vinecstasy

[vinecstasy]

Two Hearts, One home

Eddie Munson Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog A/N: This is how you met Bestfriend!Eddie. This poured out of me in a few hours.

Summary: When Wayne Munson winds up with an eight-year-old on his doorstep with a social worker holding a stack of paperwork, all you can think about is how excited you are to have another kid your age living in the Forest Hills trailer park.

You and Eddie had been best friends since you were playing in sandboxes and watching cartoons.  

His uncle Wayne lived across the trailer park, and you remember the first day you’d seen Eddie, clear as day.

You'd been watching with great fascination, peaking around the Delaney family motorhome, as a shiny black car that looked new rolled down the dirt road, kicking up gravel and dust. 

Every vehicle in the forrest hills trailer park was rusted to shit and sounded like a lawnmower and it was all you’d ever known. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen a car that nice. 

You certainly hadn’t ever seen a woman dressed as fancy as the one who stepped out of it with a pursed lip and a pencil skirt. Her face was all scruched up like she’d smelled something funny and hell, she probably had.

The overgrone grass and the sunbaked mud may have been the culprit. Or maybe the pond of used fryer Oil two trailers down that Old lady Delores had slowly been building for longer than you’d been alive. 

One of the older kids had fallen into it one night when they’d stumbled back drunk and had almost drowned in it after inhaling a good lungfull. 

Luckily, he’d caused quite the ruckus and woken half the trailer park by screaming on his way down. 

Everyone who wasn’t awake was roused by gossiping neighbours urging them to come out and see what had happened. 

The black shiny car had drawn attention, but on a smaller scale. 

Wayne Munson was a gruff, but kind man, who helped where he could and never caused any trouble, which granted him the respect of everyone staying inside their homes and peeking through their windows. 

Except for you of course. 

But you figured it was alright since you were already playing outside. 

The woman, who you’d later learn was a social worker, opened one of the back doors and gestured for whoever was in there to come out. 

It was a boy your age. 

Skinny with shaggy, matted hair and a black eye you could see from two doors down, he looked pretty damn rough. 

His body was curled in on itself as if he were freezing, but he couldn’t have been, not in the July heat at midday. There was something wrong with him, and you couldn’t help but compare him to the feral cat living under your trailer that you’d been trying to befriend for the last six months.

There wasn’t any other kids in the trailer park. Not ones your age at least. The few peppered around were either babies or teenagers. 

You decided right there that he’d be your friend. 

Him and the feral cat.  

Maybe he could help you get it to like you. Hopefully, he wouldn’t swat at you with a clawed hand like your furry frenemy. 

You watched the woman wobble up the steps in a pair of patent leather high heels like the ones your mother wore to church. 

She looked like a baby giraffe. 

The second the door opened and Wayne Munson looked at the prim woman, the boy stopped looking down at his shoes like they were the most interesting thing in the world and sagged in relief at the sight of the eldest Munson. 

You saw the way his eyes widened when he clocked the black eye and could picture the sound that came out of his mouth when he sighed. 

You’d tripped over Wayne’s front steps a few years back and split your knee open. He’d come running when he heard you screaming bloody murder and had made a sound somewhere between a pity sigh and a grumble. 

You thought that he was annoyed with you, and to be completely honest, you thought he’d be mean, but Wayne carried you home on his hip, then back to his trailer when he realised your folks weren’t home, and sat you down on the hood of his truck. 

He patched your knee up and gave you a little bag of pretzels that he’d told you he kept around for his nephew when he came to visit. 

You’d never actually seen Wayne Munson’s nephew, but you were pretty sure that’s who was standing on those very steps. 

You waited a whole week for the new kid to come outside and play, keeping one eye on the Munson trailer while you threw rocks at tin cans and caught bugs in a jam jar. 

After a week, you ran out of patience and clambered up the rickety steps to knock on the door. 

Wayne’s eyeline was level with the expectation of finding an adult standing on the steps, but instead, he had to look down to see you, smiling politely with your hand clasped together in front of you. 

“Hi, Mister Wayne.” 

“Hello.” He looked the tiniest bit amused “What can I help you with? Trip over the steps again?” 

“No Sir.” You shook your head promptly, looking up at him with the seriousness of an attorney and not a seven year old. “Does a kid live here now?” 

“My nephew.” 

“How old is he?” 

“Eight.” 

“Well,” your little brows pulled together. “Do you think he wants to be my friend?” 

“Should probably ask him.” Wayne nodded, biting back a little smile. 

“Eddie!” He called down the hall “C’mere for a sec, there’s someone here to see ya.” 

“Who is it?” You heard a small voice behind the door. 

You said your name loudly as an introduction and grinned when a shaved head poked around the door and big brown eyes stared back at you. 

The bruising around his eye had healed to a splotchy yellow. 

“I’m here to ask you to play.” You told him, sticking your hand out like you were making a business deal, “And to be my friend.” 

Eddie looked up at Wayne as if to ask permission, and he got a nod in response.

Slowly, as if never shaken anyone’s hand before, his clammy palm pressed against yours and shook. 

“I have bugs down there,” you pointed to the jar at the bottom of the steps. “Do you wanna see them?” 

Again, he looked to Wayne and again, the older Munson nodded.

Eddie followed you down the steps and took the jam jar when you handed it to him, eyeing the worms with great interest. 

“You had hair last week.” 

“It had bugs in it.” he shrugged, cheeks warming with embarrassment “Uncle Wayne said we had to shave it.”  

