work on your manners first before you get special treatment!”

They started arguing.

You ate from your plate in peace. Luffy filled plate after plate after plate and for a moment you wondered if that giant crocodile was enough to satisfy him. There was a lot of noise, still. They talked loud. Yet, in your silence, you could still see that same thing from before. They argued and cussed at each other, but you couldn’t hear genuine anger or contempt or the will to hurt. Even Dadan who seemed the harshest of them all had that underlying care in her gaze, though you doubted Luffy or Ace could see it too.

Everything made your heart feel surprisingly at ease.

And made you feel something else too – but it was small and irritating, so you decided to brush it off.

“Hey, Ace, you’re losing to Luffy on something, huh?” That guy with a mustache – was his name Magura? – said at some point. He had a suspicious smile and light blush over his cheeks.

Both boys stopped eating for a second and went Huh?

Magura blinked prettily.

“Your younger brother got a girlfriend first than you. You better work on that!”

A room full of grown men giggled. Ace blushed furiously and started cussing.

You and Luffy looked at each other at the same time.

He blinked.

You blinked.

You both scowled like you’d eaten a very sour lemon.

“EEEW!!”

“Where are we going now?” You asked as soon as you stepped out of the house.

The morning smelled like dew, sap and damp soil. There were no clouds to cover the bluest sky you’d ever seen. Multiple birds chirped their melody, and you felt tempted to try to recognize the different species, but you wouldn’t have time.

Luffy had invited you to go somewhere.

“You said it was a party?”

The straw hat boy grinned. “Yeah! A birthday party for the Mayor! Makino throws a party for him every year. She bakes cake and a bunch of sweets!”

You followed him shortly, starting to feel a little excited. That was when you spotted Ace leaning on a tree nearby with his arms crossed. He looked… upset.

Luffy seemed to hesitate for a second.

“I’m going down to Foosha now, Ace!” He announced.

The other boy just shrugged in response.

That was… weird.

Luffy started to run, so you quickened your pace to catch up to him. His hat flew from his head and swayed with the wind while trapped by that thin rope around his neck. Soon, the house and the clearing were left behind.

“We can get to Foosha Village quicker using this trail,” Luffy explained. You nodded and kept silent for some moments while he yapped about cake flavors.

But your curiosity got the best of you.

“Luffy.”

“Hm?”

“Why isn’t Ace coming with us?” Luffy visibly stiffened. “Is he that angry at me?”

The straw hat boy coughed as if he had choked on something.

“He… huh… h-he’s not angry at you!”

“Why isn’t he coming, then?”

“Huh… hmmm…”

You watched very closely as sweat dripped down his forehead, his cheeks got flushed, his eyes very consciously averted from yours, a pout formed on his lips.

He almost looked constipated.

“H-He… he said he’s not a kid anymore to attend birthday parties!” Luffy looked extremely proud of himself for coming up with this answer. “Boring guy, isn’t he? Anyway, I bet you can’t get to that tree faster than me! Three-two-one-go!!”

He sprinted down the trail before you could get ready, making a cloud of dust on his way. You narrowed your eyes slowly.

That morning, you learned that Luffy was a terrible liar.

Foosha Village was about what you already expected – small with not much interesting going on. Not many houses, not many establishments, not that many people. The village port was small with only a few ships docked. The sea that surrounded Dawn Island was of a gorgeous blue, so calm that it could be mistaken by the waters of the Calm Belt.

Partys Bar faced this beautiful scenery.

Luffy stormed in unceremoniously and ran to the arms of a young woman of dark green hair – was that the Makino he talked about?

“Luffy!” She said sweetly while embracing him. “You came early!”

“The earlier we get, the more food we eat!” He giggled before leaning away.

Her eyes quickly found you. “And who is this little princess right here?”

Your cheeks got warm.

What did she just call me?!

“A friend of mine!” Luffy presented. “I brought her to eat cake!”

Makino chuckled. “Well, you two will have to wait, then. The cake’s still baking and I haven’t finished the decorations yet. Care to help me with this?”

You certainly didn’t care.

Makino brought an old box with decorations: ribbons, balloons, confetti and more. You sat on the bar stool and busied yourself with filling the balloons while her and Luffy glued the colorful tapes and little flags around the bar walls. His Devil Fruit ability came in handy in situations like this.

It was weird, this feeling you had. Unusual. The sound of the waves crashing not far from there. Trees swaying with the oceanic breeze. Chatter coming from the street. Luffy’s laughter and Makino’s sweet voice.

It was peaceful.

So peaceful that you felt your shoulders relaxing. For the first time, the “sonar” within you that kept constantly looking for potential danger was down. Yes, you knew that was wrong; it was against everything you’d ever learned. Never let your guard down.

But Landon wasn’t there. Nor your father or your mother. Crowley wasn’t hiding somewhere with a knife waiting for an opportunity to stab you. Saqr and his hound dogs weren’t anywhere near. Urso wouldn’t try to squeeze you to death… and you weren’t completing a commission, either.

You never thought you’d like to keep that part of you inside the vault, but turns out your life became pretty quiet when it happened.

Some kids entered the bar at some point. You couldn’t tell if Luffy already knew them, but they talked excitedly. Soon, they were outside on the street, playing.

You wondered for a second if you should join them, but Makino approached.

“That’s enough balloons, thank you.” She smiled softly. “Care to help me with something else?”

She guided you behind the counter into the kitchen. The place was filled with a delicious sweet smell of the cake baking inside the oven. Other than that, there were plenty of other snacks over the table at the center: some of them were obviously sweets, some looked deep fried.

“I couldn’t finish rolling the brigadeiros. The Mayor always asks for them,” she explained while walking towards the counter where a pan rested. “If I asked Luffy to come, he’d eat everything instead of helping.”

“He would.” You nodded and frowned slightly. “But… what’s a brigadeiro?”

Makino quirked an eyebrow. “You’re not from here, are you? If you don’t know what a brigadeiro is.”

Well. You couldn’t tell if you didn’t know what that was because you weren’t from the area of because you’d never been to a birthday party before – a normal one, at least. Maybe people ate this brigadeiro thing on the Grand Line, too. Who knows?

You repeated your lie, but decided to leave the Loguetown name behind. Perhaps Makino knew that it was also a common snack at that city, which would raise more questions.

After washing your hands, she proceeded to explain what to do.

“First, you have to coat your palms with butter so it slides easily… then, you take a bit of the chocolate dough from the pan with the spoon. It doesn’t need to be much. And then… you just roll it with your hands… until it becomes a little ball. This size is okay. See? Now you just dip it in the chocolate sprinkles and it’s done.”

It wasn’t a difficult task – and Makino was kind enough to let you eat some. After you picked up the pace, she let you do it on your own and went to take care of something else in the kitchen.

You couldn’t help but take glances at her from time to time.

Makino was delicate. The scarf wrapped around her hair matched with her long skirt; the thin pearl necklace also matched with her pearl earrings. She was agile in everything she did and sweet with her words. And that was also unusual.

Your mother – the only female reference you had – was the complete opposite of Makino. She was older, of course, but the differences didn’t stop there. Your mother was beautiful, too, and extremely elegant. But she was also cold. Distant. Black instead of colorful. Reprimands instead of compliments. Makino smelled of candy; Scilla Scarpia smelled of poison.

That made you feel a bit sad for some reason.

“What?” She asked at some point, and you realized you had been staring for some time. You stiffened.

“...Your earrings are very pretty, miss.”

Makino opened a wide smile and approached. “Do you want them?”

“W-What?”

“I have many earrings… these would look cute on you.” She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. “Oh! How come you don’t have your ears pierced?”

You didn’t. You also weren’t used to wearing necklaces or bracelets or hair clips… nothing flashy or colorful. Your face was almost always hidden behind a white wolf mask anyway, so why worry about your appearance?

“I can pierce your ears later,” Makino offered. “But it hurts a little bit. Do you want it?”

At the same time… why not worry about your appearance?

A sudden smile and unexpected excitement bubbled within your chest. “Yes!”

The bar was packed a few hours later.

There were mostly kids. Conversation and laughter filled the air. Your ears stung a little bit, but you didn’t mind; you were too busy playing. Makino decided that it was time to congratulate the Mayor, so everyone gathered around a table to celebrate.

The Mayor himself – a short guy wearing a bucket hat, glasses and a colorful shirt – came to stand in front of the cake. After lighting the candles, they all clapped and sang happy birthday to you.

You looked around while everyone was too focused on the birthday man.

So many smiles. So much excitement and care. Little flags on the ceiling, colorful ribbons, balloons, a big Happy Birthday sign on the wall behind the Mayor. Everybody in that room knew him, all of them took their time to come to the bar and celebrate. Was he feeling appreciated? Was he happy and grateful?

His smile told you that he was.

Yesterday was your birthday, you remembered.

No one in the bar knew. Not even Luffy. You wouldn’t try to tell him and steal the moment. So, while you clapped and sang along, you silently pretended that it was all for you. It was silly and inappropriate, but you did it anyway. You pretended for a little over a minute that your birthday was filled with sweets and cakes and kids around your age to play with and music and laughter.

When the Mayor blew the candles, you silently wished it would be you in that place someday.

The moment was over soon. Slices of cake were distributed. Chocolate cake with strawberries. It tasted amazing. Makino had to stand near the cake to prevent Luffy from eating everything by himself.

