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slutofpsh · 2 months

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strip for me.

part five | lhs.

pairings: hyungline x reader

synopsis: hyung line got you trapped in a situation that you can’t get away from.

wc: 8k

warnings: smut, minors dni, fivesome, bullying (not promoting violence or bullying), degrading, raw sex (please use protection), dirty talks, curses, masturbation, hyung line being mean. this is not proof read.

note: lee heeseung’s solo part. next one will be jay’s. thank you so much for supporting my works and loving strip for me series. also, this doesn’t have heavy smut since i want to show the boy’s affection with reader outside the bed even more. anyway, reblogs and replies are highly encouraged.

part one; two; three; four

you got sick the day after. maybe because your body got overwhelmed and didn’t expect that kind of activity. they let you rest for as long as you like until you finally regained your senses.

it was almost 10 pm when heeseung drove you home. both of you silent throughout the drive. heeseung’s glancing at you from time to time, but you refused looking at him.

your mom isn’t really skeptical about it. its also a good thing that she didn’t wonder why the hell did you get sick the day after because you have no idea what will you tell her.

today’s saturday. you skipped school yesterday and just laid on your bed the whole time.

your mind is still occupied by the big question: ‘what are you for those boys?’

they did took care of you that definitely ruin the whole concept of you being their toy and made you confused. the switch up is totally odd as well. they’re always so rude and harsh towards you, then suddenly they went soft and gentle.

that tho, didn’t change the fact that you felt used. (name)’s words kept repeating inside your mind like a broken radio.

a faint knock on your bedroom door snaps you out of you thoughts.

“y/n?” its your mom. “you have visitors. your friends are here.” she announced that draws your brows together.

“friends?” you’re beyond confuse.

nobody ever visited you, and more importantly, what friends? while feeling a little disoriented, you forced yourself out of the bed then faced the mirror once.

the smile on your mother’s face is bright, looking so delighted. she feels excited by this visit she’s referring to, you can tell by how she ushered you down the staircase.

“mom, wait.” you tried calming her down because you can’t think properly on who those friends she’s talking about.

“come on! they’re waiting.” and finally, you made it to the last step then she almost drag you to the spacious living room.

your lips gapped when you saw them dominates the sofa set by the middle. its just the four of them but it seem too crowded. maybe because they’re all so tall and now the average looking sofa looks a bit small for them.

they all whipped their heads on your direction the moment you stepped inside. you cannot exactly tell the look on their faces. your mom smiles and tugs your arm lightly.

“they said they’ve been worried, sweetie. why didn’t you told them that you’re sick?” she pouts.

you blinked, pushing the tears back inside your eyes. its a bit annoying. how you planned to ignore them after what happened and now you can feel your heart warms up just by seeing them here. how all the courage to finally end it dissipates along with your anger for the four fine men in front of you.

its kind of sickening. you find yourself pathetic for actually letting them affect you this way. they make you feel worthless, but at the same time they’re the only ones who can make you feel special.

“i’m s-sorry, it slipped off my mind.” you sniffed and tried to hide the real emotion through a half-smile.

your mom totally bought that reason. she hums and then she can hear a faint ringing from the other side of the house.

“oh! that must be my workmate. i’ll leave you guys here, okay? i will order food for you guys.” she coos and then exits the living room, leaving you alone with them.

their eyes settles at you, flashing with an foreign look on it. that made you feel uneasy so you glanced away.

“sweets,” jake was the first one to approach you closer, reaching for your arm.

his heart sank when you yank it back, declining his affection. he looks surprised and he wanted to try again, but he doesn’t want to push it.

“why are y-you here?” your voice cracks and looked at them one by one.

jay looks concerned, heeseung have his usual calm composure and sunghoon’s brows are furrowed. you can’t tell if he’s mad or worried. he stood up, stopping himself to advance towards you. he doesn’t want to scare you.

“we just want to check on you...” sunghoon says in his softest tone. he licked his lips, blinking multiple times to try and calm himself.

your view of sunghoon got covered when jake steps closer, his brows furrowed hardly and eyes glistening with sadness. his hand hangs mid way, attempting to get in touch of you, craving it.

“we got worried when you skipped class yesterday. we tried to call you, sweetheart.” jake looks desperate. it slightly broke your heart seeing him this way. his mischievous smile long gone.

“but you ignored all of us...” it was jay who talked this time.

you gave him a short glance. the stare stays for a while before you pursed your lips to sigh heavily. chest tightens and mind all messed up.

“what happened, sweets?” jake steps closer.

out of all of them, he’s the most touch deprived. one day without you and he’s all over the place. not to mention that you’ve been ignoring all of them. none of their attempts to contact you became successful and its sending him in distress.

you glanced at him then took a step backward. it pinned him on his position, eyes blank. jake looks in pain, but you looked much worst.

heeseung may seem calm, but behind this composed demeanour is his mind being a mess. he’s in panic. he never seen you this way and honestly he’s not prepared. he gulps and tries to gather himself.

“jake...” he calls his friend to stop him from advancing more.

as expected, he didn’t listen and attempts to take another step but a tear escaping your eye is what halts him from doing so. they never seen you this bothered and terrified before.

“sweets...” jake almost chokes on air when he softly tries to call you.

“p-please leave.” your breaths heavy, and chest painful from thinking that you’ll be ending what you have with them

its messed up. its very wrong. the set up is fucked up, but you can’t deny that you’ve gained more than you lost from this—whatever you call this.

it may sound exaggerated, but you think you saw all of their faces lose color. their eyes flickers fear and shoulders hangs low after hearing what you said.

“s-sweets...” jake’s voice cracks, trying to earn some sympathy. he never done that. he isn’t someone so weak. he always know where he stand and his power he holds over people. but not at the moment, specially not in front of you.

heeseung clenches his jaw to hide his trembling lips. he unclasped his fist, realizing he’s been doing that ever since you’ve walked inside the room.

jay’s in shambles. he doesn’t know what to feel at the moment. he’s always been the nonchalant one. never shown that there’s a weak spot in him. but now that you seem to be slipping away from him, he’s lost. he can feel his heart aching, hands shaking and breaths shorten.

sunghoon’s silent. his eyes never left you, fists balled tightly. he’s cursing himself. for being so ruthless and aggressive. he’s blaming it all to him and his friends. they’re so selfish. and you’re just too perfect. you did nothing wrong. it was all on them.

“y/n,” heeseung licks his lips and this time he trudges closer. jake glances at him, eyes full of hope. maybe his heeseung hyung can fix this mess. he can, right? that’s what echoes inside his mind.

“angel...” he gulps and you noticed how he’s a little off right now. he’s far from the reserve and calm, heeseung you’re used to.

he looks... anxious. the fear and trepidation flashes clearly through his eyes. something you’ve never seen before.

“tell me what’s wrong, hmm? we’ll talk about it.” he says using his calmest tone. “we’ll figure things out.”

that caught you off-guard. if there’s something about these four men have in common is that they love being in control of you. they get off seeing fear and watching you submit to them.

so to hear him saying those words are new for you. talk? will they really listen? what if they just laugh at you if you opened it up to them.

those questions clouded your mind to the point that you didn’t notice jake approaching closer. heeseung wanted to stop him, but he knew there’s no preventing jake from getting close. its either he lets him or he’ll completely lose it.

jake’s warm hands wraps over your wrist is what snaps you back in to your senses.

“sweets...” he calls you. his eyes scanned your face and wait if you’ll resist his affection once again.

he gulps, hope igniting when you didn’t shove his hold off. he took a step closer and this time cups your face. your cheeks warm that sent comfort to jake.

“tell us what’s wrong...” he whispers, pleading. he rest his forehead on top of yours and shut his eyes. “please.” he added.

that made you cry. because you got scared. you’re afraid to confront them because it may end everything.

“what a-am i to you, really?” you started that caught them off-guard.

“y-you guys...” they kept their stares right at your face, waiting attentively to what you’re about to say.

“you treat me like a toy. you’re playing with me like as if i d-don’t have feelings.”

if the scene moments ago hurts them, then this surely broke everything in them. they were silent for a while. reflecting to all the things they’ve done so far to you. yes, they were a little less insolent the other day, but what they did to you probably made you misunderstand it.

jake was the first one to retract, “what? no, sweetheart.” he licks his lips and cares your cheeks gently. he shakes his head continuously.

“we...” he gulps, nervous. he locks his gaze at you and softens, tears brimming his eyes. “i love you.” he blurted out that made you hitch your breath.

that obviously is not what you expected to get from him. specially from jake. he’s the player, always have girls around him. you’ve never heard him say those words to anyone.

your eyes stares right at his desperate ones, trying to search for any traces of mischief over them. but none. sincerity and desperation is all you can see through them.

a warm hand rests at the small of your back then someone rests his forehead at the side of your head. his familiar manly scent invades your nose.

jay’s eyes are tightly closed when you try to glance at him. his jaw clenched hard as his hand bore onto your back.

“i’m sorry if you misunderstood us, baby. that’s not how we want things to escalate.” he mumbles so softly. nuzzling close to you, like as if it will help ease those pain away.

it made you sob. heeseung approaches and his friends gave space for him. he grabs one of your hand and caress it. while staring at your eyes, he placed a gentle kiss on it while the other two boys tries to hugs you. jake’s got his face buries on the crook of your neck, jay remains standing beside you.

“i’m sorry, angel. we...” he couldn’t continue right away. he gulps. “we didn’t know this is how you feel.”

tears streams down your face. continuously. and your chest aches, but this time its for a different reason. you didn’t expect any of these. you imagined them scoffing and laughing at you for actually catching feelings for them. they basically mistreated you.

jake tightens his hug on you, refusing to let go. his warmth envelopes you. jay has his hand placed at the small of your back, caressing it up and down. heeseung has your hand, kissing it from time to time.

the three of them whispered their sorries. they totally feel bad. as your eyes roams around, it caught sunghoon’s.

he’s still standing at his place. didn’t move a step. he’s just there, watching all of this unfold. his heart aches, that’s for sure. he wanted to come close to you too just like how his friends are trying to console you, but his feet are stoned.

he cannot do it. he’s afraid.

out of all of them, he’s the meanest. he says the most hurtful and degrading words towards you. of course, he meant none of them. he’s just caught up in the moment and to the thought of dominating you.

his heart drops at the sight of your tear stained eyes. all those times he’s been rough on you flashes back through his mind like a montage. he hates it. he hates himself.

heeseung whips his head back to look over his shoulder. he can see how sunghoon has his fists balled. how he looked scared. he’s never seen him this way.

“dude.” he calls.

jake lifts his head to look at his friend, jay’s watching too. sunghoon kept silent, his lips shaken.

“h-hoon?” you called him out, now starting to feel worried by how he’s acting.

sunghoon’s eyes stings as it heats up. he knew he’s tearing up, but he won’t let you see him shed tears. not because he’s trying to mask it ouy, but 'cause he knew it will make you even sadder. he’s scared that he will cause more damage.

his eyes met his heeseung hyung and he nods with a small encouraging smile. the four of them grew up together. they’ve known each other their whole life, so he knew why sunghoon’s not approaching.

its not because he’s mad. he’s being careful. and sunghoon’s never been like this towards someone.

sunghoon gulps then take small courageous steps. your eyes watch him carefully, waiting patiently.

when he’s steps away from you, his eyes softens and you saw how his hand trembles when he lifts it to touch you. he backs out, hesitating to lay his hand on you.

“i’m sorry.” he says in a low voice.

it was such a short sentence but the amount of emotion his eyes shows is enought to let you know that he has so many more that he wants to say.

your eyes scanned his face. slowly, you laid your hand out for him. its a way to let him know that its fine and that you allow him to touch you.

his eyes darts at it. he contemplates, but eventually reaches out. your warm hands sent comfort to sunghoon’s cold ones. it gave him life.

“i’m sorry, pretty. w-we’re really sorry.” he mumbles as he buries his face on your neck. his big figure almost covers you up from heeseung’s perspective.

they watch silently. thankful that you’re just too nice to even let them be this close to you. they exchange look to each other and knew they had to do something to make it up to you.

“forgive us, angel. we’ll do better from now on.” heeseung says and rest his big hands on your hip.

you looked at him and kept silent.

honestly, you’ve been thinking of ending it between them. the amount of stress and overthinking you’ve been going through because of them was unhealthy. you promised that after confronting them and if they confirmed that they’re just here for the fun, you’ll bolt out.

but... this is totally a big turn of events.

your lips stretched a little. a subtle gentle smile, but still visible to their eyes are what relieved them.

“okay.”

jake rushes closer and kisses your cheeks multiple times. “really, sweets? thank you! i love you!” he excitedly mumbled between his kisses.

you felt sunghoon’s big strong arms wrapping tightly around your waist.

“thanks, baby. we will try our best.” jay caught your attention when he rest his hand on top of your head, giving it light taps.

the corner of his lips lifts before leaning to kiss you on the lips. “i love you.” he whispers, like he doesn’t want the other boys to hear. like it was only meant for you.

jake steps in, the sulky boy in him coming out. “kiss me on the lips too!” he argues and pouts his plump lips.

jay snorted and swat his arms. you chuckles and lets him lean in for a swift kiss. his eyes sparkling after that smooch.

heeseung’s hands digs on your hip as he leans silently to drop a kiss on your lips. it was soft and lasts for a few seconds. when he pulls away, he remains close and smiles.

“thank you, angel. we’ll be good boyfriends. right?” he says and looks at his friends which they responded with nods.

you blushed, “b-boyfriends?” surprised.

heeseung smirks then nods, “you’re our girl.” he pinches your cheeks lightly. “not some toy.”

sunghoon places a kiss on your neck then pulls away. his eyes bores to you. they glisten affection and relief.

“our pretty girl.” he whispers and dips his head to give you a feathery hot kiss on the lips.

your eyes opens when he pulls away.

“we need to work on our issues in order for this to work. we don’t want another misunderstanding like this.” heeseung announces.

“do you have anything else you don’t like, angel? except from us being total assholes...” he cleared his throat.

your mind wonders. “i d-didn’t like what we did the last time. its o-overwhelming...”

they all looked at you with cute eyes then jay chuckles. “i mean she did passed out that time. her stamina couldn’t handle it.” he says.

heeseung nods, “at least we get to try it once, right?” he smirks, the memories of the night still lingers to his mind.

you blushed and glanced away.

“is that all, angel?”

you look back at heeseung and nodded.

“please stop being aggressive.” you reminded, ears turning red.

they almost cooed at how adorable you looked.

“we promise.” they say almost in unison then approaches for a group hug with you in the middle, making sure they aren’t squishing you too much.

“but we can still do threesome, right?” jake asks innocently that made all of you whip your heads at his direction.

“jake!” they all hissed at him for still being horny despite the wholesome situation that only made you chuckle.

“hi!” you shyly greets when you saw heeseung outside of your house, leaning over his black audi.

its monday morning and you’re beyond surprise to receive a text message from him saying he’ll be picking you up for school. of course you got excited. this will be the first time.

“good morning, beautiful.” he smirks and snakes his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

your cheeks blushed at his words then stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss. it seems so natural. like this is your usual morning routine.

“get in.” he instruct and even open the door for you.

once inside, he swiftly walks around to ride the driver’s seat. then off you go. it was a short drive, but it isn’t awkward. heeseung’s asking questions from time to time to start a conversation while a low music plays on his radio.

the moment his car enters the parking area designated for the students, you saw familiar boys. jay’s leaning over his car while jake and sunghoon bickers about something.

“oh they’re early.” you mumble because usually you arrive first.

heeseung’s always on time since he’s the school’s president. jay and jake arrives at school just on time. sunghoon’s the one always late, unless he have his morning practices.

their heads whips at your direction once they heard the familiar blaring of heeseung’s car. jake turns his back over hoon then waves like an excited puppy. he for sure cannot see you yet as the car is heavily tinted, but it made you smile. he’s so cute.

he’s on your side of the door once heeseung’s done parking it. he waits until the car’s unlocked and then open it for you.

“sweetheart!” he greets happily then hugs you.

heeseung shakes his head while smirking then unclasped your seatbelt for you as you’re busy greeting jake, returning his hug.

jay and sunghoon walks closer as well then hoon went to grab your things from the backseat. he naturally carries it, letting one strap hangs on his arm.

“hey, baby.” jay greets and placed a kiss on your cheek.

“hi jay.”

“i arrived earlier than both of them!” jake interrupts, proudly letting you know how he’s very punctual today.

“wow, that’s great jakey.” you complimented him and his eyes sparkles.

“yeah, right. you’re so childish.” sunghoon commented before leaning towards you for his kiss.

all of you walks on the hallways together. sunghoon and heeseung’s is a few steps ahead while jake’s beside you telling you about his dog. even showing you her cute pictures and bragging how she’s the smartest dog ever. which sunghoon quickly argues that his dog is much better.

jay’s on your other side, silently listening to his friend’s playful banters. he’s very used to it already and slowly, you too.

curious eyes follows the five of you. there’s a hint of surprise and judgment through them. some are whispering, some just stares with mouth slightly gapped and others just don’t care.

honestly, it bothers you. their eyes carefully watching you is making you uneasy. it felt so weird being watched that it makes you wonder how these boys got used to this.

jake’s warm hand envelops yours that caught your attention. he smiles, his red plump lips distracting you.

“don’t mind them, sweets. they’re just jealous.” he whispers, eyes staring straight at yours.

with blushing cheeks, you blinked twice. “w-why? because i’m with you guys?”

he shakes his head and leans closer, his lips grazing your ears that made your stomach drop. “because you’re ours.”

to say that your face turns red is an understatement. your heart races and he just winks then continues talking about other things.

when you arrived at the classroom, they’re all looking curiously. wondering why these boys are acting this way around you. as far as they remember, they used to bully you around. basically why you end up becoming a loner.

“here, pretty.” sunghoon says and placed your things at the side of the chair. you thanked him and he just smiled before walking to his seat.

jay and heeseung did the same but jake remains near you, pouting hardly.

“can’t i move seats?” he complains.

you chuckle and cares his arm, “go to your seat now, jakey.”

he sighs and wants to lean to give a kiss but stops himself. you did talked about them not to do pda in public or at least when around a lot of people. not everyone is open for this kind of relationship, you just don’t want any issues.

“jake, stop being sulky and sit down.” jay calls him then rolls his eyes.

the said boy just raises his fist and showed his middle finger to his friend. you chuckled and just sat down so jake can go to his chair.

eventually, the homeroom teacher walks inside for morning reminders. she mentioned the upcoming fieldtrip which slightly riles you up. you’re excited to go at the museums and such.

during the breaktime, the boys accompanied you. sunghoon and jake to be specific. the other two are busy on student council so its just the three of you.

“what do you want to eat, doll?” sunghoon asks while pulling a chair for you.

jake’s playing with the edge of your hair while watching you carefully.

“anything is fine.”

hoon nods once, “i’ll order for you.”

“thank you, hoon.” with a smile.

he smirks then squeezed your hand before walking off. jake and you sat down at the table.

“did heeseung hyung told you already?” he starts.

“about?”

“he’s taking you out on a date later.” he says casually while doing something to his phone. his forehead narrows, very focus.

“a d-date?”

he hums, answering your question with a short nod. he’s not looking at you, still hooked to his phone. “where?”

he shrugs, “have no idea.”

your heart hammered just by the thought of going on a date with thee lee heeseung. yes, they did said that they’ll make it up to you and that confirmed your relationship with them, but sometimes it still don’t sink in.

they’re your boyfriends...

your eyes caught the glimpse of what jake’s doing and you got distracted. its a picture of you. that was the first time you saw it.

“is that me?”

jake whips his head at you then smiled, “yes! i’m putting you as my wallpaper.” then he clicked something before locking it and opening the screen to show you.

its a candid picture of you. you forgot when it was, but it was obvious that you’re unaware of him taking that photo. you’re focused on something.

“beautiful, isn’t it?” his smug smirk looked adorable. he cocked his eyebrow once, smirking wider. “that’s my girlfriend.”

you blushed even harder. “stop it.”

he chuckled, finding you adorable. instead of stopping, he stared more intensely making you even more flustered.

“j-jake..” and you glance away.

“fine, i’ll stop.” finally, he glances away, his big grin not wiping off.

sunghoon arrives afterwards and the three of you enjoys the time together before going back to your class.

during your vacant, some of your classmates are doing random things inside the room. you find it a waste to just do nothing and remembered about the history assignment.

you stood up and instantly, four heads whips at your direction. when the bell rang and one of the students announced that it was your vacant, they all naturally gathered around you.

“where are you going?” they almost ask at the same time.

“a-at the library.” you answered, shy that all of their attention is now directed at you. its slowly becoming a habit, but that’s something you will never get used to.

“i’ll go with you.” heeseung was quick to stand up and fix his uniform slightly before carding his soft black hair once.

you gulped, “o-okay...” and your eyes dropped at the three boys who remains sitting down.

sunghoon smiles, “see you later, doll. i’m sleepy.” he reasons then leans over his table.

jay just smiled. jake have this pout on his lips. “i really want to co—” his words got interrupted when jay covered his mouth.

“shut up.”

heeseung covers your line of sight from them then flashes this soft smile. “let’s go?” he says and just like being hypnotized by his gaze, you nod your head.

heeseung ushered you to the library, asking what you’re going there for. once informed about the assignment, he said that he’s already finished with his so he’ll just help you.

you can’t help but to be at awe for this man. can he be more perfect? he’s good in everything.

he find you guys a vacant table and asked you to sit down. he said he will look for the book he used and you thanked him. it didn’t took long before you saw him walking back with a handful of books. strangely, he fits this image well.

you’re in complete trance when he walked closer then placed it on the table. he then started pointing the references he used and told you that you can gather information from those articles then summarize it to your own words.

that was plenty for you. considering it will save you time doing this assignment. with a small smile you thank him then proceed on focusing on the task. heeseung sat beside you and watch how your brows draws closer.

his grin grew wider and fingers starting playing through his lower lip. his stares never left you then it slowly trailed down from your brows to your nose and then lips. those damn lips...

he inhaled and licked his lip, cleared his throat in the most silent way.

now, he went here with you with the most genuine intention of helping you. but then his thoughts are starting to wonder into something... inappropriate.

you did said that you only disapprove of them being mean and aggressive, right? being horny is not mentioned. so you probably won’t mind if he fingers you knuckle deep right now.

god, just by thinking of it, heeseung’s already salivating.

besides, its not his fault that you look so innocent and very pretty looking all serious.

he rests his hand on your thigh that made you jolt in surprise. you blinked twice then turns your head at his direction. he’s giving you this lazy look while biting over his lips.

your chest hammered and stomach churns when he started caressing your thighs gently. making sure you can feel his rough palms rubbing against your exposed skin.

“h-heeseung...”

he raised an eyebrow, “yes, angel?” he asks innocently like as if he’s not doing trailing his hands upwards into your inner skirt.

“w-we’re in the library...” and you roam your eyes trying to check if there’s people near enough to get suspicious of what’s going on under the table.

“exactly. go study.” he says with a grin.

“w-what are you doing? they might see—”

“shh, don’t worry. just be a good girl and do your assignment, okay?” and he leans to drop a kiss on the side of your head, ushering you to continue doing your work.

after staring at him for a while and realizing he ain’t going to stop, you decided to just go with it. besides, you can’t hide the arousing feeling that slowly poisoning your whole system. your head starting to get fuzzy, core getting wet as he started to trace the line of your pussy.

you hummed, teeth sunk onto your lower lip in attempt to stop any moans that wants to come out. “ungh,”

he chuckles sexily, “try to be quiet. we’re at the library after-all.” he whispered.

he pulls his hand out then gave it a lick before dipping it back in. “open your legs for me, please.” he demanded in a very soft tone.

you’re already in deep thoughts, unable to even respond properly and just obliged his dirty desires. once he have a better access, heeseung pushes your underwear to touch you bare.

his fingers are hot and rough. feels so good. he started on your clit, rubbing it in a very delicious way.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he curses, enjoying how your face contorts out of pleasure. pleasure that he’s currently giving you.

“h-hee..” you calls him.

he smirks, loving the way you’re so needy for his fingers.

“all right, i'm going in angel. focus on your assignment.” he stated like as if its even possible to do that. but you tried to pull yourself together. heaved a sigh then looked at the books in front of you. none of the words made sense, but that’s not important.

your mouth slightly gaps as he inserted one finger inside you. the stretch felt so good it makes you want to moan loudly.

“shh.” he reminded, chuckling.

he’s enjoying it. he’s loving it as much as you’re loving being finger fucked.

he didn’t stopped and put another finger. he let it rest inside, trying to take time feeling your tightness around his long fingers. he wants to imagine it to be his dick and he bet it will feel heaven. he shove that thought right away, he needs to focus on you.

“you’re so tight around me, angel.” he whispered huskily. “even after being fucked by all of us, you’re still so fucking tight.” he started talking in nasty way.

the way he say it in a calm tone just hits in a different way. you gulped and breath out, calming yourself.

“p-please.”

he smirks and gave you another kiss on the side of your head. he started moving his fingers that almost sent your soul out of your body. the way his fingers moved in and out in your tight hole just feels perfect.

he continues, slowly catching his pace that just added to your pleasure. one of your hand grips over his thighs, squishing it that he quickly find adorable.

“how i wish its my tongue inside that hole, angel.” he says that he truly means.

you whimpered lowly and tried to keep your eyes open. the words on the book starting to became blurry. it went on for a while until you feel a knot forming on your stomach. a sign that you’re already close.

“heeseung...” you calls out.

he chuckles then rutt his fingers even faster making you whimper softly. you glance at him and he already knew that you’re close. from the way your eyes are half-lidded and teeth digging unto your lips, you are definitely about to release.

he fucks deeper and just a few moments after you came to his fingers, head hanging low and grip over his thighs tightening. you shake lightly that made him chuckle, leaning his head closer to kiss you by the head.

“you did so well.” he complimented then kept on thrusting in and out in a slow pace, helping you ride your high.

once you calmed down, he pulls it out making you wine. he stares at you then shamelessly took his fingers over his lips to suck it. your eyes grew and cheeks blushed hardly.

“heeseung!”

he smirks, “i deserve a reward, don’t you think?” then he winks at you making you lose your mind. he’s going to be the death of you.

“bye baby.” jay smiles and kisses you gently before moving away to give way for sunghoon. he’s already holding his helmet by one of his hand.

“bye, pretty.” he says with a playful grin over you.

you smiled before pouting, “please drive safely.”

his eyes soften after what you said and leans in again for another kiss. “i will, i promise.”

you nodded and a sulking jake came into your view.

“bye sweets.” he says half-heartedly that made you chuckle then insisted for a kiss just to ease his bad mood.

sunghoon rolls his eyes then grabbed his sulking friend by his uniform and drag him out of there. jake complains and started to argue, but jay helped to drag him away.

heeseung sighs and snaked his arm over your waist, “let’s go?”

you glance at him then nod your head once before going to his car. he opened the door like always and guides your inside.

“where are we going?”

he glances, “i’m taking you to our small vacation house by the lake.” he smiles.

you smiled back, “hmm. okay.”

“i called your mom and told her i’ll get you home a little late.”

“you called her?” you’re surprised he even remembered telling it to her.

“yes. i don’t want her to be worried or get you in trouble.” he says while eyes fixed at the road.

you pout your lips and looked at more with so much adoration. that was so sweet of him. you can feel your heart races and butterflies going crazy inside your stomach.

heesueng notices your stares and chuckles, “why?”

you shake your head, “its just you’re so sweet. it makes my heart melt.”

his smile grew wider, totally proud that he made you feel more special.

“anything for you.”

he said it will took a bit time to get there so you guys went to drive thru so he can buy some food you can eat while on the way. while on the way, you naturally fall into conversations, giggling and teasing each other.

it feels so good. heeseung used to be very intimidating for you. his serious demeanor and the way he seems so calm about everything just makes you feel agitated around him. but eventually, he starts to feel warm. like someone you can entrust yourself fully. they all feel that way, honestly. but heeseung’s the most reliable one, you must admit.

when he noticed your eyelids looking heavier, he chuckles and told you that you can sleep for a while.

“but how about you?” feeling a little bad that you’ll leave him driving.

he smiles assuringly, “i’ll be fine, angel.”

and with that you slowly dozed off. he lets you sleep until you’re already pulling over the driveway of their small vacation house. its not particularly small. its actually above average, but maybe for people like him who probably have many vacation houses, this is small for him.

“careful.” he mumbled and quickly reaches for your hand when the rocky path greets you.

the house is very cozy and simple. the clear view of the lake can be seen from the big glass windows. it was beautiful.

“you can go roam around while i set our food inside the fridge.” heeseung says then kisses you at the head before heading to the kitchen.

your eyes wanders around with curiosity and admiration. everything looks expensive. your eyes darted at the table filled with picture frames. with full curiosity, your feet trudges closer.

“wow...” was the first word that came out from your mouth. you can see pictures of their family. his dad and mom. him and his older brother.

“cutie!” you exclaimed when you saw heeseung’s baby picture. he does resembles him that you can tell right away that it was him.

your smiling ear to ear then fished your phone to take a snap of that pic. after getting satisfied with your shots, you slowly head over the small balcony where you can see the lake.

“wow, its so refreshing.” you mumble under your breath then leaned over the railings, letting the wind blow onto you.

you jolted when a pair of arms wrapped over your waist. “enjoying the view?”

“y-yes.”

heeseung kisses your cheeks then place his chin on your shoulder. the two of you admired the view while holding that position. the breeze is kind of cold, but heeseung’s hug kept you warm.

“do you want to walk around for a bit before we start dinner?” he asks then finally pulls away.

your eyes sparkles, “yes!”

he chuckles, finding you adorable then leans down. “give me a kiss first.”

your cheeks blushed then blinked twice. the two of your stares at each other for a while until you decided to give in to his request. a big satisfied smile spread across his handsome face then stand back up.

“let’s go.” and he intertwined your fingers.

looking at the lake in a much nearer distance gave you comfort and peace. you never thought watching the soft currence while holding heeseung’s warm hands can make your heart race.

“do you know when i started liking you?” heeseung breaks the silence.

you craned your neck to glance at him, eyes flashing curiosity. “when?”

he stares at your for a while before chuckling lightly then pinching your cheeks.

“you look adorable, but i have to resist. come on, try to guess.”

his compliment and how he said that using his softest tone soothes something in your heart. it made you blush instantly. despite all of it, you tried to guess like how he requested.

“when you started this thing with me?” that was the first one that came in your mind.

you barely remember any interaction with lee heeseung before all of this.

his brows narrowed, “this thing?” he sighs. “relationship, angel. that’s how you call it properly.” he says using a salty tone.

you chuckled and just nods as acknowledgement. he kept his stares, his eyes returning to being gentle and full of affection. a small genuine smile then appears over his lips.

heeseung’s out of words to describe how precious you are for him. he’s usually good on saying the things he wanted to say, but with you his thoughts are starting to be messed up. there’s just so much he wanted to say yet he don’t know where to start.

“it was on seventh grade.” he stated that made your lips gap.

7th grade? but you’re already on eleventh grade. still surprised, you cannot say anything.

“during that time i experienced my first loss. it may be nothing for a normal high-school kid, but for someone who comes from a perfectionist family who doesn’t accept defeat, it is a pretty big deal.”

instantly, you feel slightly bad. of course, you’ve heard about his family. they are pretty strict when it comes to him. maybe that’s why he’s very reserved because he has no time for failure. they’ve put too much pressure on him.

your free hand extends and travels from his arm towards his neck, up to his face. slowly, he relaxes to your touch.

“i remember feeling so worthless while staring blankly at my silver medal.” he resumes telling you the story.

“while i stare with despair at it, already imagining the disappointed look from my father, someone approaches me.” he stops.

“guess who?” he smirks. “i'll give you a clue.” then smirk grew wider.

“she’s very pretty and currently holding me softly right now.”

“me?” you wonder.

he nods. “you were pretty amazed at my silver medal.” he states, a big smile on his face now.

just the emotion he was showing was enough to tell how delighted he is by reminiscing that moment.

“i was actually annoyed at first because i thought you were mocking me.” he chuckled and you pout jokingly.

“hey, you’re so judgemental.”

he shrugs his shoulders. “can’t blame me, angel. i was still very introverted that time.”

“you’re still a little introvert now.”

he cocked his eyebrow and you did the same thing, staring back. that made him chuckle.

“okay, maybe you’re right.” he surrenders then drop a kiss on your forehead.

“and then what happened?” you curiously asked.

he smiled. “then i told you harshly that what’s so great for second place?” he continued.

you grow silent then tries hard to recall the memory.

“and then you said,” you glanced at him, eyes starting to water a bit.

“that there’s nothing wrong with being second place. that it doesn’t mean that you failed or you didn’t won. that instead of being sad, you should take it as a chance to become better. that it only means you still have a room to grow.” you finished it that made him smile.

“right...”

“hee...” eyes brimming with tears already. “that was years ago.” you stated, couldn’t believe that he started to get interested that time.

his eyes dropped at your intertwined hand and he raised it to gently place a kiss on top of it.

“hee...” you mumbled again, this time voice cracking a little.

he smiles, “sorry if we approached you the wrong way. we just really don’t know what to do.” his eyes sparkles, getting a bit teary as well.

“i-it’s okay... i didn’t know.”

he chuckles, “obviously. you’re too dense to notice.”

“hey!” you playfully shoot him glares that he just laughed at before leaning in to give you a kiss.

the two of you stared at each other affectionately, enough to communicate what your hearts wants to tell one another.

“i know that with all the responsibilities and the expectation from your parents, it felt heavy. like you feel that you can’t be flawed.” you started.

“but for me you’re just perfect the way you are. with your achievements and failures.” those words tugs his heartstrings, a tear escaping his eye.

the moment you two steps inside the vacation house, heeseung’s lips are attached to you. his kisses are gentle yet passionate. his hands holds you closely to his hot body.

his kisses moves from your lips, down to your chin then neck making sure to suck on your skin making you moan, fingers tangled on his hair.

he slid his arm over your legs then carries you towards the bedroom. he went back to your lips and kisses you once again.

he gently placed you on the bed hovering above you, his hand starting to remove your clothes. and you let him.

when he pulls away, you try to even chase him that made him chuckle.

“wait, angel. i’ll just remove my clothes.”

your eyes trailed down his now erect member.

“d-do you want me to...?”

he smiles then shakes his head, “no. today, its just about you.”

then he kisses you again, resuming on discarding every clothing that you still have on you. once fully unclothed, he positions himself in front of you. he started rubbing his head on your now wet core.

your brows narrowed and whimpers sexily.

“i’ll go in now, okay?” he glanced at you and a nod is all you gave him.

and while your eyes staring back at each other, heeseung pushes his dick inside. the stretch feels so good, his thick cock making you moan his name. it made him satisfied, hearing you getting comfortable on letting out your moans.

“that’s right, let me hear you.” he whispered then pinned your hand on the sides, intertwining his fingers to yours.

he lets you get more comfortable with having him inside and connects his lips on yours again, couldn’t get enough of your lips. his tongue pushes in, wanting to taste every insides of your mouth.

when he started to move, your head starts to get blank. nothing inside but the man above you and making you feel this good.

he slides in and out. starting with a slow pace then going faster. he thrusts deep and fast sending so much pleasure.

“heeseung...” you moaned after his lips moves away.

“i love you, angel.” he suddenly said that made your heart jumped. you didn’t have the chance to say anything as he leans in for a peck.

“i love you so damn much.” and then start thrusting even faster.

“i...” you pursed your lips, eyes shuts as the pleasure from his dick takes away your ability to think and speak properly.

“i..” you attempted again, opening your eyes so you can look at his pretty face.

“love you too...” you finally finished it.

heeseung’s heart thumped faster and he fucked you even harder. he smiles and leans in for another heated kiss. he loves and adore you.

he continues drilling his cock inside until he felt you tightening around him, indicating the approaching release. he kisses your chin.

“cumming for me, angel?”

you open your mouth, “yes. feel so good.”

he smirks, “i know. pussy so good for me.” and then he rut his cock deeper.

“i’m cumming too..” he announces, feeling the knot on his stomach.

“cum with me.” he orders then attach his lips before going rapidly.

not long after you came around heeseung then he filled you with his hot cum. he pulls away to look at your fucked out face, brushing off some hair. he smiles.

“i love you.” he whispers, still going in and out but in a slower pace. riding both your highs.

you opened your eyes and reaches for his face. this time, you lift your head to give him a sweet kiss with a smile on your face. then you laid back down, staring lovingly at him.

his thrust starts to go faster again and a playful smirk spreads across his handsome face, some of his hairs sticks on his forehead due to sweat.

“round two, angel.” and then you let out a whimper from both pleasure and overstimulation.

the two of you spent the rest of the time just going for each other. heeseung making sure you felt how special you are for him.

lee heeseung is scared of failing. always aiming to be the best and to be perfect. he’s too obsessed on pleasing his parents to the point that he almost lose himself. but with you, he felt at ease. he felt safe and confident knowing that despite all his flaws and just being his true self, he’s still admirable.

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itsgodepi · 12 days

Text

First Loser | MV1

Summary: In the wake of a disastrous race, you're caught under the media's unforgiving glare. Your every move and word being dissected for days on end as you simply try to navigate your rookie year in Formula One. It is just your luck that your opponent in this fiasco is none other than the famously outspoken Max Verstappen, whose relentless jabs only add to your frustrations. Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader Word Count: 8k Warnings: accident, anxiety, enemies to lovers Also on AO3

The air rushes into your lungs with ragged intensity, each inhale a searing burn that seems to set your chest aflame. The tight straps of the safety belt only exacerbate the struggle, constricting your breathing while your hands uselessly claw at the buckle. Muscles so unbelievably stiff that every movement make it feel like needles are digging into your skin.

You force your eyes open, vision swimming in a blur of unrecognizable shapes and distorted shadows. Blood is surging through your veins like molten lava, pooling into a searing knot at the center of your chest. It pounds furiously against your ribs, each thunderous beat reverberating through the tempest of thoughts that swirl uncontrollably in your mind.

You’re out. Done. Everything you worked for, everything you hoped for, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Frustration boils over, erupting into raw, unchecked rage. You slam your foot down on the pedals with every ounce of strength you can muster, your fists pounding against the nearest surface with resounding thuds. The sounds are deafening in the confined space of the cockpit, a violent release that leaves your hands stinging and a wave of dizziness washing over you.

A sigh slides through your lips. What are you even doing? You are too out of it.

You slump back into the seat, your resolve crumbling as fatigue overwhelms you. The battle to keep your eyes open only intensifying the pounding in your head. What’s the point anyway? The scene before you is devastating —barriers looming over your side, a twisted wheel perched precariously on the hood of your car, and just ahead, a dark Formula One car buried in the gravel.

That fucking Red Bull.

Tears begin to pool in your eyes as the adrenaline that once chased the away slowly drains, leaving behind a trembling mess. It’s done. The pressure in your chest tightens with each passing second, the fabric over your cheeks dampening with disappointment. In yourself, in your choices, in everything that led you to this very moment. At least this stupid helmet shields you from the outside world, from the screams of the crowd and unattainable promises. The only thing protecting you as you break down. It was so close.

The sound of a revving engine slices through your tears, yanking you back to the harsh reality of the moment. To your fate. Your hand instinctively grasps the wheel as the static in your ears begins to fade.

“Are you okay?” the repeated message crackles over the radio, each time louder than the last, ringing in your ears. The race engineer’s voice is tinged with urgency, and you realize he must have been asking this since you first grazed the track limits.

You struggle to articulate a response, your jaw muscles aching from being clenched so tightly during the crash. “Yes, I... Yeah, it’s okay” the faint voice that escapes your lips barely recognizable, even to you. Blame your laboured breath or the tears sliding non-stop down your cheeks for making you talk like you haven’t pronounced a word in months.

The radio comes alive once again, interferences cutting into the race engineer’s words, though his relief is evident. More time than you expected must have gone by; silence is never a good sign in these situations.

You can't quite decipher his exact message over the noise, but you push past the fog in your mind to respond “I’m alright, the car started—”

However, your train of thought is abruptly interrupted by the sight of the other protagonist of the crash. Seeing him climbing out of the wreckage of his car, seemingly unscathed despite the severity of the collision, filling you with profound relief, momentarily silencing your racing thoughts.

The sight of Max approaching your car pulls you further from the fog of your own distress. Your gaze locks onto him as he changes direction, his stride purposeful as he heads straight toward your car. A flutter of disbelief mingles with the tension in your chest —is he coming to check on you?

As he draws closer, the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile, a reaction you can’t suppress despite the circumstances. He must have noticed you still seated in the car, frozen, while the marshals were still nowhere to be seen.

When he is close enough to the vehicle, you manage to stick a hand out of the halo, giving him a thumbs-up to signal that you’re okay. “I’m so sorry, guys. I tried, I promise I really tried to...” your voice trembled with raw emotion as you are back to speaking into the radio, each word laced with a mix of sadness and desperation.

You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes closed as you breathe deeply, when suddenly, you feel your hand being slapped away. Startled, your eyes snap open, looking to where your hand was a moment ago as your crawl it close to your chest.

You see Max looming over your seat, a hand gripping the bar of your halo while the other waves angrily through the air. You watch him, open mouthed, his angry yells muffled by both your helmet and his, making his words unrecognizable. But it is as if you knew exactly what he was saying.

Max’s anger and the frustration of the moment collide within you, a storm of emotions that bursts out uncontrollably.

"What the fuck? It was your fault, you fucking asshole,” you yell at him with all the force you are lacking “And now you dare to come here to intimidate —!”

The fury in your voice, the sheer anguish of what you had lost, reliving it sends a shiver down your spine. If you lift your eyes to the screen behind the journalist, you can also watch the exact moment the communications with the team were cut. That’s it, you spring from the seat, completely enraged by Max's audacity to come reprimand anything after the manoeuvre he had pulled on you, and the radio’s cable goes flying in the air by your side.

A perfect shot.

And finally, some privacy for one of the worst moments of your life. They had enough with the video being played on every single screen of the paddock. If only you had managed to hit that damn button again and shut off the microphone.

You let out a sigh, gripping the steel barricade between the interviewer and you, trying to release some of the emotions still coursing through you. “It’s no one’s fault really, these things happen... I was just overwhelmed by the situation and said the intimidation thing, just completely drunk off adrenaline. Like Max probably”

The statement might not align with your true feelings., but when hundreds of interviewers are knocking over each other to get your statement and the images are being endlessly replayed, it is what you have to say.

This is how you justify your reaction, not only on the day of the accident in the media pen, with trembling hands and a still-thrashing heart, but also throughout the following week in Belgium. The same questions are repeated time and time again, your words are played in every medium of communication interested in Formula One and beyond, yet your response remains the same.

A car crash like that would drive anyone to their wits’ end.

It got easier to say after every new interview, your body finally pushing out of that shock state after the crash, the fear of jumping into the car gone after the first practice at the Spa-Francorchamps Circuit. Although you could not say the same about your state of mind, not with the constant taunting.

Max had only given a few interviews the day of, looking the least bit apologetic but acknowledging his part in the incident and lamenting that both your races had come to a sudden end. When asked specifically about his outburst, he gave curt, regretful answers—no apology in sight, of course. Yet, later on, and probably advised by his media team, he aligned himself with your ‘drunk on adrenaline’ statement. It was a convenient alignment, indeed.

Nonetheless, the effect of his media team’s nagging did not last long.

“Max, the stewards have just issued the resolution for impeding Perez in Q2. The Haas will receive a three-place grid penalty. Any thoughts?” someone asks as Max is making his way out of the paddock, backpack slung over his shoulder.

“To thirteenth?” Max wonders, sipping from his bottle with a curious look, slowing his pace so the interviewer and camera can catch up.

“No, she’s dropped to fourteenth” the interviewer corrects, glancing at the press release on his phone and pointing the microphone back at the Dutch driver.

Max tilts his head to the side, his lips pursed “That’s... okay, seems alright”. It’s almost inaudible, his head turning back to open the car’s door, as though it’s a simple reflection.

You know full well it isn’t. This is not his first time being caught in a drama, and it’s clearly not his first fight.

“That’ll make for a calm race, isn’t that right?” the journalist pokes, a smirk evident in his voice, and Max’s response is a laugh.

He laughs.

And, that’s it, what might seem like just another trivial reaction, in the wake of last week’s drama, turns the media storm.

You can’t keep track of the times you are tagged in the video, the headlines it makes or the messages you privately receive about it. It’s everywhere, inescapable. All you can do is bite your lip and grimace every time the topic arises in the media pen.

If you were being completely honest, the media frenzy had not come as much of a shock. Max Verstappen's reputation for his bluntness precedes him, and you know it firsthand since it has been directed at you quite a few times. Your history with the Dutch driver has always been a complex mix of distant acquaintances and unspoken rivalries. The latter includes his offhand remarks when you first joined the sport or the critics to your start in Bahrain, which had not been exactly pleasant but also not unexpected.

Those digs had been easy enough to ignore; you did not care what he had to say, so the controversy died a few days later when you didn’t throw a jab back. It’s just your luck that, out of all the drivers, you had impeded his teammate's fast lap.

Looks like it wasn’t enough having such a hard penalty thrown at you. A small error by your race engineer cost you the opportunity to climb up the grid and put you in Verstappen’s crosshairs.

It’s all you can think about as you ride the truck during the driver’s parade, the crowd’s cheers and waves a distant blur. Their enthusiasm should have lifted your spirits, should have reminded you of the dream you were living. But instead, you find yourself retreating inward, pulling away from the others and slipping into the far corner of the truck, leaning heavily against the railing.

A small bubble of isolation in the midst of a roaring celebration.

A huge banner in the crowd catches your eye —a splash of color with your name and number framed with lots of glitter and hearts. You can't help but smile at the gesture, a genuine one that breaks through the storm inside you. The woman holding the sign notices your gaze and waves it enthusiastically. Her mouth moves, likely shouting words of encouragement, but the roar of the crowd drowns out her voice.

You wave some more, grin stretching wider as you catch her excited reaction. In your moment of distraction, your shirt shifts, revealing a large bruise that snakes across your side —a nasty reminder of the crash back in Hungary. It has now become a deep mix of purple and yellow, sprawling across your ribs in a way that’s hard to ignore.

And it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey, what happened there?” Daniel’s voice cuts through, his concern evident as he leans in the railing, eyes wide with concern.

You glance down, momentarily startled by the sight of the dark, ugly bruise. “Just from the crash last week,” you mutter, instinctively pulling the hem of your top down to hide it, but not before Daniel's concerned gaze catches it fully “It’s taking ages to heal”.

His eyebrows furrow in alarm. “That’s not just a bruise! I didn’t know it had been that bad” His hand hovers near your side, filled with an instinct to help “‘You sure you should be racing?”

Before you can respond, the exchange draws the attention of a couple drivers nearby. Alex and Lando wander over, their curiosity piqued by Daniel's reaction.

Lando’s eyes narrow as he takes in the bruise. "Shit, that looks bad" his blunt remark gaining him a nudge from Alex.

You let out a small, tired laugh “Thank you? I guess”

Alex steps closer, peering over Lando’s shoulder with a look of genuine worry. "Did you talk to the doctors?"

Daniel, glancing at where the bruise hides with a sympathetic frown, quietly adds “And the mechanics too...”

“Yeah, I’m cleared, looks worse than it is. And trust me, I’m not missing this race” you state, the discomfort in your ribs and the sudden attention making you shift uncomfortably. “Got some extra padding in the seat now, though.”

The group doesn’t push any further, only giving you tight-lipped smiles and exchanging a few glances between them, though you can tell they’re not entirely convinced. You’re relieved when the truck starts moving toward the pitlane, signalling the end of the driver’s parade and allowing you to escape the spotlight, if only for a moment.

As you step down from the truck and head towards the garage, Verstappen suddenly falls into step beside you. You glance at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion and irritation.

“Hey,” he says, eyes flickering down to your side “You alright?”

The question feels loaded, more than just concern for your physical well-being. It’s the first real acknowledgment of what happened between you two, and the tension crackles between you like static.

You tense, your anger simmering beneath the surface. "I’m completely fine" you say, a little sharper than intended, still raw from the incident and everything that has transpired since.

"Look, I’m sorry you got hurt.” the Red Bull driver sighs, hand coming up to scratch his cheek. “But, you know, there was nothing I could do. You left me no space and— "

That makes you stop in your tracks, fists clenching at your sides as you spin to face him. A forced smile is plastered across your face, though your eyes are burning with frustration. You are fully aware of where you are, can feel the eyes trained on you, the people discreetly gathering by your sides but not daring to approach. You are right at the entrance of the pit lane, under the gaze of spectators in the grandstands and the guests hanging balconies over the garages.

“Oh, so this is what it’s about?” you snap, voice laced with venomous sweetness. “You want me to say you did great, that ‘oh poor thing, I wasn’t letting you race’?”

Verstappen’s expression hardens, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment, clearly not expecting the bite in your tone. "No, that’s not—"

“Watch the fucking video, Max,” you interrupt his explanation, your smile still in place but your words sharp. “I was right there. You turned in like I wasn’t even racing you!”

Max’s face reddens, his anger palpable as he tries to defend himself. “I’m not going to let you just blame me for everything,” he retorts, voice deep “You knew you couldn’t hold up and yet, you kept blocking me. You know better than that!”

“I know better?!” you repeat incredulously “It’s you who drives like a maniac, pushing every fucking limit and expecting everyone to get out of your way!”

“That’s not fair, and you know it." the Dutch’s eyes narrow, clearly stung by your accusation." I came to apologize, but it looks like you’re too busy playing the victim to actually have a normal conversation.”

“Go fuck yourself, Max,” you say, the smile on your face a strained mask of anger for the cameras capturing every second of this standoff “I shouldn’t have saved your sorry ass. You came to intimidate me then, and now you’re just trying to do it again.”

Everyone is waiting for a reaction, something they can replay and dissect for days on end. That is what they want, what Max wants, but you are decided not to give it to them. Not here, not ever.

The word ‘intimidate’ hits Max like a punch. His eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something else—maybe hurt, maybe disbelief— but before he can respond, someone else interrupts the scene.

Daniel saunters over with his signature grin, throwing an arm around Max’s shoulders and pulling him in like they’re just two friends hanging out before a race. The casualness of the move feels jarring against the heated tension between, but Daniel’s intentions are clear.

“Alright, alright, let’s cool down, kids,” Daniel says, his tone playful but cutting the tension immediately. “We’ve got a race ahead, yeah?”

There’s an undertone of urgency in Daniel’s eyes as they flick between you, practically begging you both to play along. Verstappen stiffens under Daniel’s arm, the anger still radiating off him in waves, but he doesn’t push him off. Instead, he also forces a tight-lipped smile, letting the older driver guide him towards the garage.

Daniel looks back at you from a few meters away, his eyes full of unspoken questions. You meet his gaze and offer a slight nod, hoping he’ll understand you’ll be alright. You hope so.

That day, Verstappen is crowned the winner of the Belgium Grand Prix, lifting his trophy amidst a blur of celebratory cheers and flashing cameras. The dominance of his Red Bull had been undeniable, easily overtaking Lewis Hamilton in just a few laps and maintaining a consistent five-second lead. It was a victory that felt almost inevitable. The superiority of the machine, and his skill, had made this race his from the start.

“Well, sometimes you have to be smart and know when to pick up a fight” Verstappen states with a shrug during the post-race interviews, still sticky with champagne, adjusting his cap with nonchalance. His words were casual, but the undertone of superiority was clear. “Simple as that”

Then came the voice, sharp and loud enough to turn heads in the press room: "Some people love wasting everyone’s time."

The crowd of reporters fell into a hush. Everyone knew what that comment referred to—your battle with Max earlier in the race. Though it only took Max half a lap to pass you, the ferocity with which you defended your position had been the talk of the week. Some praised it as spirited, but most agreed it was just a roadblock for the Dutchman.

Max could have ignored it. He could have chosen silence. But instead, he picked up the microphone again, leaned back in the chair, and added, “Yeah, clearly,” with the same detached tone, fueling the already smoldering flames of controversy.

You weren't there to hear the smug remark firsthand, but it found you soon enough, as these things do. He doesn’t have to worry about that.

“Oh, he said that? Really?” you muttered bitterly, your eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of frustration and disbelief. You couldn’t help the anger bubbling up. Not only had he made a snide comment, but he’d doubled down on it when a journalist baited him. He had to be joking. “Well, you know what? He should know how to fight without ending in the curb. He’s not a rookie anymore”

And with that, the story exploded.

The media ran with it, fuelling the narrative of a growing rivalry between you and Verstappen. Headlines, articles, social media—all of it revolved around your comment and Max’s subtle digs. The situation escalated when Red Bull’s team principal chimed in, defending Max and throwing more shade your way. His comment about "drivers needing to be aware of their surroundings" felt like another knife in the back. You couldn’t watch more than a few seconds before turning off the interview, letting the media team handle the backlash in your stead.

At the peak of it all, as if on cue, a video is posted online, flooding every social media platform within hours. It was footage from a Grill the Grid challenge, recorded months ago, back when you were still settling into your Haas gear. You had guessed Max’s childhood photo in an instant, smiling softly as you held the picture up to the camera.

“Max! That’s easy,” you had said, the smile lingering. “He’s always had such pretty eyes... I’ll give him that.”

You never expected that line to make the final cut. They usually cut those videos down, especially with the newer drivers. But they ran with it —probably hoping for this exact reaction from their followers.

Alongside it, Verstappen’s reaction to your photo also rises to the top of the searched videos. It is similar to yours, instantly guessing your name despite your hair being hidden underneath a woollen beanie, which would be the instant give away when compared to the rest of the men. Of course he recognized you, he’d been there when the photo was taken, back in the early karting days, probably messing around with his sister, Victoria, while waiting for his turn to race.

It was one of the first few races you participated in, and although it was also one of the last ones Victoria raced in, you clicked pretty well. You might think it was a given for the only two girls in the sea of boys, but it was nice nonetheless. You often wished she had continued racing alongside you, sharing this difficult journey. Perhaps it would have been Victoria's printed photo in the stand.

But Verstappen didn’t mention any of that. He just spends a moment longer than necessary looking at your picture, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

At the Dutch Grand Prix, the weight of the media storm becomes almost palpable. Every question during the weekend seemed to circle back to him. No matter how much you tried to redirect attention, the media kept poking, fishing for another soundbite.

You manage to end the weekend unscathed. Verstappen had probably been advised, once again, to ignore the topic and avoid the snide comments. You are glad he is listening to them this time —not like the people in his team, but that’s another a whole different story. He has not even reacted to your remark last week, publicly that is, and kept his focus on the race all throughout the weekend.

Well, it is easier to forget about the press when winning left and right. Even more so when he is bringing home such an important win, his home race’s trophy.

Meanwhile, you trudged back to the Haas garage, yet another disappointing race under your belt. Your name getting comfortable hanging near the back of the grid, the sting of failure settling in.

Emma, your PR minder, intercepted you on the way to the media pen. Her expression was strained as she handed you a tablet. “There’s a new video making the rounds” her voice cautious as she gave you the news.

Your stomach clenches as the clip starts rolling. The shaky video captures some unseen footage from the day of the crash, probably filmed from the edge of the track. It shows you, huddled against a barrier, knees pulled tightly to your chest. Your helmet is off, and you're crying uncontrollably, shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. Marshals gather around, gently trying to lift you, but your body hangs limp, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, utterly broken.

After several long seconds, the video cuts to your arrival at the garage, your face a mask of composure. The tears are gone, then. No trembling, no visible sign of the emotional breakout you just had. You simply walk in towards the screens of the pitwall, face blank. As if nothing had happened.

Emma glances at you, trying to gauge your reaction.

“So, what do we do?” your voice is slow, forced, as you blink away the tears.

Emma’s voice drifts in and out of your mind as she tries to explain the plan for handling the press, but you can barely focus. All you want is to be done with this day—this race, this stress, this constant barrage of questions. Your mind is still reeling from the latest disastrous race, and now the video.

“Just stick to the script, try to pivot the attention” she concludes, voice carefully neutral as she keeps a steady pace, moving you through the paddock with a hand in your back.

“I just want to be done with this...” you whispered, your voice cracking. Your chest tightens as the video plays again in your mind, the rawness of it suffocating you.

Emma gives you a sympathetic look, though there’s a hint of firmness in her tone. “I know. Let’s answer a couple question and we’ll be gone in no time, I promise”

You nod absently, barely taking in her advice as you try to steady your breathing.

The background hum of the paddock turns into a dull roar, your focus too scattered to notice it at first. It’s only when the noise grows louder—cheers and loud laughter—that you snap out of your thoughts, realizing the celebration has crept right up to you.

You look up just in time to see a sea of dark blue pouring through the paddock. The Red Bull team, still riding the high of his victory, is coming down the main street. One of them tosses the trophy in the air with a triumphant whoop, cameras clicking wildly around them. You instinctively step aside, shrinking into yourself, hoping to stay out of sight.

But then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, Verstappen’s locks onto yours. He takes a deep breath before he breaks away from the group, approaching you cautiously.

“Hey,” he says, his voice tentative, unusually soft. “Can we talk for a second?”

His approach catches you completely off guard. The last thing you need right now is this conversation —especially with him. The weight of the bad race, the stress, everything that’s gone wrong today. It’s too much. “Not now, Max,” you say, sharper than intended, trying to push past him.

Max’s expression tightens, but he steps forward, his hand catching your arm gently but firmly, halting your escape. “Wait—just, hold on. I know things have been rough, but I wanted to check on—”

You whip around, eyes immediately flicking from his hand on your arm to his face, complete and utter shock flashing through you before anger takes over. You see red, your pulse pounding in your ears, drowning out any attempt to understand what he’s trying to say.

“What the hell, Max?” your voice is low but laced with fury, each word seething. “Do you really think now is the time? That this is what I need right now?”

His grip loosens, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected your reaction, but you’re not even close to being done.

“You’re keeping me out here again for what? So I can make a scene?” you gesture toward the photographers, already poised with their cameras trained on the two of you, eagerly awaiting the drama. Your words spill out, venomous but restrained. “To give them exactly what they’re hoping for—more shots of me losing it? Is that what you want, Max?”

The look on his face is as if you’ve physically struck him. His mouth opens slightly, something akin to a “Sorry” slipping out of his lips. But the damage is already done.

With a harsh breath, you yank your arm away and turn on your heel. You storm off, adrenaline surging through you, blurring the cameras, the people, the stares. Everything fades into a dull hum, swallowed by the chaos you’re desperately trying to escape.

The media frenzy surrounding the crash had mostly died down by the time the United States Grand Prix rolled around. The headlines shifted, and the cameras no longer swarmed your every move. Maybe the world found a woman broken down and crying at the side of a track a less than interesting topic to critique. Ironically, the overexposure had granted you some much-needed breathing room.

And in that quiet, you focused on what really mattered: the racing.

It feels contradictory to reach the first milestone of your Formula One career on a circuit you have always despised. The Circuit of The Americas was a harsh, undulating track that challenged even the most seasoned drivers. Its aggressive turns and long straights had never been kind to you, a place where any minor mistake could leave you battling the car just to stay on track, let alone compete. The Texas heat didn’t help either, soaking into the tarmac and the air, making everything feel heavier, harder.

Yet, despite your earlier misgivings, the track had offered you a chance to prove yourself. And this time, you seized it.

Your car, against all odds, held up perfectly. The upgrades to the car, though minor, made it feel more responsive and alive beneath your hands. And the strategy calls had been spot-on. This time, everything clicked.

When you crossed the finish line and scored your first points in Formula One, the emotion hit you like a wave. It was a small but monumental victory, a validation of your skill and perseverance in a place which often seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

The media circus, which had been a constant presence throughout the season, faded in the background. As if it had never been there.

As you coasted back to the garage, your face locked in a smile that refused to fade, the team met you halfway, erupting into celebration. Cheers filled the air as they lifted you, waving the position board with "P10" scrawled beside your name as though you had taken a podium finish. Their joy wasn’t just about the result; it was about everything that led to that moment—your hard work, their dedication, and the culmination of a long, arduous season.

The party continued in the garage, where the team gathered for photos and the popping of a small bottle of champagne that you were drenched in. The atmosphere was electric, filled with laughter, cheers, and a sense of collective pride. Hugs, handshakes, and nods of respect flowed not just from your own team but from drivers wandering in from their garages, their congratulations laced with a new-found respect. For you, it all was confirmation that you were here to stay.

Amid the flurry of congratulations, you noticed Max approaching. His presence, initially unexpected, was met with mixed emotions. You had become accustomed to the tension between you, a simmering rivalry that played out both on and off the track. But today, was different.

Max gave you a small, hesitant smile as he walked towards you. The usual competitive edge in his eyes softened. “Congratulations,” he said quietly, extending a hand. His tone sincere as a small chuckle slips off his lips “You really earned it.”

In that moment, the weight of the day’s emotions, combined with the unexpected kindness from the rival, overwhelmed you. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the events of the day hit you all at once. Without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around Max in a spontaneous hug. A gesture of relief and gratitude, expressing emotions that words couldn’t quite capture.

Max seems taken aback by the embrace, but he returns it with a reassuring pat on your back. There’s a brief, shared moment—one filled with the weight of everything you’ve both endured this season. The conflicts, the tension... It all melts away in the hug, replaced by a silent acknowledgment of the challenges faced. It’s as if you both silently agree: whatever the future holds, you will handle it differently. You’ll treat each other better.

With a final nod, Max turns and walks away, blending into the sea of people celebrating around you, leaving you to bask in the moment with your team. You wipe at your tears, laughter bubbling up as your team drags you back into the celebration.

The Brazilian Grand Prix was always a spectacle of unpredictability, and this year was no different. The warm atmosphere at Interlagos crackled with anticipation and nerves, heightened by your surprising performance in qualifying. The car felt responsive, dialled in for the twists and turns of the circuit.

This was the highest position you had achieved all season, and the weight of expectation mingled with excitement as you lined up on the grid. The lights overhead blinked to life, the engines roaring in unison and the adrenaline starting pumping though your body.

Launching off the line, you navigated the opening corners with precision, maintaining position amidst the frenetic battles of the midfield. You kept focus, managing your tires well, everything clicking into place just enough to keep you in a high enough position. Things were finally working in your favour.

The decision to pit early came as a calculated risk, a move to capitalize on the clear track and exploit the potential of fresh rubber. The pit crew executed flawlessly, the stop seamless in its precision. Emerging back onto the track, the new tires gripped the asphalt with renewed vigor, propelling you forward into the heart of the race.

As expected, the field began to thin out with the inevitable cycle of pit stops not much later. With each passing lap, your focus sharpened, pushing harder to maximize the advantage. You found yourself gaining ground on the cars ahead, the gaps closing with every lap.

A Red Bull appeared ahead, its familiar livery standing out against the asphalt. A crackle of static brought your race engineer's voice to life over the radio: "Verstappen ahead". His firm tone coupled with a tint of urgency, almost a warning.

The Dutchman was struggling, clearly executing a different strategy while others succumbed to a change of tires. His car was losing grip with every corner, the acrid scent of burnt rubber lingering in the air as your opportunities of overtaking loomed closer and closer.

Adrenaline surged through you as you moved forward. Max wasn’t your main rival today—he’d undoubtedly regain his pace after a pit stop, surging with a speed you couldn’t even hope to match. But you needed the few seconds you could grab on the nearly empty track.

All you needed was patience, a clean pass, and you’d be on your way. But that’s the thing about this sport —it’s never that simple.

You line up your move. DRS wide open, your car gaining on his down the straight. It was a textbook overtaking maneuver: inside line into the braking zone, clean, fast, and decisive. But Max, being Max, wasn’t going to let anyone by without a fight. He moved just enough to defend, squeezing you towards the inside of the track. Not illegal, but aggressive, forcing you to rethink your approach.

You held your ground, refusing to back off, the story repeating itself –if only with a bit more space to move.

Then comes the corner. It’s tight, both of you pushing each other to the absolute limit. For a split second, you are wheel to wheel. And just when you think you’ve made it past, it happens. A small touch, barely enough to register, but at these speeds, it was all it took. Your rear end twitches, your car snaps sideways, and before you can react, you’re spinning off the track.

“No, no, no!” you shouted into the radio as the car careened off track and into the gravel, the engine dying and warnings flashing on the steering wheel. Race over.

Yet again, your gaze locks on the Red Bull in the distance, but this time as it rolls out of your field of view.

“Are you okay?” came the concerned voice from the pit wall.

“Yeah,” you muttered, already climbing unfastening the harness, trying your best to push down the surge of frustration. Another DNF. Another race ruined.

The walk back to the garage is a haze of exhaustion and anger. It all hit you at once. It wasn’t just the race —it was everything. The months of pressure, the crash, the constant questions, and now, this. By the time you reached your driver’s room, you could only collapse into the sofa, still in your race suit, helmet discarded. You stared blankly at the wall, reliving every second of the race over and over. Trapped in it.

A knock on the door breaks your thoughts. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there.

“Hey…”

The voice is soft, almost hesitant, but unmistakable.

You glance up through blurry vision, blinking in surprise when you confirm your suspicions. Max is standing there, awkwardly leaning in the doorway. He isn’t in his race suit anymore, dressed down in a hoodie and jeans, looking more like some random guy than the potential next world champion. Clearly, he had come after things had settled, hoping not to attract attention.

The race must have ended already, the post-race conference too. You are glad to have finished your interviews before heading back to the garage.

You sigh, too tired to even muster anger. “Max, it’s okay,” you say, the exhaustion seeping into your voice. “I don’t want to talk about it. You can go.”

Max stands there for a second, as if weighing his options. You half-expect him to launch into some explanation, to try and defend what happened on track, but he doesn’t. He’s learned as much. Instead, he steps forward, quietly placing something on the table beside you —a small bag of candy.

For a moment, you are confused, your mind too fogged to register the gesture. But suddenly, it clicks. Your mind flashes back to years ago, when you were both still clawing your way up the ranks. Max, already on his meteoric rise, and you, still fighting your way up.

Victoria’s smile shines brightly in your memory. Her full cheeks and radiant aura would light up your day as she brought little treats to ease the tension when things went awry. It was normal, you would go toe to toe against the boys, some twice your size, both on and off the track without a care in the world.

The competition was fierce, but so were you.

You and Victoria would often find solace away from the prying eyes and relentless pressure, chatting about everything and nothing as you stuffed your mouth with gummies. Back then, those sweet candies were more than just a sugary distraction, they were a reminder of the warmth and encouragement that surrounded you amid the intense battle for the victory

In those early days, Max had been more of a shadow on the periphery of your racing life. Your interactions with him were fleeting—brief greetings exchanged in the pit lane or terse words during on-track incidents. He was a quiet kid, focused on his future and nothing else.

But as you looked at the small bag of candy on the table, a new question surfaced in your mind. Had Max noticed those sweet moments with his sister? Seen your younger self as the laughter mingled with tears over those simple, yet comforting, treats?

As the nostalgia washed over you, a sense of empathy began to emerge. Max’s gesture, though simple, carried a depth of understanding that you hadn’t anticipated. Now, here he is, all those years later, standing in your driver’s room after a crash and offering peace though candy.

You take a deep breath, the tension of the harsh season and the DNF felt heavy, but his silent apology softened the edges of your frustration. If only a little.

Without uttering a word, Max gave a faint smile and quietly turned to leave.

And for now, that is all you need.

Months later, everything feels different, yet somehow familiar. The paddock is alive, roaring with the sounds of celebration, laughter, and the rush of an unforgettable season. The final race has come to an end and the highs and lows of the season hang in the air like the last whispers of a storm

You find yourself moving through the chaos—staff, photographers, and fans all clamoring for a piece of the moment. Your heart swelled with pride as you saw the joy on his face, the weight of months of pressure and competition lifting as he basks in the victory. The World Champion.

“Congrats, Lewis!” you shout, your voice barely cutting through the cacophony of cheers and fireworks exploding in the distance. He grins, pulling you into a hug. The cameras are snapping away but, for once, you don’t care.

You step back, giving him a playful shove towards his team, watching as he disappears into the throng of engineers and mechanics. The confetti starts to fall, the air shimmering with silver and gold as fireworks burst above. Lewis collapses into his team, arms raised in victory, and it’s a scene you know will be replayed everywhere for years to come.

The ending ceremony and final interviews come and go in a blur—everyone’s thoughts about the season, the excitement, and exhaustion all blending into one. The adrenaline is fading, leaving a strange, peaceful silence in its wake.

Slipping away from the noise, you head back to your driver’s room. The door closes behind you, and for the first time in hours, the world is still. You peel off your race suit, changing into something more comfortable, savoring the moment of peace. Outside, the paddock slowly quiets as the celebration winds down, leaving behind only the hum of the circuit at rest.

You decide to step out onto the pit lane one last time, onto the long shadows casted by the lights and the soft breeze that stirs the warms air of Abu Dhabi. Only a couple marshals and mechanics are still working and talking outside. The night is settling in, and you take a deep breath, taking it all in.

That’s when you see Max.

He’s standing near the edge of the pit lane, still in his race suit, though the top half hangs loose around his waist, leaving only the fireproofs underneath. His face is cast in a soft light, the tension of the race gone, but a lingering weight still present. He doesn’t notice you at first, his gaze somewhere far away, lost in thought.

You hesitate, unsure if you should approach. The rivalry, the tension between you two—it’s all been part of the narrative this season. But something in the way he stands there alone, in the quiet aftermath of the race, pulls you forward.

“Hey,” you say softly, breaking the silence.

Max glances up, surprised to see you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe relief? He gives a small nod. “Hey.”

You shift awkwardly, leaning against the wall next to him. The weight of the season and everything that came with it lingers in the air. "I, uh… just wanted to say congrats," you finally manage, your voice tentative.

Max raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “For what?”

“You know," you begin, the word hanging off the tip of your tongue “How was it called?”

“The first loser?”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up! I meant the runner-up,” you correct, giving him a light slap on the shoulder.

“I guess.” He shrugs, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. But there’s no sharpness in his voice this time, just a weariness. He looks out at the grandstands, his voice quieter now, the weight of the season clearly pressing on him. “Feels like the first loser to me.”

“How could that be the first loser? I’m the first loser,” you quip, half-joking although the events of the season hang heavy on your mind “Got a couple of points and went home.”

Max opens his mouth to correct you, but you quickly shoot him a look —one that says, see?— daring him to argue. He catches your meaning and closes his mouth again, letting out a soft sigh instead, though his eyes shows that he disagrees.

A beat of silence passes before you speak again, quieter this time. “I know one day you’re going to win so much, you’ll get bored of it.”

Max looks down, his expression hard to read. There’s no smirk, no witty comeback. Just a silence that stretches between you. He kicks at a pebble on the ground, then after a while, glances back up.

“Know anything about next year?” he asks, his voice low. Despite all the rumours swirling around the paddock, no one really knows what's going to happen with the Haas lineup. Contracts hang in limbo, as do the futures of several drivers.

"Yeah, Mick’s out…” you sigh, looking down at your feet “and I’m probably next."

Max shakes his head almost immediately, a frown forming on his face “I don’t think so, you did well this year.”

“Yeah, well… at the back of the grid,” you reply, the words slipping out with a bitter edge.

He looks at you seriously “You have to know what car you have. You did more than enough this year, got your first points, even. Nobody expected that.”

You huff out a small laugh, but there's no real joy in it. "I'm a headache, Max. You’ve all seen that. I have to know what team I'm in, they can’t risk it" you repeat his words back at him, eyebrows knitted in discomfort.

Max goes quiet, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. The weight of your uncertainty seems to settle between you, an invisible burden neither of you can shake off easily. After a beat, the Red Bull driver stands upright, and silently invite you to walk back to the garages with a tilt of his head.

“So, are you going to Lewis' party?”

You hesitate, unsure. “I don’t know yet,” you admit. While part of you wants to go and live what could be your last moments in this bubble, another part just wants to finally hide from the noise that’s been suffocating you all season.

You clearly have not gotten used to this, and probably won’t ever.

Reaching the door to his garage, Max studies you for a moment as he leans on the wall, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, if you feel like it, you should come to the first loser’s party.”

He shrugs, the faint glint in his eyes reflecting the lights of the pit lane. “Well, not everyone can be the winner.” His voice is gentler now, expecting your exasperated sigh, and he smirks “At least I’ve got pretty eyes.”

You blink, caught off guard, a grin creeping into your face despite yourself.

“Again with the first loser?" you shake your head, Max simply shrugs “You sure know how to sell a party, Max.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the callback to the viral video that had stirred up so much media buzz. “Oh, please,” you say, though a smile manages to break through as you give a light shove to his shoulder “You’re such an asshole.”

Max doesn’t flinch, his smirk growing wider. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, and in that quiet moment, the circuit seemed to fall even more silent, as though the world around you both stilled.

And, before you could think twice about it, you whisper the words “But yeah, you sure do”.

Author's note: this has been in my drafts for ages, didn't even have a title, just stupid to lovers so I guess that explains a lot. This idea was also supposed to be part of If I lose my mind but I just had to many things in my head. Hope you liked it, its my first time writing for Max so that's that.

Thanks a lot for reading! And, as always, any kind of interaction is greatly apreciated.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 imagine

1K notes · View notes

pdriesta · 7 days

Text

"you don't need no air, you can just breathe me"

pairings — judexblack!girl

genre —fluff, celebrity romance, music video shoot

warnings — sexual themes (minors dni)

word count — 8k

summary — under the city lights of osaka, y/n's music video shoot transforms into a canvas for her profound, all-encompassing love for jude. from playful karaoke sessions to tender kisses, their chemistry is palpable. as they document their romance on camera, they're prepared to take their love public, revealing to the world just how deeply they’re in love.

an — when i tell you i'm obsessed with this song. i knew i had to write about it. this fic is based on the music video of tyla's, breathe me. i would suggest watching to get the vibes of the fic.

masterlist

it all started with a chance meeting—her cousin, one of jude’s teammates, had invited her to madrid for a weekend getaway, thinking she needed a break from the chaos of her rising fame. she had just finished her second world tour, and her voice was everywhere, on every radio, every playlist, but her heart? her heart felt heavy, weighed down by the pressures of being in the spotlight, by always being seen but never really understood.

it was supposed to be just a casual dinner after one of jude’s matches, nothing serious. but from the moment they locked eyes, something clicked. she remembered how shy he had been at first, his usual confidence seeming to falter as he stumbled over his words when they were introduced. she had laughed—softly, the kind of laugh that made his heart race. and from that night on, they were inseparable. not in the obvious, bold way. it was in the quiet moments, the late-night calls when they’d stay up talking about everything and nothing. about music, football, life, dreams. he’d send her snippets of songs he’d found, songs that reminded him of her, and she’d stay on the phone with him while he described in detail the feeling of scoring a goal in front of thousands of fans.

their connection grew over time, a slow burn of longing, affection, and undeniable chemistry. he’d fly out to see her whenever he had a break in his schedule, slipping into her life like he’d always been there—helping her pick out studio outfits, sitting quietly in the corner while she recorded, offering encouragement when she was frustrated. she never had to explain anything to him. jude just understood her in ways no one else ever had.

they made long distance work in a way that felt easy. it wasn’t perfect; there were challenges, but they both cared enough to try. jude made her laugh in moments where she felt like breaking down from the pressure, and she gave him a sense of peace, a place to escape the noise of his own fame. no one really knew about them—whispers, sure, but nothing confirmed. she liked it that way, liked having something that was just theirs. no media frenzy, no cameras in their faces, just… them.

and then one day, after months of dancing around it, jude had asked her to be his girlfriend. they were in london, staying at a little hotel she loved for its vintage charm, and he had looked so nervous. she remembered the way his hands had fidgeted with the edge of his hoodie, the way he had stared at her for a beat too long before finally blurting it out. “i want to be with you… properly. no more ‘friends’ thing. just… us.”

she had smiled, that soft, secret smile she saved just for him, and said yes. and from that moment, they were it for each other.

it had been weeks since they’d last seen each other in person—weeks filled with endless phone calls, facetime sessions, and voice notes, but it wasn’t the same. she had just wrapped up her album launch in her home city, a huge milestone that marked her rise to superstardom. the long flight straight from the launch party to madrid felt like a blur, but she couldn’t care less. she was finally going to see jude.

the moment she stepped through the door of jude’s house, the smell of she smelt dinner from the kitchen and smiled to herself, dropping her bags by the entrance and heading towards the source. there he was, standing by the stove, his back to her as he stirred a pot of something on the burner. she stood there for a second, just watching him, the domesticity of it all filling her chest with warmth. how did she get so lucky?

“i missed you,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

jude turned around immediately, his eyes lighting up the second he saw her. without a word, he crossed the room in two long strides and pulled her into his arms, holding her so tight it almost took her breath away.

“you’re here,” he murmured into her hair, his voice thick with emotion. “god, i missed you so much.”

she clung to him, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat against her chest. “missed you too. so much.”

they stood like that for a moment, just holding each other, the rest of the world fading into the background. no paparazzi, no cameras, no pressure. just them. finally, jude pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on her waist as he looked down at her, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“you didn’t have to fly out so soon,” he said, his thumb brushing over her hip. “you just finished your album launch—you must be exhausted.”

“and miss out on cooking for my hard-working boyfriend?” she teased, her smile widening. “you need a proper meal after all that training. besides, i wanted to be here with you.”

he chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “you’re amazing, you know that?”

“i know,” she said with a playful grin. “now, let me help. what are you making?”

“it was supposed to be a surprise,” jude admitted, a sheepish look crossing his face. “but, uh… you know i can’t cook. i need your help with the rice.”

she laughed, shaking her head as she moved to the stove, taking over the rice. it didn’t take long before they fell into an easy rhythm—her stirring the pot, him chopping vegetables at the counter. they chatted about everything and nothing, catching up on all the little details they hadn’t been able to share over the phone. it felt natural, comfortable. like home.

as they cooked, jude kept stealing glances at her, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face. god, he’d missed her. missed her laugh, missed her voice, missed the way she made everything feel so easy.

“so,” he started, watching her as she plated the food, “congratulations on finishing the album.”

she turned to him, her face lighting up. “thank you. it still doesn’t feel real, you know? like, after all these months… it’s finally done.”

“i’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice soft but full of sincerity. “i know how much work you put into it.”

she felt her heart swell at his words, warmth spreading through her chest. “you helped me more than you know,” she admitted. “all those late-night calls when i was stressed out… you were there through it all.”

“of course i was. i’ll always pick up no matter the time, ” jude said, stepping closer to her. “i wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

there was a beat of silence as they stood there, the weight of their shared experiences hanging in the air. it had been a long road—balancing their hectic schedules, making long-distance work, supporting each other through the highs and lows. but somehow, they’d made it. they were stronger because of it.

as they sat down at the table, jude watched her, something unreadable in his eyes. she looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“what?” she asked, her voice teasing.

he grinned, leaning back in his chair. “i have a surprise for you.”

“another one?” she laughed, already feeling spoiled just by being with him.

“yeah,” he said, his grin widening. “i know how much you’ve been wanting to take a break, and, well… i thought now would be a good time.”

she tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “okay, go on.”

“we’re going to japan,” jude blurted out, unable to contain his excitement any longer.

her eyes widened, her fork clattering against her plate as she stared at him in disbelief. “wait, what?”

“i booked us a trip,” he continued, his grin now fully stretching across his face. “to celebrate your album launch. you’ve been talking about japan forever, so i thought… why not?”

she blinked, her heart racing as she processed his words. “japan? like… actually?”

he nodded, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “yep. we leave in two days.”

without thinking, she launched herself across the table and into his arms, her excitement bursting out of her in a flurry of kisses. “jude, you didn’t!”

he laughed, wrapping his arms around her tightly, holding her close. “i did. anything for you.”

she pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes shining with tears of joy. “i can’t believe this. i’ve always wanted to go…”

“i know,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “and now we get to go together.”

she kissed him again, her lips lingering against his as she whispered, “thank you.”

“you deserve it,” jude murmured, his lips brushing against hers. “all of it. and now, we get to have some time for just us.”

they stayed like that for a moment, lost in each other, the excitement of the trip already buzzing between them. finally, she pulled back, a wide grin still plastered on her face.

“okay, i need to pack,” she said, already getting up from the table.

“oh no, you don’t,” jude said, standing up and pulling her back into his arms. “you’re staying right here”

she laughed, her arms wrapping around his neck as she leaned into him. “you’re terrible.”

“you love it,” he teased, kissing her softly. “besides, we’ve got two days. plenty of time to pack later.”

she sighed, knowing he was right but still feeling the urge to get everything ready. but as his lips brushed against her neck, his hands slipping under her shirt, she decided packing could wait a little longer.

“fine,” she murmured, her voice breathless, “but only because you’re distracting me.”

“good,” he whispered, his lips trailing down her neck, “that’s the plan.”

she could still feel the lingering warmth of jude’s embrace from earlier as they sat on the floor of his bedroom, surrounded by open suitcases. after dinner, they hadn’t even bothered finishing, too caught up in the excitement of their upcoming trip to japan. it was something they’d talked about for months—her dream destination, a place she’d always wanted to visit for the culture, the food, the fashion, and now, the two of them would get to explore it together.

she was still buzzing from the excitement, barely able to focus on packing as she sat across from him now, folding clothes with a distracted smile on her face.

"japan, jude!" she grinned, still giddy from his surprise. "i can't believe you did this."

he chuckled, watching her with that soft, adoring look that always made her heart skip a beat. “how could i not? you’ve been talking about it forever.”

“but still…” she leaned forward, her hands cupping his face. “thank you.”

his eyes softened, and he gently brushed his thumb over her cheek. “anything for you.”

they stayed like that for a moment, their foreheads resting together, their breaths syncing. the world outside felt distant, irrelevant compared to the warmth they shared in that little bedroom. he made everything feel so easy, so right. she didn’t want to hide that anymore.

“jude,” she started, her voice a little quieter now, “i’ve been thinking…”

he pulled back slightly, searching her eyes, sensing the shift in her tone. “what’s on your mind?”

she hesitated for a second, gathering her thoughts. “i don’t want to hide us anymore.”

his brow furrowed, surprise flashing in his eyes as he stilled, hands lightly resting on her hips. “what do you mean?”

“i mean…” she bit her lip, her heart pounding. “i’m tired of pretending like we’re just friends. everyone already suspects something, and i don’t want to keep this a secret. i want the world to know about us. i want to be with you—fully. no more hiding.”

he studied her for a long moment, his expression softening, concern flickering in his gaze. “are you sure? you don’t have to do this because of pressure or anything. i’m okay with how things are, as long as you’re comfortable.”

her heart melted at his words, at the way he always put her first. she smiled, her hand sliding down to rest on his chest. “i know you are. but i’ve thought about it, and i’m ready. besides…” her eyes twinkled with mischief, “i want you to be in my next music video.”

his face lit up, his earlier concern dissolving into excitement. “wait, what? seriously? i can finally be in one of your videos?”

“yep,” she grinned, loving the way his excitement bubbled up, the way he could never hide how happy he was. “i want you in the next one.”

“which song?” he asked, already running through ideas in his mind.

“breathe me,” she said, her voice soft and full of meaning.

his expression changed in an instant, turning tender and sentimental. “that’s my favorite,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “you know how much that song means to me.”

before she could respond, jude picked her up and gently tossed her on the bed, his arms wrapping around her as he buried his face in her neck, peppering her skin with kisses that sent a thrill through her body. “my beautiful, talented girlfriend,” he whispered against her skin, his voice warm and full of pride, “and now the whole world will know she’s mine.”

she laughed, trying to wiggle out from under him, her heart swelling with affection. “you’re so possessive.”

“you love it,” he teased, his lips lingering at the sensitive spot just below her ear, making her toes curl.

“maybe i do,” she admitted, her fingers threading through his soft curls, tugging lightly in a way she knew he loved. his breath hitched against her neck, and she felt a rush of satisfaction at the effect she had on him.

they stayed like that, tangled in each other, their suitcases long forgotten on the floor. jude’s hands roamed her sides, his touch sending warmth through her with every brush of his fingers. his kisses grew slower, more deliberate, each one leaving a trail of fire in its wake. she sighed into him, her body relaxing under the weight of his love, feeling the world around them blur into nothingness.