The kids went out to play again. You followed, leaving this small moment of sorrow behind.

“Hurry up, you two. I don’t want to see you climbing up that mountain in the dark.” There were still a few hours left until sunset, but Makino was right. You had eaten more than what your stomach could take and tired your legs from running around so much.

Makino handed you a picnic basket: it had slices of cake, brigadeiros, coxinhas (which was something else you had never eaten before – a crispy fried snack in a teardrop shape filled with shredded chicken) and sandwiches. “These are for Ace and the others. I’m glad you’re here to carry it, because Luffy would end up eating everything on the way if I gave it to him.”

“Hey!”

She giggled and leaned down to hug Luffy. When Makino leaned away, she lowered her voice, but you could still hear very well when she said: “Tell Ace I’ll go see him tomorrow, okay?”

She then approached and hugged you. “Don’t forget to clean your ears with alcohol everyday.” Makino touched the pearl earrings softly and smiled. “You do look very cute with them!”

Your cheeks felt hot again. For whatever reason.

After waving your goodbyes, there you were making your way into the forest.

Luffy didn’t feel like running, which was a bit of a miracle. Even him could get tired… and you were thankful, because like that, he couldn’t run away from you.

You waited until you were out of the village to start.

“Luffy.”

“Huh?”

“Why didn’t Ace come?”

He stiffened again.

“Y-You already asked that, didn’t you? And I already answered.”

“I don’t buy it. There must be another reason.” You approached him until your shoulders bumped. “Come ooooon. I won’t tell anyone.”

Luffy made that weird constipated face again and crossed his arms. “I… huh… I don’t know! I have no idea! Hah!”

“I’m great at keeping secrets! You can trust me!”

“Seriously, I don’t know anything!” But he was sweating again and avoiding your gaze so much that his eyeballs were almost rolling inside his skull, so it meant it was time to play dirty.

You shoved your hand inside the basket and put a coxinha in front of his face.

His eyes widened.

“I’ll give it to you if you tell me.”

Luffy gasped.

He froze, his fingers trembled, his mouth drooled. It looked like he was facing the biggest challenge of his life. The coxinha smelled amazing. It was still warm and shining golden in its crispy fried glory.

For a second, it looked like he was raising his hands to grab it – and you were ready to sing victory.

But Luffy tapped his foot on the ground and whipped his head to the side aggressively.

“No!”

It was your turn to gasp.

Was it so serious that Luffy couldn’t even be bribed with food to tell the truth? That was surprising.

Admitting defeat, you put the snack inside the basket again and went back to walking. “Okay, then.”

You heard Luffy whine behind you and the tap tap of his sandals fast approaching again. “But we could eat one of them, right? They would never know.”

“You can’t eat just one. You’ll want the whole thing.”

“Nooo, I’m serious!” He brought both hands close to his face in a praying position and looked at you with round, begging eyes. “Just one? Please? Please? Please?”

You hesitated before admitting defeat for the second time that day.

“Just one.” Luffy giggled excitedly. “Eat slowly ‘cause it’s really gonna be the only one!”

He took one. You took one.

You chewed in silence.

This coxinha was another secret you’d have to keep. Another lie.

Luffy was a terrible liar. It looked like he couldn’t lie to save his life. Meanwhile, lying to you was easy… it was part of the job – sometimes you’d have to go undercover, and to get info on a target, you’d have to lie your way in. You were also used to lying to avoid punishments. It wasn’t hard to come up with something on the spot. Believable lies, sometimes only twisting the truth a bit to get what you wanted.

You lied to everybody here. All of these kind people that had been nothing but honest to you. All of these people calling you by a name that wasn’t truly yours. Wolfie this, Wolfie that… but Wolfie didn’t exist.

No one should see your face. No one should know your name.

But would you ever be able to make a real friend behind this mask of lies?

You wanted Luffy to be a real friend.

So you swallowed and gathered some courage.

“Luffy.”

“Hmm?” His mouth was full.

“I have a secret to tell you.” He seemed mildly interested. “‘Wolfie’ is not my name.”

You gave him your real name quietly – almost as if there was a possibility of someone else hearing it nearby. You decided to leave your last name behind. That would be too risky.

Luffy repeated your name. You nodded. He quirked an eyebrow. “So what?”

“I’m not from Loguetown. I’m not even from the East Blue.”

Luffy narrowed his eyes slowly, finally fully interested. “And why’d you lie?”

You pressed your lips and debated for a second if this was the right thing to do… but Landon wasn’t here, or anyone from your family, and the only thing with ears nearby was a squirrel and a couple of birds.

So you continued.

“I’m an assassin.”

You held your breath and waited for Luffy’s reaction.

He could laugh at your face and say you were lying. He could scowl and run away in fear. He could push you down the hill and tell you to never get near his family again.

But Luffy did what you least expected.

...He didn’t react.

At all.

He just kept chewing the coxinha as if you told him what you’re having for dinner.

“Why are you an assassin?” He asked.

“It’s the family business.”

“So your parents are, too?”

“Yeah.”

“And why do they do that?”

“For the money.” You shrugged.

“Hmmm.” He finished eating and rested both hands behind his head. “That’s why you’re rich.”

“Yeah.”

Luffy then frowned as if remembering something.

“Wait. Why’d you feel bad for the crocodile, then?”

That was an interesting question. “...I like animals. They’re irrational. And cute.”

“You think a monster crocodile is cute?”

“Uh-Huh.”

“Weirdo.” He was pretty much imitating what Ace said earlier, but you didn’t mind. “So. Do you like to kill people?”

That was another interesting question. No one had ever asked you that. You hummed and held your chin.

“I don’t like it. But I don’t mind it either. It’s just... work.”

“Sounds pretty boring.”

Your shoulders dropped. “It is boring.”

“So that’s why you’re here?”

He caught things pretty quickly. You nodded, an annoyed knot appearing between your eyebrows. “They don’t let me play. They don’t let me do anything! It’s just work work work, it’s just you have to honor the family or whatever.” Your voice sounded more whiny and bitter at each word. “They never even asked me if I wanted to be part of the business. Not that they have ever asked my opinion on anything.”

Luffy hummed again – but there was something a bit strange about his voice now.

His hat had dropped a bit, casting a shadow over his eyes.

“...You’re like Sabo.” Luffy’s voice was… strangely quiet. You’d never seen him speaking quietly before.

You tilted your head.

“Who’s Sabo?”

“My brother.”

“Really?” Luffy had another brother? You didn’t hear anyone mention that name. “Where is he?”

Luffy dropped his arms from behind his head.

“He… he died.”

That took you by surprise.

“Oh.”

Silence.

You’re like Sabo, Luffy said.

For some reason, you remembered Ace’s aggressiveness towards you… how he didn’t want to let you in that old tree house...

And something clicked.

Did you remind Ace of this dead brother? Was he somehow jealous of your presence… as if you could perhaps assume that empty spot?

You scratched your head and frowned. That didn’t make any sense since, well, you had enough brothers and you hated all of them. Why’d you want to have any more brothers? That’s not what you came here for. Ace was a few years older than you, but if your suspicions were right, then he was nothing but delusional and childish.

Luffy made a strange noise, which brought your attention to him again.

You leaned to see his face under the hat.

“...You crying?”

“I’m not!”

But his face was wet with tears and his cheeks were flushed and he had the biggest pout and he rushed to clean his nose with the collar of his shirt. Oh no, he’s actually crying, even though he was clearly trying to hold it in. What do I do?!

You weren’t one to cry. You didn’t even remember the last time you did. Wait, have you ever cried at all? Have you ever seen anyone in the family cry? Huh… no, I don’t think so. Never felt anything deserving of shedding tears, I guess.

“Stop staring at me!”

“Sorry!” You leaned away and crossed your arms. “It’s just that this is, huh, unusual.”

Luffy sniffed and frowned. “What do you mean unusual?”

You scratched your own cheek awkwardly. “Well. If any of my brothers died, I’d throw a party to celebrate.”

Luffy stiffened for a second – and you worried that you had worsened the situation.

But then he laughed.

He sniffed again and cleaned his face with his forearm. The tears stopped! Great! “You really are a weirdo. Is your family that bad?”

You scowled instinctively. “I don’t even wanna talk about them.”

“I don’t wanna talk about them, either. They sound boring.” Luffy sniffed again and side eyed you with a small pout. “Don’t tell Ace you saw me crying. He’ll smack me.”

“Okay.” It was your turn to point at him. “Don’t tell Ace my secret or I’ll smack you.”

“Right. Wolfie.” He used a funny tone to say that name while grinning, and it immediately made you smile too. Luffy was kind of slow, but he got the message. That name was forbidden, even though you decided to share it with him anyway.

Luffy knew the real you now – and he didn’t care.

“Can I get another one–?”

“No!” You took the basket out of his reach before he could sneakily stretch his arm to grab it. “I was serious! Just one!”

“But–“

“No!”

You brought the basket close to your chest and sprinted up the trail without looking back. Luffy’s laugh and the tap tap tap of his sandals quickly followed.

At that moment, while running from Luffy and getting deeper into the forest, while feeling the delicious smell of the food inside the basket and sap and damp soil, while listening to his giggles and the ones that erupted from your own chest, you got to a conclusion.

One year, zero failures – twenty five successful commissions, uncountable classes, uncountable boring hours of painful training… it was a fair price to pay for the happiness you could experience at that mountain, at that island, at this god forsaken corner of the world. No golden armor or cannon or warship could compare to that.