“jude,” she whispered, her voice soft, breathy. “what about packing?”

he grinned against her skin, his breath warm as he kissed the spot just below her ear again, his favorite spot. “forget it. packing can wait.”

she smiled, knowing full well they’d regret it later when they were rushing to pack last minute. but right now? none of it mattered. all that mattered was him—the way he made her feel like she was the only person in the world, the way he looked at her like she was everything he had ever wanted.

he kissed her again, this time on the lips, slow and deep, his hand cupping her jaw as he tilted her head back slightly. she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer until there was no space between them. she could feel his heartbeat against her chest, steady and strong, grounding her in the moment.

“i love you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice soft, full of sincerity. “so much.”

her heart swelled, the words wrapping around her like a blanket of warmth. she pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her thumb tracing his jaw. “i love you too,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

he smiled, leaning down to kiss her again, and she knew—no matter what, they’d be okay. they’d face the world together, hand in hand, no more hiding, no more pretending.

just them. together.

the next two days blurred together in a mix of tangled sheets, stolen kisses, and whispered confessions. it was as if the world outside ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the two of them, making up for lost time. they hadn’t been apart for that long, but being in each other’s arms again felt like they were rediscovering something they’d been craving for weeks.

y/n spent her time meticulously double-checking packages, ensuring everything they needed for the trip to japan was in order, while jude would laugh at how organized she was, teasing her every time she opened her meticulously crafted itinerary.

“it’s been my dream forever,” she’d say, her eyes bright with excitement, “and you made it happen. my baby made it happen.”

he couldn’t help but smile at the pride and joy in her voice. she had been riding a high since the moment they got back together—he loved seeing her like this, full of light, full of excitement. the exhaustion from her long flight seemed to disappear in the wake of her adrenaline-fueled happiness.

the night before their flight, she could barely sleep. her mind was too busy buzzing with thoughts of their upcoming adventure, her excitement bubbling over to the point where she couldn’t contain it. just before dawn, she woke jude up by straddling him in bed, her knees on either side of him as she bounced excitedly.

“jude, wake up!” she whispered loudly, her hands on his chest, her grin wide.

he groaned, still half-asleep, but when he cracked open one eye and saw the look on her face, he couldn’t help but laugh. “what time is it?” his voice was groggy, heavy with sleep.

“time to go to japan!” she beamed, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “come on, get up! we have to get ready.”

he wrapped his arms around her waist, keeping her firmly in place, even as she squirmed on top of him. “you’re too energetic for this early,” he mumbled, but the smile on his face betrayed his words.

“come on, jude,” she giggled, leaning down further until her face was inches from his. “aren’t you excited?”

“i’d be more excited if i got a few more hours of sleep,” he teased, but when she pouted at him, he gave in, lifting his head to kiss her gently. “fine, fine. i’m up.”

they got ready in their sweatsuits, her braids knotted on the top her head, his curls wild and unruly, both looking far too casual for the excitement of the adventure ahead. they skipped breakfast, their — mainyly y/n’s — nerves too high for eating, and after a short ride to the airport and a whirlwind of travel logistics, they were on their way.

the first few days in japan felt like a dream.

jude watched her, amazed, as she lit up at every turn, her eyes wide with wonder, soaking in every detail of the places they visited. they wandered through bustling markets, she dragged him through every boutique she could find, and he snapped photos of her at every chance he got. she had insisted on buying a digital camera for the trip, wanting to capture every moment, every memory, and it hadn’t left his hands since.

“stop,” she laughed, playfully swatting at him as he pointed the camera at her for the hundredth time, snapping a candid shot of her mid-laugh.

“never,” he grinned, lowering the camera just slightly to catch her eyes. “you’re too beautiful not to capture.”

her cheeks flushed, a smile tugging at her lips as she playfully rolled her eyes. “you’re too much sometimes.”

they walked hand-in-hand through the streets of tokyo, exploring temples, visiting art galleries, and trying every food stall they could find. one evening, as the sun set over the skyline, they found themselves in a quiet park, surrounded by cherry blossom trees in full bloom. the petals fell like soft pink snowflakes, covering the ground in a delicate blanket, and she stood in the middle of it all, spinning slowly, her face lifted toward the sky, eyes closed as she let the moment wash over her.

jude, as usual, couldn’t help but snap a picture.

“you’re obsessed,” she teased when she caught him, her voice light with affection.

“can you blame me?” he said, walking over to her and pulling her into his arms. he kissed her gently, the soft petals falling around them like confetti.

their days were full of exploration, but the nights were intimate, a contrast to the busy city around them. they’d return to their hotel, collapsing onto the bed in fits of laughter or quiet exhaustion, and he’d hold her close, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder, her neck, her jaw.

one night, after a long day of sightseeing, they returned to their room, y/n still riding high on the joy of everything they’d seen. she was bouncing around the room, too excited to wind down.

“you’re like a kid on christmas,” jude said with a laugh, watching her flit around.

“i can’t help it!” she grinned, “everything here is just so perfect. i don’t want it to end.”

“well, we’ve still got a few days,” he said, walking over and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her against him.

she let out a soft hum, leaning back against his chest, tilting her head to the side to give him better access as he kissed her neck. “we should go to the baths tomorrow,” she said softly, her voice almost dreamy. “it would be so relaxing…”

“whatever you want,” jude murmured against her skin, his hands running up and down her sides, sending a shiver through her.

her breathing hitched slightly, her body responding to his touch. she turned in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a slow, deep kiss. their movements were languid, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.

they made love slowly that night, the city lights casting a soft glow through the windows, illuminating the room in shades of gold and pink. every touch, every kiss felt more meaningful, more intense, like they were imprinting the memory of this trip into each other’s skin.

afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, her head resting on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on her back.

“i’m so happy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “this trip, everything… it’s all perfect.”

he smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “i’m glad. you deserve this.”

they drifted off to sleep like that, wrapped in each other, the weight of the world feeling light and far away.

the next morning, she woke up before him, as usual. the sunlight filtered in through the curtains, casting a soft glow on his face. he looked peaceful, his chest rising and falling steadily with each breath. she watched him for a moment, her heart swelling with love for this boy who had made all her dreams come true.

unable to resist, she straddled him again, just like she had done before their flight, her fingers gently tracing the lines of his jaw.

“wake up, sleepyhead,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him softly.

he groaned, blinking his eyes open, a sleepy smile spreading across his face as he realized what was happening. “again?” he teased, his hands instinctively settling on her hips.

“can’t help it,” she grinned, leaning down to kiss him again, her heart light with the joy of knowing they had so much more time to explore, to make memories, to just be together.

and in that moment, nothing else mattered. just them, their love, and the promise of more adventures to come.

jude burst through the door of the karaoke parlour with a grin so wide it practically lit up the room. y/n was perched on his back, arms wrapped loosely around his neck, her laughter echoing in the small space as he carried her inside effortlessly. she had tried to walk, but jude had insisted, saying something about conserving her energy for the important things—like singing.

"i'm perfectly capable of walking, you know," she teased, resting her chin on his shoulder as her fingers played with the collar of his hoodie.

"oh, i know," jude replied, flashing her a wink in the mirror as they passed by. "but where’s the fun in that? besides, i gotta keep my girl close."

her heart fluttered at the casual way he said it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. and to him, it probably was. they had been inseparable since landing in japan, and with every passing hour, he found more ways to remind her just how much he adored her.

"we're supposed to be shooting a music video, not messing around," she said, her voice half-scolding but filled with warmth as she tightened her grip on him.

"who says we can’t do both?" he chuckled, adjusting her on his back as he carried her further inside, the neon lights reflecting off the polished floors. "besides, you look cute up there. the cameras will love it."

she rolled her eyes playfully, but the blush on her cheeks gave her away. jude always knew how to make her feel like she was the center of his universe, even in the middle of all the chaos.

they reached the private karaoke room, and her manager, waiting by the doorway, shook his head with an amused smile. "you two look ready. just be yourselves, have fun, and don’t worry about the cameras. this is the first scene, so let’s make it a good one."

"no problem," jude responded, setting y/n down gently. she slid off his back, her feet touching the ground with a light thud, but he didn’t let go of her. instead, his hand immediately found its place on her waist, fingers brushing the fabric of her shirt

“you ready?” he asked, his eyes full of excitement.

she smiled up at him, feeling the electric buzz of the moment. “always.”

and with that, they stepped inside the cozy karaoke room, neon lights casting a soft, colorful glow over everything. jude, ever the gentleman, let her lead the way before pulling her back into him, wrapping his arms around her from behind as they took in the vibe of the place.

the energy in the karaoke bar shifted as the lights dimmed further, casting a neon glow across the small space. the hum of excitement lingered in the air, and y/n felt her heart race in time with the music that was about to fill the room. this wasn’t just another part of the music video shoot—it was a reflection of them. and in a place like this, with jude by her side, the lines between acting and reality blurred effortlessly.

“okay, just be yourselves, have fun, and let it feel natural,” her manager reminded them with a smile before leaving them to their own devices.

as soon as the door closed, jude grabbed one of the microphones, his signature mischievous grin already in place. he was a ball of playful energy, and y/n couldn’t help but match his excitement. he tugged her toward the couch, pulling her onto his lap before she could even protest.

“jude!” she laughed, settling into him, her back pressed against his firm chest as his arms wrapped around her waist possessively.

“what?” he raised his brows innocently, the mic still in hand. “i’m just getting comfortable.” his fingers gently traced patterns along the curve of her waist, his warmth radiating into her skin even through the fabric of her clothes.

she rolled her eyes, half-heartedly swatting his chest. “you’re going to be a distraction.”

“that’s the plan, baby.” he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her neck, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. “besides, i know your song better than you do. someone has to carry this performance.”

y/n opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the familiar beat of her song filled the room, and jude jumped right into the first verse, completely stealing the moment. his voice was loud and exaggeratedly dramatic, deliberately off-key just to make her laugh. and it worked.

she tried to hold it in, but his enthusiasm was too infectious, and she burst out laughing, her body shaking against him as she grabbed for the mic. “jude, give me that! it’s my song!”

but he held the mic just out of reach, his grin widening. “oh, you mean our song?” he teased, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before continuing to belt out the lyrics like he was performing a sold-out concert. “i’m doing you a favor, really. don’t want you to get tired singing the whole thing.”

y/n couldn’t help but laugh, settling back into his embrace as he sang the first verse, but when the chorus hit, she grabbed the mic back and joined in, their voices blending in a mix of playful harmony. jude’s offbeat delivery was charming, the kind of over-the-top ridiculousness that only he could pull off, while her smooth vocals carried the melody.

they were completely in sync, leaning into each other, both singing along to her words, their bodies touching in subtle but intimate ways. jude’s hand rested low on her hip, his thumb tracing small circles that sent warmth through her body. her fingers absentmindedly played with the curls at the nape of his neck as she sang, feeling the familiar comfort of his touch, the way his presence always seemed to calm her nerves.

as the lyrics flashed on the screen, jude continued to tease, taking over the mic every chance he got, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered the words, his voice sending a thrill through her.

“i know you love it when i sing your songs, baby,” he murmured between verses, his breath warm against her skin. “can’t help myself.”

she shook her head, her smile softening as she glanced back at him. “you’re impossible.”

“you love it,” he shot back, his voice low, his gaze locking with hers in a way that made her stomach flip.

maybe she did. his energy was intoxicating, pulling her into his orbit without even trying. she turned slightly in his lap, her hands finding his chest as they both continued to sing, the playful atmosphere morphing into something more charged, more intimate.

jude’s fingers played at the hem of her shirt, his touches light and teasing, sending jolts of warmth through her body with every brush of his fingertips. the lyrics of her song spilled from his lips, but there was something about the way he sang them that made her heart race.

“you’re making this hard to focus,” she whispered, her voice soft and laced with affection as she leaned closer, her lips hovering near his.

he smirked, his hand sliding up to cup her face gently. “maybe i’m just giving you some inspiration.”

before she could respond, he pulled her closer, his lips brushing hers in a soft, lingering kiss that made her forget about everything else—the cameras, the crew outside, even the song playing in the background.

she deepened the kiss, her fingers curling into his shirt as she let herself get lost in him, in the way his hands felt on her skin, the way his lips moved against hers. it was the kind of kiss that made her feel like they were the only two people in the world, and she had to remind herself that they were supposed to be filming a music video, not getting completely caught up in each other.

when they finally pulled away, breathless, jude’s forehead rested against hers, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “see? told you i’d make it memorable.”

she bit her lip, fighting the smile that threatened to take over. “you always do.”

the second verse started, and y/n picked up the mic again, this time determined to actually sing her own song. she sang the words softly, her voice steady, and as she did, she could feel jude’s eyes on her, watching her with that soft, adoring gaze that always made her heart skip a beat. he didn’t need to say anything—his touch, his closeness, and the way he looked at her said everything.

when the chorus came back around, he joined in again, this time matching her tone more seriously, their voices intertwining perfectly. he pulled her even closer, his hand resting low on her hip, grounding her in a way that made her feel like nothing else mattered but the two of them.

they were wrapped up in each other, the music flowing around them, their voices blending together like they had been doing this forever. and in a way, they had. this wasn’t just for the cameras—this was them, this was real, and it felt perfect.

by the time the bridge came around, jude was back to being playful, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered the lyrics along with her, his hands exploring the curves of her body in a way that was subtle enough to stay out of the shot but still made her heart race.

as the final notes of the song played out, y/n turned to face him fully, her knees on either side of his legs, her hands resting on his shoulders as she smiled down at him, her chest still rising and falling with the remnants of their playful duet.

“you’re the worst,” she teased, though her voice was filled with affection.

he grinned up at her, his hands resting on her hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles into her skin. “the worst, huh? i thought i was your muse.”

“you are,” she admitted softly, leaning in to kiss him quickly, her lips barely grazing his. “but that doesn’t mean you get to steal my spotlight.”

he chuckled, pulling her closer so that her forehead pressed against his. “you’ll always have the spotlight, baby. i’m just here to support you.”

they stayed like that for a moment, the intimacy between them palpable as the world outside their little bubble felt distant and unimportant.

the music video crew could’ve been filming for hours, but y/n barely noticed. with jude by her side, everything felt like a dream—a perfect blend of laughter, music, and playful touches. every time she sang a verse, he’d find some way to distract her, whether by stealing the mic or trailing kisses along her jawline.

and when he wasn’t singing, he was watching her, his eyes never leaving her as she sang the words she had written, words that felt all the more special because he was there, right beside her.

the streets of osaka buzzed with life, the vibrant energy of the city wrapping around them like a warm embrace. jude and y/n strolled hand in hand, their fingers intertwined as they navigated through the crowd. the neon lights from the shops and street vendors painted everything in a kaleidoscope of colors, casting a soft glow over them as they walked.

jude’s arm draped protectively around y/n’s shoulders, pulling her close. every so often, he’d lean down and press a quick, affectionate kiss to her temple, his lips brushing her skin with a tender warmth. y/n’s head rested against his shoulder, her smile bright and carefree as they moved together through the bustling streets.

“this place is incredible,” y/n said, her voice filled with excitement as she took in the sights and sounds of osaka. she reached up to gently squeeze jude’s hand, her eyes sparkling with joy. “i’m so glad we’re here.”

“me too, baby,” jude replied, his tone soft and affectionate. “i wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, especially not without you.”

he guided her around a particularly crowded corner, the arm he sling over your shoulder guiding you, his touch firm but loving. whenever they encountered a bump or a tricky step, jude was quick to steady her, his concern evident as he made sure she was safe and comfortable.

“watch your step here,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of playfulness and care as he helped her over a small uneven patch in the pavement. his hand lingered on her waist for a moment longer than necessary, his touch a reassuring presence.

y/n chuckled, her heart fluttering at the way he always seemed to anticipate her needs. “i’m not going to trip, you know. but thanks for looking out for me.”

“always,” jude said, his smile warm and genuine. he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her close and resting his chin on top of her head. “besides, i like having you this close. makes me feel like i’m doing something right.”

they continued their leisurely stroll, moving past street vendors selling everything from colorful trinkets to delicious-smelling street food. jude’s protective nature was evident as he scanned the surroundings, making sure no one intruded on their personal space. every now and then, he’d glance down at y/n, his gaze soft and full of affection.

as they walked, jude playfully lifted y/n off her feet, spinning her around in a circle before setting her back down gently. her laughter rang out, a clear, melodic sound that made jude’s heart skip a beat.

“jude, stop! you’re making me dizzy!” y/n laughed, trying to regain her balance as she looked up at him with a playful grin.

“just making sure you’re having fun,” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief. he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his touch tender and intimate.

“i am,” she said, leaning into him as he wrapped his arms around her again, their bodies pressed close together. “i’ve never had so much fun just walking around.”

they wandered into a quaint little alleyway, where the atmosphere felt more intimate and personal. the soft glow of paper lanterns hung above them, casting a warm, golden light. jude and y/n continued to walk, their bodies perfectly in sync, their shared smiles and stolen glances making every moment feel special.

at one point, y/n stopped to admire a small, handcrafted item at a street stall. jude watched her with a loving gaze, his hands tucked into his pockets as he observed her fascination with the delicate piece. he stepped closer, his presence a comforting shield as he stood beside her.

“you should get it,” jude suggested, his voice low and gentle. “it’ll be a nice memento from our trip.”

“you think so?” y/n asked, looking up at him with a soft smile.

“definitely,” he said, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “anything that makes you smile is worth it.”

the vendor handed y/n the item with a warm smile, and jude watched as her face lit up with happiness. he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at the sight of her joy.

throughout their exploration, jude kept his camera ready, capturing every moment. “seriously, y/n,” he’d say, showing her a photo. “you look incredible. how do you manage to be so beautiful all the time?”

y/n would laugh, her cheeks flushing slightly. “you’re too much, jude. stop making me shy.”

“it’s true,” he’d reply, his gaze affectionate. “you’re always beautiful. i just want to remember every single moment with you.”

as the evening drew near, the city lights began to sparkle even more brightly, and jude and y/n found themselves at a charming little café. jude opened the door for y/n, his hand on the small of her back, guiding her inside with a loving touch.

“i think we’ve earned a little break,” jude said, his voice warm as he led her to a cozy corner table.

“i agree,” y/n said, slipping into the seat with a content sigh. she looked up at jude, her eyes full of affection. “thank you for making today so perfect.”

“anything for you, baby,” jude replied, his voice full of sincerity. he leaned in to kiss her softly, their lips meeting in a tender, intimate moment that spoke of their deep connection.

as they settled into their seats, jude’s protective instinct remained evident, but it was clear that his concern was born from love and admiration. with every touch and glance, jude made sure that y/n knew how much love he had for her.

the night’s air in osaka was filled with the tantalizing aromas of street food as jude and y/n found a cozy spot on the curb in front of a bustling food truck. the city’s neon lights flickered around them, creating a vibrant backdrop to their simple yet perfect moment.

they sat close together, their knees almost touching as they shared an assortment of delicious street food. jude held a skewer of yakitori, and with a playful grin, he offered it to y/n.

“here, baby, try this,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

y/n took a bite, her eyes widening in delight. “oh my gosh, that’s amazing!” she exclaimed, leaning in to give jude a quick peck on the cheek. “you did well.”

jude chuckled, his gaze soft and affectionate. “well, I guess it’s not just the food that’s amazing.” he picked up a piece of takoyaki and offered it to y/n with a teasing smile. “open wide.”

y/n giggled, taking the bite and savoring the rich, savory flavor. “you know, if you keep feeding me like this, i might just get used to it.”

“oh, I’m counting on it,” jude replied, his voice low and flirtatious. he leaned closer, brushing his lips against y/n’s ear. “i love taking care of you, baby.”

y/n shivered slightly at his touch, a smile spreading across her face. “you’re always take care of me,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing.

jude’s fingers brushed against y/n’s as he took a sip from his drink, their hands lingering together for a moment longer than necessary. he gazed at her with a look of adoration, his thumb gently caressing her hand.

“you know,” jude said softly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to y/n’s neck. “you look absolutely beautiful, even with street food smeared on your face.”

y/n laughed, her heart fluttering at his affectionate gesture. “oh, stop it,” she teased, playfully nudging him with her shoulder. “has anyone told you, you’re quite the charmer, “bellingham?.”

“i can’t help it,” jude replied, his eyes sparkling with warmth. “you’re just so perfect, baby. i can’t help but let you know how much i adore you.”

they continued to feed each other, their playful banter punctuated by affectionate touches and teasing kisses. jude would occasionally lean in to press a soft kiss to y/n’s temple or brush his lips against her cheek, making her heart race with happiness.

“jude, you’re making it hard for me to eat my food,” y/n said with a playful pout, trying to hide her smile.

“that’s the idea,” jude said, his voice full of affection. “i’d rather have you focused on me.”

as they finished their meal, jude wrapped an arm around y/n’s shoulders, pulling her close. they sat together, enjoying the warmth of each other’s presence and the vibrant energy of the city. jude’s fingers gently played with y/n’s hair as they watched the world go by, their hearts full of contentment and love.

the taxi ride back to the hotel was bathed in a soft, golden hue from the streetlights outside, the cityscape slipping past as jude and y/n shared an intimate moment. they were still wrapped in the magic of their music video shoot, the camera capturing every tender glance and playful touch.

as they settled into the back seat, jude pulled y/n close, their bodies pressed together in the confined space. her head rested on his shoulder, his hand gently caressing her cheek. the rhythm of their breaths mingled with the hum of the taxi, creating a cocoon of warmth and affection.

y/n leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear as she began to lip-sync the lyrics of her song, her voice a soft murmur against his skin. “breathe me, baby,” she sang for the camera, and the leaned in so her lips grazing his earlobe. “can you feel how much I need you?”

jude's breath hitched at the intimate touch, his eyes locked on hers as he cupped her face in his hands. “every word you sing,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “makes me fall for you even more.”

y/n’s eyes sparkled with mischief and love as she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “i’m so glad you said yes to being in this video,” she murmured, her fingers trailing down his chest. “it’s been perfect.”

jude’s smile widened, his lips finding hers again in a slow, passionate kiss. “anything for you, baby,” he said against her lips, his hands sliding to her waist. “you make everything perfect.”

the taxi swayed gently as jude’s hands roamed her back, pulling her further into his lap. y/n’s fingers threaded through his hair, their kisses growing deeper and more urgent with every passing second. the city lights flickered outside, casting a soft glow on their entwined figures.

“for the rest of my life, allow me to show you just how much I love you,” jude whispered, his lips trailing down to her neck, his breath warm against her skin. “you’re mine, and I’m never letting you go.”

y/n shivered at the heat of his words, her fingers gripping his shirt as she tilted her head back, offering him more access. “i’m yours,” she whispered breathlessly. “always.”

the taxi ride became a passionate, private moment where the world outside ceased to exist. their connection was palpable, their love evident in every touch, kiss, and whispered promise. as they finally arrived at the hotel, their hearts raced with anticipation, knowing they had shared a moment that was as intimate as it was unforgettable.

the night was drawing to a close as jude and y/n returned to their hotel, the city lights of osaka twinkling in the distance. the atmosphere in the hotel lobby was serene, a stark contrast to the bustling streets they had explored earlier. the final scenes of the music video were set to be filmed in the quiet, intimate setting of the hotel.

as they entered the elevator, jude and y/n positioned themselves in the corner, the camera crew ready to capture the last moments of their shoot. jude’s arm was wrapped around y/n’s shoulders, pulling her close as they began to sing the final lines of y/n’s song, “breathe me.” their voices harmonized perfectly, the lyrics echoing softly in the confined space.

y/n leaned into jude, her head resting against his chest as she sang the poignant lyrics. jude’s gaze was soft and adoring as he looked down at her, his fingers gently brushing her cheek. their intimate performance was filled with passion, their connection evident in every touch and glance.

“you don’t need no air” jude murmured, his lips brushing against her temple as he sang. “you can just breathe me, breathe me.”

y/n smiled up at him, her eyes shimmering with affection. “you make it so easy to sing this song.”

jude’s playful side emerged as he gazed at y/n with a mischievous grin. without warning, he scooped her up into his arms, lifting her effortlessly. her laughter rang out, a bright, melodious sound that filled the elevator.

“jude, what are you doing?” y/n giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck as he carried her.

“just making sure you’re comfortable,” jude teased, his voice warm and filled with adoration. “and maybe getting one last chance to show off my strong arms.”

“oh, really?” y/n playfully challenged, her eyes twinkling. “i didn’t realize you were so confident.”

“i’m always confident when it comes to you, baby,” jude said, his voice dripping with affection.

as they continued their playful banter, jude’s kisses grew more lingering. he pressed his lips to y/n’s neck, his breath warm against her skin. her eyes fluttered shut, a shiver of pleasure running through her.

the elevator doors opened, and jude carried y/n down the hallway, their laughter and teasing filling the space. the camera followed their every move, capturing their loving interaction.

as they reached their hotel room, jude kicked the door open with a gentle slam, his arms still wrapped around y/n. the room was bathed in soft, warm light, creating a cozy and inviting atmosphere.

“careful, baby,” jude murmured as he lowered y/n to the floor, his hands lingering on her waist. “i don’t want to drop you.”

“don’t worry, i trust you,” y/n said, her voice filled with affection. she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a tender kiss. jude’s hands roamed her back, pulling her closer as their kiss deepened.

“this has been amazing,” y/n whispered against his lips, her eyes full of love. “thank you for making it so special.”

“anything for you, baby,” jude replied, his voice thick with emotion. “you’re my everything, you know that.”

with a final, lingering kiss, jude broke away just enough to look into y/n’s eyes. “now that the cameras are off and i i’ve got to show how much i love my beautiful, talented girlfriend. i think this next part should be for my eye’s only.”

y/n’s smile was a mixture of excitement and anticipation. “oh? and what do you have in mind?”

jude’s eyes sparkled with mischief and love. “you’ll see,” he said, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “but for now, let’s just say that the night is ours.”

as the door to the hotel room locked with a soft click, the final scene of their music video came to a close. jude and y/n remained in their embrace, their hearts full of the love and passion they had shared throughout the day.

with a final, affectionate kiss, jude guided y/n towards the plush bed, their laughter mingling with the gentle hum of the city outside. the world outside faded away, leaving them wrapped in their own little bubble of happiness, ready to enjoy the rest of their night in each other’s arms.

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 1 year

Text

Saccharine Expressions.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

authors note - enjoy 8k words of Harry grieving his wife.

trigger warnings - mentions of car crashes, hospitals, mentions of miscarriage and a shit load of angst. if you notice anymore triggers please let me know asap!

word count - 8k

in which, your husband postpones his american leg of tour because you get involved in a road traffic accident, resulting in you ending up in a medically induced coma, your husband and four year old comes to visit you everyday and they always have something new to tell you. this is everything that Harry experiences whilst you asleep, speaking to you whilst holding your hand, getting forced to eat because he doesn’t want to move and reassuring your son that mummy’s going to be fine.

12th August, 2022. — 14:47pm.

You had been looking forward to this moment all day. The afternoon sun cast a warm glow as you sat behind the wheel, cruising along the familiar roads on your way to pick up your four year old son, Alfie from school. The car hummed softly, the radio playing a cheerful tune in the background. The anticipation of reuniting with your little one filled the air, your heart light with the prospect of his laughter and stories from his day.

As you turned onto the street leading to the school, you imagined his face lighting up when he spotted your car. He would come running, his backpack bouncing against his small frame, his smile infectious. You couldn't wait to envelop him in a tight hug, his energy and innocence providing a welcome escape from the adult world.

The plan was to head to your husband's music studio, where he was getting everything ready for his American Leg of tour. It had been a while since the three of you had spent quality time together there, surrounded by the melodies that had woven into the fabric of your life. You had ordered takeout from his favourite restaurant, a little treat to celebrate a simple yet special evening.

The studio was your sanctuary, a place where your husband's creativity flowed freely. The walls were adorned with framed memories and records, a testament to his journey as a musician. Walking in, you'd inhale the familiar scent of music equipment and the subtle mix of coffee and old books. You'd settle into the cosy corner, watching as your son explored the room with wide-eyed wonder.

You'd listen to your husband's stories, sharing in his triumphs and frustrations. The music playing softly in the background would create a serene backdrop to your conversations, each note a reminder of the bond you shared. You'd laugh, you'd dance, and you'd cherish the time spent as a family.

But as the sun began its descent and the car continued down the road, fate had other plans.

Out of nowhere, a truck materialised in your path, its imposing presence casting a shadow over your joy-filled thoughts. Panic surged through your veins, your heart racing as you attempted to react, but time seemed to slow.

The impact was sudden and brutal, metal colliding with metal in a deafening symphony of destruction. Your world spun, and for a fraction of a second, everything went black.

Harry sat in the dimly lit studio, his fingers dancing across the keyboard of his laptop as he worked on everything that would be needed for the show in upcoming days. The soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound accompanying his thoughts.

But then, a sudden interruption shattered his focus – his phone began to ring insistently, its vibrations causing it to skitter across the table.

Frowning, Harry picked up the phone and saw the school's name on the caller ID. He furrowed his brows, a sense of unease fluttering in his chest. He swiped to answer the call and held the phone to his ear.

" ‘ello?" he said, his voice a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Hi, Is this Mr. Styles?" a voice on the other end inquired.

"Yeah, this is ‘im," he replied, his brows knitting tighter.

"I'm calling from LakeRidge school," the receptionist explained. "It seems there was a mix-up, and no one came to pick up Alfie today."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Wait, what? No one picked him up?"

"That's correct. We were trying to reach your wife earlier, but it seems no one was answering," the receptionist explained, her voice apologetic.

Harry's mind raced as he glanced at the time on his watch. You and Harry took it in turns to pick up Alfie from school. You did Mondays, Wednesday and Harry did Tuesdays and Thursdays. You both picked him up on Fridays. He ran a hand through his hair, his worry deepening.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I'll be right there t’pick him up."

"Of course, Mr. Styles. We'll make sure he's safe until you arrive," the receptionist assured him.

"Thank you," Harry replied, his tone earnest. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

12th August, 2022. — 15:12pm.

The tires of Harry's car screeched as he quickly manoeuvred into a parking spot near the school. He barely had time to turn off the engine before he was out of the car, his long strides carrying him toward the school building. Panic surged through him with every step, a mix of worry and guilt propelling him forward.

As he burst through the doors of the school reception, his eyes frantically scanned the room for a familiar face. And there he was – his son, Alfie, standing near the reception desk, his face a mixture of relief and excitement as he spotted his father.

"Daddy!" Alfie's voice rang out, and he sprinted toward Harry with open arms.

Harry's heart swelled with a rush of emotions. He crouched down, his arms outstretched, and Alfie practically leaped into his embrace. Harry held his son tightly, a mixture of relief and remorse flooding his senses.

"I'm so sorry, buddy," Harry murmured, his voice filled with regret. "Me and Mummy should have been here t’pick y’up on time."

Alfie squeezed Harry even tighter, his small arms wrapping around his father's neck. "It's okay, Daddy. I knew you'd come."

Harry pulled back slightly, looking into his son's eyes. "Still, I should have been here f’you. I promise this won't happen again."

Alfie's face lit up with a bright smile, his forgiveness and trust shining through. "I love you, Daddy."

Harry's heart ached with love as he pressed a kiss to Alfie's forehead. "I love you too, more than anything."

After a moment of holding his son close, Harry straightened up and swung Alfie onto his hip. He gathered his son's backpack with his free hand and draped it over his shoulder.

"Ready t’go, bud?" Harry asked, his voice gentle.

Alfie nodded enthusiastically, his arms wrapped around Harry's neck. "Yeah!"

With Alfie securely perched on his hip, Harry made his way back to the car. He settled Alfie into his car seat, making sure he was buckled in safely. As he closed the car door, he leaned in to meet Alfie's gaze.

"M’really sorry about today, Alf," Harry said sincerely. "From now on, Me and Mummy will make sure were here on time t’pick y’up, n’matter what."

Alfie's smile returned, his eyes filled with trust. "I know you will, Daddy."

Harry smiled back, his heart full as he ruffled Alfie's hair affectionately. With one final glance, he closed the car door and walked around to the driver's seat.

Just as Harry's hand touched the ignition to start the car, his phone lit up with an unknown number. A sense of unease washed over him, but he quickly connected the call to the car's Bluetooth system.

" ‘Ello?" Harry said, his voice projected through the car's speakers.

"Is this Mr. Styles speaking?" a calm voice inquired.

Harry's brows furrowed as he gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. "Yes, this is ‘im."

"Mr. Styles, I'm Dr. Parker from Willow Creek Hospital," the voice introduced itself. "I'm calling because you are listed as the emergency contact for (Y/N) Styles."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mention of his wife’s name, his thoughts racing as he tightened his grip on the phone.

"(Y/N)?" he repeated, his voice shaky.

"I'm afraid there's been an incident," Dr. Parker explained gently. "It would be best if we discussed this in person. Can you please come to Willow Creek Hospital as soon as possible?"

A surge of panic coursed through Harry's veins as he turned to look at the backseat, where his four-year-old was sitting. He reached out and gently grasped his child's small hand, his mind racing with worry.

" ‘hat happened?" Harry asked, his voice quivering.

"I understand your concern, Mr. Styles," the doctor replied, his tone compassionate. "I assure you, we will explain everything once you're here. Please, make your way to the hospital as soon as you can."

Harry swallowed hard, his mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion.

"Yeah, ‘kay," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

12th August, 2022. — 16:09pm.

The hospital loomed before Harry like an imposing fortress of uncertainty. He had hurriedly dropped off Alfie at his manager Jeff's house, making sure his son was safe and away from the unsettling environment of a hospital. Now, his heart raced as he rushed through the sliding glass doors, the sterile scent hitting him like a wave as he stepped into the hospital's bustling foyer.

His eyes darted around, scanning the signs that pointed the way to different wards and departments. But his mind was a blur, and he found himself striding over to the reception desk, his voice hurried and tense.

"S’cuse me," Harry began, his voice tinged with anxiety. "M’looking f’m’wife, (Y/N) Styles. Can y’tell me where she is?"

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, looked up from her computer screen and offered a sympathetic smile. "Of course, sir. Let me check for you."

Harry's fingers tapped nervously on the counter as he waited, his gaze flitting around the lobby. The distant hum of footsteps, the occasional murmur of conversations – it all blended into a surreal symphony that only heightened his unease.

After a moment, the receptionist turned back to him. "It says on her notes that her doctor wants to speak to you before you l are updated on your wife, I’ll page her doctor and let him know your here, be will be out to speak with you shortly about your wife’s condition"

Harry's shoulders slumped slightly in frustration, but he nodded in acknowledgment. "Right. Thank you."

As he paced back and forth near the reception area, his mind raced with scenarios and questions. What had happened? Was (Y/N) okay? The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity, until finally, a doctor emerged from the corridor beyond.

"Mr. Styles?" the doctor called out, his white coat billowing slightly as he approached.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he turned toward the doctor. "Yes, that's me."

The doctor extended a hand, his expression a mix of professionalism and empathy. "I'm Dr. Parker. Please, come with me. We have a private room where we can talk."

Dr. Parker led Harry down a series of hallways until they reached a small, private family room. The air inside felt heavy with anticipation, and as Harry stepped through the door, he could hardly ignore the sense of foreboding that settled over him.

Taking a seat, Harry's hands trembled slightly as he looked at the doctor, his eyes wide and expectant.

"I appreciate your patience, Mr. Styles," Dr. Parker began, his tone gentle. "I know this is a difficult time, and I want to provide you with as much information as I can."

Harry nodded, his heart pounding as he held onto every word the doctor spoke.

"Your wife, (Y/N) Styles, was brought in unconscious after the car accident," the doctor explained. "Upon evaluation and a CT scan, we discovered a small bleed on her brain. It's causing increased pressure, and we're closely monitoring her condition."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, his fingers clenching into fists as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. His wife, the person he loved more than anything, was facing a critical health challenge.

"Additionally," Dr. Parker continued, "she has sustained multiple injuries. Her ribs are fractured, and she has also broken her femur."

The weight of the doctor's words seemed to press down on Harry's chest, his mind struggling to process the extent of his wife's injuries. Images of her vibrant smile, her laughter, and the moments they had shared together flashed through his mind, a stark contrast to the reality he was now facing.

"What... what’re the next steps?" Harry managed to ask, his voice quivering.

"We've already begun treatment for the brain bleed," Dr. Parker explained. "She's under close observation in the Intensive Care Unit. Our priority is to stabilise her and manage the pressure on her brain. Once that's achieved, we'll assess the best course of action for her other injuries."

Harry nodded, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He wanted to be strong, for both his wife and their family, but the weight of the situation threatened to overwhelm him.

"Can I... can I see ‘er?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Parker nodded understandingly. "Of course. We're preparing a room for you to visit her briefly. Please keep in mind that she's still unconscious, and we're closely monitoring her condition."

As the doctor led Harry through the hospital corridors, the journey felt like a surreal blur. He couldn't shake the fear that gripped his heart, nor the deep sense of longing to see his wife's face, to hold her hand and offer his unwavering support.

The door to the room swung open, revealing you lying in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines and monitors. Your face appeared peaceful, a stark contrast to the turmoil within Harry's heart. He approached the bed, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead.

"(Y/N)," Harry whispered, his voice laden with emotion. "M’here. I love you."

He held your hand gently, his grip offering both reassurance and a silent promise that he would be by your side throughout this challenging journey. As he looked at you, his heart swelled with a mixture of love and determination, a reminder that your bond was unbreakable, even in the face of adversity.

The soft beep of machines filled the room as Harry stood by your bedside, his gaze fixed on your still form. Dr. Parker joined him, his presence a mix of professionalism and empathy.

"Mr. Styles," the doctor began, his tone gentle, "I need to explain that due to the severity of (Y/N)'s injuries, we made the decision to place her in a medically induced coma."

Harry's heart sank at the doctor's words, his eyes widening as he turned to look at Dr. Parker. The gravity of the situation seemed to deepen with each passing moment, and the reality that you was facing a critical condition hit him like a ton of bricks.

"A coma?" Harry repeated, his voice barely audible.

"Yes," Dr. Parker confirmed. "Given the head injury and the need to reduce pressure on her brain, we initiated the coma to allow her body to heal and to give her the best chance of recovery."

Harry's hands trembled as he reached out to hold your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, his heart heavy with worry for his wife.

"I know this is incredibly difficult," Dr. Parker continued, his voice compassionate. "But the induced coma is a crucial part of her treatment plan. It will help minimise any further damage and allow us to closely monitor her brain activity."

Harry nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving your face. He felt a mixture of helplessness and determination, the need to be there for you overwhelming his thoughts.

"M’here f’er," Harry said, his voice firm. "Whatever she needs, I'll be here."

Dr. Parker nodded, his expression one of understanding. "Your presence and support are invaluable, Mr. Styles. We'll continue to keep you updated on her condition and progress."

Dr. Parker remained in the room, his expression a mix of concern and professionalism. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his voice measured yet compassionate.

"There's one more thing I need to discuss with you, Mr. Styles," the doctor said, his tone somber.

Harry's head shot up, his eyes locking onto Dr. Parker's. A sense of dread gripped him, his heart pounding as he awaited the doctor's words.

The doctor's gaze met Harry's, his eyes conveying a mixture of empathy and gravity. "Were you aware that your wife is pregnant?"

Harry's brows furrowed in confusion, his mind racing to process the question. He shook his head slightly. "No, I wasn't."

Dr. Parker nodded, his gaze steady. "According to our initial assessment and subsequent scans, (Y/N) is approximately 13 weeks pregnant."

Harry's eyes widened in shock, his thoughts a jumble of emotions. The news hit him like a tidal wave, the realisation that not only was you facing a critical condition, but your was also carrying yours and his second child.

"She... she’s pregnant?" Harry managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alfie was going to be a big brother.

"Yes," Dr. Parker confirmed. "The baby appears to be fine, given our initial scans. However, I need to be transparent with you, Mr. Styles. The circumstances surrounding the accident do pose a higher risk of miscarriage."

Harry's heart ached at the doctor's words, the weight of the situation heavy upon him. The room seemed to close in around him as he processed the reality of the delicate life that hung in the balance.

" ‘hat can we do?" Harry asked, his voice trembling.

Dr. Parker's expression softened. "Right now, the focus is on (Y/N)'s recovery. We'll continue to monitor both her and the baby closely. While the situation is delicate, we'll do everything we can to support their well-being."

Harry nodded, his thoughts a whirlwind of worry and determination. He glanced back at you, his hand instinctively moving to rest on your abdomen, as if trying to protect the life that was growing within her.

"Thank you, Dr. Parker," Harry said, his voice heavy with gratitude. "Please, do whatever y’can t’take care of them."

The doctor offered a reassuring nod. "We're committed to providing the best care possible, Mr. Styles. We'll keep you updated on any developments."

As the doctor left the room, Harry's gaze remained fixed on you, his heart a mixture of hope and fear. The journey ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but he knew that the love and strength the two of you shared would be his guiding light, illuminating the path toward recovery for both you and their unborn child.

Dr. Parker's steps had barely faded when Harry found himself whispering to the still room, his voice a mixture of desperation and raw emotion.

"Y’can't leave us," Harry murmured, his fingers gently brushing your hand. "We need you. Alfie needs you."

His voice cracked as he spoke, the weight of his words heavy in the air. He looked at your face, so peaceful yet distant, and a lump formed in his throat.

"Alfie can't grow up without a mother," Harry continued, his voice trembling. "I don't know what I'll do without you."

Tears welled in his eyes as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. He took a shaky breath, his fingers gripping your ones tighter.

"Y’everything t’us," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. "We can't lose you."

The room was silent, the machines and monitors offering a haunting backdrop to his plea. Harry's heartache felt like an ache in his chest, a reminder of the fragility of life and the depth of his love for you and your unborn child.

DAY ONE. 13th August, 2022. — 07:54am.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow across the hospital room, Harry roused from his light slumber. He had spent the night in the chair beside your bed, his presence a steadfast symbol of his unwavering support. The machines continued their soft symphony, their rhythmic beeps and hums creating an almost surreal backdrop to the uncertainty that hung in the air.

A nurse, her footsteps soft and purposeful, entered the room. She moved gracefully, her experience evident in the way she approached your bedside and began checking her vitals. The machines responded with gentle beeps, their cadence familiar to Harry's ears by now. He watched the nurse's actions with a mix of hope and apprehension, his heart pounding in his chest.

As the nurse worked, her gaze shifted to Harry, and she offered a kind smile. "Good morning. Did you stay the whole night?"

Harry nodded, his voice hoarse as he replied, "Yeah, m’didn't want t’leave ‘er."

The nurse's gaze held a mixture of understanding and reassurance. "She's in safe hands here, Mr. Styles. We're doing everything we can for her."

Harry's grip on (Y/N)'s hand tightened, his gaze unwavering as he looked at the woman he loved. "I know, but I just... I can't leave her side."

The nurse nodded in understanding, her demeanour empathetic. "It's understandable that you want to be here for her. Just know that if you need anything – a drink, a meal, a moment to step outside – the nurses' station is just outside the door. Don't hesitate to reach out."

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice filled with gratitude. "I appreciate that."

With a final nod, the nurse completed her assessments and left the room, her presence a brief yet comforting interlude in the otherwise tense environment. Left alone once more with (Y/N), Harry's gaze returned to her face, his emotions a tumultuous mix of concern, love, and longing.

"Y’not alone in this," Harry whispered, his voice gentle. His fingers traced over her skin, the wedding band on her left hand a poignant reminder of the life they had built together. "We're in this together."

14:17pm.

Later in the afternoon, Harry's phone rang, shattering the quiet stillness of the room. His heart jumped at the sound, and he quickly retrieved the device, seeing his mum Anne's name on the screen. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, he answered the call.

" ‘Ey, Mum," Harry greeted, his voice laced with a hint of anxiety.

"Harry, love," Anne's warm voice came through the line, tinged with concern. "I saw the announcement about the tour. Is everything alright?"

Harry's eyes welled up with tears, his emotions still raw and close to the surface. He took a deep breath, his voice shaky as he replied, "No, Mum. Everything's not alright."

Anne's voice softened with worry. "What happened, sweetheart?"

Harry's voice quivered as he began to recount the events of the past day, from the car accident to (Y/N)'s injuries and the delicate situation with their unborn child. As he spoke, the emotions that he had been trying to hold back surged forth, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I just... I can't lose her, Mama," Harry choked out, his voice breaking. "And Alfie... I don't want ‘im t’go through this. I don't know what t’do."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, a pause that carried a weight of empathy and understanding. Then, Anne's voice came through, filled with unwavering support.

"I'm catching the first flight out, Harry," Anne said firmly. "I want to be there for you, for Alfie, and for (Y/N)."

Harry's heart swelled with gratitude, his breath hitching as he wiped away tears. "Mum, y’don't have t’ I know y’have y’own commitments."

Anne's voice was resolute. "Harry, you're my son. Family comes first, always. I want to be there for all of you."

Tears welled up in Harry's eyes once more, this time fueled by the overwhelming love and comfort that his mother's words brought. He took a shaky breath, his voice heavy with emotion.

"Thank you, Mum. I... I really need y’right now."

"Of course, love," Anne replied gently. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Take care of yourself and Alfie."

18:30pm.

As the sun began its descent, casting a warm and soothing light across the hospital room, Harry remained rooted in his seat beside your bed. His unwavering presence was a testament to his devotion and concern for you, a quiet guardian watching over you as machines softly beeped and hummed in the background, a symphony of hope and uncertainty.

As the day's shadows grew longer, Harry turned his gaze to your serene face, his fingers still delicately entwined with your frail ones. With a tender smile, he began to speak, his voice a soothing balm in the hushed room.

"M’sun," he began, his words a blend of affection and determination,

His voice carried a note of eagerness, a glimmer of the future he envisioned. Gently, he reached out, his fingertips brushing against her hand as if conveying his sentiments through touch.

"When y’better we’ll go back t’England," he continued, a touch of excitement in his tone. "We'll leave everything behind f’a’while – the tour, the noise, the schedules. It can all wait. We can wait."

His gaze then shifted to her stomach, where their child was growing, a symbol of their love and resilience.

"N’this lil’one," he said softly, as though speaking directly to their unborn child, "we'll take y’to the places y’never seen. The countryside, the beaches, the parks. We'll have picnics and adventures. Your mum, I, and your big brother, Alf, we're going t’show y’the world."

A tender smile played on Harry's lips as he imagined the joy that such simple moments would bring to their son's life.

"We'll watch the sunset by the sea," Harry murmured, his voice an intimate whisper. "It'll be just the four of us, wrapped’n’blankets, sharing stories’n’laughter. We'll make memories that'll last a lifetime, (Y/N)."

His hand gently left hers and reached out, his palm resting tenderly on her stomach. The connection felt tangible, a bridge between the present challenges and the future joys they were determined to experience.

"We'll have all the time in the world," he promised softly. "Time for us, f’our family. No rush, no pressures. Just our love and the life we're creating."

DAY TWO. 14th August, 2022. — 08:03am.

The next day's gentle light filled the hospital room, casting a sense of quiet hope. Anne, Harry's mother, entered with a mixture of concern and determination etched on her face. Her gaze fell upon Harry, who remained hunched over in his chair, his fingers tightly interwoven with yours, and his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she took in his exhausted appearance, noticing the telltale signs of strain.

"Harry," Anne's voice held both care and worry as she walked over. She crouched down next to him, gently touching his shoulder to get his attention. "Hey, love."

His eyes blinked open at her touch, his gaze filled with a mixture of surprise and relief as he registered his mother's presence. He managed a small smile, grateful for her being there.

"Mum?" His voice was hoarse, a mix of gratitude and exhaustion.

Anne offered him a soft smile, her fingers brushing a wayward strand of hair from his forehead. "I'm here, Harry."

He pushed himself up in the chair, a mixture of relief and emotions washing over him. He looked at his mother, his eyes red and heavy with sleepless nights, his exhaustion painted across his features like a canvas of worry.

Anne's eyes flickered with concern as she took in his appearance. "Harry, love, you look exhausted. How long have you been here?"

His gaze dropped, a mixture of guilt and weariness weighing heavily on him. "I... I haven't left ‘er side."

Anne's voice was a gentle mix of understanding and concern.

"Oh, Harry." She reached out, her hand gently lifting his chin, guiding his gaze back to her. Her fingers brushed away the tracks of tears that had silently fallen down his cheeks. "You can’t do this alone, my love."

He looked at her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his emotions finally bubbling to the surface. "I know, Mum. But I can't leave her. I can't..."

Anne's touch was soft as she cupped his cheek, her eyes brimming with motherly warmth. "Harry, you need rest too."

He turned his gaze back to yours, his expression one of intense worry and fear. "M’scared, Mum. Scared t’leave ‘er."

Anne's voice held a comforting note as she spoke. "I understand, H. But you need to recharge so you can be strong for (Y/N) and for Alfie."

His eyes met hers, his vulnerability shining through as his voice cracked. "Thank you, Mum. F’being here."

Anne's smile was tender, her thumb brushing his cheek as she wiped away a lingering tear. "Always, Harry. Always."

As their gazes held, the room seemed to fill with a sense of connection, the unbreakable bond of family reminding them that they were not alone in facing the challenges ahead.

Anne's voice held a reassuring note as she spoke once more. "Listen to me, Harry. You need to go home, get a shower, and spend some time with Alfie. He's probably got a lot of questions about where you and (Y/N) are. You can come back right after."

Harry hesitated, his eyes drifting back to you. "But ‘hat if something happens?"

Anne's hand rested on his cheek, her touch warm and grounding. "I'll be here the whole time. I promise, if anything happens, I'll call you right away."

The weight of Anne's reassurance settled over him like a comforting embrace, giving him the permission he needed to take care of himself and his family.

"Okay," he finally nodded, his voice soft and weary. "Okay, Mum."

08:58am.

Harry's car pulled into his manager Jeff's driveway, the engine's soft hum fading into the tranquil neighbourhood. He sat there for a moment, his thoughts a maelstrom of worry and uncertainty. This visit, intended to be a routine pickup of Alfie, had taken on a weight he hadn't expected. He took a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel tightening briefly before he finally turned off the ignition. For a few lingering seconds, he sat there, his hands resting on the wheel, gathering his strength.

With a deep sigh, Harry opened the car door and stepped onto the pavement. Each step to the front door felt heavy, a silent acknowledgment of the upheaval that had consumed his life. Before he could fully process it, he stood before the door, his knuckles poised to knock. In that fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, as if hoping to find solace in the darkness behind his lids.

The knock resounded through the door, a signal of his presence. As he waited, his heart seemed to echo the rhythm of the universe, the anticipation hanging thick in the air. The door swung open, revealing Jeff, his manager. The lines of concern etched on Jeff's face reflected the tumult that Harry carried within himself.

"Hey, H," Jeff greeted, his voice a mixture of understanding and empathy.

Harry managed a faint smile, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed the facade. "Hey, mate. M’gonna pick up Alf and then take ‘im t’see ‘is mum."

Jeff's eyes softened, recognizing the weight Harry carried. "Yeah, he's inside. Come on in."

Harry stepped into the familiar surroundings, the walls of Jeff's house offering a silent embrace. He took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of his emotions press against his chest. A mixture of memories and apprehensions filled the air, an intangible current that Harry navigated with each step he took.

"Alfie, it's your dad!" Harry's voice carried a blend of warmth and longing, the words directed down the hallway where his son would soon appear.

From within the depths of the house, a small voice responded, "Daddy?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his son's voice. He waited, his gaze fixated on the hallway, his breath caught in his throat.

And then, as if from a distant dream, Alfie burst into view. His face lit up like the sun breaking through the clouds, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he saw his dad. "Daddy!"

A rush of emotion overcame Harry as Alfie ran towards him, his little arms wrapping around his legs in an enthusiastic hug. Harry's own arms encircled his son, holding him close as if he were his anchor in the storm. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, a mixture of relief and tenderness flooding his heart.

" ‘ey, buddy," Harry murmured, his voice tinged with both love and weariness. He knelt down, his fingers ruffling Alfie's hair with a gentleness that only a father could muster.

Alfie looked up at him, his eyes wide with curiosity. "Are we going somewhere, Daddy?"

Harry managed a small, affectionate smile, his heart a tapestry of emotions. "Yea’ Alf. We're going t’go home and then go and see someone."

Alfie's face lit up with a radiant smile, his excitement contagious. "Yay!"

09:16am.

Harry's car rolled to a stop in front of their home, the engine's soft purr fading into the tranquil surroundings. The journey from Jeff's house had been a mixture of quiet conversations and Alfie's enthusiastic recounting of his day. As Harry stepped out of the car, he glanced up at their home, a mixture of warmth and heaviness settling over him. The familiarity of the place was a welcome comfort, yet the weight of the situation cast a shadow over everything.

Alfie bounded out of the car, his small steps carrying a youthful exuberance as he rushed towards the front door. His laughter filled the air as he fumbled with the keys under Harry's watchful eye.

"Alright there, buddy?" Harry's voice carried a mixture of amusement and tenderness.

Alfie looked up at his dad, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Yeah, Daddy! Can we play pirates when we get inside?"

Harry's smile was fond, a genuine reflection of his love for his son. " ‘f’course, mate. We can play pirates."

With the door unlocked, Alfie swung it open with a triumphant grin, his youthful energy infectious. As they stepped inside, the house enveloped them in a familiar embrace, the creak of floorboards and the soft hum of appliances a testament to the life they had built together.

"Daddy, look!" Alfie's voice carried from the living room, his excitement tangible even from a distance.

Harry followed his voice and found Alfie standing amidst a makeshift pirate ship of cushions and blankets. A sense of warmth filled Harry's heart as he watched his son play, the innocence of childhood a precious balm against the storm of emotions that had consumed their lives.

"Great job, Captain Alfie," Harry said with a playful salute, his heart aching with both sadness and a fierce determination to be strong for his son.

As Alfie continued his pirate adventures, Harry's gaze lingered for a moment before he turned and quietly retreated down the hallway. He stepped into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click. The sound of the running water provided a gentle rhythm, a backdrop to the thoughts that had been hovering at the edges of his mind.

The water cascaded over Harry's body, the warmth soothing his muscles but doing little to ease the ache in his heart. As he stood under the spray, his head bowed, tears mingled with the water, the release of his emotions a quiet catharsis.

He lathered up a razor and carefully shaved, the rhythmic motion offering a small sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and reached for another to dry his hair.

As he moved through the motions of getting dressed, his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror. The image that stared back at him was a complex tapestry of emotions – a father, a husband, a man who was holding onto hope amidst uncertainty.

The tears he had shed in the shower had left traces on his face, a silent testament to the pain he was carrying. But as he looked at himself, there was a quiet strength in his eyes, a resolve to be the pillar of support that his family needed.

With one last glance in the mirror, Harry stepped out of the bathroom, his footsteps carrying him back to the living room where Alfie's laughter echoed. The journey ahead was uncertain, but in the simple moments like this, Harry found the strength to navigate the storm, determined to be the anchor that held his family together.

10:01am.

As they sat in the back of the car, the engine's gentle hum providing a comforting backdrop, Harry stole a glance at Alfie. His son's curious eyes were fixed on the passing scenery, his mind likely filled with questions that he didn't yet know how to voice. Harry took a deep breath, his heart heavy with the task ahead.

" ‘ey, buddy," Harry began, his voice gentle yet tinged with a mixture of sadness and reassurance.

Alfie turned his head to look at his dad, his expression a mix of curiosity and trust. "Yeah, Daddy?"

Harry smiled, his eyes warm with affection. "Y’know how Mummy's not at home right now? She's in the hospital."

Alfie's brows furrowed slightly, his young mind processing the information. "Why is Mummy in the hospital, Daddy?"

Harry sighed softly, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel for a moment before he continued. "Well, y’remember when we talked about how sometimes people get hurt or sick, and doctors help them feel better?"

Alfie nodded, his gaze fixed on his dad's face, absorbing every word.

"Exactly," Harry affirmed. "Mummy got a lil’hurt, ‘n’the doctors are taking care of her t’make sure she gets better."

Alfie's expression shifted to one of concern, his eyes widening slightly. "Is Mummy going to be okay, Daddy?"

Harry's voice held a soothing tone, his hand reaching back to briefly squeeze Alfie's knee. "Ye’,buddy. The doctors are doing everything they can, and we're going t’visit her right now."

Alfie nodded slowly, the weight of the situation evident in his gaze. "Can I see Mummy, Daddy?"

Harry smiled softly, his heart aching at his son's innocence. " f’course, Alf. We're going t’see her together."

As they continued on the journey to the hospital, the atmosphere in the car was a blend of quiet anticipation and unspoken emotions. Harry's grip on the steering wheel was steady, his thoughts a mixture of concern for (Y/N) and a determination to provide comfort and reassurance to Alfie.

"Buddy," Harry said after a moment, his voice gentle, "if y’have any questions or if y’feeling worried, y’can always talk t’me. I'm here f’you."

Alfie's small hand reached out to grasp Harry's, his fingers curling around his dad's hand. "I love you, Daddy."

Tears pricked at the corners of Harry's eyes, his grip on the steering wheel momentarily tightening. "I love you too, Alfie. We're a team, okay? We'll get through this together."

10:35am.

Harry walked into the hospital room, Alfie nestled in his arms, their footsteps quiet against the linoleum floor. The room, typically a place of healing, was filled with an air of uncertainty and tension. Harry's gaze shifted from the floor to the sight that awaited them – you lying still on the bed, your eyes closed, your form a stark contrast to the vibrant woman he knew.

As they entered, Alfie's eyes widened, his gaze immediately drawn to the figure on the bed. He also noticed Anne sat next to the bed,However, this time, the usual excitement that would accompany seeing his grandmother wasn't present. His little body tensed in Harry's arms, his eyes fixated on his mother's still form, the weight of the situation settling over him.

"Daddy," Alfie's voice was a mere whisper, tinged with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.

Harry held him a bit tighter, his heart aching at the realisation that Alfie was trying to process what he was seeing. "Yea’, buddy?"

Alfie's small hand pointed toward the corner of the room, where Anne stood, her gaze filled with a mix of sympathy and love. Typically, Alfie would have dashed over to her with the energy only a child possessed, but now, he seemed frozen in place.

"Is that Grandma, Daddy?" Alfie's voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Harry nodded, his own eyes briefly meeting Anne's before he turned his attention back to his son. "Yea’, that's Grandma."

Alfie's gaze shifted back to you, his eyes filling with a mixture of emotions that were too complex for his young heart to fully understand. He looked back at Harry, his voice carrying a request that seemed beyond his years. "Daddy, can I go hold Mummy's hand?"

Harry's heart swelled with both sadness and pride at Alfie's resilience. He walked over to the bed, carefully lowering Alfie to the edge of it. "Of course, Alf. Y’can even give her a little cuddle, j’gotta be careful."

Alfie's tiny hand reached out, hesitating for a moment before he gently placed it on your hand, his eyes studying her features as if searching for a sign of life. His other hand rested on your arm, his touch gentle yet filled with an innocence that brought tears to Harry's eyes.

As Alfie leaned in, his small body pressed against his mother's, Harry stood beside them, his emotions a tempest within him. He watched as Alfie's head rested on your chest, his breaths steady, as if seeking solace in the closeness of his mother.

"Y’doing great, buddy," Harry whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

Alfie's voice was soft, a mixture of curiosity and longing. "Is Mummy asleep, Daddy?"

Harry's heart ached at the innocence in his son's question. "Yeah, Alf, she's asleep right now."

Alfie's gaze remained fixed on yours, his small fingers curling around your cold hand. The room held a fragile sense of connection, as if time itself had slowed down to honour the moment. In that stillness, Harry watched his son, his heart both heavy with grief and full of hope for the future.

DAY THREE. 15th August, 2022. — 14:12am.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the hospital room. Harry sat by your side, his gaze fixed on your still form, his thoughts a jumble of hope and uncertainty. Anne had taken Alfie back to the house, giving Harry some time alone with his wife.

As he sat there lost in his thoughts, the door creaked open, and a doctor entered the room. Harry looked up, his eyes meeting the doctor's with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

"Good morning," the Dr Parker greeted, his voice gentle and reassuring. “How’re you holding up?”

Harry managed a faint smile, his voice carrying a mix of gratitude and fatigue. "Doing m’best, thank you."

Dr. Parker nodded understandingly, his gaze shifting to your form before back to Harry. "I'm here to talk to you about the next steps. Given the circumstances, we'd like to perform an ultrasound to check on the baby."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the baby. The mixture of hope and fear that had been his constant companion intensified. "F’course, whatever y’think is best."

A nurse entered the room, carrying the necessary equipment for the ultrasound. She smiled at Harry as she prepared for the procedure. "Hello, I'm Chloe. We'll make sure everything goes smoothly."

Harry offered a small smile in return although it never fully reached his eyes, his eyes shifting between the doctor and the nurse. "Thank you."

As the nurse prepped the ultrasound machine, Dr. Parker explained the procedure to Harry. "We'll be able to see the baby on the screen and check for any signs of distress or complications. It's a routine precautionary measure."

Harry nodded, his fingers involuntarily tracing patterns on your hand. "I understand."

The nurse positioned the ultrasound device on your abdomen, and the monitor came to life, displaying the fuzzy image of the baby. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he saw the tiny figure on the screen – their unborn child, a symbol of hope amid the uncertainty.

He watched as the nurse moved the device, the image shifting slightly, revealing more details of the baby. The room was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the soft hum of the machine.

"There we go," the nurse's voice was gentle, her expertise apparent in the way she manoeuvred the device.

Dr. Parker stood by, her gaze shifting between the screen and Harry's expression. "Everything looks good so far. The baby's heartbeat is strong."

A rush of relief washed over Harry at the doctor's words. He couldn't help but feel a swell of emotion, a mixture of awe and gratitude for the life that was growing within your body.

As the nurse finished the ultrasound, she smiled at Harry. "You have a healthy, strong baby here."

Harry's eyes were fixed on the screen for a moment longer, his voice soft. "Thank you."

The nurse and the doctor left the room, giving Harry some space. He turned his attention back to you, his hand gently resting on your abdomen. The image of their baby, captured on the ultrasound screen, held a promise of better days ahead. As he sat there, a sense of determination settled within him, a resolve to be strong for his family and to hold onto hope, no matter the challenges they faced.

15:05pm.

Later in the afternoon, the room was bathed in a soft, warm light. Harry sat by your bedside, his gaze shifting between your still form and the monitor that displayed the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. The room held a hushed stillness, as if time itself had slowed down in the face of the uncertainty that lay ahead.

Harry's hand rested on your stomach, his touch gentle yet filled with an unspoken tenderness. As he looked at the monitor, his thoughts drifted to the tiny life that was growing within your – their unborn bundle. His heart swelled with a mixture of love and protectiveness.

" ‘Ey there, little one," Harry's voice was soft, his fingers tracing patterns on your abdomen. "Y’mum and I, we're here f’y’We're going t’be strong, just like y’mum."

His gaze shifted to your face, his heart aching at the sight of the bruises that were slowly starting to become more prominent. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead. "Y’mum's the strongest person I know, y’know? She's been through s’much, and she's still fighting. Y’going t’be just as strong as her."

A soft smile tugged at Harry's lips as he imagined their future together as a family of four. He leaned down, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your stomach, as if to convey his love and hope directly to their unborn child.

"Y’not alone in this, lil’one," Harry continued, his voice carrying a mixture of reassurance and determination. "We're all in this together. And when y’ready t’meet the world, y’have a whole lot of people who love ye’."

As he spoke, the room seemed to hold a sense of promise, a quiet sanctuary where his words held the power to bridge the gap between the present and the future. Harry's hand remained on your stomach, his touch a physical connection to the life that were growing within her.

"We're going t’get through this, y’and me and y’mum," Harry's voice was a whisper, as if sharing a secret with the unborn baby. "And when y’mum wakes up, we're going t’tell her all about ye’. She's going t’love y’so much."

Harry's gaze shifted back to your face,his heart filled with a mixture of longing and hope. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Hang in there, love. We're all waiting f’you."

As Harry's words hung in the air, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if the universe itself was listening to his heartfelt monologue. His hand remained on your stomach, his touch both tender and resolute. He leaned in, pressing a final kiss to your forehead, a mixture of emotions welling up within him.

And then, in a moment that felt like a miracle, your hand twitches in his hold.

Harry gasped, his heart leaping in his chest. He stared at your hand, disbelief and hope warring within him. Before he could react, the heart rate monitor suddenly went off, the rapid beeping filling the room with urgency.

With a sense of determination, Harry bolted out of the room, his heart pounding in his ears. He found Dr. Parker in the hallway and quickly explained what had just happened – how your hand had moved, triggering the heart rate alarm.

Dr. Parker's eyes widened in surprise and excitement. "Let's not waste any time. Come with me."

Harry followed the doctor back into the room, his pulse racing as they reached your bedside. A sense of tension hung in the air, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

Dr. Parker approached the heart rate monitor, checking the readings and your vitals. His expression was a mix of concentration and cautious hope. He adjusted a few settings on the machines, his fingers moving with practised precision.

"She's trying to breathe on her own," Dr. Parker said, his voice carrying a note of astonishment. "Her body is responding to stimuli."

Harry's heart swelled with a mixture of joy and disbelief. He looked at your figure, his fingers gently brushing against your hand. "Y’doing it, m’love. Y’fighting."

Dr. Parker continued his assessments, his focus unwavering as he monitored the changes in your condition. The room seemed to vibrate with a newfound energy, a sense of possibility that had been absent for so long.

As the minutes ticked by, the heart rate monitor displayed a steadier rhythm, and Dr. Parker nodded in approval. "She's showing signs of improvement. She could wake up at any moment. It's a positive step forward."

Tears welled up in Harry's eyes, his voice choked with emotion. "Thank y’Doctor."

18:45pm.

The hospital room was cocooned in the gentle embrace of the night. The soft glow of the dimmed bedside lamp cast a warm and soothing ambiance, casting delicate shadows across the walls. The rhythmic beep of the heart rate monitor punctuated the stillness, a reassuring reminder of the life that pulsed within the room.

Alfie sat nestled on his father's lap, his small frame comfortably settled against Harry's chest. The hospital chair cradled them both, a makeshift throne where father and son formed an intimate fortress of love and togetherness. Harry's arms wrapped protectively around Alfie, holding him close as they shared the moment.

Alfie's concentrated expression was etched with a mixture of focus and determination. His tiny fingers clutched a pencil, his brow furrowing as he tackled the math problems that were laid out before him on the sheet of paper. Harry watched with a blend of admiration and amusement, his heart swelling at the sight of Alfie's dedication.

"Okay, buddy," Harry's voice was a gentle blend of guidance and encouragement, "y’got this. J’add those numbers together."

Alfie's tongue peeked out from between his lips as he concentrated, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The tip of the pencil move with purpose, crossing out digits and jotting down numbers. Every so often, Alfie would glance up at Harry, his gaze seeking validation and assurance.

Harry's fingers gently brushed the back of Alfie's head, offering silent encouragement. "Y’doing great, Alf. Keep going."

The two of them formed a heartwarming tableau, a portrait of fatherly support and shared effort. Amid the beeping monitors and the hushed hum of the hospital, Harry and Alfie created their own small world, a world in which challenges were met with determination and love was expressed through shared moments.

And then, in the midst of the quietude, a movement caught Harry's attention. His eyes shifted from the maths problems to the bed, where you lay, and his heart ricocheted against his rib cage.

Your eyes were open and staring at your two boys.

“(Y/N)?” Harry spoke in a hushed whisper as you tried to smile at him.

1K notes · View notes

star-my · 5 months

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BTS Fic Recs ☆ Tumblr (i)

These are all available on tumblr as of April 2024. Some are likely crossposted on ao3 as well.

~Ao3 RECS HERE~ ~Recs (ii)~ ~Recs (iii)~

Almost all are complete works, those with “+” after WC are incomplete. Most are BTS x (F!)Reader.

Most of these are Mature or Explicit (usually because of smut) ~ mdni ~ italicized titles rated G or T ~ Please read responsibly

If any authors tagged here wish to be removed/untagged, please lmk! | Shoutout to @ggukkiereads who does an amazing job creating rec lists, which helped me find many of these fics

F2L = friends to lovers ; E2L = enemies to lovers ; FE2L = frenemies to lovers ; R2L = rivals to lovers ; BFB = best friend's brother ; BBF = brother's best friend etc

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☆ @bonvoyagenoona's masterlist

☆ @chateautae's masterlist

☆ @flowerwrites06's masterlist

☆ @here2bbtstrash's masterlist

☆ @hollyhomburg's masterlist

☆ @icyhobi's masterlist

☆ @jungshookz's masterlist

☆ @justcallmenikki7's masterlist

☆ @kpopfanfictrash's masterlist

☆ @ladyartemesia's masterlist

☆ @luxekook's masterlist

☆ @magicalsalamander's masterlist

☆ @yminie's masterlist

☆ @yoonia's masterlist

#bts fic recs #group: bts #type: fic #i think i did a pretty good job of hiding my yoonkook bias if i do say so myself :]

231 notes · View notes

satorulovebot · 25 days

Text

THE GREAT WAR.

♱ genre. tragedy, WWI au, 18+

♱ summary. in the midst of world war I, satoru gojou drafted and sent off to the western front, leaving behind the love of his life with the promise of marrying her when he returned. he clings to the thoughts of a future with her and the letters she sends him in hopes of reuniting with her.

♱ pairings. satoru gojou, fem!reader

♱ word count. 8k

♱ tags/warnings. violence, suggestive content, major character death, profanity, mentions of drug use, weapon use, + more

♱ notes. this wasn't meant to be long or anything or fully fleshed out but i decided to share it anyways. i lowkey hate this but what can i say. i also made myself upset because of course i did. anyways likes and rb's always appreciated :)

December 1, 1917

My Dearest Love,

I hope my letter reaches you before we move further down the front and getting letters out becomes harder. I hope you’re sound asleep in our bed, enjoying dreamland with Charlie.

I wanted to let you know that I think of you every day. I keep replaying our last night together in my mind. It was so precious, and I wish I could be there with you now. We talked about our future together. Even now, even here, I still dream of that future. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.

This war has shown me things I can’t forget, things I’ll never forget. I worry for Suguru too as he’s losing himself. Baby I can’t lie to you, it’s hard out here. If something happens to me and I don’t make it back, please remember how much I love you. I love you more than words can say.

Please stay strong for me, my love. I’ll hold onto the hope that we’ll be together again someday.

With all my love,

Satoru

May 18, 1917

The radio crackles faintly as you twist the dial, trying to find the right station. The sound of distorted voices filled the small living room of your home. You are sitting on the worn couch that you and Satoru had spent countless nights on, talking about everything and nothing. Satoru sits beside you with his arm draped over your shoulders, his hand resting on your upper arm, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on your skin. It’s a small gesture, one that he’s done a thousand times before, but tonight it feels… different.

You finally find the station you’ve been looking for, and the voice on the radio comes through, clear and steady.

“…the President has announced that the United States will be joining the war in Europe. All eligible men between the ages of 21 and 30 are to be drafted into military service…”

You freeze at the words, like a winter chill had seeped into your bones. You feel a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, your hand tightening around the knob of the radio as if holding on to it will somehow keep the world from spinning out of control.

“They’re really doing it,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry, and force yourself to speak. “We talked about this, but…” The words feel strange on your tongue as if they belong to someone else. “Hearing it…hearing it makes it real.”

Satoru nods, but he doesn’t say anything.

Finally, he speaks, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What are we going to do?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered, because you don’t know the answer. How could you? You want to say something, anything, to reassure him, to reassure yourself, but the words would not come. Instead, you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his, holding on as tightly as you can, as if it might somehow keep the world from falling apart.

Satoru’s grip tightens around yours, and for a moment, you can feel the fear in him, the uncertainty. You’ve always known him as strong and always in control, but now, in this moment, he’s just as lost as you are.

“We’ll figure it out, baby. I promise,” He whispered.

Satoru pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you as you buried your face in his chest. You breathed in the familiar scent of him, trying to memorize every detail as if it was the last time you would ever get to hold him like this. His lips press against the top of your head, a gentle, lingering kiss that speaks of promises made and promises that will be broken.

June 3, 1917

Tomorrow is the day that Satoru is set to leave for the Western front.

The golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the windows, casting long, melancholy shadows across the bedroom. It was a room you had filled with so many memories—laughter, love, late-night conversations that had lasted until the early hours of the morning. But now, the only thing that seemed to be there was a half-packed duffel bag lying open on the bed.

You stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching as Satoru moved about the room gathering the the last couple of items he would need. He was quiet the entire time he packed his bags. You could see the way his shoulders were stiff and the subtle tremor in his hands as he reached for another piece of clothing.

Between the two of you, Satoru had always been the strong one. The one who could face anything with a smile, it was the thing that had drawn you to him in the first place.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He paused at the sound of your voice, his hands hovering over the duffel bag. Slowly, he turned to face you, His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw the fear he was trying so hard to hide.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Satoru finally admitted, his voice rough, like it had been scraped raw from holding back so much. “I don’t know how to leave you.”

His confession broke something inside of you like a dam of emotions had finally been let loose. Before you knew it, you were across the room, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you could, burying your face in his chest. His arms came around you instantly, pulling you close, holding on as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” you whispered. “Not with me.”

“I’m scared,” he admitted, the words muffled against your hair. “I’m so scared, and I hate that I’m leaving you and Charlie like this.”

Your heart ached at his words. It was a side of him he rarely showed anyone, even you. You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall.

“I’m scared too.”

“Do you remember the first time we talked about the war?” Satoru asked suddenly.

You nodded, remembering the day that the news had broke about the conflict in Europe. It was just another story on the radio, something that had felt so far away. The two of you had been sitting in the same room, listening to the same radio, with your hands entwined talking about the life you wanted to build together.

“It felt like something that could never touch us. Like it was happening in another world, to people we’d never know.”

Satoru sighed, “And now, it’s all too real.”

When you looked up at him, you could see the same look in his eyes that you had seen when the draft letter first arrived.

You felt your tears start to fall as you reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the familiar lines of his features, trying to commit them to memory. “So do I,” you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. “But no matter what happens, I’ll be here when you come back. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Satoru closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. I’m going to miss you so much,” he murmured. “Every single day.”

You pulled him down into a kiss, slow and lingering, pouring all of your love, your fear, your hope into that one moment, trying to convey everything you couldn’t put into words. Satoru’s hands came up to cup your face, his lips moving against yours with a desperation that made your heart ache once more.

“I love you,” you could hear him say as he continued to latch his mouth onto yours. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru guided you towards the bed, his hands moving to your waist as he lifted you, laying you down gently on the mattress. The duffel bag was pushed to the side, forgotten for now, as he climbed on top of you, his body pressing down against yours, relishing the taste of his buttery lips on yours.

June 4, 1917

“Are you ready?” His voice broke the silence.

You turned to face him, your throat tight with the words you wanted to say but couldn’t find. Instead, you nodded, though nothing about you felt ready—least of all your heart.

Satoru approached you slowly as if he wasn’t sure how to comfort you without breaking down. His warm hand reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“You know I have to do this,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s my duty. I can’t—”

“Please don’t go,” you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked, you were desperate to make him stay. You knew you were asking the impossible, that no matter how much you begged, he couldn’t stay. But the thought of losing him, of not knowing if he would ever come back, was too much to bear.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if he could shield you from the reality you had both come to face.

“I wish I could stay,” he murmured against your hair. “More than anything, I wish I could stay here with you. But I have to go. I have to.”

You clung to him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his uniform as if you could keep him there, with you, if you just held on tight enough. “But what if you don’t come back? What if—”

“I will come back.” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, the look almost pleading. “I promise you, baby, I will come back. And when I do, I’m going to marry you, and we’ll have that life we always talked about. We’ll have a family, a home...everything.”

“What if something happens?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “What if—”

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice was gentle, and soothing, as he cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that were now streaming down your cheeks. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll be careful, I’ll keep my head down, and I’ll come back to you. I promise.”

His words were meant to comfort you, but they only made the pain worse. Because deep down, no matter how much he promised, there was no guarantee that he would come back. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say that. So instead, you nodded, forcing yourself to believe, if only for his sake. “Promise me you’ll write,” you said, your voice trembling. “Every chance you get.”

“I will,” he assured you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Every chance I get, I’ll write to you. And I want you to write to me too, okay? Tell me everything, don’t leave anything out. I want to know everything that’s going on with you, no matter how small it might seem.”

You nodded again, a small, shaky smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I will. I promise.”

Satoru sighed, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I have to go.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. Satoru gave you one last, long look as if trying to memorize every detail of your face before he finally turned and picked up his duffel bag.

You walked the man you love to the door, your steps were slow, each one feeling like a goodbye. When you reached the threshold, Satoru stopped, turning to face you one last time. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was full of everything you couldn’t say—fear, hope, love, and the desperate need to hold on to this moment, to him, for as long as you could. When he finally pulled away, you could see the tears in his eyes, tears he was trying so hard to hold back.

“I’ll see you soon.”

And then he was gone, walking out the door and down the path that led to the street, where a car was waiting to take him to the docks. You stood in the doorway, watching as he walked away. When he reached the car, he turned back one last time, raising his hand in a small wave, a sad smile on his lips.

You raised your hand in return, your vision blurred by tears, your body shaking with the force of the sobs you were holding back. And then he was gone, the car driving away, taking him further and further from you, until he was just a speck on the horizon, and then nothing at all.

Finally, when you couldn’t stand it any longer, you sank to the floor, your body shaking with sobs that you could no longer hold back. You cried for what felt like an eternity with Charlie at your side, your tears soaking into the wood beneath you, your cries echoing in the empty house.

When you finally had no tears left, when your body was too exhausted to cry anymore, you lay there, curled up on the floor, clutching the memory of Satoru close to your heart, the only thing you had left of him.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” you whispered into the silence, your voice hoarse from crying. “No matter how long it takes, I’ll be here when you come back.”

September 7, 1917

My Dearest Satoru,

I hope this letter finds you safe and well. I wish more than anything that I could be there with you, to hold your hand and tell you that everything will be okay. But since I can’t, I’m sending you all the love I have, wrapped up in these words.

Life here is quiet without you. The days seem longer, and the nights feel emptier, but I’m doing my best to keep busy. I’ve been tending to our plants you always loved, you won’t believe how much they’ve grown! The roses have bloomed beautifully this year, and I think of you every time I see them. I imagine you coming home and us standing together in the kitchen, just like we used to, with Charlie at our feet.

Speaking of Charlie, he’s been such a comfort to me in your absence. He’s still the same playful pup, always chasing his tail and trying to catch the birds that come too close. But I think he misses you just as much as I do. Sometimes, he will sit by the door, staring out as if he is waiting for you to walk through it. I take him on long walks, and every time we pass by the places we used to go together, he pulls at the leash, looking around as if he expects to see you there. I can’t help but smile and cry a little at the same time. He’s such a good dog, Satoru, and I know he’ll be so happy to see you when you come home.

I dream about the day you’ll come home, the day we’ll finally be together again. I dream of the life we’ll have, the family we’ll build, all the things we talked about before you left. And until that day comes, I’ll be here, waiting for you, loving you with everything I have. I’ll keep writing to you, and I hope that these letters bring you some comfort, some reminder of the life waiting for you here.

Please take care of yourself, Satoru. Stay safe, stay strong, and know that I’m counting down the days until you return. I love you more than words can say, and I’m so proud of you. Come back to us soon.

With all my love,

Y/N

October 12, 1917

The train clacked along the tracks, the noise doing little to soothe the nerves of the men inside. Satoru was sat by the window, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

Satoru’s hand slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around the worn edges of a small, creased photograph. He pulled it out, his eyes softening as he looked at the image of the woman who had captured his heart. Your eyes held all the warmth of a summer day, and your smile—oh, that smile—was the beacon that guided him. He could almost hear your voice, talking about the latest gossip or news.

As the train jolted along the tracks, Satoru’s thoughts drifted back to the last time he had seen you, the way you had clung to him, the way your tears soaked his uniform as you begged him not to go.

A soft voice broke through his reverie, pulling him back to the present. “Is that your wife?”

Satoru glanced up to see the soldier sitting next to him, a young man barely out of his teens, with wide, innocent eyes. He was looking at the photograph in Satoru’s hand with curiosity.

Satoru managed a small, bittersweet smile, his thumb brushing over the face of the woman in the photograph. “No,” he replied softly. “We never got the chance to marry.”

The young soldier’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion. “Why not? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Satoru sighed, leaning back against the hard, uncomfortable seat. His gaze drifted back to the photograph. “I was going to,” he began, his voice distant as he spoke, almost as if he were talking more to himself than to the young soldier beside him. “We talked about it, even picked out a date... But then the war came, and everything changed. I didn’t want to leave her, but there wasn’t enough time.”

He paused, his eyes clouding with the memories of that fateful day. The tears in your eyes as you pleaded with him to stay to marry you. But he had refused, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you a widow, of making you wait for a man who might never come back. It had been the hardest decision of his life, and now, as he sat on this train bound for the front lines, he wondered if he had made the right one.

“She must be something special,” he said quietly.

“She is,” Satoru replied, his voice softening as he thought of you. “She’s everything. The strongest, most loving person I’ve ever known. She’s the reason I’m doing this, the reason I’m still standing.”

He fell silent, his mind drifting back to the countless nights the two of you had spent talking about your future. You had dreamed of growing old together, maybe moving out to the countryside and live in a little house.

“What’s her name?” the young soldier asked, his voice pulling Satoru back from his thoughts.

“Y/N,” Satoru said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he spoke your name. “She’s waiting for me to come back.”

“You’ll make it back to her. I know you will.”

Satoru nodded, though deep down, he wasn’t so sure.

The train jerked to a stop, the shrill whistle signaling their arrival at the next station. The soldiers began to stand, gathering their gear as they prepared to disembark. Satoru carefully folded the photograph and slipped it back into his pocket, close to his heart, where it belonged.

As he stepped off the train, the cold air hit him like a slap in the face. The station was a bleak and desolate place filled with soldiers. Satoru pulled his coat tighter around him, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching for something, anything, that would remind him of home.

But there was nothing.

He glanced back at the train, at the young soldier who had spoken to him. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then the young soldier raised his hand and, in a small almost hesitant wave said, “Take care of yourself!”

Satoru nodded, though he couldn’t bring himself to say the words in return. He turned and began walking, the weight of his rifle heavy on his shoulder.

The journey to the front lines was grueling, to put it lightly. It was something that tested the physical and mental limits of every man in the company. The landscape was a reflection of the war: the fields now lay barren, scarred by craters and the remnants of past battles. Trees stood like charred skeletons against the gray sky, their branches reaching out like twisted fingers. It was a place that seemed to exist outside of time, where the seasons had no hold.

Satoru walked near the front of the column, though his thoughts were universes away. He had stopped trying to make sense of the war around him, instead, his mind clung to the thought of his girlfriend and his home. Every so often, his hand would drift to his pocket, where the photograph of his beloved remained safely tucked away. It was his anchor, the one thing that kept him grounded in a world that seemed to have lost all meaning.

Throughout the journey, there were brief breaks from the march. Moments where men could catch their breath and rest their sore legs. During these breaks, the sliders would drop to the ground wherever they could find space. Some lit cigarettes, the tiny glowing embers flickering in the dim light, while others simply stared into the distance.

Satoru usually found a spot a little apart from the others, leaning against the trunk of a withered tree or sitting on a flat rock. Once on a break, the company rested by the narrow road that cut through a ruined village. Satoru found himself staring at the crumbling remains of a church. The steeple had collapsed, the once-proud structure now reduced to a pile of rubble. A few scattered graves dotted the ground nearby, their markers leaning at odd angles as if they, too, had given up the fight against the ravages of war.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of voices approaching from down the road. Another company was making its way toward them, the soldiers’ weary faces reflecting the same one that Satoru saw on his men.

Satoru glanced around, his gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar faces. Most of the men looked just as worn and weary as his own comrades, their uniforms stained with mud. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure that made him pause, his heart skipping a beat.

It couldn’t be—but it was.