No money could buy that.

You were willing to do whatever it took to always keep this small island of peace intact.

#luffy x reader #one piece x reader #monkey d. luffy #monkey d. luffy x reader #one piece #op x reader #one piece luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x you #mugiwara no luffy

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peachpopfizz · 17 days ago

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Idol!Solo-Demon-Hunter!Reader × The Saja Boys

Part 2, A Totally, Definitely, 100%, Completely Normal Group Of Guys

First | Previous | Next

yk, I think the main reason I struggle with writing consistent fics sm is bc I'm a person who has chronic "if this chapter isn't perfect and exactly up to my standards then I can't post it" syndrome, BUT!!! I'm trying to get past that and post this despite the fact that I don't think it's my best work :,)

I might've said this before but again. I'm making up 80% of this story on the fly. I have some plot points ik I want but how am I gonna get there?? fuck, we gon' find out, we ball

anyways, enjoy part 2! you get to meet all the other boys this time!!! or. well. uh. 3 watch and 1 houndogs you like he smelled a good steak lmao. poor jinu needs to invest to put them all on childleashes

WC: ~2.2K

You stared in horror-filled shock as the camera panned over Rumi, who confidently stood center stage. Her golden outfit hugged her body beautifully, and her markings... they seemed to glimmer under the stage lights, bright neon rainbow. With every step she took, they pulsated with an otherworldly energy, as if they had a life of their own. The first chorus ended, the sound of the crowd singing so thunderous it shook the ground.

Unbeknownst to the screaming fans and cameras flashing everywhere, the newly created Honmoon glimmered a bright white light, its connection stronger than ever as thousands of empowered voices rang out. The three girls beamed and looked at each other knowingly while they danced, nothing but love, joy, and acceptance in their eyes.

While the trio was having a party on the stage, you were... Well, you were having a mental breakdown in your greenroom.

Your hands fisted your hair, still stuck on your knees while hyperventilating, eyes wide and pupils dilated with fear. No... no, no, NO- this was wrong, this was all wrong- Rumi? The lead singer of the number one K-Pop girl group in Korea was a DEMON? A soul-sucking DEMON from HELL?!

You felt sick, physically nauseous. Your head was spinning, breathing felt hard. God, never-mind what you said earlier about it being saved, today once more sucked.

As you struggled to process this world-changing revelation, the door to your greenroom suddenly creaked open. You didn't notice at first, too lost in your panic and shock. But when a soft footstep sounded behind you, you snapped out of it just enough to whip your head around, almost snarling at whoever the intruder was. Running off adrenaline and autopilot, you jumped up, shifting into a fighting stance and ready to summon your scythe. Thankfully, a really funny squawking noise of surprise shook you from your fear.

The person in front of you wasn't a threat- it was just… Jinu. A rather alarmed and ready-to-bolt looking Jinu. You dropped your stance in an instant, looking at him sorrowfully. Dear god, you can NOT make a good impression with this guy...

"Oh- Oh my god, Jinu? I'm so, so sorry, you scared the shit out of me-”

Jinu still looked alarmed, but he quickly recovered, holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture, a small smile on his face. He took in your panicked expression and disheveled appearance, concern etched into the crease of his brow.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," He spoke softly, taking a step back to give you some space. "No need to freak out- sorry for not knocking."

Only after you caught your breath did Jinu slowly step closer again, concern growing as he further took in your disheveled state and the thick sheen of sweat on your skin.

“...Are you alright? You look... unwell.”

You loudly sigh into your hands, nodding exhaustedly, face red from humiliation.

"Yeah, I'm good, I... haha, man, this is embarrassing, I just... kinda panicked while thinking over Grxm Rexper's performance and accidentally spiraled, you know?"

The lie came easily- what were you supposed to say? The truth??? 'Hey Jinu from Saja Boys, yeah, Rumi from Huntrix is actually a demon from hell and I gotta kill her now, because that's what I do on the side, kill demons! Teehee!' Yeah, sure...

Jinu nodded kindly, stepping into the room all the way and gently closing the door behind him. Any other day, you'd have been praising the lord that you and JINU SAJA somehow ended up alone in a room together. But not today. Today could not be saved, not even by the power of hot ass men.

“I… understand that feeling. It's a hard one to shake, but I promise, you were all amazing out there! Especially you. I don't want to downplay anyone's efforts, but… your solo turned it from a good performance into a memorable one.”

Your mind was a soupy mess of exhaustion and terror, but you simply kept smiling, nodding as Jinu spoke and pulling out two chairs for you to both sit. Your left foot was numb.

"That means a lot, Jinu. Thank you very much.”

"Of course."

"..."

Even the few seconds of silence after that felt suffocating. Clutching the hem of your shirt between your fingertips, you began anxiously babbling, teeth grit.

"SO, uh, Jinu..! Whyyy... did you come here..? To my... greenroom..?”

Jinu smiled at your incredibly smooth ice-breaker. How endearing.

"I just wanted to continue our conversation. I saw you disappear from backstage while we were performing, so I assumed you had gone to your room. I… was going to knock, but it sounded like someone was fighting off an army in here." He raised an eyebrow teasingly, watching your face intently. “Looks like you were, too.”

You grabbed a pillow from behind your back and loosely threw it at him, face scrunched up in a blush. Jinu just laughed, effortlessly catching the thing and placing it in his lap before continuing,

"You seemed really into us out there. I'm honored. I hope you had fun dancing along.”

Your blush crept down to your neck, momentarily wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

"Oh god, you saw all that? I should publicly apologize to Saja fans everywhere, who knows who else saw me shaking my shoulders like a damn robot.”

Jinu lightly shook his head, his annoyingly perfect hair swaying along with the movement. Seriously- he just performed on stage in 80° heat in front of thousands of people, he does NOT deserve to still look so damn EDIBLE.

"No, seriously, there's no need to think like that, it was very nice! You seemed… genuinely happy."

He leaned his head against his palm, looking at you softly. Everything about this guy was… casual. Soothing. Familiar. Slowly, your tense shoulders started to slump, heart rate calming down and panic dwindling. Man, he was calming to be around, wasn't he?

You found your eyes closing, replaying the recent memory like it was as near and dear as one from childhood.

"...Yeah. I was."

Jinu looked at you with that infuriatingly sweet smile again, nodding as if he could see your tension melt.

"That's good."

His eyes lingered on your peaceful expression for a moment longer than necessary before he stood up, patting non-existent dust off his pants.

"Would you like to come with me? It would do you good to get out of here, I think. …I could introduce you to the others, if you want? You seem to be a fan."

That goddamn smirk was back. He knew exactly what he was doing. The inner fangirl that lived at the core of your heart squealed, eyes widening in an instant. Your eyes snapped to Jinu's face, hands gripping the arms of your chair like they owed you money.

"You- You're serious? For real?”

Jinu only chuckled, smirk growing wider as he extended a hand towards you, palm up in an inviting gesture.

“Of course! Unless you have other plans..?”

You… hesitated.

Of course you wanted to go. Who WOULDN'T want to? But...

Golden had been quietly playing in the background the whole time from your T.V, Huntrix now performing the final chorus. You felt… trapped. Do you take the hand of the angelic looking man in front of you, or stay back to try and potentially face the demon lingering in the room..?

...Oh, fuck it, you've had a bad week, you deserve a little treat. The popstar princess of Korea being a demon in disguise is something FUTURE you will have to deal with.

"Nope! Let's go, I need to get all my stuff signed."

You took Jinu's hand, feeling your fingertips tingle from where they met. Jinu's smirk blossomed into a real smile as he gently pulled you up from the chair. In that brief moment of touch, your hand fit perfectly in his.

Jinu led you from your greenroom down some winding corridors. Your sudden shift in attitude was kinda funny, but he couldn't help himself from smiling at your candor.

"All your stuff, huh? High expectations.."

After a few more turns, Jinu had successfully led you to the Saja Boys' greenroom, where the rest of the members were gathered. They were laughing and joking around with each other, clearly in high spirits after their performance.

Romance noticed you first, doing a double take when he noticed you alongside Jinu. If a man could somehow physically have cartoon-hearts pop out of his head, he’d have caused a flurry. Romance dropped his phone right on the couch and began confidently strutting forward, hips swaying in an over-exaggerated manner while he side-stepped Jinu to greet you.

"Oh my, Jinu, who's this absolute angel you've brought back to bless my eyes with..?”

You didn't even manage to get a word in before Romance bowed like a prince, the man gently lifting your arm and pressing a kiss so feather-light to your knuckles, it made you want to scream without the s. Oh wow. Oh lordie. Your face was already so, so red. If this is how the rest of this interaction is going to go, you might implode on the spot.

"Oh my god. Okay. Ah. Ahem. Hi, Romance. P-Pleasure to meet you, too..?”

At your voice, Romance straightened up, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, darling." He then turned to Jinu with a raised eyebrow, sounding coy. "Jinu, you sneaky little minx, when did you find time to sneak this absolute feast for the eyes back here?”

Okay, that one was a lot. You resisted the urge to snort as Jinu looked at Romance like this is the 100th time he's had to deal with him today. His voice was annoyed- but that playful kind of annoyed.

"I did not 'sneak them back here'- this is a fellow idol and a member of Grxm Rexper called- …hm.”

An awkward flush ran down Jinu's neck. He looked at you like a fish out of water.

"...Actually, I haven't even gotten your name yet. Sorry."

In the midst of all this, Abby had abandoned whatever he was doing on his phone to instead watch this exchange with amusement. Baby was still buried in his, not having glanced up since you first entered the room, and Mystery was curled up on the corner of the couch. You couldn't tell, but he was very much staring at you. You just smiled softly, happily telling Jinu your name, snickering at his embarrassment.

"Nice to officially introduce myself to Mr. Saja himself."

‘Oh my god. Why did I say that. That was so bad. That makes me sound like I see him as an old man, oh my GOD. Kill me, kill me nowww.’

Jinu's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink, smiling awkwardly.

"...Please, just call me Jinu. 'Mr. Saja' makes me feel like I'm a hundred years old."

Back over on the couch, Baby murmured something under his breath that made Abby snort. Jinu glared at them for half a second before he returned his attention to you, opening his mouth to speak-

-But then Romance interrupted him, hip-checking him out of the way and seemingly pulling a rose from thin air, tucking it behind your ear.

"Apologies for my earlier misdemeanor, my dear. You have such a beautiful name, fitting for such a beautiful soul. But perhaps I could have the honor of calling you 'mine'..?”

WOW. He was GOING FOR IT. Yes, your face got even hotter, of course it did, but…

Listen. You know Romance. Or, you know the role of Romance. You do for ALL the Saja Boys. Of course he's the flirt of the group, the visual, but…

You squinted your eyes at him. Not unkindly, not enraptured, but knowingly.

Softly pulling the rose out, you lean upwards to gently cup Romance's jaw and turn his head, tucking it behind his ear instead with one swift motion. The man was stunned silent.

“You… don't have to keep up the act around me. I'm an idol too- so I get it, I swear. Plus, I'm already a fan- actually, DOUBLE PLUS, we're backstage and can act like normal people, so... You can just chill, okay?”

You pat Romance on the arm placatingly, hoping he'd take your words as sincere instead of rude. He… still wasn't saying anything. Instead, he was looking at you differently now. His eyes were wider, softer. Maybe even astonished? ...And, was he… blushing..?

Before you could speak up and further clarify your intentions (not harmful ones! You swear!), Jinu stepped back in to grab the back of Romance's collar, scruffing him much like a mother-cat would do to her misbehaving kitten. The leader beamed at you while he dragged the man to the opposite corner of the room, smile not meeting his eyes.

“Hahahahhh, one moment please- YOU THREE. Say hi to them and please just be NORMAL.”

Jinu shouted to the other three Saja members behind you, all of whom responded in their own way. Slowly turning your head around, you saw Abby gesturing for you to come closer. Mystery subtly angled himself to look at the spot on the couch beside him, and then looked at you. And Baby even moved his leg to stop manspreading, silently inviting you to sit, too. Wow. What a team effort!

Hearing the faint sounds of a simpering Romance being chewed out in your ears, safe to say, you were rather lost. Man, these guys weren't giving you any time to BREATHE, huh? What an... eccentric bunch. And there's nothing wrong with that, obviously, it was just, unexpected..?

But regardless, you took the invitation with glee, walking over to the couch with a pep in your step. Surely Abby, Mystery, and Baby will be more… normal! Right?

…

Uh, right..?

pov romance interuppting jinu: so... a lot of people ask me, 'whats it like to be so sexy'- *falls flat on his face and dies*

^ anyone who understands that joke gets a cookie. anyways, taglist (woaw tysm! there's even more of you now!!!)

@moonjellyfishie, @satansdaughter123, @d3sperate-enuf, @empressgetou, @littlemissfix-itfic, @milkcatfern, @10101071010, @rorotvt2025, @gremlinartstudio, @trap4void, @ninacatk, @snowy-violet, @kitkatpattywack2808, @scara-simp69, @yaminions

#kpdh #kpop demon hunters #kdph x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #saja boys x reader #the saja boys x reader #my writing

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tryonfemme · 27 days ago

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ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ not so funny

spider!ellie williams x neighbor!barista!reader

series introduction !!

⚡︎ series summary: ellie promised herself she wouldn't let anyone else get hurt because of her secret identity—which is why she hasn't dated in six years. she doesn't need to date. but for some reason her new next door neighbor won't leave her mind, in a friendly way. god ellie hopes it is a friendly way.

✮ overall content of series: soooo much pining, fem!reader, grief, the loss of a partner, death, language, conversations of homophobia, mental health, drug use, alcohol use, hurt/comfort, disaster lesbians, sunshine!reader, slightly grumpy but more so awkward! ellie, reader & ellie are both 26.

₊˚.🕸️🕷️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ᶻ

series m.list

𖢥 ellie williams - awkward girl with a weird side hustle (superhero), works at the daily bugle, good with a camera and snarky comments, afraid of love.

ㅤ♡ y/n l/n - sunshine girl but short tempered, owns a coffee shop in that gay way, loves her cat, hasn't been on a date since the age of 16, really likes ellie's green eyes.

₊⊹ others: joel miller - ellie's dad, dina & jesse - only people to put up with ellie, abby - works with y/n and is crushing hard, cat - fwb situation with ellie, rylie - the love of ellie's life, tommy & bea - y/n's best friends.

₊˚.🕸️🕷️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ᶻ

any reblog, comments, and likes are so so so so so appreciated!!!!

a/n: a new series!!! i am so so so excited to begin writing this bc i love the idea of spider ellie & neighbor!reader :D the first chapter will be out in the next few days!! as always catch you in the next one angels ⋆˙⟡

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ddejavvu · 2 months ago

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Spring Fling - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader (Part Six) (18+) / SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni. fem!reader, pilot!reader, enemies/rivals to lovers, lots and lots of arguing, could these two people be any less cooperative, sex seven ways to sunday and then some, seriously like so much smut it'll make your eyes bleed, makeouts, rough sex, oral (m+f receiving), penetrative sex, will add as i post

WC: 8.3k / navigation / inbox / summer of series

A/N: another very late installment! I am really, truly sorry that it has taken me this long to update this series. it's very near and dear to my heart but unfortunately I was just having a very hard time with my life and there wasn't much motivation for me to write anything. but i'm back and better than ever, and you can check out my 'summer of series' to see more upcoming content! thank you to those who waited, and welcome to any new readers <3 this is our longest chapter yet :o

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Plowing through pizza has never been easier than it is now, because you’re so intent on stuffing your mouth full to impede your ability to answer prying questions that your lunch is gone in a matter of minutes. You consider swiping from Jake’s plate considering he’s taken at least ten percent of your lunch every day for as long as you’ve known him, but reciprocating any of this ‘love’ that Danica deludes may not work in your favor.

You’re left to sit awkwardly back in your chair, no food to eat while the rest of your companions finish theirs at a reasonable pace.

It’s noticeable, because everyone else is still making their way through pizza that’s thinner and stiffer than it should be, but not altogether bad. Jake and Daniel both side-eye you, but Daniel shifts forwards as he notices pizza sauce smeared over your cheek.

“Y/N, you’ve got-”

“I got it.” Jake cuts in, reaching out and nearly smacking you in the jaw in an effort to get his thumb over the stain. You jerk away, startled, but Jake already has red sauce on the pad of his thumb that he’s offering to you like you’re going to suck it off.

“Want it?” He grins, and your lips remain firmly sealed as you shake your head no.

“Fine, picky.” Jake shrugs, raising his hand to his mouth and taking his thumb between his lips himself. You watch as he sucks the pizza sauce off of his finger for longer than he needs to, eyes fixed so intently on yours that you’re almost certain he would rather be licking it directly off of your cheek.

You’re glad he hadn’t- you’d have smacked him with how wound up you are. You feel like a prey animal, cornered and shaking with nerves that could morph into aggression at a moment’s notice.

You turn back to your empty plate, ignoring the way that Jake tips a half-eaten piece of pizza your way.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about cooties.” Jake raises a brow, “We accidentally used the same towel once after the beach.”

“And I showered twice when I got home to clean myself.” You recall the incident with grave resignation, remembering the look on Phoenix’s face when she’d spotted the sherbet stain on the corner of the towel you were wearing, one that Jake had put there earlier, just after his own shower. You’re not surprised he’s still bringing it up- just one more thing to needle you with, but you wish he wouldn’t.

“More for me.” He acquiesces, voice almost awkward before he takes another bite, and you look at Danica to see if she’s noticed only to find that she’s staring hard at Jake already.

Interesting.

You don’t know how to fill awkward silences with Jake, because there almost never are any. You’re too used to his loud, brash voice that once he gives in and rolls over, a sight you’ve rarely ever seen before, you feel unequipped to talk. You don’t talk to Jake- or you barely ever do, you mostly quip. And tease, and jab, and rib, and mock. Everything’s a dogfight with him, and the first to run out of bullets crashes and burns.

Jake’s not the type to crash and burn.

“I’m done.” Daniel leans back in his chair, a hand slung lazily over his stomach, “I think cruises are bad for me. I always overeat.”

“We could walk,” Danica suggests, “There’s some shops a few decks above us.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about the shops,” You scoff, feeling Jake’s shit-eating grin despite refusing to look at him, “I’m not interested, thank you.”

You expect pushback from Jake, but what you don’t expect is Danica, who seems to be making it her sacred mission to force you out of your comfort zone.