Suguru Getou stood a little apart from the rest of his company, his back against the remnants of a low stone wall. He was staring off into the distance, seemingly unaware of the world around him, lost in thoughts that Satoru could only guess at. His face was thinner than Satoru remembered, his features more drawn, but there was no mistaking those sharp, dark eyes, or the way his long, black hair fell in loose strands around his face.

For a moment, Satoru was frozen in place. He hadn’t seen Suguru since before the war before they had been sent away from their families and to different parts of the front. Suguru had been sent to the front lines before Satoru did and Satoru had often wondered if he was even still alive, if he had somehow managed to survive on the front lines.

Now, seeing him here, in the flesh, was both a shock and a relief.

“Suguru,” Satoru called out, his voice breaking the silence between them.

Suguru’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as they focused on Satoru. For a moment, there was no recognition in his gaze, just the cold, hard stare of a soldier who had seen too much. But then something shifted in Suguru’s expression, and his eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Satoru, you bastard,” Suguru replied, pushing himself away from the wall and making his way over to where Satoru stood. There was a moment of hesitation as if they weren’t quite sure how to greet each other after all this time, but then Satoru reached out and clapped a hand on Suguru’s shoulder.

“Still alive, huh?”

“Barely. It’s good to see you, Satoru.”

“And you,” Satoru said.

Suguru’s gaze then drifted to the photograph clutched in Satoru’s hand. “Is that her?” he asked quietly, nodding toward the picture.

Satoru followed his gaze, his expression softening as he looked down at the image of the woman he loved. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s the one keeping me sane out here.”

Suguru nodded, his expression unreadable as he looked at the photograph. “You’re lucky, you know,” he said after a moment. “Not everyone has someone to go home to.”

“And you? How are you holding up?”

Suguru shrugged. “I’m still here,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters, right?”

Satoru wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort or reassurance, but the words wouldn’t come. What could he say that would make any of this easier? What could he offer that would ease the burden they both carried?

After a while, the call to move out came, and the soldiers began to gather their gear, preparing to resume their march to the front lines.

“Take care of yourself, Suguru.”

“And you, Satoru,” Suguru replied, his expression softening for just a moment. “We’ll see each other again. We have to.”

As the two companies parted ways, Satoru glanced back one last time, watching as Suguru’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance. He slipped the photograph back into his pocket, his fingers lingering on it for just a moment too long.

December 1, 1917

The trenches were a whole other world themselves. They were a labyrinth of mud, blood, and despair that stretched across the landscape like a festering wound. Satoru had been there for weeks now, but time had lost all meaning. Day and night blurred together into an endless cycle of fear and exhaustion. The air was thick with the stench of death and decay, a sickly smell that clung to everything, seeping into the very pores of his skin.

Satoru had never imagined that war could be like this. He had heard stories, of course—everyone had—but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of life in the trenches. The constant threat of death, the gnawing hunger—it was a living nightmare, a hell on earth from which there was no escape.

He had lost count of how many men had fallen, their bodies left to rot in the no man's land between the trenches. Friends, comrades, men he had shared laughs and meals with—they were all gone now, their lives snuffed out in an instant by a stray bullet or a well-placed shell. And with each death, a piece of Satoru died with them, his heart growing harder, his soul more numb.

At first, he tried to keep up the letters, pouring his thoughts and fears into the carefully penned words he sent back to you. He had written about the camaraderie among the men, the small moments of joy they found amid the horror, and the hope that one day, this war would end and they would be together again. He had clung to that hope, letting it buoy him up when the darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the words had become harder and harder to find. What could he possibly say to her now, after all he had seen, after all he had done? How could he put into words the horrors that haunted his every waking moment, the nightmares that chased him even in the few moments of sleep he managed to get?

He had started a dozen letters, each one more difficult than the last. He would sit in the dim light of the trench, his hands trembling as he tried to hold the pen steady, the paper before him smudged with dirt and blood. But the words wouldn’t come. Every time he tried to write, the memories would flood back—images of shattered bodies, of men screaming in pain, of the deafening roar of the guns that never seemed to stop. And then he would see your face, smiling up at him from the photograph he kept tucked inside his jacket, and the guilt would crash over him like a wave, drowning him in its icy grip.

How could he write to her about any of this? How could he tell her about the nightmares that kept him awake at night, the fear that gnawed at his insides like a rabid dog? How could he explain that he wasn’t the same man who had left her behind all those months ago, that the war had changed him in ways he could never have imagined?

Satoru had never felt so alone.

The men around him were suffering just as he was, but there was a wall between them now, an invisible barrier that kept him apart from the others. They still laughed, still shared stories and jokes to pass the time, but Satoru found himself withdrawing more and more, retreating into the silence of his own mind. He couldn’t bring himself to join in their conversations, couldn’t find the strength to pretend that everything was okay when nothing was okay.

It was during one of these quiet moments, when the guns had fallen that Satoru found himself staring at the photograph again. He traced the outline of your face with his thumb, the edges of the picture worn and frayed from being handled so often. You looked so happy, so full of life—everything that he wasn’t anymore. He wondered if she would even recognize him when this was all over if he ever made it out of this hell alive.

The thought made his chest tighten, a sharp pain stabbing through his heart. What if he didn’t make it back? What if this was where his story ended, in a cold, muddy trench on the other side of the world? Would she remember him as the man he used to be, or would she forget him altogether, moving on with her life as if he had never existed?

He shoved the photograph back into his pocket, the thoughts too painful to bear. He needed to write to her, to tell her how much he loved her, how much he missed her, but the words refused to come. The pen felt heavy in his hand, the paper staring back at him like an accusation.

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see one of the other soldiers, a young man named Thomas, standing over him. Thomas had joined their company a few weeks ago, fresh-faced and full of energy, but the war had already taken its toll on him. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and there was a haunted look in his gaze that Satoru recognized all too well.

“Hey,” Thomas said, his voice rough from disuse. “You alright, Satoru?”

Satoru nodded, though he didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew that if he opened his mouth, the words that would spill out would be anything but alright.

Thomas glanced down at the paper in Satoru’s lap, the empty lines stark against the dirty page. “Having trouble writing?”

Satoru sighed, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I don’t know what to say anymore.”

“It’s hard,” he said quietly. “Hard to find the words when everything around you is…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the trench, at the world beyond it. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be about all this,” he continued after a moment. “Maybe just…tell her you miss her. Tell her you’re thinking about her. Sometimes, that’s enough.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Satoru whispered.

Thomas crouched down beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You can,” he said firmly. “You have to. For her. For you.”

He knew Thomas was right—he had to find the strength to write to her, to keep that connection alive, no matter how difficult it was. Because if he lost that, if he let the war take that from him too, there would be nothing left.

With a deep breath, Satoru picked up the pen again, his hand still trembling. He stared at the blank page for a long moment, his thoughts a jumble of emotions and memories, before finally, the words began to flow.

They weren’t perfect, and they certainly didn’t capture everything he was feeling, but they were honest. He wrote about how much he missed her, how he thought of her every day, and how the memory of her smile was the only thing keeping him sane. He told her about the men he was serving with, about the small moments of kindness and he told her that no matter how dark things got, he would find his way back to her.

By the time he finished, his hand was aching, and the paper was smudged with dirt and sweat, but the weight on his chest had lifted just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

The war had taken so much from him, had stripped him of his innocence, his peace of mind, and so many of the men he had called friends. But it hadn’t taken her. Not yet.

And as long as he had her, as long as there was still a chance that he could hold her in his arms again, he would keep fighting. He would keep going, one day at a time, one step at a time, until this nightmare was over.

Because he had to believe that there was still a future out there, a future where the two of them could be together, away from the mud and the blood and the death. A future where they could build the life they had dreamed of, where he could make good on all the promises he had whispered to her in the dark.

Satoru clutched the letter to his chest for a moment, closing his eyes and letting himself imagine that future—a small house, a warm fire, your laughter filling the air. It was a dream, maybe a foolish one, but it was all he had left to hold on to.

When he finally opened his eyes, the trench seemed a little less dark, the air a little less suffocating. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Satoru allowed himself to believe that he would make it through this, that he would survive this war and return to the woman he loved.

December 25, 1917

My Dearest Satoru,

Merry Christmas, my love. I wish I could say that it feels like the holiday season here, but without you by my side, it all seems so different. The tree in the living room is smaller this year, just a simple little thing I picked up from the market. I decorated it with the old ornaments we’ve collected over the years, though they don’t shine as brightly without you here to admire them.

Charlie and I spent the day together. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, you wouldn’t believe it! He still waits by the door every evening, his ears perked up like he’s expecting you to walk through any moment. I think he misses you almost as much as I do. We went for a long walk this morning, just the two of us. The air was crisp and cold, and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. It reminded me of the first Christmas we spent together when you insisted on making snow angels and pulling me into that ridiculous snowball fight. I laughed so hard that day, and I haven’t laughed quite the same way since you left.

I cooked a small dinner tonight—nothing fancy, just some of your favorite dishes. I set a place for you at the table, even though I knew you wouldn’t be there to fill it. I like to think that, wherever you are, you can feel the warmth of home and know that you’re always in my thoughts. The house is quiet now, almost too quiet. I find myself talking to you sometimes, as if you were still here with me, sitting in your favorite chair with that mischievous smile of yours. I can almost hear your voice, teasing me, comforting me, telling me that everything will be alright.

But it’s hard, Satoru. It’s so hard being here without you, especially on days like this when the world seems so full of love and joy, and all I can think about is how much I miss you. I try to be strong, for you, for us, but there are moments when the loneliness is overwhelming. I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering where you are if you’re safe if you’re thinking of me as much as I’m thinking of you.

I know I shouldn’t burden you with my worries, especially when you’re facing so much over there. But I promised you that I would always be honest with you, and the truth is my love, I miss you more than words can say. I miss your laughter, your touch, the way you would pull me close when the world felt too big and frightening. I miss the sound of your voice, the warmth of your arms around me, the simple comfort of knowing that you were near.

I don’t know what this Christmas is like for you, if you’ve had a moment of peace, or if the war continues to rage on, even on this holy day. But I want you to know that I’m here, waiting for you, loving you with all my heart.

Until that day comes, I’ll hold on to the memories we’ve made, and I’ll keep you in my heart, always. I’ll keep sending you my love, in every letter, in every thought, in every prayer. And I’ll be here, waiting for the day when you come home to me.

Merry Christmas, Satoru. I love you more than words could ever express.

Yours always and forever,

Y/N

January 1918

The flickering light of the oil lamp cast shadows on the rough, earthen walls of the trench as Satoru unfolded the letter with trembling hands. The cold bit at his fingers, but the warmth of her words was all he felt. He leaned back against the wooden planks, his breath visible in the frigid air, and began to re

He could almost see her, sitting by the small tree, Charlie at her feet, the house filled with the scent of pine and home-cooked food. The image was so vivid that he could hear the crackle of the fire, feel the softness of your hand in his, and taste the warmth of the cocoa you always made too sweet.

When he finished the letter, he folded it carefully, placing it back into the envelope before tucking it into his jacket, close to his heart. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, trying to hold on to the image of her, of home, for just a little longer.

"Someday," he whispered to himself, "I’ll go back to you."

But that "someday" felt so far away.

Satoru was exhausted. He was so exhausted. And despite the cold and the ever-present danger, Satoru found himself drifting off to sleep. He dreamed of you and Charlie, of a small house and a garden, a real one, and maybe a little one.

But that dream was shattered all too quickly.

The ground shook violently, and Satoru was yanked from his sleep by the deafening roar of artillery fire. The once-peaceful night had erupted into chaos. He scrambled to his feet, the world around him a blur of noise and confusion. Mud and debris rained down as shells exploded nearby, turning the trench into a hellscape of smoke and fire.

"Satoru! Get up!" A voice yelled from somewhere in the darkness, but it was nearly drowned out by the barrage.

His heart raced as he grabbed his rifle, instincts taking over. The letter, the warmth of her words, the image of her waiting for him—all of it was shoved to the back of his mind as survival became his only focus. He could barely see through the smoke, but he knew what was coming.

"Over the top! They’re coming!"

Satoru fought desperately alongside his comrades. The world had become a blur of smoke, fire, and the metallic scent of blood. He barely felt the cold anymore—only the burning need to survive, to push through the horror and get back to the life he had left behind.

But even as he fired his rifle, the enemy pushing ever closer, a gnawing fear settled deep in his chest. It wasn’t the fear of dying, though that was always there, lurking beneath the surface. It was the fear of breaking his promise to her, of never seeing her again, never holding her in his arms, never telling her one last time how much he loved her.

Suddenly, a blinding light flashed to his right—a mortar shell exploding far too close. The force of it threw him to the ground, his head slamming against the hard earth. Everything went dark for a moment, and when he opened his eyes, the world was spinning. He could barely hear over the ringing in his ears, his vision blurry as he struggled to push himself up.

But before he could regain his bearings, he felt a sharp pain in his side, followed by a searing heat that spread across his body. He looked down, his hand coming away sticky with blood. Panic surged through him as he realized the wound was deep, too deep.

"Satoru!" someone shouted, but it felt distant as if it were coming from another world.

He tried to move, tried to fight, but his body wouldn’t respond. His strength was draining away, the edges of his vision darkening as the pain grew overwhelming. He reached for the photo in his pocket, fumbling with weak fingers until he could pull it out. The edges were crumpled, dirtied from being carried with him through every battle, but her face was still there, smiling up at him.

"I’m sorry baby…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sounds of battle. He wasn’t sure if the words were meant for her or himself, but they were all he could manage.

As he lay there, the sounds of war fading into the background, another soldier—a younger man from his company—dropped to his knees beside Satoru. The man was injured, blood seeping from a wound in his leg, but his focus was entirely on Satoru.

"No… no, no, no," the soldier muttered, his voice choked with panic. He saw the wound, saw the blood, and knew there was nothing he could do. "Satoru, stay with me, please!"

Satoru’s grip on the photo loosened, and the young soldier gently took it from him, his hands shaking. He saw the woman in the picture, the one Satoru had talked about so often, and his heart sank. "Is… is this her?"

Satoru nodded weakly, the effort taking everything he had left. He tried to speak, to say her name, to tell the soldier to take care of her, but the words wouldn’t come. His chest felt tight, every breath a struggle.

"Don’t worry, I’ll… I’ll make sure she knows," the soldier promised, though his voice cracked with the weight of it. He fumbled with Satoru’s jacket, pulling out the dog tags, and pressed them into his own pocket, along with the photo. "I’ll tell her… everything."

Satoru’s vision darkened further, the world slipping away from him. All he could see was her face, all he could think about was the future they had dreamed of. But that future was fading, slipping through his fingers like sand.

"I’m sorry," he whispered one last time before the darkness took him completely.

Weeks passed, though they felt like an eternity. The war continued on, but Satoru’s company was eventually pulled back from the front lines, many of them injured, exhausted, or worse. The young soldier who had taken Satoru’s photo was among those who were discharged, his leg injury severe enough to send him home. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the weight he carried in his heart.

When the company finally reached the docks, it was a scene of bittersweet reunions. Families and loved ones gathered, waiting anxiously for a glimpse of their soldiers. You were among them, your heart pounding in your chest as you scanned the crowd, searching desperately for Satoru’s familiar face.

But you couldn’t find him.

The minutes dragged on, and panic began to set in. Where was he? Had something happened? You tried to reassure yourself, telling yourself that he would appear any moment, that he was just delayed, that everything was fine.

Then you saw a man hobbling toward you on crutches, his face pale and drawn. You recongnized the man as in the letters Satoru had described him as a friend, a comrade. But where was Satoru? Why wasn’t he with him?

Your breath caught in your throat as the soldier stopped in front of you, his eyes filled with a sorrow that made your blood run cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled photograph, the one you had given to Satoru before he left. And then, with trembling hands, he held out Satoru’s dog tags.

"I’m so sorry," the soldier said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "He… he didn’t make it."

The world around you seemed to crumble, the ground shifting beneath your feet as the words sank in. You stared at the photo, and the dog tags, unable to comprehend what he was saying. It couldn’t be true. Satoru had promised you. He had promised he would come back.

"No…" The word fell from your lips, your voice breaking as tears welled up in your eyes. "No, he… he promised…"

The soldier reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder, but the gesture did nothing to comfort you. "He loved you so much," he said softly, his own eyes filling with tears. "He… he talked about you all the time. Right up until…"

You didn’t let him finish. The pain in your chest was too much to bear, and the sobs broke free, your body shaking as you clutched the photograph to your chest. The world around you blurred, the sounds of the docks fading away as all you could think about was him—his smile, his laugh, the way he had held you that last night before he left.

He was gone. Satoru was gone.

The soldier stayed with you, his own heart breaking as he watched you fall to your knees, your cries of grief echoing through the crowd. But there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do to ease the pain of your loss.

And so the war took one more life, one more love story cut short by the horrors of battle. The future you had dreamed of, the life you had planned, was gone—lost in the mud and blood of a distant country.

All that remained were memories and the cold, hard reality that he would never come home to you.

#gojo satoru #gojou satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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ghost-proofbaby · 11 months

Text

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER FIVE: HOLY GROUND

I LEFT A NOTE ON THE DOOR WITH THE JOKE WE MADE, AND THAT WAS THE FIRST DAY. AND DARLING, IT WAS GOOD NEVER LOOKING DOWN.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, minors dni

☆ WC: 8K+

☆ A/N: trying something new in the formating here amongst the chapter - please bear with me <3

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

Oh, how you realize you’ll come to regret that taunt.

The first week of working on organizing Corroded Coffin’s single release party is easy enough. Most of the communication is restricted to Matt and vendors, beginning the process of assessing venues as you start your list of all that will be needed for the party. An actual location, an open bar, entire stage crews. Matt is able to provide a few connections here and there, people in the live music industry that owe him a favor as he had so kindly put it. You had your spreadsheet of contacts that was growing with each passing day, you had several venues that looked as though they would work well for the occasion — the only thing you had yet to do was go over options with the band or properly reach out for their list of requirements for their night of celebration.

You had tried to be sneaky about it. Get around asking for any of their emails, continue living comfortably in the radio silence of not hearing from Eddie. And then you’d made the fatal mistake of asking Matt if he could gather the list of things the boys may want.

And of course, as any sane person would do, he had only forwarded the email to all of the boys’ professional emails and replied: I’ve CC’d our rockstars. I’ve instructed them to personally send you any requests they may have.

Fuck.

Eddie’s email sat at the lead of the list of CC’d emails, almost teasing you as it stared back at you from your laptop screen. A full week, you had avoided this. Even if he could have gotten your email from Matt, he hadn’t, and like a fool, you’d assumed that meant you were in the clear.

So much for that.

You compose and erase multiple emails until you decide that if the boys want to reach out, they can. There was no need for you to make first contact; they now had your email, a bait set for them to initiate a conversation by sending you their lists. If Eddie wanted to reach out to you, he had the perfect excuse to do so.

For a few hours, you don’t hear anything, and instead of sighing in relief, it only puts you further on edge. You want him to just get it over with. To send you an email, preferably an impersonal list that allows you to continue your job. No relations, no interferences. You didn’t know it, but the Universe was already laughing in your face.

The first email from any of the boys comes from Jeff.

A simple list, just as you’d requested. There was nothing outrageous; he’d recommended an open bar, asked for a specific brand of whiskey if possible, and thanked you for all you were doing. Simple, kind, appreciative. Jeff, it seemed, had stayed as humble as you remembered him.

The next email came from Gareth. Less simple, but still just as expected.

Nerds (the CANDY) of any kind. That vodka infused whipped cream (does it even get you drunk?), the softest robe money can buy. Actually, can I get matching house shoes with that robe? Can we also have some cigars in the dressing room? (We are getting a dressing room… right?)

You’re so busy snorting at his requests, rolling your eyes but also losing yourself in the warmth to know he also hadn’t changed much, you don’t see the next email come through.

It was comforting. You knew Eddie had changed — more than you could ever wrap your head around — but these boys you once knew seemed to still be connected to their roots. You read the requests and recall the times you’d spent in Gareth’s hot garage over the summer, sitting on warm concrete as you cheered overly excited, even occasionally standing up to jokingly mosh to their rehearsals. Sweltering summer nights between friends and beers that lost their chill far too quickly, laughter that echoed down the driveway and out into the empty streets of Hawkins. Nostalgia burns away at you, sitting restlessly in your chest as you let yourself simmer in it for the first time since…. since moving to New York, really. Even in that first year, life had moved so quickly, you and Eddie never took the time to ruminate in your past too often. If you did, it had caught you off guard, always fleeting to make room for the next uncertain experience.

You two had been so busy running away from your hometown, you’d never stopped to consider what you had given up in the process.

A soft sigh escapes your lips, and you swear you can still taste the shitty Miller Lite, the only brand that seemed to occupy the Emerson’s fridge, on your tongue as you exit the email and scribble on the notepad before you. Even if Gareth had been joking around with some of his requests, you’d take them seriously — besides, the mental image of Gareth in a plush robe and fluffy slippers to match made you laugh. You were thinking about your past, and for once, you were laughing. This part wasn’t a stain, wasn’t something you had scrubbed away at in a haste to make it fade from your ledger. This was the part you should have been lingering on.

And linger you did until you glanced up to find the next unread email.

Eddie.

[email protected]. You could fool yourself, tell yourself that email is from anyone else, but you know it isn’t. It isn’t even the email that had been CC’d. It’s his personal email.

Your mouse hovers over the highlighted and unopened message, heart dropping with each passing second. There’s a small preview of his message, but your vision blurs just enough that you can’t make out the small words.

Is this how you were always doomed to live out the rest of your days? To freeze, to panic, to malfunction at every slightest thing that has to do with the man you left to begin with? Would he always pull such visceral reactions from you?

In an act of bravery, you press the tip of your finger against the smooth mouse pad, a muted click that doesn’t reach your ears signaling the official opening of the email. All of your hopes are shattered as you realize it’s clearly too short to be a list similar to the other boys, a simple response that you could acknowledge and move on from.

No, he sends something that specifically calls for you to play with him. To reply and interact, to give him what he wants. To talk.

Two fucking words. Two loaded, vexing, provocative words that call to you with the titillating grin you imagine he wore as he typed them.

Your fingers work faster than your brain, slamming away at the keys hurriedly without thought as you type your least professional email to date.

The bottom of the email is automatically signed off with your work signature, including your direct personal line. If you had half the mind, you would have erased that bit of information to keep it from Eddie. It even has your actual signature, a mature one that differs from how you used to scrawl your name atop of schoolwork in high school, that you had scanned into your computer after having gone through the painful process of rewriting it what must have been a thousand times. No one had let you in on the fact that most other corporate monsters and coworkers just used one of the sloping fonts available to them. No one had shown you the ropes – you’d just assumed that it was the normal, to go so above and beyond.

Another brick in the foundation you’d built for yourself, separate from Eddie. Another attempt to change from the girl he’d once loved.

You’re shocked when a reply comes very quickly. You hadn’t even clicked out of the thread before it entered your inbox.

You try to channel fury, years of irritation and calluses you’d built up against him. But your chest has been weakened by that brief moment of nostalgia that Jeff and Gareth had triggered, and it’s a fruitless battle when he sends another message rapidly. He’s treating it like casual texting rather than stiff business interactions.

Your entire body flushes, a shock to your system coming that brings you out of the allusive hypnosis easily.

My emails are monitored. They’re going to see that we know each other. I’m going to get fucking fired.

You steady your breathing and try to stave off the anxiety. It’ll be fine; Lydia has no reason to comb through your emails at this time. Nothing said would trigger any bells or whistles to cause concern. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It has to be.

You wish you had it in you to see red. He had an incomprehensible amount of nerve to be asking for your personal email all because he refused to use his professional email.

Soft. You’d worked on becoming a hardened version of your old self for two years, and all hard work was quickly going down the drain as you remained too soft for him. It was easy, too. All the rough edges had melted so discreetly somewhere amongst the in between.

You think he’s dropped the topic of your personal email, but you should know better. Not even mere seconds after you receive the first email, brimming with nonchalance and a teasing tone that has no room between the two of you, another message comes through.

Good to see he’s still annoying and persistent as ever, I suppose.

He’s all bark, no bite. That’s what you convince yourself. There’s no way he could find your personal email, a plethora of power and connections at his fingertips or not. Even if he could, it would take him ages and more effort than it would be worth.

All bark. No bite.

You hadn’t realized just how quick and consistent his replies had maintained until you’re met with silence. You wait impatiently, biting at your fingernails as you await for another one of his responses. The more the time passes, the excessive minutes piling up in the quiet midday hum of your midtown apartment, the more noticeable Eddie’s online silence becomes.

No, you think suddenly and strongly. No, I am not doing this.

You refuse to sit around like this and succumb so easily. All your half-healed scars thrum with aches deep-rooted within the skin you’ve grown over the last two years, screaming out in phantom pains with a reminder of what happened to you the last time you’d let yourself sit around and wait on the boy on the end of the line. Every lonely night, every tear shed, every beat of your bleeding heart — you cannot be doing this again, and not so soon.

Quickly, you click out of your email tab and back onto the list of vendors you needed to contact for the bar commodities. Distract, distract, distract. You comb through your list. Some vendors seemed to hold more potential than others, more attainable in the grand scheme of it all. For the first time ever in your very short career of event planning, budget wasn’t the issue.

Eddie’s reputation was.

But you’re not thinking about Eddie. No, your focus was anywhere but him right now. You weren’t thinking about him, or his new cologne, or his new rings, or his new life-

Just as you pick up your cell phone to start your calls down the list, a notification pings.

Only seven minutes had passed. Seven minutes, and your phone is suddenly alight with a small but terrifying notification from your personal email.

New email from [email protected]!

Oh, fuck.

Your thumb hesitates over the tiny banner before you release the breath you were sure you’d been holding the entire seven minutes. It shouldn’t have taken him such little time. You expected it to realistically take him a few hours, all your anxious waiting aside.

There had been only one fatal flaw in your taunting — well, technically there were several becoming more apparent as the seconds ticked by, but only one so glaringly obvious. Your personal email address. You had forgotten.

You hadn’t changed it since high school, since moving to New York, since meeting and since leaving Eddie.

[email protected].

The stupid inside joke haunts you.

“Why does your email even matter?” Eddie huffed from where he was sprawled out on your bed, tossing around some bouncy ball he’d acquired a few nights before during dinner at a local pizza joint, “No one even uses email anymore.”

He tossed the ball of rubber into the air once more, a blur of the rainbow swirl pattern whirring too close to your ceiling for comfort. Your focus waned from your laptop for just a moment as you suddenly shot out a hand, attempting to intercept the ball.

No use. Eddie used one hand to swat yours away, the other happily capturing the toy in his palm with a muted thud.

“Nuh, uh, uh,” he drawled as he looked at you with his boyish grin, eyes sparkling as his fingers closed loosely around his prize, “If you wanted one so badly the other night, you should have also coughed up a quarter.”

You snorted, “Are you really proud of that? You spent a whole twenty five cents on a hunk of rubber, Rockstar.”

“A hunk of rubber you’re now trying to steal from me.”

“I’m not trying to steal it,” you scowled, “I’m trying to focus here. Emails are important, despite your pessimism. Something my English teacher said about professionalism.”

“You’re really going to listen to that dinosaur? The old O’Donnel-saurus?” Eddie mused, chuckling beneath his breath at his own joke.

You refused to crack a smile in return, or show any recognition at the awful joke, but your chest still warmed. The smoke of your affection for the boy in front of you unfurled, thick enough to choke you up a few extra seconds but thin enough to not suffocate. Never suffocate — it was a time in which you could never imagine your love for Eddie Munson being your downfall. It was a wispy and adaptable type of adoration, just like the smoke that flows off of the end of the incense you’d taken to burning in your room lately in lieu of candles.

“It’d do you well to also come up with a professional sounding email, you know,” you hummed. You were mere seconds away from shoving your laptop away and joining Eddie in his relaxed position, maybe even laying your head on his chest or shoulder and bringing up the idea of a late afternoon nap you knew he’d never turn down, “Can’t go around emailing important people when you’re a rockstar with your Dungeons & Dragons nickname.”

“One,” he held up a stern finger, “Like I said — I don’t use email. And two, I’m very happy with my email, sweetheart. I’ll probably email the damn President with that name. Life’s too short and we’re too young to get a stick up our ass about shit like that.”

You reached out and wrapped your palm around his finger, tugging it down. Unlike with the ball, he let you capture him in your grasp, “I don’t have a stick up my ass about it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then make it something funny,” he wiggled his brows, “Make your email something stupid and live a little.”

“A little?” you scoffed, “I think I live plenty for the both of us. You’ve put me through at least three lifetimes worth of stress before I’ve hit twenty. I probably have grey hairs already.”

Your hand curled around his pointer finger drops to your thigh, but doesn’t release him. The touch remained, ever constant, now more for comfort rather than defiance. And he let you continue to hold him, as if your touch was a luxury he was indulging in just as much as you were his.

“Wanna check?” he taunted. He lifted up off his back for a microsecond, tugging your arm with his before the roll of your eyes had him falling back flat once more.

It was a losing battle, arguing with Eddie.

Your conjoined hands settled back atop your thigh as you sighed. Maybe Eddie had been right, and you were stressing out too much about this. He was right; you were young, and having a dumb email was a right of passage. Something to giggle at in your maturity when you’d provide it later down the road, a flash of your youth to keep close.

Fuck professionalism, or whatever high horse O’Donnel had been on.

“Fine,” you huffed, “What do you suggest?”

“… To check for grey hairs?”

“For my email, you idiot.”

A bit more back and forth, a bit too raunchy of ideas that passed Eddie’s lips only to be rejected quickly with rough shakes of your head. His finger remained locked in your palm, at some point his knuckle wiggling between suggestions to stroke at your skin.

“Sweetheart, you’re being too picky,” Eddie finally whined as you shot down yet another one of his ideas, “At this point, just make it something related to the band. You’ll probably be Corroded Coffin’s manager when we make it big, anyways.”

“That sounds like a nightmare,” you murmured, even if you enjoyed the thought. You already had started to get a hang of wrangling the boys in your small town for menial tasks and day-to-day activities. But on a wider, professional scale? You could already feel the headache pressing into your temples. If they ever offered you the proposition, you wouldn’t have said no, but you certainly would have complained to no end. And definitely got grey hairs.

“Sweetheart.”

The repetition of the nickname froze you. Your eyebrows furrowed as the wheels in your brain turned and you looked down at your boy, the formulation of an idea that was combining both of Eddie’s suggestions suddenly.

“Why do you call me sweetheart?”

Eddie was taken back by your question, face crumpling with confusion, “What?”

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” you repeated yourself as you finally let go of his finger and twisted to face him fully, laptop momentarily forgotten as your legs folded beneath you and pressed into your worn mattress, “Like, I call you Rockstar because I know you’ll be a rockstar someday. Already are technically, to me, but don’t let that go to your head,” you explained, smiling shyly as Eddie narrowed his eyes and shined his dimples at you, “So why do you call me sweetheart?”

He hardly had to think about it, although his answer came out as more of a question, “Because you’re my sweetheart?”

“That’s all?”

“Is this a trick question?”

You nearly cackled at his hesitation, “It isn’t, I swear. Just… humor me.”

This time, he took his time to carefully deliberate his answer, “Well, I guess because it just fits,” he paused, wide eyes catching yours as you lifted your brows in question, “You know? Cause you’re sweet like sugar, and you’ve got a heart of gold,” he grabbed up the hand that once held him and drew it into his lips, peppering kisses across your knuckles and fingertips, fighting a grin as he groveled, “There. Is that romantic enough to humor you?”

“Almost.”

You pulled your hand away despite the fact that you wanted to let him continue his display of affection. You would have laid around all day, letting Eddie Munson shower you in all the affection he had to give. But you really needed to create this email.

And now, you had the perfect name.

CORRODEDSUGAR.

You created the account quickly. Set everything up with ease before you proudly turned your screen to Eddie.

“Corroded sugar?” he read outloud in a murmur as a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, “Cute. But also, very metal. Very badass. I approve, Sugar.”

A new nickname was born that day, to haunt you and taunt you at every corner. In soft mornings when he woke before you, his voice softly cooing ‘wake up, Sugar’ as he’d brush his nose along your jaw and attempt to awaken you with needy nuzzling. Amidst heated and passionate arguments had all in good fun while out with friends, where he knew you were right but the closest he’d come to admitting it would simply be ‘whatever you say, Sugar!’. He’d even once weaponized it against you during sacred moments, where his lips worshiped you as they trailed leisurely down the skin of your torso until he’d settled between your thighs, humming as he wrapped ringed fingers around your hips and whispered nothing more than the nickname. ‘Sugar’. He had sighed as if he were a starving man, and you were the plate of sweetness that would bring him back to life.

Sugar. A prayer, a promise, a reminder.

You couldn’t remember the last time he’d called you that. Until now.

When you’d tried to reset, rebuild, remake yourself, it had been hard to figure out a new email address. Amongst all the changes and all the decisions to be made, choosing a new email just felt overwhelming. And you’d been foolish, clung to one last relic of your past like an estranged child fisting a blanket to sleep.

The seven minutes suddenly makes crystal clear sense.

Whether it had really been Eddie’s rockstar connections from his fame, or simply recalling a far away memory, you hadn’t made yourself a very hard person to find. And you never considered that your laziness would have a consequence like this.

You don’t know what else to say. Your mind keeps reading over that silly five letter word, the bold lettering jumping off the page at you. All recollections of every time he’d ever called you that slip into the forefront of your brain, slapping away any concentrated thought.

You’d had dreams of him calling you that again. A mixture of memories and fantasies that would wake you up in the months following your departure. Compared to the other dreams you’d had amongst those, they had been a sweet reprieve. Not a nightmare of Eddie with his lips pressed to another, or mournful dreams where you reached out to him only for him to become intangible smoke where your hand should have connected with his torso. They were one of your only dreams you had awoken from without immediate tears.

They were the type of dreams where you’d awake, and for just a moment, you’d forgotten all that had happened. They’d twist you up in a blissful blanket of delusion that he was still yours, that you were still laying in a shared bed in that small apartment, that there was still a calendar on the wall with the date of his return marked with a scarlet heart.

The tears would come later. Once the dreamy fog cleared, and your eyes opened up to see the unfamiliar space you had taken to calling home instead.

The two of you should be discussing the release party. He should be handing over a list of requests and you should be adding them to the same page that you’d copied down Gareth’s.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

Talking, like nothing happened. Having a playful conversation over email that reeked of the same make-believe that had clung to your dreams of Sugar.

He won’t break the illusion, so you do.

Messaging him from this contact only reminds you of all that could have been. All the joking conversations back in Hawkins of your involvement with the band once they inevitably blew up, all the late nights where you’d been privy to a private show as he hunched over his guitar and hummed out melodies to new songs, all the bruises those once familiar hands had left and then caressed in the afterglow.

For just a moment, you miss it all.

For only a second, you wish he wore the same cologne and you wish you still signed your name as you had when you first met him. You wish for days of instability and the solid touch of his shoulders beneath your palms as you convince him to take a leap of faith on himself and the band. Dancing in a small apartment, falling asleep on the phone while he was a world away, quiet confessions of love to soothe the wound that distance made grow larger — for just a moment, you want it all back. Even the pain. Even the hurt you’d been burying alive for years.

Silence. Once again, he’s left you with static lines as the minutes pass and no new message is received.

You think you liked it better when he was being inappropriately playful.

At least then, he was saying something. Now, as he says nothing, you have to resort back to doing your job. You bring up a knee to rest your chin on as you adjust in your home office chair, clicking over to tabs of information on a physically small but well-known venue that had several different capacity options. Ranging from a small room that could hardly fit twenty five people to a rooftop set up with the ability to entertain several hundred people. Something about it had felt very Eddie to you; reclusive, with opportunity for an afterparty. Some odd mixture of who you once knew and who you’d seen flashes of through headlines and brief encounters. You hadn’t been given many guidelines from Matt to go off of, and when you’d questioned capacity size, he’d only brushed it off.

Just something smaller than the venues they play on tour.

Would Eddie even want this small of a venue? Looking over the venue’s website, you catch sight of the approximate occupancy limit for the “largest” stage room — 750 standing. What was Corroded Coffin’s new normal? Once upon a time, you were amongst a crowd that couldn’t even break double digits. But now, a show like this might sell out for them in five minutes flat. Hell, they could probably even sell out a thousand person capacity room.

A ding sounds to signify a new email.

For a second, you’re nonsensically relieved when you see it’s from Eddie. You find yourself blindly hopeful for a continuation of banter, another message solely trying to get on your nerves – something to satiate that stubborn need to slip back into old habits, even if for only just today.

It’s not. It’s a stale list of requests. Sent to your work email, this time.

No sight of his playfulness between the words. No beckoning of him taunting you, teasing you, whispering for you to just give in and play pretend with him one last time.

It’s probably for the best.

—

Have Mondays always been this hectic?

Week two of working on Corroded Coffin’s album release was starting off very differently from the first week. It seemed every corner you turned, you were faced with a new challenge that only made the headache behind your temples pound more relentlessly. Denial from venues, cold calls being forwarded to voicemail when you’d reach out to vendors, and Matt being impossibly busy with the band to get back to any of your emails in a timely manner.

If you had to hear one more venue representative turn down your business proposition with a “Sorry, but we’ve heard about Eddie’s reputation…”, you might make a detour to go jump off the Empire State Building.

Had he really been that awful to venue properties?

“You look stressed,” Romina notes when you hang up on your third unsuccessful call of the day, slamming the phone down more violently than you should.

“Who, me?” you bitterly reply, looking over your shoulder to where she leans in her chair, turned entirely from her desk to watch you with gentle amusement, “Never. I have never been stressed a day in my life.”

She quirks an eyebrow, “And before this new secret project of yours, I would have agreed.”

“Every venue is shooting me down.”

“It happens,” you yearn to feel the nonchalance that flows through the shrug of her shoulders, as if she’s now the one without a worry in the world, “Are they giving reasons?”

You open your mouth, but your tongue stops short. Because yes, they were each giving the same resounding, completely valid reason. But to admit this is to inform Romina what your secret project really is – something that a certain NDA strictly prohibits for the time being.

“Conflict of schedules,” you tightly lie as your glare diverts to your computer screen, still open on a mostly empty inbox.

Eddie hadn’t emailed you since last week.

Somewhere amongst your frustration, there was a sore disappointment lying in patient wait. You have not a single doubt that once the storm of the task at hand passes, once you finally secure a venue, that you’ll be forced to deal with it. But for now, a boy not emailing you after being so insistent for your personal contact was the least of your worries.

Romina’s voice draws you back in, “Really? How far out are you trying to book for?”

“Three months.”

The squeak of her chair pauses abruptly. Your eyes shift and you catch the way all her mindless swaying has ceased, mouth flat with eyes widened in disbelief.

“Three months?”

“What?” you finally spin your chair to face her, playing off nonchalance. You know why she’s reacting so dramatically, “Should I not be booking that far in advan-”

“I- No, no. You absolutely should be. It should actually be making it easier to book,” she leans forward in her seat, squinting at you, “Is that really the only reason they’re giving?”

You get it. Because she’s right; giving such fair notice should be making your job easier. But you can’t defend yourself and explain how the client you’re representing is the real issue.

“Yeah,” you force a forlorn sigh.

“Jesus,” she whistles out, “Well, that’s just… Fuck. I’m sorry, babe. That’s rough. What types of venues are you even trying for? Wait - didn’t you say you were arranging for a grand opening of a bakery? Wouldn’t they already have their shop set up-”

“Hello ladies.”

Thank fucking God for Lydia.

“Lydia!” you sit up just a little bit straighter, nearly leaping out of your seat with relief as your boss approaches. You knew exactly where Romina’s train of thought was heading, and you wouldn’t have been able to come up with a single pitiful excuse to keep up with your little white lie, “How are you today?”

Romina is still perched in her chair with a confused look, but Lydia doesn’t even glance her way, looking just as concerned as she looks down at you, “I’m… fine. There’s a client for you in the conference room.”

Straight to the point. Except, you didn’t have a meeting scheduled today.

“A client?” you echo, shrinking down a bit. You only have one client, technically, at this moment, “I didn’t have anything on my calendar.”

“Apparently, they were just on this side of town. Said you’d left a few voicemails and he thought it’d be easier to just pop in to discuss things.”

It had to be Matt. He must have gotten one of your frantic voicemails you’d left over the weekend, the ones you’d instantly regretted and worried had lacked in professionalism.

It has to be Matt.

“Oh,” Romina’s eyes are burning holes in the back of your chair as you fumble to lock your computer screen, scrambling to gather anything you might need. The notebook you’d been using to keep track of the entire ordeal crinkles slightly in your grip, “Yeah, of course, that- I’ll go straight there. Are they in one of the smaller conference rooms or the-”

“The main one,” Lydia interrupts you, and her tone makes you pause.

She sounds as if Matt’s arrival is the largest inconvenience she had experienced in the last month.

Why would Matt popping in to talk to me be such a big deal?

She’s clearly not in the mood for questions, so you only nod as you stand up, “Got it.”

And then she’s gone. No interest in joining you, or to question what could be going wrong. No sign of involvement like the day you’d originally met with the band and Matt to sign all documentation.

Your gut twists in knots that not even boy scout’s have discovered yet.

And they only worsen when Romina calls after your retreating figure, “Good luck with your baker!”

You’re kind of fucked. It’s clear she’s no longer buying into your lie of your client, and the thought of facing her after Matt is nausea-inducing. What if you just came clean? Would they sue you for telling Romina? Would Romina tell anyone else if you confided in her? Your thoughts race with question after question as you quickly make your way through the maze of cubicles, taking lefts and rights far too fast as you worry about making Matt wait much longer.

It was just stupid. Because amongst the questions, one rings out that’s insane enough to make the rest of them actually sound reasonable.

If you did manage to fuck this up in any way, would Eddie protect you?

Whether it be because you couldn’t complete the task at hand that was beginning to look impossible, or if it was because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, would he defend you?

You’d figured you’d lost his servitude and protection long ago, back when you’d first left that apartment and ignored every attempt at contact. But if it came down to it, would he offer you one last privilege of his defense? Probably not. Which — fair enough. You hadn’t done anything in the last week to have already earned that back. You hadn’t wanted to earn that privilege back, either. No matter how badly you found yourself wanting a new email from him in your inbox, there was a clear line in the sand drawn by your own stick, and you had to stay to your side of it.