“Oh, come on. Please? You can shop with me.” She promises, reaching out a hand adorned with a delicate golden bracelet, “We can leave the boys behind.”

You’re still wary about her insistence into butting into your rivalry with Jake, but you wonder if perhaps she doesn’t want to be alone with Daniel the same way you don’t want to be alone with Jake. Maybe there’s pressure there that she can’t handle, or maybe there’s not and she doesn’t want to face the implications.

You’d think signing up for a sex cruise would really take the emotional turmoil out of having sex.

“They’ll kill each other,” you take her hand, letting her squeeze yours tight, “And we can’t get new roommates so that’d really take the fun out of the whole sex cruise thing.”

“We can start at the candy shop,” She grins, tugging you to your feet, “I owe my niece some gummy bears.”

Danica reaches for her purse, a sweet baby blue over-the-shoulder bag that Daniel gently pushes her hand away from.

“I’ve got it.” He offers, smiling up at the both of you, “You two just have fun browsing and I can hold whatever you get.”

There’s an unmistakable grin on Danica’s face that she turns around to hide, something akin to a giddy schoolgirl at Daniel’s chivalry. It’s sweet, admittedly, but what’s less sweet is the way that Jake makes a grab for your own bag, already hooked over your shoulder.

“Gimme that.”

“What- no!” You scoff, stumbling backwards to avoid his grip, “That’s my bag!”

“I’m trying to carry it for you.” Jake insists, as stubborn as a mule, “Let go!”

“You’re mugging me!” You shriek, dragging Danica along with you when you finally wriggle out of his grip and making a mad dash for other side of the deck, “Danica, if we can make it to the stairs we can push him overboard!”

She giggles as you two run across the deck, probably something you shouldn’t be doing considering you’re poolside and adults, but something you do giddily anyways. Daniel and Jake jog to keep up, and neither wants to be around each other, but both want to be first to reach you. This means they keep pace, and when you pass a netted-in basketball court, your head turns to watch the players.

They’re nice to ogle. There’s men and women, but your eyes are drawn towards a particularly muscled man, tall and thick around the arms and thighs. He has your attention until he fully misses a shot, feet away from the basket, and you and Danica cringe in unison.

“He had me until that throw.” Danica admits, trying not to laugh so as not to attract any attention and hurt the man’s feelings, “Can you boys do better than that?”

It’s such clear bait that you assume both men will scoff at her, tease her for wanting to see their sweaty muscles and continue towards the interior door. Instead, Danica’s purse is handed rather unceremoniously back to her and Jake strips of his shirt. He doesn’t need to, but he does. Of course.

“I can run laps around him.” Jake vows, beelining for the entrance to the court while Daniel takes his flip-flops off for better leverage.

“Just sit and watch.” Daniel grins, pointing towards benches opposite the court, “Get some sun, and we’ll show you how it’s really done.”

“Men are dumb,” You sigh, watching the two you’re stuck with integrate themselves into the game already going, “They couldn’t tell that was on purpose?”

“Jake wants to show off for you. And Daniel, too.”

“They wants to show off for you, too.” You level her with a look that’s half exasperated, half self-conscious, “I’m not- I’m not trying to steal him away from you. Daniel, that is. You can have Jake- no returns.”

Danica grins, her smile glowing, “I’m not angry that Daniel likes you. I like you too. I just think you’re stupid.”

“Thank you.” You nod, hoping the conversation ends there. You turn towards the court, trying to track Daniel’s movement among the crowd, but latching onto Jake instead. He towers over most of the men on the court, and with his military muscles, most of them have no chance.

“I’m- sorry. For pushing. I just think,” Her voice takes on a wistful note, “I think you two could really be soulmates if you tried.”

“Soulmates don’t try,” You laugh, “That’s the whole point. They’re intrinsically made for each other. Perfect from the get-go.”

“You are made perfect for each other. You’re just acting stupid.” She clarifies, “You’re both stubborn, but that means you’ll match wits with him. He wouldn’t want someone who just gives in every time.”

“That’s certainly what he’s wanted in the past,” You scoff, “Woman after woman after woman who doesn’t bother to save herself from the most obviously sleazy pilot in the bar.”

“That’s why he never sees them again,” She nods, “Because they only satisfied him short-term. Men mature slower than women, did you know that? They’re still figuring things out, bless them. I think he’s starting to realize that hookups aren’t sustainable, and that he wants something long-term. And that’s not to say you can’t resent his dating history,” Danica gives you a meaningful glance, “I can understand why you would be slow to trust him. But he’s trying. He backed off at lunch, right?”

“Right before he tried to steal my purse.” You grumble, despite knowing she’s right. But still, attributing his uncharacteristic lack of an argument to love- that’s a notion you don’t want to even begin digesting.

“Men are dumb.” She reminds you, “I think he’s trying to show you that he’s changed, and that his ideals have too. You just need to let him. Give him a chance.”

“I’ve given him plenty of chances before,” You sigh, world-weary as you watch Daniel snake the ball from Jake, “How many is too many?”

“You might not know until you get hurt.” Danica levels with you, placing her hand atop yours once more, “But you won’t know how many it takes to work, either. Just- be casual.”

“Casual.” You raise a brow at her, “With Jake? He’s incapable of being casual about anything. Even when he tries you can see the muscles in his neck about to pop.”

“Yeah, I saw him almost jump Daniel in the pool.” She admits, watching as Jake slam-dunks the ball despite three pairs of hands clawing at him, attempting to slow or stop him, “Has he ever started a fistfight before?”

“He’s not- mean. Not like that, not- he’s classy, I guess.” It’s a word you wouldn’t normally attribute to Jake, but he doesn’t go around starting fights like a teenage boy, “He swears up and down he’s a southern gentleman.”

“A gentleman!” Danica laughs, “A gentleman who was staring at your ass in that bathing suit, earlier.”

“I figured. Whatever,” You shrug, “I chose it because it makes my ass look nice. It’s not Jake’s fault we ran into each other, I guess.”

“That’s why I’m sure you’re soulmates,” Danica confesses, “The same cabin, on the same sex cruise? And you hate each other? I see some sweet, sweet angry sex in your future.”

You laugh, despite yourself. You let yourself get carried away in girly giggles, and seeing the warmth in her expression makes a twinge of guilt flare up in your chest about the way you’d snapped at her earlier.

“Hey, I’m- sorry. I’m really sorry for freaking out on you earlier, Danica.” You murmur, eyes downcast as your smile fades, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, if I did.”

“It’s okay.” Despite the way your face had dropped, hers only grows more tender, “I understand. Like I said, I shouldn’t have pushed. But I hope you know I’m not trying to make your life harder. I suppose I don’t have any business butting in, I just see two people that are afraid to be vulnerable around each other despite maybe having the capacity to love each other for eternity.”

You glare at her from beneath your lashes, and she throws up her hands in mock-surrender, “I said maybe!”

“Eternity is a long time.” You muse, focusing again on the basketball scrimmage happening before you. The nets blur your vision, but it’s clear that the men are working up a sweat. Jake makes another basket, and you notice desperation in the way that Daniel lunges for it after it falls.

It’s not his fault- navy men just do it better.

“That’s why destiny gave you a free trial.” Danica grins, “This week, you don’t have to wear your heart on your sleeve. He won’t, either. Just- be casual, like I said. Be receptive, I’m not asking you to fall all over him, just- watch him. Notice him. Look at what he does and think about why he does it. Yes, he did try to liberate your purse from your shoulder earlier like he was getting at your wallet. But he did it because Daniel did it for me much more gracefully a few seconds before. He’s trying simple things: sharing food, holding bags-” She grins conspiratorially at you, “Five bucks says he’ll try to hold the door for you when we go inside later. He’s testing the waters, okay? He’s trying to change, but like I said before, he’s afraid of being vulnerable around you just the same as you are around him, even if he doesn’t seem like it.”

“How do you know all of this?” You ask her, eyes narrowed as you study her from across the bench, “Are you some sort of all-seeing eye?”

“I asked him,” She blinks, simple as that, “And I’m not going to share everything he said, because I think it’ll come better from him, but I can at least tell you with one-hundred percent certainty that he’s trying. Just- be gentle with him, okay? Let him try.”

“He can try,” Your voice is weak as you watch Jake sink a third shot, “But I can’t guarantee I’ll care.”

“That’s okay. You’re afraid of him hurting you, he’s afraid he’s already hurt you too much. If you don’t want to be with him, that’s fair. Just give him one more chance.”

“One more.” You sigh, “But not for him. For you.”

“I’m glad I met you, Y/N,” Danica smiles, standing from the bench and offering you a hand, “Now, let’s get them out of there before they start punching each other.”

Jake and Daniel are, in fact, facing off. Daniel shoves roughly at Jake’s chest but he stands shorter than his opponent, so it looks almost comical when Jake doesn’t move an inch. His strong thighs keep him steady, and his eyes blaze with a challenge.

“Jake!” You call, but both heads turn your way, “Guys- let’s go shopping.”

“Fine.” Daniel grunts, elbowing past Jake towards the entrance to the court. You’re sure Jake has thoroughly gotten on his nerves- you know the feeling, but something about the way his tensed muscles make him look like a coiled spring makes you gravitate towards Jake instead.

“What did you do to him? He looks like he might punch someone in the face.”

“Yeah, me.” Jake redresses himself, fixing the asymmetrical waistband of his shorts and putting his shirt back into place, “He’s just mad he’s too short to dunk.”

“Poor Danica.” You hum as Daniel stalks three steps ahead of her, “I’m gonna walk with her.”

Jake doesn’t provide any arguments when you rush to catch up with your newfound friend.

“Men are scary when they’re angry.” You nudge your side against hers, speaking in a hushed whisper “Did he say anything to you?”

“No, but he’s sure not offering to hold my purse anymore,” Danica grins, “Men are so dramatic.”

“It’s part of our charm, ladies.” Jake pushes between you, gentler than Daniel would have done in his angered state, “And it seems Danny-boy has neglected his manly duties, so I’ll take this,” Jake plucks Danica’s purse carefully off of her shoulder, “And can I please hold your bag too, princess?”

“Thank you for not tackling me this time,” You glare at Jake, letting him sling your tote over the same shoulder Danica’s bag hangs from, “See? When you’re nice to women they like you.”

“Some of ‘em like me mean.” Jake shrugs, “But you lure more flies with honey, I guess..”

Jake watches Daniel push his way through the doors, and makes a grand gesture out of catching them before they can close and holding them open for the pair of you.

You owe Danica five bucks.

“After you, ladies.” Jake says, loud enough for Daniel to hear. It only tightens the muscles in his shoulders, and it makes you slow your pace, putting even more distance between you and him.

Jake doesn’t realize until he’s already slamming into you from behind, and he steadies you with a hand on your shoulder, “Woah! Sorry. I thought you’d be beelining for the sex shop. What’s the holdup?”

Danica shoots him a lethal glare over her shoulder, and tugs you closer to her side.

“We are beelining for the sex shop,” She announces, and Daniel seems to remember he has company as he slows down, chest heaving with adrenaline, or rage, or indignance, or whatever Jake has injected into his veins, “We are going to have a lingerie fashion show and there are no boys allowed.”

“No, come on! I can squeeze in the dressing room with you guys! I’ll fit!” Jake protests, but you level him with a stern glare.

“If you come into the dressing room, you’re putting on a thong.” You warn him, but nothing can rattle Jake Seresin.

“No part of me would fit in a thong,” Jake declares, herding you all towards the elevators, “Front, back, wherever- I’ve got too much goin’ on down there.”

“A bra, then.” You counter, walking backwards into the empty elevator and letting your back hit the wall, “You’ve got a bigger chest than I do.”

“If that’s what tickles your fancy,” Jake shrugs, your bag and Danica’s pressed against the wall of the elevator as he plants himself opposite you, faced away from the doors, “Everybody’s got their thing. If yours is me in a bra, so be it.”

Danica giggles. Daniel presses the button for the floor that you need.

“I’d send it to the rest of the daggers.” You threaten, hearing the doors slide shut behind Jake, “Rooster would show Mav. Phoenix would obliterate you.”

“Don’t spread it around, it’s for your eyes only.” Jake scoffs as the elevator begins its ascent, “Keep it in your spank bank, Y/N.”

Instead of lifting five floors, the elevator only moves one. The doors open again, and Daniel groans almost inaudibly at the sight he’s met with. You peer around Jake’s side to see- a lot of people. There’s a lot of people trying to board the elevator, and you pair off, parting like the red sea to fit them in.

Danica slides over to Daniel’s side, who squishes himself into the corner closest to the buttons, offering to press them for the new passengers. Jake steps closer to you, caging you into your own corner.

He raises his brows, clearly suggestive, but you know he’s teasing. That’s the thing about Jake- his constant teasing irritates you, but you know it’s just that. Teasing. He’s kidding, which is why you roll your eyes when he presses himself flush against your body.

“O-kay. Do we really need to be this close?” You ask, but chancing a glance around his shoulder reveals that, yes, you do. You’re sure he’s shimmied closer on purpose, but the woman backed up against him hasn’t given him much of a choice either.

“Does this remind you of anything?” Jake murmurs under his breath, as the elevator doors scrape closed and you begin another ascent, hopefully four floors this time, “A certain tryst with a certain bearded man yesterday?”

“He wasn’t stepping on my toes,” You glance downwards, “And I wanted to kiss him.”

“Ouch.” Jake huffs, but he shuffles his feet backwards off of yours, “What are you really gonna look at in the sex shop?”

Be vulnerable. Danica’s voice echoes in your head, as dramatically as she’d been hoping, He’s trying, be open, be casual, let him.

“Maybe just a vibrator or something.” You mumble, taking care to keep your voice between the two of you even if it’s an adults-only environment, and meeting his eye with honesty you don’t often showcase around Jake, “I can’t say I really need anything but it’d be nice to browse, I guess.”

He nods, slow and attentive, taken aback because he’s just as new to listening as you are to conversing.

When you finally, painstakingly make your way up four floors of passengers trying to squeeze on and off every second, Jake lets you and Danica exit the elevator first. It had been uncomfortable, but convenient when Daniel was storming ahead of you- he and Jake had been kept apart, but now the two nearly bump shoulders again as they trail behind you.

Their array of shops is, admittedly, impressive at first glance, considering you’re in the middle of the ocean. You take pictures of the glittering lights to have as keepsakes, but far away from any cell service, you can’t show them off to your friends just yet.

“Gummy bears,” Danica reminds you, before you can wander off into whatever store catches your fancy, “You can get duty-free booze later, for now let me make sure my niece won’t kill me for coming back empty-handed.”

She pulls you towards the candy shop, and any doubts you’d had about a fanciful confectionary on board an all-adults ship disappear when you step inside.

There’s sex candy.

You shouldn’t be surprised, because even an ice sculpture you’d spotted from across the deck earlier was shaped into a male torso with well-defined abs. There’s gummy candies in the shape of genitals, there’s chocolates meant to throw you into a hormone-fueled sex craze, there’s flavored condoms, there’s candy lingerie.

There’s a very small section of actual candy, but it’s where you and Danica have to look for her niece’s gummy bears.

“These are fine,” She eyes the package warily, “There’s nothing adult I’m missing about these, is there?”

“No penises.” You promise, looking over the matte-plastic bag to ensure that even the patterning isn’t crude, “But I think it’s just about the only thing in there without them.”

“Y/N! Look at these!” Jake calls, proving your point when he holds up phallic lollipops, “Dick suckers!”

You suppose if there were ever a time and a place to shout that across a store, it’s here and now. But that doesn’t mean you don’t still cringe, and you duck behind Danica to examine a package on a low shelf, near the corner of the store.

It’s those sex chocolates you’ve seen advertised online, in greatly-exaggerated tiktok videos or tweets. All of the posts you’ve seen about them have been sponsored by the company, so you doubt its efficacy.

Still, you pick a package up and tuck it into a basket that’s stacked in the corner of the room.

“Good idea,” Danica grins, throwing her gummy bears into the cart, “We should see how much Jake’s willing to pay for.”

“If he buys them he’ll want to share,” You make some convoluted sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a laugh, “And I’m not sucking the same dick as him.”

Your basket slowly but surely starts to fill, until one of the packages falls when you turn to look at something Daniel’s pointing out to you.

“Oh-!” You turn to grab it, but there’s already someone there, and Jake shoots you a heavy glance from where he’s kneeling on the floor beside you. It’s a sight- you’re not sure he’s ever looked up at you instead of down, and something in your stomach tightens as he stands back up.

“It broke,” He nods to the chocolate Danica had added into your basket, a piece molded so that it can be tucked between your legs and cover your sex. It’s meant to make someone eat through it before they can eat you, but it’s snapped in half now, completely useless.

“We’ll pay for it,” Danica keeps it in her own grip, grabbing another one and reaching for a new basket, “But I do want one that’s still intact.”

“Don’t bother with one of those for us.” Jake tells you, heaving the basket out of your arms and into his own, “Wouldn’t hold me back for very long at all.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t, Pussy Eater Extraordinaire,” You scoff, “Men always think they’re better at it than they are.”

“I’ve had nothing but glowing reviews,” Jake boasts, but his eye twitches slightly as he reconsiders his statement, “But- I’d trust your input more than theirs.”

“Why’s that?” You bite, “I’m a harsher critic?”

“Exactly.” Jake nods, “I’ll even take pointers if you’ve got any.”

“I’m pointing that way.” You raise your finger towards the cash register, “If you buy the candy lingerie I might be more inclined to let you see me in it.”

He blanches, “You’re serious?”

“See me, Seresin,” You point again to the register, “No touching, no eating.”

“I’ll take it.” He nearly trips over his feet, and Danica erupts with laughter as he pulls out his wallet.

“He really did it!” She gushes, “See? He wouldn’t be buying cherry-flavored condoms if he didn’t want you to use them on him.”

“I have no doubts that he wants to have sex with me.” You remind her, “It’s what comes after that I’m afraid of.”

“After one condom there’s another.” She points to the big number 10 on the side of the box, “In between rounds you can ask him what you guys are.”

She can tell you’re about to groan, because before you can she grabs both of your hands, looking imploringly at you, “Y/N, this is a sex cruise! Let loose. Even if he does tell the whole navy about you- which he won’t, you can tell the whole navy it happened on a sex cruise. That’s a completely valid reason to let him fuck your brains out! You came here to fuck, so fuck.”

“We’ll see,” You grumble, “Cherry’s not my favorite flavor.”

Jake’s total at the register is comically high, but you don’t feel bad because you two get the same paycheck, and as a specialized squadron you’re not exactly down on your luck. He makes no complaints, and pointedly keeps the bag in his own hand instead of letting Daniel fulfill his earlier promise.