You were a big girl. You could handle it.

Just as you finally approach the conference room, eyes trained to the ground and brows tightly furrowed in careful consideration (definitely not frustration, because the thought of Eddie surely couldn’t frustrate you), you make a fatal mistake. It’s a small detail you’d never paid much mind to prior — a stain on the carpet just outside the doorway, subtle yet large once the shadowy shifting of the carpet’s color caught your eyes. You’re so busy letting your eyes trail the perimeter of it, trying to focus on the threaded shades rather than the shade of Eddie’s dark eyes in the hallway the week before, that you aren’t prepared when the toe of your shoe catches against the said carpet.

You should have ate shit, to put it plainly.

One quick fumble, and you’re flying forward, hardly thinking as you throw out your hands to brace for impact. Foolish, considering the fall would have left you with severely aching wrists, or a bruised face. But it never arrives.

Large hands suddenly appear to grab you, catching you halfway through the sudden fall, and the unfamiliar cologne that’s plagued your waking thoughts for a week now overtakes your senses.

You thought it was Matt waiting for you.

“Woah!” his voice echoes easily in the empty hallway, “Shit, are you okay?”

You swore it was Matt waiting for you.

“Fine,” you strangle out, pulling away from that touch as quickly as possible. Like he’s burned you. Like those hands that once knew you all too well held your entire demise in their palms.

And they might.

It wasn’t Matt waiting for you.

Eddie doesn’t seem shocked by your retreat, only watching with a blank face as you regain your balance on your own and avoid eye contact. He looks nice – a leather jacket too shiny to be the one he wore when you wore together, a faded band t-shirt beneath you can’t fully see the logo of but know was bought that distressed just for looks due to the familiar unfamiliarity that has begun to cloud around the man you once knew, heavy boots planted right on the stain in the carpet that had distracted you.

“What did you even trip on?” he finally questions, looking curiously behind you as he retraces your path, “Was it-”

“Air,” you cut him off, “Save me the embarrassment, but I tripped on air.”

If you had half a mind, you would have interrupted with something more useful. Maybe demanded to know why he was here in your office. Questioned his intentions of showing up unannounced. Asked why he never emailed again.

Okay, maybe not that last one.

He lets out a short chuckle, more a breath than anything else as his face finally cracks and he almost grins, “I see. To be fair, it’s an easy thing to trip on. Very hard to see. Almost as if it’s invisible.”

He gauges your reaction, but you don’t let yourself so much as smile at his awkward attempt at a joke.

You can’t. You can’t casually joke with him, you can’t laugh and pretend like there isn’t an elephant sitting on your chest every time you occupy the same space as him. There’s no magic eraser to everything between you two; no amount of emails, no amount of bad jokes that can vanish all that has transpired. Your past and the carpet, it seems, have something in common.

Never thought you’d say that about the ugly threads you only look at to disassociate during particularly long days.

“What are you doing here?” you finally whisper out the right question, and internally cringe as your mouth keeps moving only to tack on a completely unnecessary addition of, “I didn’t receive any emails about a meeting-”

“Matt sent me,” Eddie shrugs. You watch the way the leather creases and fits his wide shoulders, catch yourself studying to see if there’s any new muscle beneath the layers to further estrange you further from him, “He’s been stuck in meetings for the album and single, and said you’d left him a few voice mails so… I’m the rescue team, I guess.”

You finally look him in his eyes, jaw dropping ever so slightly, “You?”

“What about me?”

“You’re my ‘rescue team’?” the words are bitter on your tongue, his presence anything but a relief of rescue, “No offense, but how can you possibly help me?”

And then he smiles. And, oh Lord, you’ve forgotten how nice of a smile he has. It’s painful – a sharp reminder of the past that you just can’t shake. He’s an old photograph that never quite burns, a stain on your favorite article of clothing you’ll never wear again. For a moment, it doesn’t matter how many parts of him he’s replaced, how many pieces of him have been turned over brand new and unfamiliar, because he looks just like the boy you left behind. A relic you can mourn for once you return to your apartment all alone. A whisper you’ll exchange with your children about someday, as you tell them all about the boy who changed you for the worse.

“You’d be surprised,” he muses, reaching a hand up to drag over a chin shadowed over in faint facial hair, “Apparently, once you make it big, you have to learn about more things than just how to play an A chord on a guitar or sing in tune. Business, for example. That’s what you’ve been struggling with, yeah? The business aspect of it all?”

You kind of want to walk away from him. To go and eat shit in a different hallway, on your way to tell Lydia you can’t do this anymore.

“I’m not struggling,” you snap.

He’s quick to lift his hands in surrender, “Don’t shoot the messenger. Those were Matt’s words, not mine.”

“Yeah, well, tell Matt I’m fine,” you huff indignantly, “I’m a professional who can handle myself. I can figure this out on my own.”

You’re turning your back to him, ready to storm off dramatically for your own sanity, when he clears his throat.

You pause. You don’t turn to look, but you halt mid-step.

“Humor me, for a second,” he begins, “What exactly are you fully capable of figuring out on your own?”

“The planning,” you state the obvious, staring at an odd piece of art on the office wall to your left. Not quite turning your head to him, but angling so your voice carries.

“Yeah, no shit,” his words spark a little more anger, a little more rage, “I mean what part of the planning? You’ve left Matt at least two voicemails. Probably more, if he’s resorted to sending me.”

More like five. Possibly seven, but you’d indulged in more wine than would be wise to admitting this weekend after receiving your third venue rejection.

“Maybe he just got tired of babysitting you. Decided to make you someone else’s problem.”

“Maybe,” Eddie hums, and you can hear his slow footsteps as he slowly walks to block your vision of the abstract artwork. Your gaze is cut off from the silvery lines splattered across a black background and forced upon brown eyes that are more lively than you remember from the previous week, “But I already made the trip all the way down here. Might as well make myself useful to you.”

He’s still wearing that smile. The one that belongs captured in a polaroid at the back of your closet. The one frozen in a time that was so much simpler than this.

The kind that leaves a mark – a stain.

“You want to make yourself useful to me?” you narrow your eyes, straighten your shoulders, prepare for battle, “Then leave. That is the most useful thing you can do for me right now – walk out of this building, and leave me to figure this out without being a pest.”

Your words should hurt him, but they only seem to fuel him. It’s the exact same reaction you’d imagined on the other side of all the emails. A pep to his step and a perk in his posture that elicits unhinged annoyance from deep within you.

“No can do,” he smirks, “Sorry, I’m on Matt’s orders to not leave until we figure this out. Together.”

You don’t care how nice Matt is – you decidedly hate him at this moment.

“Eddie,” you don’t notice the way his chest catches when you say his name, even in your defiant tone, “I am telling you right now, there is nothing you can do to help.”

And then he takes you off guard, breathing still not quite steady as he breathes out, “Let’s go get coffee.”

“I already told you, I have no interest in getting coffee or lunch with yo-”

“Not like that,” he waves off, finally slipping back into his casual demeanor, “Just- throw me a bone here, Sugar. We don’t even have to talk. You can bring your laptop and phone, focus on work and pretend I don’t exist the entire time. But I have to stick around long enough to get Matt off my ass, and you clearly have been stuck in this stuffy ass building for too long.”

Sugar.

Your breath catches at the nickname, just as his had when you said his name.

Shakily, you exhale, “No, I-”

“Funny thing,” he shoves both hands in the pockets of his jeans. Well-fitted, fairly new. No signs of distress like he preferred in his youth. Just starch black that clings to skin you once knew, “I’m not asking. Technically, I’m your boss. And as your boss, I’m instructing you to join me for nothing more than a free coffee and change of scenery. Like I said, it’ll be as if I’m not even there. I’ll keep my mouth shut the entire time – strictly business.”

You nearly slip up and inform him that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t talk – if he’s near you, your body always seems to know. Your body, your senses, your soul. Any time he occupies the same room as you, his vicinity lights something in you impossible to ignore. It had been that way since the first day you met him. And would probably continue to be that way until the day you were buried six feet under.

Even in death, his soul would probably haunt yours. You would never know another day of peace since meeting Eddie Munson.

“You’re not my boss,” you argue, crossing your arms, “You’re my client. Lydia is my boss.”

“And would Lydia appreciate you arguing with a client like this?”

“What do you want from me?”

The question falls from your lips with unexpected weight and exasperation.

Your arms fall down from your chest just as quickly as they’d risen, the two of you encased in silence as you both realize the implication behind the question. It’s about more than just the coffee, more than just his impromptu visit to your work. It’s the heaviest question you could have asked at this moment; and one that neither of you were ready to hear the answer to quite yet.

There’s a million unsaid words swirling behind whiskey irises. A hundred and one conversations never had, a thousand and one battles never witnessed on both ends of this war. Something in them whispers you might not be the only one haunted.

Maybe, just maybe, his soul will only haunt yours for as long as yours haunts his. A haunted house, a ghastly gallery. Two ghosts always meant to hang up parallel to each other in crooked frames, in an empty hallway.

“Just a coffee,” he whispers, and something in you cracks quietly, “Just one cup of coffee, for now.”

With all things considered, it’s not asking that much of you.

You don’t have any fight left in you. Whether he’s here, whether he’s a world away, you’re still destined to be stuck across from him in the damn hallway. Always staring, always drawn. There might not be a single corner of this world far enough away to break whatever thread ties you to the man before you, whether you still know him or not.

After a pregnant pause, you sigh, “Let me grab my purse.”

With all things considered, he probably should be asking more of you.

But you’re grateful he isn’t as you retreat and do exactly as promised, not looking Romina in her eyes before you begin your doomsday march for just one cup of coffee.

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ineylesian · 2 years

Text

NO LEAF CLOVER

─ SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X FEM! READER

PREFACE | this is continuation of another fic, “me, or him?”. it’s advised that you read that before this

AO3 | MASTERLIST | CODENAME: FANGS MASTERLIST

WORD COUNT | 8k

SUMMARY | you had made your choice, all you had to do was execute.

however, a small tinge of you knew that you could never be true to one side; and you would face the grim consequences of disloyalty in the vision of never resting nightmares and a smoking bullet.

WARNINGS | angst, smut, canon typical violence, vaginal fingering, a mix of rough and kinda soft sex, hard overstimulation, finger fucking, cum eating, make up sex if you could even consider it that, implied graves x reader (and a little action), biting, scratching, clothed sex, grinding, you make ghost cum in his pants, he does the same to you dw, unprotected p in v, cumming inside, thigh fucking, ghost literally fucks the shit out of you, but it’s angsty as hell, the mask stays on this time boys

AUTHOR’S NOTE | still can’t stand the people that say ghost is completely emotionless bro, like yeah he’s an edge lord BUT he cares about those closest to him and that’s how i portray him… my baby cakes fr fr

THIS WORK IS MEANT TO BE WRITTEN IN AN ADULT READER’S POINT OF VIEW. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

11:07 PM.

FUERZAS ESPECIALES HQ // LAS ALMAS.

“Exterior squad 414, report, over.”

Click.

“All good here, sir.”

Radio waves fell shallow as the remaining patrols checked in, leaving only the soft rattle of metal against concrete to your ears. A few seconds passed before the canister popped, engulfing the narrow exterior you stood in with heavy smoke, soon giving way to an array of green lasers on the walls. You ducked under the first two, gloved hands sliding along cold stone to fall into a prone next, just barely shifting past the harsh buzz after a few slow movements.

A quiet hum responded to the force of your hand on fluorescent red, leaving the last section of the underground tunnels in Fuerzas completely unguarded.

You crouched down beside the first corner in the system, pulling a flare from your pocket, setting it alight, and stepping away. A single spark shot from the pyrotechnic before it was crushed by your foot, the bundle of ashes seeping from the short lived explosion allowing you to trace a check mark onto the wall with your foot.

“Exterior squad 182 to Commander Graves, permission to send traffic?”

Your eyes narrowed at the panic steadily climbing each word, prominent even through static.

“This is Graves actual, send traffic.”

“There’s a hostile bird inbound, sir. Approximately 2 clicks away and approaching fast.”

A distant curse carried over the comms, followed by a short bout of silence save a few shuffles.

“Copy that, 182. Lock down and stand by for further instruction.”

Creaking metal followed your return to the surface, sliding a pair of binoculars out of your pocket, and peaking out above the fortress walls. The violent whir of fan blades led your vision to the southeast tower, clicking down on an effective zoom before holding the lens up to your eyes, spotting Price behind a sharp glint of light. A brief wave was shared between you before he raised a hand to his comms, giving you the green light to move.

“Cobra to Graves, what’s your location?”

“Heading to the FE General, be careful on your way over.”

Your fingers fell from the comms button on your shoulder, turning your attention to the array of warehouses ahead. A minute of dodging your own soldiers and you were kneeling beside a sequence of panels on the 4th warehouse down, sliding a screwdriver into each bolt while lightly prying at the edge. Once the metal surface plate popped off, you unclipped a small canister from your vest, tugging the cover off with your teeth before dropping it into the filter and fastening it back to the wall.

You stood back up at the cue of a soft hiss from the depths of the ventilation system, tugging yourself away from the building before it spread outside.

Price had called your part in their covert operation “The Fixxa Uppa”, point and blank. You had held your tongue at the lack of empathy he held for your situation, giving strict orders to kill any Shadows on sight, and apprehend Graves.

Quiet footsteps and sand hidden tracks led you to the Fuerzas Especiales General building, still pristine in coating and flying the Los Voqueros flag. You sighed at the recollection of Graves’ refusal to tarnish what represented your old allies, scolding your soldiers about reputation and the idiocy of raising an American flag in Las Almas.

The lower region of your chest pulsed slowly at the thought of Shepherd, now exposed and helplessly losing thousands of soldiers by the minute. Yet, your mind also flicked to the flip side: Graves, frantically barking out orders over Shadow Company’s comms while providing as much support as he could give. And you? Perhaps the rapid shift of your pulse with each waking step proved that you really did feel bad, but you and everyone that knew you were well aware that you despised Shadow Company.

Yet, you had stayed, fiercely protecting and slaughtering the men under you all the same. Every action for the sake of the man who you were set out to betray.

A heavy series of explosions coaxed your steps swifter, knuckles raising to deliver three swift knocks on the conference room’s door. The familiar rap pattern led the door to swing open almost instantly, your wrist being seized in the process.

Your eyes parted as you were pressed against the door, eyelids clamping down to adjust to the loss of light. Reopening, you were welcomed the slim, familiar outline of Graves, light pants representing the life you couldn’t see.

You clicked the flashlight fastened to your vest on, illuminating his face in a soft white glow. His skin glistened with a light coat of sweat and blood, hair disheveled, belt almost bare, rifle hanging carelessly from his side. Your gaze slowly drifted to his face, taking in the sight of his teeth fastened to his upper lip, eyes drilling into your own in a tight squint.

Any upcoming words of concerns that had planned on parting your mouth were washed away just seconds later, in their place the flaming sensation of Graves’ lips sealing over yours, swiftly, aggressively, filled to the brim with indecipherable motive.

Graves never kissed you on missions.

Yet here you were, inhaling the scent of smoke and pine on his collar while his blood dribbled down your chin, coating your tongue with metal as he brought your faces closer together. One of your hands subconsciously reached for the back of his head, keeping his mouth firmly planted against your own while he feverishly sank his teeth into your bottom lip, drawing a harsh breath from your nose.

The sudden blast of a breach charge broke you apart, followed by the rise of gunfire on the first floor. You frantically reached down, fumbling with your belt before snatching a case of 5.56 mm cartridge from the side, fastening it to Graves’ waist.

“They’re after you.” Your words came out jumbled, too focused on turning him towards the emergency exit just one room over. “You have to get out of here.”

Your efforts fell to no avail, however, as Graves was quick to pull your wrists down, rooting the both of you in place.

“I’m not leaving you here, Fangs.” He retorted, swiftly coaxing you behind a desk before crouching down, softly running a hand over your arm before falling to his gun. “We live together, or we die together. Remember?”

Of course, how could you forget?

The phrase echoed in hand with choruses of flying bullets and screams as a small group of your soldiers barged into the room, narrowly avoiding incoming spurts of fire. You raised your gun to rest against the desk’s surface, peaking over the side to ensure you were firing in dead areas. After spending the entirety of your mag, you pulled your rifle back, silently hoping they had noticed you flick your gun’s muzzle flash on.

An aggressive sequence of beeps fell close to your ears as you slipped a new clip into your weapon, leading your eyes to widen in shock at the sight of a semtex laid to rest on the surface right above you.

You threw your gun to the side before kicking Graves as hard as you could, sending him staggering a safe distance away and heading in the opposite direction. Bullets chased every fraction of your explosion-illuminated movement, forcing you to slide down on the floor next to one of your men.

However, you were only welcomed to the sight of glistening knife harshly jutting into the chest of your cover, spurting a hefty coat of blood onto your cheek. Your eyes widened in shock as the solider grabbed hold of the arm that held the blade inside of him, twisting himself and the attacker back into you, pushing away to leave him falling straight into you.

Sweltering winds kissed the hairs plastered to your face as the force sent you flying backward, crashing through the window behind you, fraying your skin with minuscule shards of glass. Your waist was roughly seized by the man on top of you, swapping your bodies seconds before you smacked against the ground.

You cried out in air deprived silence, hearing a series of cracks erupt throughout your upper region as the impact rolled you to the side, melding the world a fleeting series of red and white before fading to black.

—-

ONE WEEK LATER.

beep.

…beep.

BEEP.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

“Cobra… you hear me? Try opening your eyes.”

The words reigned similar to static in your head, each inhale pooling a deep ache in the front of your head. A jittered breath pressed it’s way out of you as your eyelids pried apart, leaving you to clear the atmosphere with a few blinks before looking to the side. On the side of your bed stood Price, sending an affirming nod your way while he set a change of clothes on the table beside you.

“Welcome back, soldier.”

You slowly shifted your way up against the pillows, wiping a hand along your eyes while the other detached the ventilator mask from your mouth.

“The mission.” You breathed out, eyes snapping to Price. “What happened?”

“Well, your accident was distracting enough to stop the mission before we could complete it.” He started, offering a bottle of water your way. “We had to drop everything to save you.”

He paused, gaze drifting to your watch, surface glass now split unevenly down the middle.

“I was hoping you could help us. Graves is completely off our radar, and we need to take care of him before moving in on Hassan.”

Your breath hitched, hand clamping down on the bottle of water resting above your lips.

“Our mission is kill on sight.” He continued, lips settling into a thin line. “But I’m willing to give him a choice before that. Join the Task Force, or die.”

You remained silent for some time, taking a swift glance at your watch before looking back over to Price.

“Alright.”

“Good.” He nodded, lightly patting your shoulder before standing up. “We’re meeting up at Flint’s in a bit. Join us if you’d like.”

Darkness enveloped your vision once his footsteps completely faded, hands growing clammy at the thought of even putting a hand on that watch. However, you’d agreed to it, and Price had certainly done you a favor by dropping the mission to save you.

Sighing, you leaned forward, legs kicking off the bed to stretch before you slid off of the sheets, wobbling slightly until your body adjusted to carrying your weight once more. Dim infirmary garments were swapped for one of your “civvy” outfit, leaving only the watch on the table as you slipped your right shoe on.

Cool metal snaked around your fingers, lightly securing hold around your wrist as you brought it down, following a soft click of worn silver and carbon fastened against your skin. You tapped on the messages app next, sliding down to Graves’ contact before placing your finger over it. Your teeth lightly rocked against each other at the blank canvas of screen before you, fingers hovering over the small keyboard as you thought. Ever so slowly, they began to move.

YOU

“Still alive?”

SENT. 5:48 PM.

Your watch sat idle as you pushed through the front doors of Flint’s, waving your hellos to Price, Gaz, and Soap before sliding into a booth nearby. Soft strums of an electric guitar fell to ring around your ears as a waitress walked up to you, setting a small glass of water in front of you with a smile.

A part of you hoped he didn’t answer. That this could all be over and you could leave Las Almas behind

But you knew it wasn’t that easy. It never was.

Minutes passed before a shadow passed across your table, the sudden halt of footsteps rousing your attention. Your eyes parted in surprise at the sight of the man now sitting directly across from you, setting a shot of whiskey on the table with a soft clink.

“Ghost?”

His eyes drifted up from the rim of his glass, locking you in his usual, hard gaze.

“Knew it’d take more than a fall to kill you.” His voice drifted out low, devoid of the gritted shout he adorned during missions. “Was worried you’d gone soft.”

Your eyes dragged along the upper region of his sweatshirt, stopping at a small strip of white that sat wrapped around his neck.

“You broke my fall.”

“Smart girl.” He leaned forward, lifting his mask up a fraction to take a sip of whiskey. “Antibacterial gauze works wonders.”

Your attention broke off at the rise of a buzz on your wrist, leading you to lift the device up while flicking it on.

2 NEW MSSGS.

Your heart rate picked up with each tap, fingers drumming noisily against the table as you waited for the screen to load.

GRAVES

Christ, Fangs, thought I’d lost you.

How are you doing? You safe?

“Cobra.”

YOU

Yeah, I’m okay. What about you?

“Cobra, hey, I’m talking to you.”

GRAVES

I’m good.

Still in Las Almas?

“Fucking Hell, [name].” You felt your wrist being snagged from across the table, pulling reality back to you in the form of an annoyed glint of narrowed eyes. “Stay on task. His location, that’s it.”

A lump pushed its way past your throat, following a shallow nod as you looked back down.

YOU

Yup.

Can we meet up?

You flashed the watch in Ghost’s direction, eyes knitted in irritation at the feeling of his eyes hounding every movement of your fingertips.

“Ghost.” You pushed through partially grit teeth. “I can feel you staring at me. Stop.”

A swift glance upward showed pure negligence of your request, his gaze seemingly burning a hotter trail into your skin than before, sinking uneasiness into the veins below.

GRAVES

Shadow Company has one stocked warehouse on the outskirts of Quilán. Tomorrow work for you?

Ghost leaned over to look at your outstretched arm, giving a curt nod at the message before standing up. You followed, fingers typing one last message before showing it to him and shutting the watch off.

YOU

6pm. I’ll be there.

—-

THE NEXT DAY.

5:52 PM. QUILÁN, LAS ALMAS.

Cool winds swirled around the barren expanse of the vast plain ahead, coating your hands in tiny fragments of sand. You stopped at the foot of a tree line, spotting two sizable warehouses peaking out of a fortress of barbed wire. The sight of shifting masses atop the towers flanking each side of the perimeter led you to place your fingers against your shoulder, tapping into 141’s comms.

“Be advised, multiple armed personnel spotted.”

One of your hands raised in a wave, earning the reaction of one guard before moving forward. You imposed a sickeningly faux smile at the entrance gate, earning a series of nods from the guards stationed there as they let you in.

“Good to see you, Lieutenant.” One spoke, motioning off to the larger of the warehouses. “Commander Graves wishes to see you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, soldier.”

You broke away from prying eyes by rounding a corner, taking a glance around to ensure no one was watching before patching into comms once more.

“Larger warehouse in 2. Cobra out.”

The earpiece was shoved into your pocket, leaving you just one stretch away from the warehouse. Turning to face the front door captivated your spine in a frigid chill, rendering your blood cold in comparison to the blazing sand chipping into your skin. A sigh pooled from the depths of your nose as your gaze dropped down to the handle, hand reaching out to hover above it whilst you waited for visuals on your team.

Your watch flashed 18:00.

Soap poked his head out from the top of the warehouse, sending a thumbs up your way before ducking back down.

Okay.

A steady groan followed the drag of metal against the floor, illuminating the pitch black interior with marengo streaks of light. Your eyes traveled along the contents of the warehouse, eventually stopping to focus in on a large mass of crates and containers, and a thin shadow looming out of the side of them.

Through shifting shadows of grey and black, you saw Graves step away from an array of ammunition boxes, holding a finger up in wait as he fastened a few clips to his belt. However, his hand only dropped flat as he glanced over, taking in the sight of you with pleasantly widened eyes.

The last of your footsteps clicked against the vast space, rousing a shuffle instead as you stopped to look up.

You couldn’t bring yourself to smile at him. Hell, you couldn’t even speak, and he knew, arms stretching out to envelop your being, holding all of you against him like he’d die if he let go. Warm hands brought themselves up to grasp lightly at the back of your shoulders, allowing your arms to snake around his neck.

The two of you stayed there for some time, long enough to numb the soft movement of your arm running down his vest. Seconds passed before the safety of a gun clicked just feet away, shooting Graves’ head up as he let you go. The attempt of his body to turn around fell to no avail as one of your hands clamped around the pistol strapped against his vest, rooting him where he stood.

Price slowly made his way towards the both of you, gun pointing solely at Graves, allowing you to step away, tossing his gun under one of the nearby crates.

“You’re gettin’ two choices here, son. Only one of ‘em is gonna let you out alive.”

Graves’ mouth fell to rest in a flat line, hands leisurely moving to rest above his head. His gaze then traveled over to you, what was once a soft meld of blues hardened into something more practical. Then, he looked up, breathing out a quiet huff of amusement at the sight.

“Join TSF 141, or die.”

Price stepped closer, watching as Graves’ eyes lowered back down to you.

“Could’ve guessed you were playing me, Fangs.” He lightly shrugged, nodding up to the man crouching on the rails above you. “Big dog Ghost up there left a little something back at the warehouse, didn’t he?”

Your eyes narrowed. The knife.

“Make the right decision, Graves.”

“The right decision?” He scoffed, flicking a finger between you and Ghost. “I’ve been giving everything I have for you, only to figure out you’ve been fucking around with him? Now you want me to join you?”

“This isn’t about him, or any of them.” You snapped back, jabbing a finger against his chest. “You knew what Shepherd did to us, and you still chose to stay with him. How can you live with yourself?”

“You’ve got one last chance, son.” The gruff call of your captain rang out, feebly smothered against airborne tension. “What’s it gonna be?”

“Who was by my side the entire time?” Graves voice pushed out low, taking your finger and turning it to push against your vest. “Only you made that decision.”

A single, deep breath pushed its way from your mouth as you brought the same hand up, ripping Shadow Company’s insignia off of your chest, dropping it to the floor, and smothering it under your boot.

“It’s not too late to change.”

His head shook slowly, taking a step back from you before lowering his hands.

“Not for you, Fangs.”

The world before you sparked into a violent surge of smoke and fire as explosions broke out from above. Gunshots scraped against the ground near you as you ran, diving behind a nearby crate to cover yourself.

Only to realize the inside was fizzing.

You were sent flying backward as the middle of the warehouse erupted into flames, the sheer force of the chain linked explosions slamming your back into the wall. Air starved lungs desperately inhaled smoke, leaving your vision blurred and burning at the thickness of the atmosphere around you.

Your arms weakly pushed against the ground, pulling you far up enough to grab the side of a table, hoisting yourself to stand with a pained groan. A massive crash echoed from across the interior, shaking the ground below you and pulsing blistering waves of smoke against your face. Another followed shortly after, only leading you to assume the roof was collapsing, the shriek of stressing metal confirming your suspicions.

Raising a hand to your shoulder, you pressed on the your radio, using your spare hand to hold your earpiece to your ear as you ran.

“Price, Soap, Gaz-“ You paused, choking on a fresh inhale of fumes. “Does anyone copy?”

Silence.

You cursed under your breath, bringing a hand up to hover against your lower face whilst running amidst the shadows. Your foot kicked against a railing, leading you to blindly turn for the stairs, narrowly avoiding falling chunks of debris from the ceiling as you neared closer to it. The thin flooring shook under each of your footsteps, the section behind you breaking off with a sharp clang just after you’d cleared it.

Sucking in the ashen material of your arm, you broke into a sprint, heading for the first gleam of light visible. Your arms rose to cross over your face, shattering glass as you dived outside, stealing harsh breaths of fresh air from the sky on your fall.

You landed in the midst of a large bush with a quiet thud, breaking into a coarse fit of coughs and retches in a desperate attempt to clear your system. Once the haze of CO2 had swept out of your lungs, you pulled yourself out of the mass of thick branches and leaves, staggering up to look at the warehouse before you.

“Cobra, do you copy?”

Your hands fumbled for the button on your shoulder, tapping into 141’s comms with a sigh of relief.

“Good here, Soap.” You responded, pacing away from the destroyed warehouse. “What’s going on with the others?”

“Don’t know, you’re the only one I could reach.”

“We need to find the others. I’ll take the second warehouse, you sweep the outside.”

“Got it.”

You let go of the comms with a hum, eyes moving up as you approached the smaller warehouse. The sudden rise of gunfire widened your eyes, clear that it came from the inside. Your boots fell hard against dry grass, kicking up heavy tracks before you jumped on top of one of the ac units hooked to the wall, using the slight leverage to pull yourself up to the hanging ladder halfway up.

A fury of dying lights sparked against the air as you peered down through the skylight, running towards the edge in sight of a vent. Gripping the ledge of the shingled roof, you slid in through the metal nailed to the wall, boots softly thudding against a metal walkway overlooking the inside. Thinly strung lights dimly lit the vast area below, only giving way to the continuous reign of bullets clanging against metal.

You dropped down to the next section, dodging weapon crates and supplies before breaking for the staircase. Frantic hands unhooked the Deagle on your belt as you grew closer to the ground floor, spurred on by the abrupt end of shots from all around. Your hands laid to rest against the nearest railing, watching with wide eyes as a lowly flashing streak of red shot past you face, and to the far side of the warehouse.

One of your arms instinctively raised against the mass detonation of the semtex fused with boxes of mines, lighting one side of the warehouse up in a raging sea of flames. Tugging the safety off of your pistol, you jumped down onto one of the crates below, kneeling against the edge in search of any signs of life against the weak light of fire. Eventually, a shadowed figure crossed not far off from where you perched, leading you to scale the line of containers in swift apprehension, keeping your movements light.

Your teeth grit firmly together at the rising waves of familiar heat brushing themselves against your skin, the waves in pursuit forcing you to climb up a layer to breathe. Eventually, your target led you to a small, void area of the warehouse, charred black, and holding a slumped body against the ash. Your eyes widened at the scarce patch of white on his face illuminated by edging embers, your breathing increasingly erratic by the second as the quiet click of a gun’s safety rang out from the shadows.

Before you could articulate a reasonable plan of action, your feet were sliding off of the containers overlooking the scene, landing just above the shadowed figure with a harsh thud. The reaction to the noise was not sufficient enough, as by the time the gun was pointed your way, you had blindly tackled them against the wall, hand moving to hold their gun up as you slid the Deagle against their chest.

A crude gunshot bounced off the walls, crawling into your ears in horrid sight of the body pinned against your leg. You stepped away from the mass of blood pooling onto the ground beneath, watching as the lifeless body of Graves slumped against the ground, his blood sickly warm on your hands. The warehouse grew silent in your wake, save the faint crackling of burning wood, ever softer the drops of red liquid falling to mix in with the rest.

“COBRA, GHOST?”

The words spoke muffled to your ears, fighting against the deafening drum of your heartbeat pounding against every crevice of your being. A hand took hold of your shoulder amongst the scorching ripples of heat, turning you to face Price, who gave you a light squeeze where his hand sat as he took your gun.

“Good work, kiddo. Let’s get you patched up.”

—-

ONE WEEK LATER.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.

2 NEW MSSGS.

SOAP

Hey, didn’t get the chance to see you after the mission.

I owe you one, big time. Let me know when you’re free?

YOU

Tomorrow okay?

The watch fell limp against your side, following the brush of a bag hitting the ground. A briefcase was placed against your coffee table, beside you an SR-25 waiting to be taken apart.

Not an ounce of pride swelled in your chest at the achievement of killing Hassan. The honorary medal that had been draped around your chest now sat idle on the floor, particles of dust beginning to settle over the bright coat of gloss over the surface. Deft hands worked in steady motions, pooling out breaths of focused air as you pulled the weapon apart.

Your mind had been elsewhere for some time, thoughts scrambled by dull static while you sat atop that building, sparking not even an ounce of a reaction out of you as you pulled the trigger. Instead of confirming your kill, you pulled the sniper back, silently disappearing as soon as you’d arrived.

The visions had been relentless. When you closed your eyes, you saw horrified faces and snow white bandages stained red, the scent of gore and death so evident, so real that you choked on your breath. And you saw yourself, watching Soap and Gaz carry him away, earning nothing but stale breathing from blood coated nostrils.

You’d been told he had a 15% chance of survival. That was, before you left to finish Hassan and the cartel. It was said that chance would rise to at least 70 with a blood transfusion. They advised against it, you were taking his job, steady aim was more important that everything else. Just a little missing blood could have thrown off your aim, let one of the world’s most notorious terrorists walking free after dropping a missile on the Pentagon.

You did it anyways, taking the gamble that the doctors wouldn’t tell Price. Guess it paid off well — well enough for the rest of the world, anyway.

A quiet clink shuffled against styrofoam as you placed the last part of the sniper rifle in the briefcase, smoothing over the scope with your hand before shutting it and flipping the locks closed.

It was one thing to be a hero.

And another to be a killer.

The vision of Ghost wasn’t the only nightmare that haunted you since it happened. Graves, the blood, his blood on your hands; the .50 round of your Deagle in his chest.

His funeral wasn’t special, at least from what you’d heard. Your failure to show resulted in a brief visit some few hours after, placing the Desert Eagle beside the small pile of tempered soil that covered him. Ironically enough, it had been more like a late return.. you’d almost forgotten the pistol was originally his.

The door to your temporary apartment clicked shut, leaving you to the garage, and a brand new Porsche, one of the many thanks of service from the military for your success in killing Hassan. If only they knew about Shepherd, the Shadows.. Makarov.

Almost 15 hours and 2 full tanks of gas later led you to the coast of New England, “Her lady Boston” as specifically named by Price. The TSF had a good majority of their American warehouses here, probably as close to the UK as they could get.

Your legs fell limp as you let off the brakes for the last time, shifting into park before leaning your head back against the headrest. A few stretches later and you were off to a small facility on the edge of the city, steadily welcome to the chirp of seagulls and scent of the Atlantic.

An automated door and a cool gust of wind welcomed you to the inside, nodding a greeting to the receptionist before heading for the lounge. Upon seeing Soap, Gaz, and Price, you waved, to which all stopped their conversation and turned your way.

“Aye, if it isn’t the infamous Cobra.” Soap snarked, ruffling your hair with a smile. “Welcome to New England.”

“There’s a whole lot to do here.” Gaz added, giving you a pat on the back. “Hope you’ll hang with us a little.”

Lastly, you glanced over to Price who had just finished putting out his cigar, nodding to you before pulling you into a quick side hug.

“Good to see you, kiddo.”

You breathed out a small sigh of acknowledgment before sliding into the seat beside him, setting your briefcase beside your foot.

“What have you guys been up to?”

Soap and Gaz glanced at each other, then to Price, who shrugged.

“We’ve just been laying low for now.” Soap answered, following a nod from Gaz. “Waiting for Laswell to dig up what she can on Makarov.”

“Shit, Makarov..” Your fingers drifted along the table, the image of Price’s face upon looking at the man’s picture popping into your head. “And Shepherd?”

“As much as I’d like to go after him, the bastard’s untouchable right now.”

You nodded, figuring going after Shepherd would be a waste of time in this state. You’d need a whole lot of evidence to even begin to prove his guilt, and right now, you had none.

“You should get goin’, it’s bad to keep a geezer like him waiting.” Price’s voice rose to your ears, motioning a finger to your briefcase. “Room 24.”

“Thanks.”

Wood steadily creaked under your shoes as you set off in the direction Price had pointed to, briefcase wrapped tightly around your fingers. The hairs on your neck rose with each step down the hallway, forcing you to look down while fiddling with the keys in your other hand. No one had seen him for days beside the doctors, and not even they had permission to say anything regarding his condition.

The sound of the key turning in the doorknob made you step away, running a hand against the clammy skin on your face before placing it on the door.

A hushed creak followed your first step into the room, streaks of harsh light from the hallway clashing against the dim world inside. Your eyes fell into a squint at the loss of light from shutting the door, kicking your shoes off before taking a few steps forward. Seeing as there was nowhere else to go but the kitchen and bathroom, you peaked around the corner to what you presumed was the bedroom, gaze landing on a partially shadowed figure sitting on the edge of the bed.

The sound of the briefcase hitting the floor roused his attention, bringing his features to the light as you flicked the nightstand lamp on.

Part of you wished you hadn’t. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to leave the briefcase and go.

You bit back a grimace at the sight. Your eyes shut momentarily, blinking a few times, unsure then if you even be sure you were looking at Ghost. Throughout all the injuries, all the years, this was the worst you had seen him, less harsh on the eyes, almost.. small. His gaze mirrored that of a sick child, taking in the pure look of visual disgust reflecting your irises.

You weren’t really disgusted, but it sure looked that way.

“Just came to drop off your rifle.”

The words came out in a simple, quick murmur. You turned to leave, biting back a hitch of your breath at the hand clasping around your wrist.

Damn, he was fast.

Silence was quick to latch onto the atmosphere, dripping an uncomfortable buzz into the hand that held you. Your eyes glanced upward, taking in the sight of defiantly cold irises stricken with something.. unusual, the very sight itself turning discomfort to panic.

“Why?”

You blinked up at him, confusion evidently spreading across your features. That question could’ve meant anything, especially now, you’d done a lot of questionable things in the past few weeks. Whatever it was had his eyes shot open, looking like he was seeing a reflection of himself in the mirror.

And maybe he was. Maybe you being here wasn’t good for him.

“Why aren’t you angry?” He grabbed your shoulders, voice hoarse despite the lack of words spoken. “Why did you save me?”

The pure silence of the world around you gave way to a sliver of a crack in his voice at the dying syllables.

“It’s my fault Graves is dead.”

“No.” Your hands grasped at his forearms, feeling them shake through his jacket. “It was my choice.”

Your choice. You said you’d chosen him, and you did.

You’d never anticipated a happy ending after getting closure, but this — this wasn’t what you’d been anticipating. You never expected him to say thank you for saving his life, but you couldn’t wrap your head around why he was looking at you like you killed him.

“I betrayed Graves, and I killed him.” You continued. “Wanna take a good guess why?

Denial flashed through the whites of his eyes, causing him to let go of you, rubbing his hands across his mask.

“Don’t-“

Too late. You roughly snatched his arms, tearing them away from his face before sticking one of your fingers to rest against his throat.

“I did it because I fell in i-“

Your sentence molded into a mere mumble as his right hand cupped over your mouth, his posture gradually folding with each waking second.

“Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

You could feel his hand jittering against your skin, giving away what his eyes tried desperately to hide. And you saw right through it, the anticipation stowed away deep beneath seas of lifeless umber, practically begging to break free. So you placed your hand over his, slowly prying your mouth free before folding your fingers against his.

“If that’s not what you want to hear, I won’t say it.”

When you break Ghost down, Simon Riley is an open book. Right now, his pages of vulnerability were on full display, allowing you to run a hand along his arm, stopping to squeeze at the shoulder. Upon hearing a quit hiss of pain push through his lips, you’d knew Simon Riley was fully yours.

“So, what do you want, Simon?”

A shuddered breath heeded your question, eyes screwing shut as you ran your fingers everywhere they’d go, stopping to rest at the hem of his sweatpants. When you shifted to move, his eyes shot open, grasping your arm to keep you there.

“You.” He breathed, drooping down to rest his forehead against yours. “Always wanted you, Cobra.”

Years of built up tension… insufferable hatred, snapped. Just like that.

Before you could continue to move, Simon broke out into a rather violent coughing fit, leading you to usher him to the edge of his bed. Your hand drifted down to his pants once more, lightly prodding at his clothed erection to alleviate the tension in his upper chest. Seeing as it worked, you pushed him further into the sheets before climbing up yourself, gently moving to straddle his thigh.

The groan he let out at the pressure almost roused a smirk from your end, yet you stuck to lightly dragging yourself against his leg. Your hand groped softly at his dick, watching as his gaze rose up to the ceiling.

“You like that, huh?”

A partially coherent “yes” made its way to your ears, the slight whimper in his tone causing you to bite back a moan. Your own arousal became evident in the partially damp feeling of your clit digging into the fabrics of his pants, the warmth of the skin under threatening to make you drool.

Short, quiet breaths filled the air as your hand worked on rubbing along the base of his clothed erection, earning a muffled noise of suppressed pleasure from him every time your fingers grazed over the right spot. You gnawed at your lips as one of his hands lifted up, loosely grasping your hair while you rocked back and forth on his thigh.

“You like this.”

He shrugged, spare hand moving to run along the hem of your pants, the press of his cool hands against your skin drawing a gasp from your lips.

“You do too.”

You watched as his eyes gradually darkened with each ministration, sweet moans melting into rough groans and curses. It was almost like a switch, how fast he could go from Simon Riley to Ghost. The pure sight of his now bored looking gaze instinctively made you dig your nails into his cock before the pleasure built up too much, eliciting a sharp breath from him in the process. At the same time, he twitched under your fingertips, hips subconsciously jutting into your hands, silently begging you to go faster.

And faster you went, scratching and squeezing coarse groans of pleasure from behind the mask. You got off at the same pace, letting out a low whine as your lower abdomen began to cloud with heat.

“That’s it, cum for me, lovie.” Ghost encouraged, lightly tugging on a handful of your hair. “I’ll be right after you.”

A gravely moan pushed its way out from the back of your throat as you came, completely soaking the fabric underneath you. True to his words, he was cumming just seconds later, a warm patch of seed turning the base of his crotch a deeper shade of grey.

You had no time to regain your breath, as Ghost was already pushing a hand into your pants, rudely shoving your underwear to the side before stroking his pointer finger down your folds. A deep inhale passed him at the feeling of your arousal coating his fingers, encouraging him to being an extra finger in to you with your clit.

“Soaking wet.”

Your eyes threatened to roll at the cocky gaze irises carried, clearly proud of the power he held over you. Yet, he clearly wasn’t over his own pleasure, as two of his fingers were quick to stuff themselves into your pussy, swirling around your walls as they began to pump into you.

“How does that feel?” He asked, dragging his fingers in and out of you, horribly, agonizingly slow. “Got something on your mind, don’t you?”