“If I let him hold it he might throw it down on the ground during one of his temper tantrums,” Jake murmurs conspiratorially to you, and you appreciate that he has the good sense to keep his voice low, pitched only for your ears as you meander towards the next store, “The chocolate underpants don’t deserve to snap a second time.”

“He’s not gonna throw a temper tantrum,” You groan, “You have a way of getting on people’s nerves, you know that?”

“Okay? And I’ll admit I riled him up, but that’s no excuse to act like a kid. Stomping around, taking it out on you and Danica.”

You raise a brow at him, unimpressed, “Eerily similar to the way you used to act on the tarmac whenever one of us beat you in an exercise?”

Jake’s mouth tightens, “Used to. I grew up a little. When’s the last time I threw a fit?”

You want to reference one of his bursts of antagonistic energy from the past 48 hours, but you have to admit, he’s much more controlled than he would have been a few years ago. You promised Danica you’d give him a chance, so you’ll give him credit where credit is due.

You settle for a reluctant, “You’re getting better.”

It’s another awkward dance, his jutted-out chin pulling back and loosening from the way it had been clenched tight in irritation. It’s your wayward eyes, not meeting his own but not looking at the floor either, just- roaming behind him.

It just so happens that behind him is a very intricately designed vibrator.

You hadn’t paid much attention to your surroundings, but Danica and Daniel had given you and your apparent bickering a wide berth as they’d headed into the next store in the row. It’s the sex shop, you realize now, and you and Jake are facing off in the entrance.

It’s an awkward thing, debating character growth between a display of vibrators and a display of fleshlights. You suppose there’s one for each of you if this doesn’t work out.

“After you.” Jake offers, prodding your limp form into the shop when your legs struggle to work, “We can shop for tonight.”

“I’ll be using that tonight,” You point at a ball gag, “I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

“That won’t shut me up. Y’know, When Harry Met Sally is my sister’s favorite movie? I could take a page out of Meg Ryan’s book and start moaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”

“She did that in a diner,” You correct him, “And she did it with grace. You could never be Meg Ryan.”

“I couldn’t be Billy Crystal either.” Jake laments, “Turtlenecks don’t look good on me.”

Before you can fall back into the familiar pattern of quipping back and forth with Jake, an old rut in the road that’s familiar even if it digs its own trench deeper, he catches sight of something behind you and his face twists.

“What’s that supposed to do?”

It’s not technically a rose toy. It’s something similar, adjacent maybe, still made for suction and vaginal pleasure.

“It stimulates suction. Y’know, on the clit?” You explain, and Jake’s face blanches on top of his aghast expression.

“It sucks on you? That sounds dangerous. ‘Sounds like someone’s gonna get their clit ripped off.”

“I’ll test it out and let you know,” You grin, plucking it off of the shelf and adding it into the handheld basket that Danica’s started, “Maybe I’ll do it when you’re sleeping tonight.”

“I’ll hear you anyways. I’m a light sleeper.” Jake reveals, and your stomach drops. Did he hear-?

No.

He’d have made it known if he’d heard your.. predicament.

It’s Hangman, after all. If he had something on you, he’d use it.

You shake yourself out of your funk and watch as Danica and Daniel contemplate getting a strap-on. You respect him for being open to trying it, if he hasn’t already. Jake’s face hasn’t pinkened from its earlier shade of sheet-white, so you make the very mature decision to not teasingly suggest that you use one on him.

Instead you turn towards the lingerie, eyeing a red set with stereotypical lace lining the edges.

“That’d look nice on you.” Jake follows where you lead, and though his comment is suggestive, it’s almost respectful, “I think you should get it.”

“It’s too expensive,” You wrinkle your nose, “Not for something paper-thin that you’re probably meant to rip off anyways.”

“I’ll be careful,” Jake vows, and now the cracks in his facade start to show, “I promise I’ll handle you like a gentleman, darlin’.”

You turn on your heel and glide over to Danica.

“He’s trying to disrobe me,” You inform her with a sigh, “When am I allowed to conclude that he’s not changing?”

“Just-” You miss the way that she glares daggers at him from across the store, “He’s trying to change. He won’t be a completely different man, remember- you have to adapt too. It’s a compromise.”

Unfortunately, she has a point. If Jake is changing- and that’s a big if, you’ll need to meet him somewhere in the middle. But this whole Jake-changing-for-you thing is still highly suspect, and though Danica’s insistence is beginning to wear through your hide, you’re not fully convinced.

“Fine.” You sigh, “But I’m still getting the rose toy in case he doesn’t work out.”

“I love my rose toy.” She admits with a grin, “But there’s nothing like getting woken up between your legs. It’s different when someone surprises you with it instead of you shoving the toy down there yourself.”

“I’d love to be woken up by oral.” Your teeth sink into your pillowy bottom lip, and Jake’s footsteps stop behind you where he’s caught up to your group. You miss the look he shares with Danica over your head.

You browse the sex shop for a fair amount of time, but there’s not as much fun to be had as there was in the candy shop. They had variety and exciting things you’d never seen before, and here- well, they have a lot of dildos, that’s for sure. There’s a bland feeling that comes over you as you pace shelves and shelves of the same sex toys, and you wind up with only the suction-based rose toy ripoff at the counter.

“Scoot-” Jake comes up behind you, gently pushing you aside instead of elbowing you out of the way as he extends his own card towards the reader, “I’ve got this one too.”

“No- you don’t have to buy me a sex toy, Jake!” You argue, but the reader is already beeping, having accepted his payment, “I was mostly teasing about the candies. I’m not using you as a sugar daddy- you don’t have to keep picking up my tabs.”

“I’m picking up this one,” Jake carefully tucks the bag into the larger one from the confectionary, “I want you to think of me every time you use it.”

Something terrible, horrible, and unwanted in your brain supplies that you’d already have done that. That the experience of being stuck with him on a boat, of waking up grinding against his thigh, of being at each other’s throats for days on end would have cemented itself into the fucktoy whether you wanted to or not. But that’s an intrusive thought you have no desire to express, and instead you fall silent, taking Danica’s advice of meeting in the middle.

This silence, and the troubling thoughts that induced it, follow you through the next few shops in the row, showcasing duty-free liquor, off-brand ‘designer’ purses, and perfume that all smells the same. Danica holds up samples and swatches, shows you jewelry and handbags, but there’s not much she can do to shake you out of your spiral.

Do you want to fuck Hangman?

No, you certainly don’t want to fuck Hangman.

But Jake?

This Jake, the one who’d splashed around with you in the pool and sensed your uneasiness towards Daniel’s outburst, offering his own soothing presence as a distraction. This Jake, the one who’d muscled down decades of manly Texan pride to call for a truce- something you never thought his competitive spirit would be capable of. This Jake, the one who tilts his chin towards the section of books he knows you prefer in their sparse bookstore- this one you could certainly attempt to get used to.

It’s a hard thing to swallow, when something threatens to upend the life you’ve precariously crafted for yourself. When something challenges your notions of true and false, when someone changes. Can people change? Can he change, can Jake really fix his behavior to the point where you’d want to not only fuck him, but date him? Dating Hangman is laughable. Dating Jake is- something you’ve never considered before.

It’s troubling, and your brow remains creased for the remainder of your shopping trip. There’s an underwhelming amount of stores, and you wander further out, down towards the casino at the end of the deck.

“I didn’t bring cash,” Jake’s hand flies to his wallet, “And I don’t trust a casino on a fuckboat with my credit card.”

“We should go back,” Danica agrees, turning to grab Daniel’s hand. He’s calmed now, perhaps embarrassed for his temper earlier, and turns soft eyes towards her as she asks, “Should we go get couples massages?”

Jake waits on you for an answer- that’s new. You tuck the information aside for processing later, and you shake your head wearily, “I need some fresh air. You guys can go without me.”

“Couple’s massage with an empty bed’s pretty sad.” Jake hums, the drawling lilt of his southern accent sweet like honey, “You two enjoy yourselves. I’ll take our stuff back to our room.”

There’s a chorus of agreements, and you bid Danica goodbye with a soft squeeze to her hand, and a sheepish smile from beneath your lashes.

“Trust him!” She urges in a whisper, disguising it as a hug, “We can meet up again later.”

“Tonight for drinks?” You ask, glancing at your phone and seeing that it’s hours into the afternoon, “I think I’d like a casual dinner after last night.”

“We can do casual.” Jake agrees, and you don’t miss the way he says we.

“Drinks,” She nods, and Daniel tries to meet your eyes where you’re trying to avoid his.

Everything’s so complicated now. You wish Danica hadn’t managed to get into your head- you wish Jake was still the cocky pilot he was yesterday, or three years ago, or since the dawn of time. You wish you didn’t notice his strange behavior, you wish he’d go back to being irritating so you could be irritated with him. You wish you weren’t thinking more about Jake than you are about Daniel, your perfect man, and when you finally do meet his soulful eyes you can’t offer him anything more than a weak smile.

“See you later.” You hum, and there’s nothing to go in for- a hug seems sad, and a kiss seems showy. You fall back a few steps instead, bumping into Jake who’d been stationed behind you.

“Let’s go,” He hums, “Elevator’s at the other end.”

You walk in silence, and discomfort roils in your chest the longer Jake says nothing. Nothing, nothing at all, no poking, no prodding, no comments about the candy penises in the bag he’s carrying for you. Just- dead silence, and you’re still not used to Jake taking social cues from you. He’s loud, and he worms his way into every situation, so why is he failing to do so now, when you crave normalcy the most?

You’d almost forgotten that you were swimming before this, but your bikini resurfaces in your mind when someone in the elevator pays attention to it. His eyes glance downwards towards your chest, and the way that they narrow in focus makes your skin crawl. His gaze isn’t warm like Daniel’s or like-.

He’s eerie, long, sharp facial features making him look like the human equivalent to a dagger. His sharpened point needles at you, and you’re already shuffling back on your feet in the elevator when Jake throws an arm over your shoulder, effectively covering your breasts.

Glancing up at him reveals that he’s locked into a staring match with the man who’d been looking down your top, and Hangman always wins staring matches. His skin grows warm against your chest, and you marvel at the way his single arm manages to shield every sensual detail of your torso.

When the man finally looks away, defeated, Jake uses the arm to pull you back into his embrace, and this time, you don’t fight him on the proximity. You feel a rush of affection for him, uncommon but not unheard of, and you remember that deep down, he’s a good guy. He’s got faults, he’s got faults that you’re not sure he could ever mend, but at his core he’s got a heart worth loving.

You don’t have time to thank him, because there’s still people in the elevator when the man disembarks, and Jake gets out only one floor after him.

“You’re going to the top deck?” He asks, having seen you press the topmost button on the panel, and you nod.

“I’ll let you get your fresh air.” He walks backwards out of the elevator, “I’ll stash this in our room and come meet you. Mini golf?”

“I’m down,” You nod without thinking just to agree with him, your throat dry as your skin chills in the absence of Jake’s body heat, “Jake-?”

He stops, brows raised. There’s people around you, waiting for their floors, and you sheepishly give up any hair-brained scheme you’d have planned for having an awkward heart-to-heart with the man who’d just protected you with his body.

“My bag.” You gesture to his arm, your tote still slung over it, “Can I have my bag?”

He grins, wide and pearly white, fumbling with the bags in his arms while keeping his foot in the door to stop the elevator from closing. You take it and he steps away, the doors instantly sliding shut on him. You watch as they close in front of his face, and retreating back into your corner of the elevator seems lonely now that there’s no one accompanying you.

No one says anything- why should they? They don’t know you. But the last thing you need is more silence, and the second the doors slide open on the top deck you’re rushing out onto the slippery flooring, beelining for the railing overlooking the water.

It’s the top deck, so it’s shorter and thinner than the rest below it. But it doesn’t matter- you’re afforded a truly stunning view of the ocean as you drink in lungfuls of sea air.

It’s never this pretty on a carrier ship. Maybe that’s because it’s work, or maybe that’s because of where you work, or maybe that’s because you’re always below deck anyways. This kind of a sunset is something you usually can’t find unless you’re soaring into it through the skies, and here you’re able to relax without being in control of an aircraft.

The clouds act as a Rorschach test. The longer you stare at them the more your mind runs wild, and you seem to find all of your problems in the sky despite having landed to get away from them.

Now you’ve got new ones- one day ago your biggest concern was getting laid. Now- well, you suppose your biggest concern is still getting laid. But now you wonder if you could ever muscle down your nerves enough to fuck Jake, or if you’re going to lay yourself bare for Daniel while thinking about your fellow pilot like you had in your dream last night.

This was meant to be an escape. A thoughtless, lust-driven week-long party that would cure you of your sex block and get you back into the groove.

How’d it all go so sideways?

You don’t hear the footsteps behind you, but you do feel Jake’s hand on your shoulder. His fingers, more like it, because two are perched on your shoulder and three are holding a yellow golf club and a pink ball. He’s got a green and blue pair in his other hand, and you try making your face look like you hadn’t just been searching for answers in the clouds.

“‘You ready for golf?” He asks, his voice far more chipper than yours, “They said they won’t charge us if we shoot one into the ocean.”

“Let’s try not to anyways,” You take the club from him, but swap him the pink ball for the green, “There’s people on the first hole. You wanna go backwards?”

“I’m a pro at mini golf anyways,” Jake scoffs, “Don’t need those practice courses.”

Pro Golfer Jake Seresin loses his ball right away.

It’s important to note that you hadn’t gotten a hole-in-one either, but Jake’s shot is especially horrendous. It veers so off-course that it ends up rolling off of the green altogether, and before either of you can reach it it drops from the deck onto the one below. It doesn’t go as far as the ocean, but it does happen to land right in some unfortunate woman’s drink, and she’s not happy about the bright pink disturbance to her mai tai.

“Sorry!” Jake calls, and you know any apology from him is sincere, or he wouldn’t say it, but she takes less-than-swimmingly to his seemingly casual tone, and she launches the ball with much better aim than he had.

Jake nearly tumbles over the railing as he crumples, groaning in pain at the way the ball had solidly whacked him between the legs. You’re torn between laughing, congratulating the woman, and helping Jake back away from the edge of the deck, so you do some convoluted mixture of all three.

You shoot the woman a dry smile as you tug him away from the railing, and he takes a minute just to breathe as you support his weight. He grimaces, but tries to turn it into one of his signature smirks, though it’s clearly forced as he remains doubled over.

“Hell of an arm on that chick.” He comments, voice heaving with either a laugh or a sob, but probably the latter, “Jesus, darlin’, y’think you could kiss it better for me?”

“I’ll make it worse,” You vow, brandishing the golf club in your fist for extra emphasis, “Sit down before you puke, Hangman.”

He listens, dropping to rest his back against the railing and tilt his head back towards the sky.

It just so happens that you’re skyward to him, and his head rolls so that he can gaze up at your face.

“This is not how I envisioned golfing to go.” He admits, his club laying defeated in the fake grass beside him. “For the record, I was going to tell you that your form was off, and then I was going to come up from behind you and grab your hands and guide you through a swing, all while hoping I could control the big guy downstairs.”

You snort at his admission, but for some reason it doesn’t make you indignant like it might have a day ago. You’re not sure what exactly has changed, just that it’s still changing, and that it would be far easier if it never had.

“How romantic.” You drop a hand onto his head, jostling it side-to-side now that he can’t stop you, “And I suppose this is us staring at the sunset together?”

“Sort of,” Jake shakes his head free of your palm, short-cut hair now wildly out of place.

“It is- funny. How we fly every day but can still stare at the sky.” You note, trying to lose yourself in the watercolor hues of the sky again, “Clouds aren’t any less captivating now than they were when I was 10.”

“It’s different here. We’re relaxing.” Jake hums, “Even if I’m gonna need to ice this later. We’re not doing a timed drill that involves tactical missiles.”

You suppose Jake’s not standing anytime soon so you hit the deck yourself, landing defeatedly beside him and letting your club rest in front of you, “I didn’t come here to relax. Or- I guess I kind of did? In between rounds.”

Jake laughs, and stretches his leg out to rest beside yours, “I came here to fuck. Obviously. But this is nice too.”

You feel a sudden rush of guilt. You’re secure in the fact that you don’t owe Jake anything, even if you’d been assigned as his roommate on this sex cruise. Of course, you hadn’t known he’d be your roommate, or you’d never have signed up, but neither had he. He’d been expecting some woman of his dreams, someone hot, curvy, and ready to open her legs for him, and he’d gotten you. You’re both, in your own ways, disappointments to each other.

“I’m sorry. By the way. That you got stuck with me.” You interrupt the silence after a moment, and only afterwards do you realize that it was a comfortable silence, not one of those tense, awkward things that shatter when broken.

“Stuck with you?” Jake questions, but before he can spit out some half-baked, cheesy line about never being stuck with you, darlin’, you finish your speech.

“You came here to fuck.” You parrot his words, “And I’m not letting you, and I don’t have to let you, but you wanted to. So I’m sorry we’re each other’s roommates. I came here to fuck, too. And it sucks that we know each other, and that things are so complicated, and that we can’t just fuck like rabbits for a week. I’m sorry.”

Jake stays silent for a while, something that rarely happens with him. But it’s sincere, and when he finally speaks, it’s with a sigh and a nudge of his foot against yours.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to let me,” He agrees, “But- I’m enjoying myself even if we’re not fucking like rabbits.”

“You are?” You give him a sideways glance, “Even though we just drained your credit card and you’re unlikely to be able to reproduce?”

“Free vasectomy,” He grins, “And shopping was fun. And swimming was fun, and drinking was fun, and dinner was fun, and- being with you is fun sometimes.”

“You just had to throw the ‘sometimes’ in there, didn’t you Hangman?” This time, when you refer to him with his callsign, it’s not venomous. Instead, it’s almost fond, and you share a quiet laugh in unison as people mill around you, drinking and kissing and playing mini golf.

“I’m glad you’re having fun.” You sober up, “I’m- I think I’m having fun too.”

“I hope so. ‘Gotta get somethin’ out of this cruise, even if it’s not sex.”

“Jake?” You ask, keeping your head forward and ignoring the sense of deja vu that comes over you.

“Hm?”

“Thanks.” You hum, “For- for understanding that I’m not going to- and, for stopping that guy from looking at me earlier, and for buying me stuff at the shops, and- just. Thank you.”

His response is the thunk of his forehead against your shoulder, and he turns his head to watch the sunset with you through the railing at the opposite end of the deck.

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