“Too slow.” You mumbled, fingers sinking into the cool fabric of his jacket at the complete stop of movement. “Don’t- tease me.”

A hum answered your commands, returning his fingers into your leaking pussy at a much faster pace. His fingers grew increasingly slick with each pump until he was practically nailing you, eyes glazing over with pleasure as your fingers delved under his hood, raking blazing lines over ice cold skin.

“Fuck-“ He groaned, head tilting to look up at you as his fingers relentlessly fucked your hole. “Cum again for me, dirty girl.”

Your legs clamped around his arms, crying out in pleasure as you gave into your second orgasm, coating his fingers in a generous amount of slick. Your teeth grit together as he swapped hands, pushing into you with his other set of fingers, raising the others up show you just how much you’d soaked him. Then, he beckoned your hand toward his mask, allowing you to expose his mouth as he slipped his fingers between his lips, tongue wrapping around the sickeningly sweet taste of you.

Those same fingers gently pushed into your mouth after he’d had his fill, making you lap up his saliva as his fingers swirled around the front of your throat. You bit down on your cheek as his fingers slipped out of your mouth and back into your pants, not bothering to hold your legs apart as he started to rub at your clit.

“Mmph, Ghost..” you sighed, hands running along the irritated expanse of his back. “You feel so good.”

“Taking my fingers so well.” He muttered, nipping at your neck through the mask. “Think you can take my cock?”

“You already know the answer to that- shit.”

Your eyes shut tight at the rush of another orgasm building up in you, waves of pleasure messily sloshing in their threats to spill again. Just as you’d thought you’d gotten used to it, Ghost roughly curled his fingers upward, snapping the dangerously thin thread sitting in your abdomen.

“FUCK!” You groaned, shuddering as Ghost fully pulled his fingers out of you, allowing yet another wave of your juices to pool against his pants.

The quiet drag of his sweatpants rustled in your ear, following your own pants being peeled off of your legs, and tossed behind on the floor. You watched as he dragged his boxers down, running a hand along his dick before taking hold of your shoulders and settling you against the pillows perched against the headboard.

And then he stopped. The flash of uncertainty in his eyes clear as the sunny skies of New England.

“Is this the last time I’ll see you?”

Your eyes parted at the sudden question, the burning desire of your answer present in his still, solid gaze. You glanced to the side, thinking about the mere handful of suitcases carrying your life’s worth sitting against your apartment door in Chicago, ready to go on your word. The decision was sure before you came here; leave the Task Force, rebuild your life brick by boring brick.

Yet, when you looked into the ever-longing window of vacance in Ghost — Simon Riley’s eyes, that thought went straight out the window.

However, there was no forgetting the terrors that seethed around him, igniting his very being in a fearful light. You knew it better than anyone else, and as long as you lived around him, you’d be plucking hopes off of a no leaf clover, trapped with the living, breathing nightmare that was Simon Riley.

“I don’t know.”

Maybe you liked the horror, the constant reminders of your failure to stay loyal settling in each crevice of your mind as you woke up covered in sweat, vocal chords arid from screaming.

And Ghost? Oh, he’d fallen deep into it with you now.

Some would’ve called it love.

Others called it getting by.

As much as he hated the uncertainty wavering in your answer, Ghost couldn’t bring himself to stop, stop touching you, stop looking at you. Each flutter of your sweat stained eyelashes made him want to scream, to cry and beg for you to stay with him until he was nothing but a forgotten pile of bones six feet under.

He buried those feelings deep inside your weeping pussy, bottoming out against your walls before dragging himself out, hissing at the way you sucked him in. Meanwhile, you were fighting back the tears that pricked at the corner of your eyes as he relentlessly stretched open your overly sensitive walls, crying out at each full piston of his cock.

This was the misery, a feeling worse than any torture you’d ever endured. The absence of light in your fall from grace, leaving you a shell of the strong soldier you once were, a barely living, coldly breathing shadow. That shadow had spread to every part of you, poisoning your mind with acidic waves of remorse as you continued to be reminded of how you failed to save the man you loved. It was horrible, killing him with your own hands to cover up your failure to change.

You were horrible. And so was he.

Your body screamed at the sloppy thrusts of his cock, in, and out. Tears had long since began dragging down your face, painting the world in a static haze as you threw your head back, crying out at the painfully pleasant drags of his dick, carelessly abusing your pussy.

Maybe horrible wasn’t so bad, anymore. As long as it came with the face of bone white splattered on aged black, and the cold, broken soul that stared at you from behind it.

What felt like your twentieth orgasm hit you with crippling force, starving the air from your lungs as you screamed in grim bliss. Ghost continued to hammer into your sweet spot, chasing his own high and coaxing you back into yours just as fast. What was once slightly ragged breathing had bred animalistic pants, following a bruising grip of his hands on your thighs to keep you steady.

“If you leave.” He spit out, groaning at the sudden clench of your walls around him. “Promise me something.”

You feverishly nodded, pitifully clawing at the abuses of your nails on his back as his pace picked up. A strangled moan spilled from his lips as he painted your insides white, soothing the scorching burn with thick ropes of his seed.

The pull out was gentle, leaving you devoid of him yet so full as he lifted a hand, brushing stray strands of hair away from your eyes.

“Promise you won’t forget me, sweetheart.”

The request pooled out soft, a mere rumble finding it’s way pushed out of strained vocal chords. You thought it was the most beautiful thing — his voice, his body, everything about him seemed like a gift from heaven itself in your infernal world. And even though most of his body was covered, your eyes still fell victim to the mesmerizing sight of the glistening smudges of aged paint, glazed over with a heavy coat of sweat.

He’d never looked so bewitching. The sight alone enough to hound each waking memory and follow you until your last breath. And as long as you breathed, you would hold it with you like a fleeting spark of bliss.

“Promise me.”

His voice rang out again, practically begging for you to say something, anything. You looked at his eyes, taking the barren, so lifeless yet lively plain of his gaze, reflecting the sight of a breezy, cloudless day.

“I promise.”

If crossing empty skies was all this pitiful life had left for you, you would do it over, and over again, and never look back.

#arqhms #arqhmsthirst #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw22 #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley smut #simon riley fanfic

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drarryspecificrecsdaily · 1 month

Text

2024.08.22

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. Got Me Started by @kamaela [E, 8k] --- ART by @itsphantasmagoria

►An unexpected partnership leads Harry and Draco to a sex club in Berlin. Harry doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

2. Of Stacked Books and Soulmates by @dobbyrockssocks [T, 2k]

►Draco bangs his head. Somehow, that leads to renaming Greek Gods, and possibly finding his soulmate.

---

Fest/Exchange

1. On the Radio by @makeitp1nk [E, 20k]

►[...] Draco Malfoy was sure he’d never see Harry Potter again, even though he Saw Harry Potter in his impossible dreams. He mostly thought his mind was cruel for focusing on his past obsession with a boy from a world that hates him. Until one day, his impossible vision-dreams came true. ★ Drarry Mini Bang | @drarry-mini-bang

#drarry #drarry fanfic #drarry fic rec #harry potter #draco malfoy #daily list #2024 #2024.08

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precious-little-scoundrel · 7 months

Text

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

Summary: Upon the sudden stop of all their correspondence, Miss Lana Tierney finds herself bereft of her pen pal John Egan’s support -not however, without him first having made a heavy declaration and entrusted her with a precious bit of himself. Battling Tinsel Town’s awful labyrinth of censors, agents, and an ever disloyal mother, Lana seeks to find John, and having once found him, to remind him of his promise to try. Meanwhile in Stalag Luft III, Major Gale Cleven may loiter at his incriminating radio longer than strictly necessary in hopes of hearing a voice that would bring his best friend a shred of hope.

My many thanks to: Christi and Ashley for endless amounts of encouragement and advice and enrichment of the plot, y’all are invaluable darlings and precious friends. To Bri who has been the brains and requests behind the concept and the beating heart behind giving Bucky a love of a lifetime

Warnings: 18+ disturbing content. Not so much war focused but rather Hollywood in the 40’s which can be horribly gruesome itself. We are happily ripping off Lana Turner’s real story for much of this, and so in this chapter you will find mentions of certain harrowing abuses she endured. Such as: brief references to a forced, studio-required abortion, bugging of a woman’s room, arranged engagements, drugging, hinted sexual exploitation, willing current sexual favors in return for a role, Bucky going a little nuts as a POW, Lana’s mother being the worst, John Huston making a cameo that will probably make you wanna punch the guy. It’s ok, the real fella deserved it. Go ahead. Again, nothing explicit, didn’t wanna get all yucky but these themes are prevalent in here in passing.

Word count: a whopping 8k

Character name reminder: Julie Jean Turner goes by the Hollywood alias of “Lana Tierney”

Lana lay abed and stewed. She was past grief, or perhaps it was easier explained that Grief and her sisters, Denial and Betrayal, were more of Julie Jean Turner’s privilege. Miss Lana Tierney, academy hopeful and box office gold, had little left but rage and the moist silk of her pillow pressed to her burning cheek.

“What an awful few days it’s been.” she’d allowed herself to say a few weeks back.

The Julie Jean of that week didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Life was bad enough then, back when he called, but his voice cured everything from her terrible week. Vincent and the engagement and the studios, all of it. But then came a letter, one written awfully like a goodbye, and another one after it but all of them were little provisions for if he were to go down.

Scribbled hours before going up.

“I love you, I know it’s a lot to spring on a gal who’s just doing her bit and keeping me happy but I do. It’s an awful type of love, Julie, very tight fisted and I think I only love you because you love me so well in your way. I don’t think that’s the sort of love to do anybody any good, but I’d regret not saying it, beginners can’t be haughty. Here I wanted to stick my toe in and you gobbled the whole leg, and I love you. I love you for it. I love you.”

She’d rubbed over his signature, not a bit of cursive in that scrawled -John- a million times.

And then, just like that, just like what had happened to her friends and a million women across the world- his letters simply stopped. Julie Jean learned elsewhere he’d been shot down for weeks by the time she’d gotten the last one. It was hard to have finally heard his voice and known of his purpose, but now? -a dead silence that had a voice and face and love attached to it. It was agony of a sort she’d never known and was made worse by the loneliness in her secrecy of not being able to mourn it aloud.

She moaned into the mess of her pillowcase and ignored Bertha's fifth knock of the afternoon. Who’d recognize the glamorous Miss Tierney now? Pitiful and tear streaked and pale from blood loss. She still lay on a chucks pad the studio nurse had rolled her onto, a feeble trickle still seeping between her legs. Curled on her side with eyes glinting at the afternoon sun, she seethed at one more thing taken from her.

Lana could hardly stand it. But she had to try. She’d made John promise he would. They’d promised each other, and somehow she hadn’t any doubts that wherever he was, he was trying.

“Miss Tierney?” That was Herbert’s voice and Jean rolled her eyes at the predictability of this household. After not answering Delores they sent in Bertha and upon not answering Bertha here was Herbert and if she didn’t answer him, her mother might manage to rouse herself and drive over.

“Come in Herb, if you must.” she groaned, hand outstretched and patting blindly for a cigarette on her nightstand.

Her old driver came in with an unusually light step, it bespoke a sympathy for her plight that Jean would have preferred a thousand times never to read on his usually persnickety face. “How are you holding up after -“ he stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed as Jean rummaged and when she sat back with cigarette and holder in hand, she found him looking down at her with such concern she nearly threw the lamp at him. “Tonsillitis, huh?” he hummed sympathetically.

“Oh yes, nasty bout.” she lied merrily, the ache in her violated womb protested her move to sit up. “They had to take them clean out.” it was the only printable explanation for her ailment.

“Yeah.” Herb had been a renowned stuntman before he’d been demoted to driver, and before stuntman he’d been a soldier in the trenches and before that he’d been a clerk. If anyone knew about coat hangers and poor girls held down to be kept forever virginal and ever in use, Herb knew. Herb had warned her even, told her what a sick racket they ran here in Tinsel Town. Much good it did her, she was in too deep before she knew she had so much as stuck her toe in.

Rather like Bucky in love, apparently, and that thought made her madly blink away a stupid rush of tears.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the parcel she just now noticed was tucked under his arm.

“Oh, this? Chocolates. Here, my lighter miss?” Whatever was under Herbert’s arm wasn’t shaped like any chocolates she knew and Jean was about to give him a talking to for being insipid when her mood was so poor but then she saw him press a warning finger to his lips. He walked around the side of her bed and indeed pulled out a lighter, metal and rude and no doubt a relic of the first war, and flicked it for her to light up. Bending down he smelled of tobacco himself when he took the unprecedented liberty of whispering in her ear: “They bugged the room during your operation, Miss. Must be careful. Especially if you want to keep your gift.”

He pulled away and looked down at her sorrowfully before quietly laying the dirty brown package atop her pristine sheets. Mother had them changed after the bloodbath of the…operation. They were spotless before and now they were sooty. That pleased her.

Jean forgot to look away from him. She was startled and upset by the news but she didn’t doubt it. They’d probably bugged the phone ages ago, god knows they’d stop at next to nothing and she did so want to keep something for herself. If she couldn’t have a baby, her baby, then she’d keep a parcel, damn them all. Then a cold feeling of dread filled her and she thought to grab at her books and look for the hidden letters.

Gone. Mother. It must’ve been mother, it was her sort of thing to have rifled through Lana’s things while she was being operated on and found them and took them and-

The rage spurred her to look down at what Herb brought her, cigarette forgotten between her quivering lips. She expected it to be from him, a little pep up. Perhaps a doll or a stuffed animal to cheer her. But no, this parcel in its plain brown wrapping had come from afar, smudged and delayed a million times judging by its redirected stamps -and she’d know that writing from anywhere.

Her Johnny.

Julie Jean’s little gasp let slip the cigarette from her mouth but not before Herb caught it from singeing the sheets. He was quicker than anyone gave the old man credit for, banged up head or not. “Thought that might cheer you.” he grinned in that begrudging way of his, as if he were cross at the joy made manifest on his face.

“I’m scared.” she admitted in a whisper, hands hovering over the brown twine strings. Whatever was inside was squishy and giving. And whatever it was, John had sent it before he’d been shot down. But still, somehow it felt like a gift from him on this, the worst day of her life. Like he was sending some comfort even from hell on earth and without a clue of her own dispair. Herb seemed to read it the same way, and that’s how Jean knew she wasn’t being a delusional, hysterical wreck, if that crusty old sod knew its significance in coming today, then it was plain as the irregular nose on his face.

“Scared of chocolate?” His tease covered a strong reminder for her to watch her words.

“Mm, yes, what if there’s raspberry filled ones?” she whispered back. “You know how I can’t abide raspberries.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be brave and see.” he nudged her.

Nodding her head solemnly, Jean tugged apart the twine that had kept John Egan’s package together for an entire transcontinental delivery. It fell away with a crinkling sound and she found folded upon it, without a bit of fuss or wrapping, the oddest piece of cloth. Almost a patchwork of pale leather and a zipper and -Jean’s throat closed as her hand descended and felt along the soft fluff of a sheepskin collar.

He didn’t. He didn’t send her his jacket? Surely —

Herb made a noncommittal noise beside her which sounded awfully like some touched sorta gasp at the sight, but as it was Herb and he had a tobacco wad where he should have had a heart, so he must’ve been coming down with the same cold that landed Lana in tonsil surgery.

Hands shaky and heart hammering, Jean reached in and pulled the garment out, a tiny little note fluttered out. Someone else’s penmanship. “To the care of Jean Turner, until it can be retrieved by Major Egan.”

“Oh god.” she felt like sobbing before pressing her face into the sweat fumed plushness of it. “Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.” she kept his name buried in his jacket, secret like his gift and his love and his comfort and her desires. Eyes and mouth muffled into the darkness of something that was his. She felt Herb’s gentle hand pat on her head and the following click of the latch as he went out.

“Mister Vincent called to say there’s dinner and photographs scheduled for tonight, Miss Tierney.” he informed her levelly before he left and her ears were not so buried in Air Force Shearling she couldn’t hear of her doom. “There’s been some speculations -they want to smooth it over. Bertha was trying to pass it on.”

Bertha wanted to wipe off whatever remaining blood was on her and primp all signs of coercion off her devastated face, that’s what Bertha was here for. Jean vaguely wondered if her mother’s clenching hand print still lingered on her cheeks, she rubbed John’s jacket against the soreness of her mouth, muffling her sobs the way her mother’s hand had stifled her screams of pain only hours ago.

Back to work, asap, it would seem. -Bleed down your nylons dear, it’ll be alright, so long as they see a happy face and a lucky new couple.

Vincent. She wasn’t sure how she’d face him, the weekend getaway and his little “test drive” of her had been bad enough, the fact he hadn’t the brains to prevent it from having consequences or the spine to stand up for the life of the child he made- oh, she wondered how she’d manage to down her asparagus in the face of it all. Acting, she presumed, a true talent that had suddenly become a personality since -since? -she wasn’t sure when.

Beside her for months now, stacked beneath the pile of new Runyon books she’d taken out of the library, had been a pile of letters that didn’t have a bit of acting in them. Raw and true and terrible and wanton, each of John Egan’s thoughts tumbled off their confining pages and into her heart in mirrored response to her own. Now mother had them.

Jean wondered where all her own letters to him were, now that he was gone and someone else was in his bunk.

Funny to think of that, the most honest account of herself was most likely moldering in the bottom of some MIA airman’s footlocker.

It was all a bit self indulgent, she admitted even as she stripped out of her bloody gown and down to her bare skin, but she had lost plenty and she needed him: so she slipped him on, soft wool caressing her and stopping the shivers of shock that had wracked her all morning. It smelled so manly and sweaty and terribly real she about swooned at the sensation of having a bit of him next to her. Now she’d seen him -all those darling candid photos in repayment for hers- and she’d heard him -oh that awful, wonderful telephone call right before he disappeared- and now she was smelling him.

Jean would have to bathe and take a handful of aspirin and cinch in her girdle and kiss her fiancée tonight, but for a brief hour she layed in bed naked as a baby with her gift wrapped around her like swaddling clothes.

Vincent came later with the car, one of his father’s for certain, and eyed her choice of outerwear with a sour mouth. Fleece and chiffon was an odd mix but Lana always had been a trendsetter and it was early November, even if it was Los Angeles. Of course, for her the jacket was John, and so she wore him like armor -and if she was wearing it, they couldn’t take it without her knowing.

“I’m cold.” she answered Vin’s unspoken question sharply on the ride over, “I’ve just had tonsil surgery, you may recall?”

“It stinks.” he huffed back, his nose presumptuously nuzzling under her curls and very near the sweat soaked fleece, “Smells like a barnyard.”

What it smelled like was a red blooded American man’s honest days work killing Nazis. But Vincent and his pale hands and arranged medical exemptions weren’t likely to know what that smelled like, so Lana felt compelled to give him a pass. “It’s for the war effort,” she sighed, “we must all make sacrifices. Mr. Warner told me it would be grand press to wear it.”

She’d never spoken to Mr. Warner about much else but weather and her tits, but growing ever more desperate as these days went on, Lana thought perhaps she’d pay him a visit.

“Great press?” Vincent seethed, charmingly one track focused, “The press should be about our engagement! Not the war!”

“Be a realest, dahling,” she soothed, “nothing, not even the great scion of a prestigious family such as yours is half as fascinating right now as ball bearings and top turret production in Greenfield. If we want them to print about our engagement, it’s got to have something to do with the general war, see?“

“Ah, ah I see.” Vincent swallowed her lie well enough, still perturbed at the fracturing of his beloved media attention but consoled that Lana was not aspiring to make him a fool.

Oh how foolish that was of him, Lana hummed to herself as they pulled up to the restaurant, perhaps not tonight or in a week's time. No, for now she was down and out and no doubt about it, but eventually, she’d scramble on top, she had to or she’d be offed eventually by it all. She knew that now, it was plain with each aching step on wobbly legs and each smile of her crimped, anemic face, Vincent’s pliable hand more vice than support on her elbow as she stepped out under Chasens’ green awning.

There was conversation and photographs all through dinner, her agent and a Warner Brothers executive kindly gracing the table with heavy, stilted and very implied conversation. Lana might’ve breathed better in her booth had they held an actual gun to her head and told her to finish her parsnips that way. They were very happy she had recovered from the tonsillitis so well, they were very eager to see her on set bright and early tomorrow, they were very eager that any doubt about how in love she was with the respectable Vincent be ameliorated -a very big word to say with a mouthful of steak- and very hopeful that Lana wouldn’t get any ideas about a repeat of the War Bond tour. Yes the last one had been very effective and the government was pleased, but too much exposure to common crowds had a tendency to lessen the goddess effect, she must be let out to the pubic sparingly, and they in turn must not feel entitled to her in any way.

Such as…reaching out through the post, for example, much less expecting to be answered with anything less standardized than what Bertha might write twenty times over in her name in an afternoon.

“I just want to do my part.” Lana demurred.

“Oh honey, you’ve done your part, and now you’ve got a new part. Make a wish.” And there before her was brought out a cake slice with much fanfare, icing making a pretty little drizzle of words -“speedy recovery Lana, love from everyone at Warner Brothers Studio.”

She’d seen actresses carried out plastered to the four winds on sedative from slices just like this one, chivalrously poured into a waiting backseat of a producer or studio head, taken back to be put to bed. God knows what else happened in those beds. Her nausea returned fourfold and it wasn’t acting when she gasped a need to go to the powder room.

Instead she dashed to the phone, the one in the cubby near the toilets, trying resolutely to ignore the spying eyes of waiters and curious waves of famous guests passing by.

“Pick up, Herb, pick up.” she begged, listening to it ring and ring, then suddenly felt a horrid fear at the realization she’d left the jacket slung over her chair at the booth, with Vincent. “Herb please, please.” she moaned, stomping one well shod foot against the marble floor.

“Hallo?”

“Herb, oh Herb!” Lana gushed urgently on hearing him pick up, “You must come pick me up, they’re onto me with the letters and they’ve brought out cake and- bring a car, Vincent brought his father’s-“

“-Thank yeeew, Herbert, that will be all.” Mother’s affected transatlantic sent shivers down Lana’s spine right as she felt the cold clasp of her rings around her wrist, receiver wrenched effectively from her nerveless hand, “This is a family matter, your services are not required.”

“Mommy dearest.” Lana felt her lips trembling in a odd way that fought against the creeping numbness, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Would that I could say the same, Lana.” Mother reproved, “To abandon your fiancé without thought? And to find you calling on Herbert, like this were some otiresome fundraiser from which you may carelessly abscond -really. Your behavior is nothing but deplorable lately, I hardly know you. The cost, Lana, think of the cost of it all, this recklessness.”

“Who told you?”

“That you weren’t appreciative of the cake?” Mother smiled shyly, “Alfonso.”

The owner, of course, when he couldn’t get a hand up Lana herself he had become quite partial to mother, loyal to an opulent degree. She suspected that cake more than ever, the phone, too. God there was no getting out of this town, this place, this life.

“Alfonso says you’re distracted,” mother went on, “pale and sniffing some jacket? What has gotten into you?”

“Vincent.” Lana joked miserably and if half of Hollywood wasn’t sat so near, she’s rather sure her mother might’ve struck her.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to smile for the pictures, and you’re going to like it.” Mother laid out the case, the plan and the rest of her life, “And when we go home you’ll be getting a piece of my mind.”

“Oh really mother,” Lana sighed heavily, “I couldn’t take the last piece.”

The pinch on her arm was familiar of when Lana was a child and refused to sing in yet another talent show - the fifth that weekend. “Your fault for falling ill, now we must make up for lost time.” they were gliding back to the table arm in arm with Lana’s pale skin pinched between mother’s manicure, “Smile, darling, smile and wave.” as they wove between one starry guest and another.

Mother’s gait stalled for one fraction of a moment upon coming up to the table and seeing the bizarre article of clothing hanging over Lana’s chair. “Works better than a mink.” Lana proclaimed quite loudly, giddy enough to attract most male attention around who craned their necks to watch her shimmy it on for a try-on, much to Mother’s feigned amusement. She shimmied in the fleece, chiffon doing little to hide the jiggle of her derrière beneath the jacket’s hem and the flash of a bulb cracked significantly amongst the dinner chatter.

“It’s much too large for you -the sleeves, the shoulders-“

“That’s because it’s a genuine article mother!” Lana preened, satisfied to have caught the eye of the one she wanted as he sat in his booth.

Powerful and dark and lecherous, The Jack Huston stared at her unabashedly over the haze of his cigarette, his own date forgotten, taking in the way the man’s coat dwarfed her little body in a pantomime of covering her physically, masculine leather and zipper in stark contrast to baby soft skin swelling out of her neckline. She knew that look well, one of a man sizing her up for how she’d look beneath him.

Lana smirked at him significantly, squeezing the material around her dreamily and created a significantly more substantial amount of decollage for him to view upon doing so. “Lana, sit down for god’s sake.” Mother was hissing and Lana saw Huston laugh at it, she rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged, seating herself as asked but refusing to break eye contact with him until he raised his glass in a toast to her brazenness.

“Lana, photographers! Come now! Chin up, smile, smile darling.”

There were so many flashbulbs here it was obnoxious to not only Lana’s throbbing eyes but the other patrons, still a hard launch of a stilted, lab grown relationship was hardly an oddity in Hollywood or its most favored eating spots, and so it was endured.

“Doll, open up,” Vincent cajoled in Lana’s ear, hand kneading her waist and nose pressed to her hair, “practice for the wedding.”

It looked quite humorous if a little uncouth in the papers next day, Lana’s gasping and amused indulgence of her green boy fiancé as he playfully stuffed her mouth with cake in that pitiful tradition of marital provocation.

“Look at my dearest daughter, tonsil surgery yesterday and already, so eager, can’t be kept from dinner with her darling fiancé!”

The world grew fuzzy as Lana did her best to keep the wad of cake in her gums until she could spit the most of it out. “Tell your studio i want compensation for having to share press with the war effort.” Vin was complaining to the executive and Lana felt her world swim, only one single, dire hope remaining -Herb.

She gripped the edges of the jacket tighter and tried to focus. Mother was being called away, taking her leave with a photographed kiss to Lana’s clammy temple -some business with Aunt Lu and that promised check for her swimming pool. Lana had put in a lot of swimming pools for a lot of relatives, she was beginning to lose track between the pools and the houses and the cars and the wardrobes and always -“it’s family, Lana, they depend on you. Chin up, smile, smile darling, smile for the cameras, there’s my golden girl, box office magic.”

“Lana it’s very important you understand the role of an engaged woman-“ the executive was very insistent and Lana was very tired and very fuzzy feeling, which apparently Vincent could sense as his hands began to grow courageous in his petting, “-it’s a fine balance between respectability and attainability. The studio has worked so hard to give you this life, made enormous sacrifices so you could have a chance at this career, created an expertly crafted persona for you -if you were to jeopardize it all in any way, by inviting speculation about yourself or your lackluster roots-“

Lana was about ready to stand up and scream “I’m Julie Jean Turner from Broken Arrow Oklahoma!” and watch the deflated disinterest cover her audience like snow, it would ruin the effect -she wanted them to care that her life was a lie, but as soon as she told the truth, they’d lose all interest either way. Fame was funny like that.

“Mr Vincent,” Alfonso was most solicitous as well as perispring when he hurried over to her fiancé’s side, “there’s been an incident, your car, sir! The windows, they are smashed! And there appear to be eggs?”

Lana wasn’t sure she successfully suppressed the bubbling little laugh that flitted out of her leaden chest at Vincent’s deathly white pallor. There were two of him in her fractured, drug impaired vision and he acted like looney twins, scrambling up from the table in a flurry of hands and pomade, tux tails flapping like a frightened bird. “It’s my father’s car you idiot! Where was the doorman? Where?”

“Ooooh daddy’s gonna be mad.” Lana cooed to herself, amused at how this failure of a son couldn’t land a deal or a car or his own, only a troublesome actress who was in dire love with a man she’d never met.

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

The executive was waving off the cameras, this part of the night hardly suitable to be recorded. “Stewart, phone call for you.” A commanding, sonorous voice beside her sent goose flesh popping along Lana’s arms beneath the jacket, Jack Huston and his cologne suddenly pervading the place like an ominous deity casting its shadow over the now almost empty table.

“Mr. Huston.” Lana simpered sweetly when Stewart had left and it was just them alone with his hand on the back of her chair, thumbing at the lamb skin. There were two of Huston too, in her vision, and Lana gulped in trepidation of having to please both.

“Miss Tierney,” he replied, grinning a little too wide for her to focus, “you know what you look like you need?”

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

“What’s that Jack?” she tittered, happily courting ruin.

“A nightcap.” Jack declared and was extending a large palm for her before she could second guess. It was the choice of a lion over a wolf here in Hollywood, and Lana had such plans for Mr. Huston. But, like most things, Lana’s plans must wait until Mr. Huston’s plans for her had been satisfactorily met.

Of all the backseats to be poured into in Hollywood, Huston’s was rather plush and smelled nice and had a clinking little bar in the console, well stocked and vintage. Better yet, the car wasn’t his father’s, it was his. As was his mind and his time and his appetite. Lana could only dream of having that sort of brash freedom, for now she must attach herself to those who did if she so much as wanted a taste.

“So what’s with the jacket?” Mr. Huston had the liberty to be casual on a ride back to his house with a much desired starlet, after all, he had a slam dunk assurance she wasn’t going to say no on arrival.

“It belongs to a man who loves me.” she slurred earnestly.

“Pilot?”

“Yes. He writes the sweetest, filthiest things.”

“To you?”

“Only to me.” she whispered with drunken vehemence.

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

Mr. Huston enjoyed ribbons: tying them around her, to be specific but of all the novel and varied ways to be satisfactory it wasn’t so bad, and when he lay next to her afterwards as the drug began to take her fully under, Lana was pleased by the heavy arm around her waist. He didn't care about the tonsillitis. Bucky’s jacket hung carefully over the armchair in her line of sight, Jack had been nice about that, too.

Yes she could make some use of Huston and his ribbons and his new army uniform and his government contracts.

————————————————-

“I was insensible.” Lana maintained the following day at a meeting with Mother and Stewart and a slew of concerned agents and executives who were pleased enough by the engaged cake smashing photographs, less so by the discreet vandalizing of their blonde product by John Huston. “I don’t know what you put in that cake but it did the trick and I was as aghast as you upon waking up where I woke up.”

“And the jacket?” Mother had her priorities straight, troublesome memorabilia first, dear daughter’s virtue second.

“Shoot, I think Huston has it.” Lana whimpered, “I was in such a state, such a rush to leave-“

“Well that was a very unfortunate oversight, Lana.”

“I know.”

“He could use it against us.” Mother fretted.

“He’d make a fool of himself if he did,” Stewart shined best when full of his self-bloated importance and meetings such as these were essential fuel for that importance, “it would look like he took a pilot to bed.”

“Stewart, she’s all over the nation’s morning paper’s wearing the horrid thing!” Mother snapped and while she herself was admittedly awful most times, Lana never doubted she was shrewd, far more than Stewart and all the men in the room she jockeyed for lead with. “In fact Lana, this has really brought to a head a growing issue. Your restlessness, your ingratitude, it’s become insufferable and now it jeparadizes everything. I am speaking of the coat but also of the letters. Oh yes, I know all about those.”

A wise performance required Lana to play the frightened and shocked little miscreant and so she did, wide doe eyes looking beseechingly penitent and horrified in the face of having been caught doing a single independent thing. “Oh mother-“

“They are bad enough with their filth and their familiarity,” mother cut her off, “but to have written to him in your old name! Lana, the carelessness! It’s a mercy he’s dead, think of the presumptuous attitude he would have adopted had he returned. Unthinkable!”

“Dead?” Lana felt her throat close up, wishing desperately to be back in his jacket again, regretting most harshly her high-priced scheming of last night. All of it had been for him, and he was dead.

“Quite dead.” Mother was irritated by her crestfallen state but not so much as to prevent her crowing over little Lana’s misstep. “And now I am burdened with the necessity of tracking down his effects, getting your side of the correspondence back, think of the unpleasantness of contacting his family! Conversations with dead servicemen's families are always so tedious. You do recall what a bore it was for me to have to carry-on with them on your tour. And all of this to get back your filthy, perverse break of discretion.”

“Were they to get out they’d ruin your reputation.” Stewart put in the obvious, “They’d reveal your plain and common upbringing, your drab name and worse, you would be known to be a horny, hungry young woman.”

Lana stared at him across from his desk, that adrift feeling of aloneness taking over her, such as she’d only felt a few times in her life, like when her mother left her on her first studio couch for an audition, despite her pleas to stay. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, “it would be a terrible thing for an object of desire to appear willing. Or wanting, at all capable of their own needs. It would really ruin the shine of it all, I see.”

“Lana!”

“Oh mother, really, pimped out all my life -all for it to be ruined by the suggestion I might like it!”

“It’s worse than all that.” Stewart insisted gravely, immune to female objections and tantrums, “I’ve been contacted this morning by one of the branches of our government dealing with espionage and information,” -no wonder he was feeling so very important today- “and they’re concerned that the German Air Force is aware of your correspondence with Major Agen-“

“It’s Egan, actually.”

“-Agen and a tapped phone call as well, they have concerns, Lana, about the Germans using this connection as leverage on him, now they have him in their camps, under their thumb, at their mercy.”

Lana’s fractured world slid together again like a suctioned mosaic, one focal point of reason being clear. “He’s a prisoner of war.” she knew just the right inquisitive tone to encourage Stewart to keep blabbing.

“Yes.” Stewart was very grave and very important about being privy to this information, and Mother let out a fuming little cluck of her tongue at his fumble.

“So, he’s a prisoner.” she smirked triumphantly at Mother and was not corrected for once. “Not dead.”

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

Lana still smiled, she could work with “good as.”

———————————————-

“Jack?” Lana had timed her delicate attack most carefully, waiting until Huston was relaxed but not asleep, dressing but not in a hurry, happy but not restless, and most importantly, not remotely tired of her.

“What doll?” Jack had a broad back and nice hands, sometimes Lana imagined they were rather like Egan’s, or maybe that’s what she told herself to keep the tears at bay long enough for each amorous performance to conclude, “Your mother bitchin’ about me again?”

“Well,” she shied away into the bedding, “to be honest, yes.”

“Little rebel.” he praised her on his way to sling on his suspenders, apparently he was going out tonight, she felt a clench of panic in her gut at the need to throw her pitch before he left or hushed her.

“Jack I’ve been thinking.” She began again.

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

“No, true.” Lana was used to laughing at that same joke told by a couple dozen different men, “But is that skit competition still on? The one for the CBS slot?”

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

“Anything promising yet?” Lana ventured carefully, Jack was so very busy with all these government contracts for documentaries and proganada shows, and ever since then he’d had a very short fuse, fussy over his stalled artistic dreams. Not that he didn’t care about the war, he did in fact, and that’s why Lana liked him if she liked him at all. But he liked it the way a movie maker does, he wanted to tell stories and he wanted to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t going to be shot at he damn sure would be known to hang about the guys who were.

He was off to the Pacific to film some Marines mucking about on some godforsaken Atoll in a month or more. She had to make her move.

In the meantime, he was to organize a broadcast. Lana bad learned that from the grapevine at Warner’s, Betty D. dropping as much over her three carrots at lunch.

“I was wondering why we haven’t got ourselves an anecdote to Axis Sally.” Lana chose to be blunt, Jack was different from other men, he liked her babified act as much as the next man, but he’d belted her too for ‘playing dumb’. Since then she’d said her mind, as much as she dared and he called her idiotic often, but she’d not been belted again. “Our boys keep listening to that trash, and the housewives too, just to hear reports on the missing and the prisoners.”

“They listen ‘cause she’s sexy and funny.” Jack informed her with a pointed look.

“That too.” Lana contemplated the sheets before her, “But can’t we be funny and sexy too? Instead of demoralizing we could be happy! And we’d not have reports on prisoners but we could give them clues and hope, in case anyone's listening in.”

“Listening in.” Jack had stopped his halfhearted listening to her, wheeling suddenly with cuff links partway hanging, “You mean in camps?”

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

“They don’t let them have radios, ya know.” Huston pointed out, but it wasn’t said in argument, he was pondering too.

“You know they still manage.” Lana smiled softly and he smiled back.

“Ok, what’s the pitch?” He sighed and sat himself down again on the side of the bed, evening plans abandoned for the moment.

Lana’s heart swelled with hope and the delicious feeling of being taken seriously. Even if she was lying in his bed with hair a mess and dignity mighty rumpled. “Perhaps we could tack onto Fred Allen’s spot? Hasn’t he got a vacancy? A variety show? A skit? I don’t know, but we could have repeat actors and we could have guest stars. And it could- it could be a girl-“

“-Allied Sally.” Huston joked and Lana genuinely snickered at that.

“Something like that.” She agreed, chagrined at the need for a catchy, corney radio name, “And she could be waiting for her sweetheart, sending him messages and well wishes and jokes and -Oh! The score! The scores on everything! Baseball! Jack!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s decent.” Jack hushed her, waving her giddy self back down as she warmed to her topic, “And you could be her.” he stated the obvious.

“Don’t you think I’d manage it well?” She cajoled, cocking her shoulder in her best pantomime of a coquette. “Aren’t I funny and sexy, Mr. Huston?”

“Hmph,” he scratched his cheek and stared at her as if summing up the likelihood of this working, “needs another angle. Beyond skits.”

“Alright. Like what?”

Huston secured his cuff links, smile broadening as his mind began to whirl, “Letters.” he stated and Lana’s heart froze, “Love letters, we gotta keep it sexy, you said so yourself. There’s nothing so funny as a redacted letter being read out over the censors. The constant beeps alone will get laughs, give it the right inflection in between and you’ll have a game on your hands with the listeners guessing and filling in.”

“Letters.” Lana mumbled in agreement, numb at the brilliance of it and filled with horror at the idea of monetizing what John Egan had given her -connection, love, devotion, grit, humor. But this broadcast, it might be the only way to keep in any sort of contact with him. At what cost? Would he care at all for her after it? Would he think she used him up for a little business inspiration? Oh she couldn’t bear it, yet worse, she couldn’t bear life as Vincent’s wife, locked in for another ten years at Warner’s under mother’s thumb. “It’s brilliant.”

“Almost uncanny how likely a story it is.” Huston grunted as he pulled on a shoe, sending her a sly look that broke her a heart a little more, “Nothing so powerful as a tale based on a real thing, Lana.” he reminded forcefully.

The letters, the blackmail her mother hung over her, all of it dealt with if this pitch became a reality. It would all fade into a myth. And with it all the realness John had brought her. “Yes, I said -it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, easy does it for now.” He cautioned, “Gotta sort your mother and let that contract expire gently. I’ll pitch it myself. See what CBS can wrangle up. Don’t get your hopes up and keep that jacket safe, it’ll be invaluable when we get you a storyline for it.”

“Right.”

“Well go on, tell mommy dearest.” he goaded, nodding to the phone.

“Oh they wouldn’t be approving.” Lana disagreed, referring to the whole pack of them, her mother and her lawyers and her agents.

“Why not? Sounds like great business. Solves all the scandal too.”

“Something like this part-“ Lana demurred, “-wouldn’t suit my image, mother says.”

Jack barked out a rough laugh, plopped back down on the bed and tugging the sheets from her clutches. “Your mother does realize you’re walking wank material, right? That’s your image.”

“Yes,” Lana sighed, “but…unwilling, she says. That’s the crucial part.”

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jack eyed her up, “you do make a great impression of a scared lamb in bed.”

“They’re concerned it’ll make me too independent. Like the War Bond tour,” she gave a wistful smile, “I kissed so many boys my lips swelled right up. It was grand.”

“Now Lana,” Huston cautioned, “I’m not on any crusade to liberate you, myself.”

“Oh I know!” She was quick to assure, ever the obliging little lady, “And I don’t want to be. Not from you or the studio-“

“-just from mother dearest?” he nodded knowingly, not knowing the half of it.

“Yes.” she pretended great relief at his perception.

“Huh, well, good. Because this idea would have a contract of its own, and it would be long if I’m any judge of the longevity of the project. You’ll be locked in for years.”

“But it’ll be my choice.” She reaffirmed, and this time she meant it.

“And you’ll look willing.” Jack grinned and she grinned back, compulsively like a child mimicking their threat. “Might take some practice though, to make you look willing. Get over here, doll.”

———————————————-

Major Gale Cleven was appreciative of the dangers of listening to the radio in camp, it was one of those necessary and crucial risks that required responsible stewardship and utmost care. It wasn’t a flippant pastime and it wasn’t a recreation, but then again, neither was it strictly business. Like much of their lives as prisoners of war, he and his fellow soldiers toed a strict line between honoring their captors’ jurisdictions while also thwarting their imposed restrictions at every possible juncture.

Sometimes one should listen to the radio because that is what free men did, and Gale Cleven tried by any means possible- letters, books, calculus or his frigid metal headset- to stay free in his mind, to comport himself with the same surety as his free counterpart.

Otherwise, you lived like a ghost in your own body. And that was no good for oneself or those around you. As everyone who shared a bunk and combine with John Egan was quickly learning. The immediate joy of reuniting with him, the fear of losing him to his wounds, the relief of his recovery, it had all leveled out at the end like a anticlimactic ride on a rollercoaster, skidding to a plateau where he was neither well enough to be exempt from Gale’s concern, nor ill enough to warrant the patience required to put up with his rabid moods. Always restless, being kept in the glamorized equivalent of a dog run was hardly fitting for his nature. It was hard on everyone, but Gale wasn’t such a relativist as to assume John Egan had it the same as everyone. Some folks required more miles and more sky to keep them sane, and Bucky was one of those.

It had tipped Gale into a habit that could no longer be qualified as strictly informative, nor could he defend it as necessary where he to get caught. It was undoubtedly poor stewardship to spend an extra half hour listening to the inane comedy of a BBC guest production. But he had started it to cheer Brady when Glenn Miller’s band was on, and it had done such good for him and Bucky as they crowded ‘round, that Gale had since stayed alert for any other such ‘triviality’ that might be of use.

If the Colonel walked in and demanded an explanation for this extra bit of carelessness, Cleven thought he might make a decent defense about waiting for Ed Murrow to come on, broadcasting for CBS from London, always with a decent take on what was happening in the war. The motivation of Murrow often having stars on his program was completely erroneous.

Or so Gale swore to himself for the tenth time as Demarco kept watch and he himself painstakingly tuned the dials and bent his ear to sort the static.

There was music and the typical overlap of voices for awhile until he honed it down, British and American accents floating in, obnoxiously layered all on top of each other still, yet this time intentional. He must’ve hit a variety show. He gave himself two minutes, that much he’d allow and if the thing he’d been waiting for in secret for months did not occur,

he’d move right on or pack up for the night.

“I’m not sure about no boy writing you letters!” a man’s voice crackled through, comedically irate.

The next voice was girlish, smooth despite the poor frequency and made the hair of Gale’s arms stand on end from universal male appreciation and a gut wrenching sense of recognition: “Well I don’t know any more about it, paw paw, except that he loves me and I love him!”

“Yeah?” -Gale thought perhaps that was Bob Hope’s voice, play acting as the fuming father figure, “Yeah, then tell me, dear daughter, what sorta fella calls the girl he loves: Acorn! Huh?”

Gale’s eyes bugged from his head, glassy and shocked and Crank rushed over in solidarity, terribly sure the whole continent of North America had just been reported as broken off into the sea. “What is it Buck?”

“Crank!” Gale croaked, “Go! Go get Egan, tell him his girl’s on the radio and to get his ass in here, goooo!”

“Egan’s got a girl?” Benny was bewildered.

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

“But that’s Lana Tierney.” Crank pointed over the spunk wall, or as it was called in more noble moments of higher aspiration, the Wall of Hopes and Dreams, where Lana and Rita smiled tantalizingly and warm from their crinkled posters, down on the men’s bunks.

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

Gale held his breath and listened harder, trying to gauge how far into the sketch he had caught them, wishing them to linger, as if by sheer willpower alone he could make her stay on until Bucky got there.

Fuck -acorn? Why would she use that? She had to be out of her mind to dare a thing like that, had to be just to get his attention, right? Surely? Had to be out of her mind, Gale decided, which was just another diagnosis for love. And that gave him pause.

“What’s your feller anyway? He a squirrel?” Bob Hope was pressing the issue right as Bucky burst in with a flurry of flapping overcoat and steaming breath.

“Get in here, come on, get over here.” Gale stood up and pointed to his vacated seat, shoving Bucky down for good measure and crouching to press the headpiece to his ear, wanting to share it for some idiotic reason, as if like a parent he could cut the cord if something sad or risky came on.

“Maybe he is,” Lana was breathily defending, “and we’ll live happily ever after in our tree. And there’s nothing you or Jerry can do to stop us!”

“Shit.” Egan breathed out reverently like he’d been punched real and good and an epiphany on life was brewing beneath his shuttering smile. “Holy hell it -it is her. It’s acorn.”

“On a show called ‘Dear Acorn’, Bucky.” Brady chimed in, face as lit up for Egan’s current happiness as if it were his own.

“So what’re you twos gonna live on, huh?” Bob Hope crackled through “Love and nuts?”

“Oh well dunno, I do so love my nuts.” Lana rejoined.

“Jesus!” Gale pulled away from the headset like it had personally accosted him for a tumble in the sheets.

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

“And there’s nothing you or Jerry can-“

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

“Pinky promise!” Lana chirped a couple thousand miles away, and John Egan obeyed her once more with a raised hand and a crooked finger.

That night at roll call they had something to whisper about, and for once it wasn’t half cooked schemes to climb the barbed wire or try smothering the commandant in his sleep. Instead Bucky was rocking back and forth joyfully on his heels in the bitter night air, trying hard to keep his grin in check as the spotlight swooped over, choosing the intermediate bits of darkness to nag Gale for any bits he’d missed.

“I sent for ya right away, Bucky.” Gale insisted in a gentle whisper out the side of his mouth, “They were just starting to joke about letters being written to an acorn.”

“Can you believe it?” Egan hissed, almost demented in his sudden good cheer, “She’s that proud of me, built a whole damn show on it. Fuck, it makes a man wanna fight a dozen wars.”

Gale eyed him up carefully, the inside of Bucky’s head a foreign place even to him, but if his friend was hopeful and generous enough not to mind his intellectual (or rather, lack of intellect) property being capitalized on for the war effort, then Gale wasn’t about to sow seeds of doubt. “She’s somethin’ else.” he agreed nebulously, and meant it, “Bombs Away Betty, huh?”

“Showing partiality to one branch of the armed services, Buck.” John was back to grinning, “She must’ve liked the jacket.”

Hope you enjoined, thank y’all for all the screams and thoughts you’ve sent through my asks, the comments and reblogs too, I treasure each.

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#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #john Egan #Bucky Egan #gale cleven #john egan x oc #john x acorn #Julie Jean Turner #mota spoilers #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #Callum Turner

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we-out-here-simping · 2 months

Text

Ch 3: expanding horizons.

(s.h. x gn!reader)

from the river to the sea. (get in your daily clicks, read about it, donate if you can.)

Summary: you want to talk to Steve, but between your fights with hopper and looking after el and max, you just can't seem to get the time out but it's okay! you'll make the time to talk later... right?

Warnings: use of (y/n); no pronouns used (gn!reader); sad; arguments; flashbacks; injuries; a wild Eddie Munson appears; high school bullies

Word count: 8k

A/n: changed the chapter title but still feel like nothing fits for this one :{

also this was supposed to be out atleast a week or two ago but shit keeps coming up and I get very sleepy very early soz guys ;(

i know i asked for lil soft happy blurb ideas earlier unforch nothing got my creative juices flowing... well- there is one Nancy fic I've been wanting to write for a while now but I feel like I'm already working on so many different fics I don't wanna add another one but just know I'm thinking of Nancy wheeler and soon sapphic energy will strike upon me on a random weekday and I'll write her down

Masterlist

It was hard to breathe. Steve's vision is blurry as he walks through the woods towards his car. He feels ridiculous-- absolutely ridiculous, walking through woods in a stupid sailor uniform after being caught doing the deed with the person he is dating by said person's father.

Walk of shame is an understatement.

But that isn't all that makes it all so ridiculous, so damn stupid. Steve knew he shouldn't have been eavesdropping on you two, it was a matter between you and Hopper, but he just couldn't help it– he was the topic of the argument after all.

He didn't know what to do when Hopper's voice got louder, when he started shouting. He wanted to barge in, to act as your shield.

"No, you listen", Hopper’s voice comes loud even through the door, "You are fucking grounded. You can live your stupid paranoid fantasy and stay safe and stuck in this cabin”

“Hop–”

"And that means no tv–", the man interrupts you and Steve hates how much this whole thing reminds him of his own dad.

"Dad–", he hears you whimper and it breaks his heart. Because you don't call Hopper ‘dad’, not yet anyway. You had once confided in the boy that the title felt too big. Too scary. You’d told him that Hopper didn’t mind. That he’d told you to take as long as you need, to say it if and when it feels right. But with the way he is shouting, it makes him wonder if gentle words like that could ever leave his mouth.

Boots shuffle on the other side of the door, "No radio or cassettes, no more phone, no more tv– ", Steve hears the clatter and something falling on the floor. "What else are you hiding from me, huh?”

"Nothing, Hopper–", his feet stomp once again, "Hopper, stop–"

"No more fucking dating", his voice booms, followed by the sound of something tearing up.

Your voice cracks when you exclaim, "NO!!--"

"And NO MORE FUCKING STEVE HARRINGTON", Steve can’t help but flinch a little at the large thump that follows. "D'YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?" He barely even heard the sniffle you let out. “Asked you a fucking question.”

This is it, Steve thinks, enough of this. He is stepping in, Hopper, respect and his dad be damned, he will not let the man shout at you like that and not do anything.

Just when Steve was about to swing open the door, he heard you speak up, "No."

"What'd you say?"

"I said, no."

"Why? You love that stupid idiot or something?"

The air is thick with tension, Hopper’s question lingers in it for a while. You don't say a word. Seconds pass and your voice finally comes out, all shaky and rough. “He’s my friend. He’s my only friend, Jim.”

Steve’s knuckles turn white around the door knob. He cant help the pit that starts forming in his stomach, the disappointment that settles in it.

Friend. Friend? That's it?

Sure, you both had just been dating only for two weeks but they were one of the best two weeks of his life and you don't feel the same?

His grip tightens. was Steve being irrational? Maybe. But he cant help that pit in his stomach to spread wider– not because you don't love him but because he realises that he does. The realisation hits him like a bag of bricks, sure to bruise.

He thinks back to the night at your old trailer, the night he realised he liked you. All those months spent sneaking in just to see your face and your smile, tell you stupid jokes, hear your laugh, and to just be around you— it meant nothing to you?

And now, he loves you. He loves you and you don't.

"Cut the bullshit, y/n", he hears Hopper mutter from the other side.

his jaw tightens, molars grinding. Steve felt like history was repeating itself but this time he won't let it kick him down. He won't let it happen.

He won't let it happen to him again— he couldn't. So he puts his shirt back on, blinks back the moisture in his eyes and leaves the cabin.

Now, walking to his car, he dared not to look back where he had just left, he wished to not even think of what had just happened. This was stupid, he was stupid. And as he drives through Hawkins towards starcourt mall, all he could think of was how much he felt about you and how much you didn't.

Hopper was right, this was all just a bunch of bullshit.

Bullshit. He laughs to himself at it without finding any humour in it. its funny how much that one word has ruined things in his life. The two syllables, a running motif in his life that he just can't seem to escape.

When Steve walks into work, Robin Buckley notices the air around him is thick and stale, his shoulders slumped. He was missing his scoops ahoy hat, his hair in disarray which is an uncommon occurrence considering he always had it styled as it is his self proclaimed best feature. His eyes have a glazed look to them, Robin notices– not that she was going to investigate as to why. she doesn't care about him, they aren't friends, they are far from it.

Something else she notices, Steve was trying to hit on every girl that came to the counter. So much so that the girl had conjured up a tally scoreboard– five lines marked below the 'you suck' and zero below the 'you rule'.

Robin listens to Steve trying to flirt with another girl and doing so badly. She fights back a snicker as the curly haired girl rejects the boy. As the girl and her friend walk away giggling, she hears, ".... It's my first day here...", Steve's voice trails off before letting out a heavy sigh, his head hanging low.

"And another one bites the dust!" Robin announces, sliding the whiteboard so Steve could see it– marking another tally under the 'you suck' title. "You are O for six, Popeye"

He crosses his arms, turning around, "Yeah, I can count"

"You know that means you suck."

"Yep, I can read too."

"Since when?", She retorts quizzically, putting the board back where it had been before continuing, "Why exactly are you suddenly trying to flirt with every girl in Hawkins?"

His brows knit together before he looks away, shaking his head a little, "I'm not trying to... flirt with anyone”

"Yeah, you are. I thought you were already spoken for"

"I have no clue what you're talking about"

she squints her eyes, "Oh, really? what about--"

“I don't even want to talk to you right now”, he interrupts her, turning around, his eyes not meeting hers.

“Not too keen about it either”, she is quick to say it-- they arent friends after all. "i mean– Y'know", she rests her crossed arms on the counter, "it's a crazy idea but have you ever considered telling them the truth?" she shrugs towards where the two girls had just been.

"Oh, that I'm so stupid that I couldn't even get into tech and now my douchebag dad's trying to teach me a lesson? That I make three bucks an hour and that I– that I have no future?", That the one person I love never seems to love me back? "That truth?"

“Wow Harrington. A joy to be around, aren't you?”, she shakes her head, trying to rid her head of thoughts and questions about Steve Harrington's love life. “And where’s your hat? You’re supposed to have it on at all times, y’know, company policy”

“I– um, I forgot it at home”

“‘Course you did”, Robin sighs. Before she could say anything else, Robin's eyes land on a group of girls walking towards the ice cream store, "Hey, twelve o' clock", she tells him, gesturing towards the group.

Steve let out a breath, he goes to fix his hair, quirking a brow towards Robin as if to ask if he looked good.

“And he says he isnt flirting”

“I’m just trying to look presentable”, he defends, running his fingers through his hair one last time.

"oh my god you're a whole new man", she says all dry and sarcastic.

"I know right ooh–", the brown eyed boy shimmies his shoulders then quickly turns towards the counter, "ahoy there, ladies! Didn't see you there! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavour with me? I'll be your captain….", The sailor uniform clad boy announces rather loudly, "I'm Steve Harrington."

The group of girls look at the boy with wide eyes, holding in their giggles. Steve is still babbling about the many flavours they offered, his gaze flitting from one girl to another. Robin grimaces and turns to put another tally under 'you suck'.

…

There is a knock on your bedroom door, followed by a voice. "(Y/n)?", Jim calls out from the other side.

Your door is locked. Still hiding under your blankets, you'd spent the entire night tossing and turning, barely getting any sleep. Your back hurt from lying in the same position for so long, your eyelids droopy. And Hopper knocking on your door every ten minutes ever since he woke up wasn't helping.

"(Y/n)?", The man hollers again, "just... open the door, okay– I have breakfast", He is greeted with silence, once again.

"Listen," he sighs, "I just want to talk...", he pauses and after it was indicative that he wasn't getting a response, he bangs his balled-up fist against the door.

"Go away", he finally hears your voice out loud. You did not want to see him, you couldn't. Yesterday's fight still fresh in your mind, you couldn't bear to look at him or the things he'd broken during said fight. the aftermath of his lash-out lied shoved in a lonesome corner of your cramped room. You wanted him to leave you alone, to go to work like he always does so you could call Steve and maybe apologise for all that Hopper might've said to the boy. so that things could go back to the way they were.

There is silence and for a minute you think he actually listened to you. But then the muffled sound of his sigh reaches your ears. "Hey, I know that…", he breaths in, "yesterday– I might have said too much… and I– I just wanna talk it out and maybe–"

Suddenly, the door flies open and he is met with your face. Your red rimmed eyes filled with anger, nostrils flared and hair a mess. "I told you to go away. So, just leave me alone", you say through gritted teeth, voice cold before slamming the door on Jim's face.

"HEY, don't you fucking slam doors!", His palm went for the knob, locked. "Open this door, (y/n)."

"No", he barely hears you over the blood rushing in his ears.

"Where the hell have you gotten this attitude from lately, huh? From your little friend? You think you're being real cool? being a rebel?"

"Oh, you think you're being real father-like?"

it only makes him angrier, he clenches his jaw, "(Y/n)... open this door", he says it almost like a warning.

"No."

"Fine!", he throws his hands up before holding up a angry finger at the door like an angry father does, "Just know that I tried to have an adult and mature conversation with you, but since you're such a reckless, immature child, I'll let you fucking be!", He turns away from the door, stomping his feet rather purposely.

The door swings open behind him. he turns around and you're there all furious and mad.

"Ah, look who it is!", The man exclaims, sarcasm evident in his tone, "Finally gracing us peasants!"

"You're the one who broke all my stuff and acted like a man-child", You hiss, pointing an accusatory finger towards the man, "And I'm the reckless and immature one?"

"Not only are you that but you're also stupid and irresponsible– breaking a rule, with that jackass Steve Harrington, no less!”

“Don't say that about him, he’s my–”

“Your friend? Yeah, I heard that, I saw it all too. I'm sure you guys are great friends!" Jim speaks with mockery in his words, "D'you kiss and fornicate with all your friends?"

With a scowl he continues, “you are immature and irresponsible, sneaking him in past my alarms like that–"

“They’re shit anyway!” you shout to interrupt him but he keeps talking, voice only getting louder.

"Not only did you put yourself in danger but El as well."

"How the hell did that put us in danger? you know Steve he–"

"Don't you talk back to me!” there's that tone again, the one that makes you scared, “you put us all at risk for this stupid boy. So yeah, you are irresponsible"

"God, why do you hate me so much??", You blurt out– its frustrated, tired and angry. You don't realise what you'd said until it was already out. Tears line your red eyes, and you look so tired, you want to go back to sleep.

all his irritation and rage are gone, his face falls, "What–", Hopper starts but gets interrupted by a familiar voice.

"(Y/n)? Hopper? What's happening?", El, who had been presumably waiting for Mike outside inquires with furrowed brows as she comes back in, concern etched into her features.

Both you and hooper say that it was, "nothing". You turn your face away so the girl couldn't see your distraught state and unfallen tears, trying to discreetly wipe them away. Jim rubs his palms over his face to collect himself, himself also not meeting the young girl's eyes.

She looks between the two of you before moving towards the phone, “is everything okay?” Hopper asks after clearing his throat. you glare at him.

“Yes.” she answers. You and Hopper stand silently as she asks for Mike on the phone. She then goes to her room to continue the conversation with the boy.

He clears his throat once again, and when you catch him looking at you, you cast him a glare full of indignation that makes him avert his gaze away. "I'm– I should get going...", Jim mumbles more to himself before taking his hat, wallet and keys and then heading out while you turn to usher yourself into your room, wallowing in self pity, once again.

Your room was dark, none of the lights on and somehow it was colder in there. Within moments you hid yourself under the blankets, ignoring the ever-present headache you'd had for a few days now.

1980.

You got detention, again.

You are used to it at this point. It is the same old– you wouldn't know how to react in a social situation, a classmate would make fun of you, and you'd get mad. Anger would boil in your blood as you would walk up to the person and punch them square in the face. Their parents would complain, you'd get detention and then a lecture in the principal's office with Hopper. The same old.

This time it is Tony Reed who was graced with a split lip and a bruised cheek. The blonde boy had decided it was very cool and funny to trip you in the lunch cafeteria and then proceed to spill his chocolate milk over you, calling you something that you didn't know the meaning of but assumed it was bad considering how his group was laughing and sneering. Your limbs had worked faster than your brain and here you are sitting outside the principal's office, picking your nails and waiting for Hopper to come out.

It has been almost close to a year since you escaped the lab. Almost a year of hiding. Almost a year of running. Almost a year of trying to fit in and failing ever so graciously at it. Almost a year since you'd met Jim Hopper.

Seldom do you two talk now, the man is always busy with his work. You also had your own job, school and the overall goal to not be caught by the lab again. The man doesn't know about your past. He is unaware of all of the secrets the small town of Hawkins holds, so does everyone else.

The creak of the door alerts you that it is Hopper coming out of the office. He picks up the hat he'd placed on the seat next to you, a silent gesture to tell you that he is ready to leave. You follow him out the doors, quick steps catching up to him. You sit in his car, slamming the doors behind you.

There is a silence, your gaze fixed on hands resting in your lap. Jim reaches for the cigarette pack in his pocket, he lights it up, blowing out a puff of smoke– making the car smell like strong tobacco.

He lets out a long, heavy sigh, "(y/n), we've talked about this", he continues once he notices you aren't going to interrupt him, "you can't keep doing this. This is the second time this month"

"(Y/n)", he says tenderly when you don't answer, "Hey... look at me when I'm talking to you" You look up from your lap, gaze connecting with his. "You cant keep doing this. If someone says something, we've discussed how to deal with it– you talk to your friends, teachers, or me"

"I don't have friends, teachers don't believe, and you are busy….. always", when Hopper doesn't say anything you continue, "I have not seen you since the last time I got in trouble. you are never there at the PTAs or–"

"Yeah, that's because I am not your damn parent, (y/n)", Jim interrupts you.

Your gaze is back to your hands in your lap, picking at the skin near the nails. The man beside you lets out a soft sigh, rubbing his temple. "Hey, hey", he whispers, "How about you promise and try not to kill another kid, I'll get you a new shirt and treat you with some Benny's, hmm? How's that sound?"

…

You heard a knock at your door, a softer and quieter one as compared to Hopper's, "(Y/n)? Can I come in?" El asks.

"Yeah, sure". The door opens, the hinges creaking slightly– light pooling into the dark room. Eleven lets herself in, sitting by the foot of your bed.

"What happened with Hopper?"

"You heard it all didn't you?" The girl nods. "I'm sorry…" that I shouted? That he shouted? That you heard it?

"So, Hopper knows about Steve?" Eleven inquires.

"Yeah, he does", you sigh before asking, "Hopper's gone right?"

You sister nods. You get up from your place, feet padding towards the phone hung by the kitchen wall– dialing up Steve's house number. When the line goes to the voicemail, you opt to try for his workplace number. You were greeted with the raspy voice of a girl.

You immediately hang up. El looks at you quizzically, “it wasn't him" Its always Steve who picks up the phone. Normally, at this time, Steve would always be there to pick up your calls. And Steve never ignores your calls.

You let out a forlorn sigh, putting the phone back on the receiver. Eleven standing by your side ready with a bowl of cereal for you and herself. You thank the girl before going to take a seat on the couch– she follows you closely then sits beside you. The girl twiddles her thumbs, clearly wishing to say something, "I wanted to ask you something", she speaks up after a while of eating silently.

"Yeah?"

"Mike... is being strange.. he is lying, I think" The girl explains to you all the details of everything that occurred between her and Mike. The way the girl explained everything, it seemed like your sister was asking for advice but considering you know jack shit about relationships, you were stumped.

After you both were done breakfast, she suddenly grabs your wrist and pulls you off the couch only stopping for you to put on your shoes and then pulling you through the door.

"El, what– where are you going?"

"To get advice."

"From who?"

Eleven tells you she was taking you to Max's home. You aren't sure that roaming in the neighbourhood was a good idea yet you let her lead you. The houses almost all look the same, surrounded by well mowed lawns and next to no one. Except for one person with bright red hair. Max is practising skateboarding and in the process the board slips from under her feet, rolling towards you and your sister.

The short haired girl beside you stops the board with her feet, picks it up and walks towards the redhead.

"Hi", Eleven greets.

"...Hi?" Max echoes in confusion, glancing between you and Eleven. You gave a wave of your hand towards the girl.

"Can we... talk?"

....

"... And then he said, he missed me", your sister explains to Max who is pacing around her room, furrows of lines on her forehead. You are leaning against the wall by the door, eyes following the redhead's movement. "And then he just... hung up"

"He's a piece of shit", Max says matter-of-factly.

“That seems... harsh?” you speak up a little unsure.

“Are you seriously defending Mike right now?” Max looks at you pointedly.

“You know what? You’re right", you hold your hands up in surrender, "my bad.”

"What?" El says, looking between you two and suddenly it makes you feel bad about shitting on her boyfriend so openly.

"El think about it", Max says, now stopping infront of the girl to get her full attention, "Mike doesn't have jack shit to do today– his Nana obviously isn't sick. I guarantee you, him and Lucas are playing Atari right now."

"But friends don't lie", El states naively.

"Yeah, but boyfriends lie." She said it like it was the obvious thing, "All. The. Time."

Huh.

"What do I do?" Eleven queries.

"Listen, you're going to stop calling him– you're going to ignore his calls. As far as you're concerned, he doesn't exist"

"Doesn't exist?" Both you and El say at the same time, words pour out of your mouth before you even realise-- clearly more invested in Max's advice that you might have wanted. Max and El look at you, you clear your throat awkwardly before murmuring a little "sorry".

"Yeah," Max turns back to face El, "he treated you like garbage! You're gonna treat him like garbage– give him a taste of his own medicine"

"Give him the... medicine", El repeats the phrase a little wrong yet Max doesn't correct her and instead hums in acknowledgement.

"And if he doesn't fix this and explain himself– dump his ass", both your and your sister's eyes widened.

"C'mon", Max said, pulling Eleven off of the bed.

"Where are we going exactly?" You spoke up.

“We? You're coming too?” Max asks, the question directed towards El more so than you.

“Yes, (y/n) is coming”, she answers immediately, nodding.

"Okay we are going to have some fun, there's more to life than stupid boys, y'know."

....

You aren't sure why you are here. In a crowded bus— way too many strangers, you think– headed towards the talk of the town, the starcourt mall. You know you are breaking a rule, but you keep reminding yourself that you are there to take care of El.

When the three of you step out of the bus you are hit across the face with the fact that there are even more people. Way too many strangers. The short haired girl beside you says, almost as if voicing your concerns, "too many people… against the rules."

"Seriously? You have superpowers! What's the worst that could happen?"

…

It has been almost a month since you punched Tony Reed.

You haven't seen Hopper ever since that lunch at Benny's. Despite him having promised you to meet you more as long as you avoided fights. That was the verdict.

So far, you'd still managed to stay out of it for a month despite the bullying and sneers having increased tenfold.

It is a Wednesday morning in the middle of July, it had rained the previous night so the air is immensely humid– you are sweating your ass off. There are sweat spots on your gym t-shirt. Your shoes slip on the wet grass, you fall with a thud against the ground. A boisterous echo of laughs sounds behind you and as you turn, you see Tony Reed, with his group of friends which included Tommy Hagan, Carol Perkins, and many more who you haven't bothered to memorise the name of— Hawkins was full of bullies.

"Hey, you okay?"

You turn around and are met with a mop of frizzy black hair and an extended hand to help you up.

"Yeah. Fine", you mutter under your breath, not taking his helping hand.

"Hey, Munson!! That your co-freak?" Tommy shouts from across the field.

"Match made in hell!!", Tony added, and the rest of the group bursts out into an obnoxious fit of laughter. Before you know it, your hands that were just hanging by your side curl up into fists and almost involuntarily, you start walking forward towards the group of bullies.

Ever since that last fight, they have been on your ass. from spilling stuff on you to locking you in empty classrooms so you miss classes. the entire group reminds you of your brothers and sisters back at the lab. Your Papa-- Martin. Martin would make them fight you, despite knowing full well you'd lose. the lab infirmary had always been your second room more so than the rainbow room.

There is a fight. somehow, you aren't sure how though, Eddie gets involved as well.

By the time some teacher stopped it, you had bruised knuckles and a split lip, Eddie had one too and a bruise spread across his cheek. Tony had a black eye and a broken elbow. Maybe you and Eddie made a good team.

You are then called to the principal's office and are ordered to call Hopper once. The threat of being suspended from school hanging in front of you like a sword.

You call Hopper. He doesn't pick up. You call the station. Flo, the lady at the desk, tells you that he was busy but that she would convey the message as soon as she could.

You wait five hours. And then some more. The sun has already set. The sky is filled with clouds of different shades and hues of lilacs and oranges and pinks. The road is close to barren.

The principal has suspended you and Eddie for a week. His uncle had talked to the principal– the old man had offered to drop you off, the two of you did live in the same trailer park afterall. you had refused but now you wholeheartedly regret it as you look at your watch and realise how long you had been sitting on the dirty, concrete pavement. The gravel was uncomfortable, the air still humid.

But you and your stubborn ass are here waiting for Jim Hopper. At this point, you aren't even sure if he was coming. Your rusty bike stands abandoned in the stands.

As the sky was starting to get darker, you realised that you should probably get going, you shouldn't sit out in the open like this all alone. Then there was the stubborn part of you. You didn't want to move; everything was too much yet nothing at all.

Several Minutes pass. That's when you hear the sound of tires against gravel and engine revving. You look up to see the all too familiar Blazer along with the all too familiar face.

The car stops in front of you, "Hey, kid–", he tries starting while cranking the window down.

"You are six hours late", you interrupt him.

he lets out, "I'm sorry.." his fingers rub over the steering wheel, "C'mon I'll drop you off", he says with a jerk of his head towards the passenger seat.

You walk around the car to get in the passengers side, slumping down in the seat. Jim shifts the gear, driving through the streets of hawkins.

"You got in another fight?" Jim finally breaks the silence of the car, "What happened this time?" He asks before you could tell him. You almost want to be mad at him for being so oblivious to the details but you are tired and your injuries hurt– the school nurse was awful at her job. You are exhausted so you settle on explaining.

"I got suspended…", Jim's eyes flit to your face before quickly turning back onto the road, "...for a week."

The man lets out a deep sigh, "You promised that wouldn't happen"

"And you promised that you'd visit me", you can't help but add a little venom to your words.

"...ah, thats what this is about", he says, almost a mumble to himself.

Jim doesn't say anything for the rest of the car ride. Neither do you. The air is thick with tension and you don't want to be the first one to cut it. You don't say anything when Hopper doesn't turn at the intersection he is supposed to. After a few minutes, the car stops in front of the video store and Jim finally speaks up .

"Alright kid, What's your favourite movie?" You look at him, confused, before shrugging. "What about your favourite snack?" You shrug again.

You wonder why his features soften for a second, "Okay, we need to fix that", he says turning the car off, "You need to develop some taste, kid. Expand your horizons. That make sense?"

You nod before he mutters a 'c'mon' while getting out of the car. You follow suit. You and Hopper pick out a random movie and some snacks and popcorn. Then he drives you to your trailer where you watch the movie and enjoy the sweet and salty snacks to your heart's delight.

Somewhere near the halfway mark of the movie, you fell asleep– the exhaustion of the day finally taking over. When Hopper looks back from the screen to look at you to see how much you were enjoying the movie, he notices your closed eyes, the steady rise and fall of your chest as your head was lolled to the side.

Jim immediately pauses the movie. When he looks at the time, the clock reads 9:30 p.m., he decides it was pretty late. The man moves to pick you up and carry you to your bedroom, the movement wakes you up. It isn't until he finally put you on the mattress, that you speak up.

"Hopper?" Jim hums in acknowledgement. "Is the movie over?"

"No but you need to sleep, it's getting late", he smoothens your blanket over you. "We will finish it... later?"

"Later", you echo. Jim was getting up to leave when you call out again, "Are you... leaving?"

"Yeah, kid. I'm sorry"

"You can stay", you try to bargain.

"I can't. But you'll see me later this week I promise", he turns to leave again before he notices the teddy bear sitting by the shelves. "You still got this bear?"

"Mr. Arnold", you correct him through a yawn.

"Right, right. Mr. Arnold Bearenbearer– I remember." He chuckles to himself, a smile creeping onto his face at the name he made up when he gave it to a younger scared you. the toy is old, the blue ribbon around its neck is fraying, tattered-- well-loved. it was one of Sarah's favourites, "You take good care of him?" You nod in response.

"Good, because if you take care of him..."

"he will take good care of me."

".. yeah, its like a superpower– I’ve said this all before, haven't I?”

You nod with a sleepy shy smile.

“Yeah, well I'm an old man, kid. Can't keep up.” Jim smiles and you mirror it before your features contort into another yawn. "Good night kid. Sleep tight"

"Good night."

…

You have a headache, similar to the one you'd have back when you had powers, it had subsided earlier in the day but increased again when you got to the mall. There are too many people, you ascertain as you walk behind Max and El, weaving through the crowd. Max takes El and inadvertently you, to various shops in the mall. Giggles from the two girls fill the air as they try the various things from dresses to hats and even shoes. Trying to find the super-powered girl her style, something she could call her own.

El had a grin pasted on her face and so did Max and you knew that this was going to be the start of an amazing friendship.

You are glad El was starting to find who she is– finding out what she loves and what she doesn't. and Max is the perfect person to encourage and empower her without being patronising to the girl.

In the shoe store, El is trying on a pair of high heels. Her legs wobble as she tries to strut in the shoes, losing her balance almost immediately, the girl falls to the ground. You and Max are quick to help her get up. When you look up, you see a group of girls, with a judgemental look painted upon their faces.

Your nostrils flare, fists clench and you are about to say something to the strangers. But before you can do so, the girls beside you do something that you would never have expected— they laugh. They brush it off and unapologetically laugh.

Max leads El and you towards the food court. Your ears perk at the mention of scoops ahoy. You know that Steve would probably be there, maybe you could apologise for whatever Jim had said to him. Maybe get an answer for why you couldn't get ahold of him earlier.

As you walk through the herd of people with a slight pep in your step, you try your best to follow the two girls to the ice cream parlour.

Suddenly, your shoulders knock against someone, when you turn to see who it was, you are met with a man in a security uniform.

For the split second you both look at each other, annoyance and irritation flashes on his features along with a hint of what seems to be recognition; but you don't recognise the man, you are sure of it.

Confusion in your mind is quickly swept under the rug as the two girls quickly lead you towards scoops ahoy. Thoughts of the stranger long gone.

There on the counter is Steve Harrington, who had just finished serving two young boys.

"Hey, Harrington", Max greets.

"Hey", you mouth, shyly waving towards him from behind the two girls.

"What do you guys want?", The boy gestures towards the ice cream tubs, completely ignoring your greeting and skipping all pleasantries.

The girls gave in their orders, the boy starts to scoop the strawberry and vanilla ice cream, not even sparing a glance towards you.

"What about you (y/n)?" Eleven questions.

you blink a little dumbly, "Huh?"

"Which one d'you want?", Max asks.

"I…", your voice trails off when your gaze finally met Steve's– his jaw clenches and he had an unreadable expression on his face, "I don't know... I'll take any"

Suddenly, the window slides open behind Steve, revealing a girl with short blonde hair, headphones around her neck. She whispers something to Steve and the boy says something back. The girl smiles, and she looks pretty and you couldn't help but feel a tinge of jealousy.

He goes scooping one for you too– the same flavour which he'd gotten for you the day before. The boy turns around with two cones of ice cream in his hands, handing them to the girls and giving you yours without even looking at you. Your fingers brush together, the boy quickly retracts his hands and turns back towards the two girls. The girls mutter a "thanks" before starting to eat the sweet goodness.

"Wait a second," for a split second his gaze flicks towards you before going back to El, "are you even allowed to be here?" He knows the answer to his own question, you aren't allowed. You know the question is directed towards you, despite him saying it to El. Yet he dares not to look at you.

Your sister and Max fall into a fit of giggles before turning to leave. Your eyes are still locked onto Steve's, the expression on his face that you couldn't decode, one you'd never seen on his face– you didn't know what it meant and oh, did you want to stay and find out. But the two girls were already almost out of the store and you were supposed to look after them.

You mutter a little "bye" before turning to leave too– almost sprinting towards the girls. The boy doesn't return your salutation and instead just looks at the direction from where you'd left.

"Hey, dingus"

"Jesus, Christ. What?" Steve flinches at the sudden appearance of Robin beside him

"I would appreciate if you tried not to burn holes into our customers", Robin says leaning against the counter, "Also I got the second sentence"

"Great."

"Okay, you know what? I'm done with this"

"With what?"

"You! You've been acting this way for two days now. What the hell is happening?"

"Nothing is happening"

"Oh, really? 'cause you look like a kicked puppy right now"

"No I don't."

"Who was that?", she quirks her brow, jerking her chin towards where you had just been, "The person you just served?"

"They were Dustin's friends", he answers as nonchalantly as he could, shrugging,

"No, dingus, the older one."

"Also, Dustin's friend"

"So why the hell did you look at 'Dustin's friend' with such a dejected look?"

"That's just how my face looks and why do you care anyway?"

His coworker sighs before turning towards the backroom once again, mumbling a raspy "whatever". She does know now that Steve's demeanour had something to do with you. She could probably discern if she investigated a bit more. But at that moment she had bigger things to decipher like a super-secret Russian code.

…

"Why did Steve look like he was mad at you?" Eleven whispers to you– ever observant.

"I don't know", you whisper back to her.

"Oh, you've gotta be shitting me", the redhead who is walking ahead of you spoke up. Your gaze follows her eyeline and you see the boy's of the party by the bike stands. "Isn't this a nice surprise!" Max exclaims sarcastically.

Mike drops his bike, stunned, "What're you doing here?" He interrogates, pointing towards El.

"Shopping." Your sister states.

"This is her new style.. what d'you think?"

"What's wrong with you? You know she's not supposed to be here", he then turns to you and points an accusatory finger towards you, "You know she's not supposed to be here"

"What is she, your pet?"

"Yeah, am I your pet?"

"What? No!"

"Why do you treat me like garbage?"

"What?"

"You said Nana was sick"

"She is!"

"Yeah, she's so sick", Lucas speaks up from behind mike.

"Which is why we're here– to shop for Nana and also we're here to get something for you but it's hard 'cause I only have three dollars and fifty cents"

"It's Super hard", Lucas backs Mike up.

You notice Will, who stands behind them, not participating in the interaction. The young boy's gaze jumping from one person to another before it finally lands on Mike.

"You lie..", Eleven starts, "Why do you lie?"

When she gets no response from Mike, she walks closer to the boy. she looks at him for a second before her head turns at the sound of the bus arriving.

"I dump your ass."

Max's, Will's and lucas' eyes go wide at your sister's declaration. Max's mouth hangs open before Eleven grabs her and you by your wrists and pulls you to the bus.

Good for her, you think.

…

It is a Saturday. It is about to be seven days since Hopper promised to finish the movie with you. You stopped wondering when his later would come.

Since you are suspended from school you offered to do more shifts at the gift shop.

Every now and then teenagers from Hawkins high and middle school come in through the doors of the shop and they give you wary looks. Of course, word travels in a small town like Hawkins like wildfire.

The day the fight happened, everyone and their mother came to know that (Y/n), who doesn't seem to have a last name, and Eddie Munson had gotten in a fight with Tony Reed.

Tony Reed was a bully, not the harmless kind either. The older boy is the type to torment someone for days on end just for his entertainment but still never face the consequences for any of his actions.

Word started travelling around: Tony Reed was moving out of Hawkins.

Maybe you should've broken his elbow sooner.

You, your coworker and your boss close up the store at around 8 in the night. The older lady offered to give you a drive home, but you, however, refused. Despite how sweet the lady seemed, you still couldn't trust anyone. So you bicycle through the empty streets under the yellow streetlights– back to the trailer-van that you call home.

When you enter the trailer park, passing the Munson's trailer, you see a very familiar vehicle standing infront of your home. Your feet peddle faster, when you finally reach the car, you leave your bicycle behind and go to the slightly open driver's window. The person's face covered with the familiar hat.

You knock on the window, the man jolts awake– a groan audible through the cracked window. He removes his hat and as soon as he meets your eyes, his face softens– a smile appearing on his face.

You step back as he opens the door. Before Jim could shut the door behind him, you run to tackle his torso.

"You came!" You hug Jim, your arms barely reaching around and touching around his frame. The man lets out an oomf at the impact.

"Of course I did. I promised, didn't I?" he says while holding the back of your head, gently patting your hair– it has grown out a lot since he first met you.

You nod against his chest, not letting go of the grasp you had on him.

"Okay, kid. I think that's enough affection for the day. How bout we get inside, finish that movie huh? I bought some of those snacks you liked", you only hug him tighter in response. Hopper chuckles, continuing to hold and caress the back of your head.

…

There is the rev of an engine, the telltale sign of the arrival of Jim Hopper.

The door flings open, then closes harshly behind the tall man. You watch him from the couch as you were browsing through channels on the TV. Jim looks at you but immediately averts his gaze, he walks a little further in the house, his movements loopy and rocky. He is drunk, extremely so– the mostly empty bottle in his hand backing up your conclusion.

Jim stops in his tracks again. "Hey!" He shouts with a little gravel in his voice, "Hey!" He repeats again, walking towards El's room where your sister and her friend are. "When I say three inches, three–"

When the door flings open, he expects to be met with the sight of El and Mike but instead he is met with her and Max reading comic books on the bedroom floor.

"Do you knock? jeez"

"Yeah, jeez!" Eleven repeats.

"Oh, hey", Jim, who seemed to be unable to respond, slurs out, "I'm sorry… I thought that you–"

"Mike's not here", Max interrupts his rambling as if reading his mind.

"Max wanted to have a… sleepover. Is that okay?"

"Yeah." Hopper nods while repeatedly saying, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah", he awkwardly looks between the two girls and then asks the redhead, "Your parents know about this?"

"Yup."

"Yeah, that's cool. That– that's really cool." The man just keeps looking at the two girls, almost spacing out in his drunken state.

"Did you need something?"

"No, no", he shakes his head, his palm reaching for the door knob. "I'll let you– I'll leave"

He stands outside the now closed door. His drunken features morph into a smirk as he grabs yet another beer can and settled himself on the armchair in front of the tv.

"'sup." You sit down on the couch beside him with a plop.

He looks over at you. "You're talking to me now?"

"Don't worry, I'm still pissed off at you but", you say, not looking at him. "I think we need to discuss some things. Have a talk"

"Great", he takes a big gulp of the beer in his hand.

"So let's start easy", you say stretching your arms. "How was work? I mean... that's where you were, right?", you say, eyes gesturing towards the most colorful shirt you'd ever seen on Hopper.

"Yeah", he slurs out.

"I'm a human lie detector, remember? I can tell when you're lying. It was the one thing I was good at, So, try and give me the truth", you assert dryly, "Were you at work?"

You barely hear it when he says, "...no"

"Where were you?"

"At a friend's…"

"Friend's what? Birthday?"

"Ye– no"

"Who was this friend?" you interrogate with narrow eyes.

"They never came"

"That wasn't my question but okay", you pause, eyes trained on him, trying to read his expression, "Even though they didn't come, who was it you were expecting?"

He takes another big swig from the can before he says all hesitant, "...Powell and... Callaghan?"

"Lie."

"Godamnit, Joyce– it was Joyce,'' he finally admits, frustrated.

"So, you were just going on a dinner with your friend Joyce"

"Like I said, she never came"

"Yeah but you were going to go on dinner with Joyce, if she'd come"

"But she didn't"

"But you wanted her to", you pause before asking, "Was this a date?"

"No!"

You both know it is lie, you don't even need to state that it is a lie, so you just look at the drunk man beside you while he takes a swig of the beer can in his hand.

"Next question", you state, folding your legs onto the sofa, "What did you say to Steve?"

"What–" Jim almost seems startled by the sudden subject change.

"Yesterday. What did you tell Steve"

"I didn't tell him anything", you look at him a little more, but this wasn't a lie. You can tell he is telling the truth. "I mean, that the boy wasn't there when I left", he further clarifies, when you don't say anything.

"Oh." is all that comes out.

"Where did you get that shirt?" The man beside you suddenly asks while you're in your thoughts.

"I've always had this", you lie. Max and El had convinced you to buy some clothes back at the mall as well.

"No– it's brand new", Hopper insists.

"So is yours Hopper–", you once again gesture towards his bright coloured shirt, "but I guess you wanted to look good for your friend Joyce, right?"

its tense, he takes another sip from his beer. after a few seconds, you sigh before getting up, "anyway, think I'm gonna teach El a new word later– hypocrite. She needs to be familiar. how does that sound?"

You don't wait for his answer to come, you get up, walk away and slam the door behind you.

...

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