You didn’t seem fazed by the admission at all and asked him if he got to keep the bugs, pouting when he said no. 

It put him at ease. 

“Do you wanna meet Miss Swiss?” you asked once the two of you had gotten bored of passing the bug jar back and forth. 

“Like the hot chocolate?” the boy frowned. 

“She’s a cat.” you laughed so loud it startled him and froze. “I’m sorry, that was loud. Miss swiss is jumpy too.” 

“It’s okay.” Eddie muttered, following you over to your trailer and the loose boards covering the foundation. “Why is she called Miss Swiss?”

“Cause when I saw her for the first time, she was munching on a swiss miss box and I thought that Miss swiss sounded better for a lady cat” You shrugged, crawling under the trailer and waving him on to follow you.

“Be careful, there’s spiders.” 

“How do you know she’s a lady cat?” He followed along behind you, eyeing the cobwebs between all the slats of wood. 

“I just know.” 

He couldn’t help but laugh. 

Eddie crawled up next to you when you stopped and tilted his head to the side, taking in the pile of blankets and the bowls with various different concoctions in them, some just full of plain water.

There was cut up Swiss Miss boxes, rearranged and taped together as some kind of makeshift nameplate. 

Your little setup looked more like a shrine than anything. 

“Where is it?” he frowned. 

“She,” You corrected “Is right there.” 

You pointed at a lump in the blankets and he craned his neck in the small space to catch a glimpse of a little tuft of fur. 

“Miss Swiiiiissss” You called out, soft and sweet, seemingly unbothered by the low growl amidst the blankets. “Look, I made a friend!” 

The head of a scraggly cat popped up and hissed in your direction, swiping a clawed paw through the air in warning. 

Eddie flinched. 

“She doesn’t like me very much,” You pouted, looking sad, but determined. “She will, though.” 

“She’s a lot nicer now than when I first saw her.” You pointed out, crawling back out from under the trailer. “She scratched me the first time, but it was my fault for trying to just pick her up.” 

Eddie didn’t say anything so you continued to fill the silence yourself, even after you’d broken back into the daylight, brushing the dirt of your clothes. 

“She got me in the face, right here.” You showed him a thin white line on your cheek “I was bleedin’ all over.” 

“Why do you want to be her friend if she scratched you?” 

“She was just scared.” You shrugged “I would be too if someone a lot bigger than me came and scoped me up like a baby.” 

“She’s warming up to me, I think.” 

“Are you gonna go to school?” You asked him when he started walking back towards the Munson trailer.

“Wayne’s gonna sign me up.” He muttered, kicking a rock. 

“What grade are you gonna be in?” 

“2” 

“Me too!” You smiled excitedly and he couldn’t stop himself from mirroring it. You had such a contagious smile. “Do you wanna be my friend at school too?” 

He just nodded. 

And so began a friendship so profound that it bordered on codependency. 

You and Eddie spent so much time together that Summer that you practically lived in the Munson trailer. 

Your folks were rarely home and Wayne seemed to love taking in strays, so he fed you dinner every night and let you hang out as often as you liked, which turned out to be constantly. 

You got to watch Eddie come out of his shell bit by bit. 

For the first two weeks, you did most of the talking, but then he got more comfortable around you and would start making his own suggestions for games to play or stuff to do. 

He’d come up with these elaborate fantasy worlds where the surrounding trailers were castles ruled by Miss Swiss, who still hadn’t quite warmed up to either of you yet. The oil pond was a great lake traversable only by the bravest of the brave. You made boats out of soup cans so you could put the argument of whose pet rock was the bravest, since you couldn’t exactly ask them. 

Wayne just about killed the two of you when he realised that you’d dumped the soup down the drain just so you could use the cans. 

It was the first time you saw Eddie cower. 

The second the angry look on Wayne’s face registered, he took a step back and started shaking, grabbing you by the hand. 

You weren’t scared of Wayne. 

Didn’t ever think he’d raise a hand to you. 

You had no reason to. 

No one had ever raised a hand to you except for the occasional bully at school. 

But Eddie was scared. 

Eddie was so scared that when Wayne raised his voice, not immediately noticing the terror in his nephew's eyes, he ducked down under the table, trying to pull you along with him as if he were trying to protect you. 

You didn’t understand what was happening and looked to Wayne for some kind of answer while Eddie continued to tug on your arm. 

It was the only time you’d ever seen Wayne Munson look even close to sad. 

He backed off immediately and the anger seemed to drain right out of him. 

Eddie wouldn’t stop shaking until you crawled under the table and sat there with him.

“Are you okay?” You whispered, holding his hand tightly. 

It took him a good couple of minutes to answer. 

“Do you think he’s still mad?” He asked shakily, peering around the legs of the table at Wayne’s stiff form on the couch. 

“No.” you shook your head “I think he’s sad that he scared you.” 

You watched his brows pull together like he didn’t understand. 

“You know, you’re kinda like Miss Swiss.” 

“I didn’t scratch you.” He frowned 

“Sometimes when I’m too loud, she runs away and I’m always sorry cause I never mean to scare her.” 

“I don’t think Wayne meant to scare you.” 

You didn’t ask him why it had scared him so much.  

Your seven-year-old brain figured it was just the volume, just like Miss Swiss. 

When you finally managed to coax Eddie out from under the table, Wayne considered asking you to head home so that he could talk to Eddie alone. But you, the seven-year-old, seemed to have a better handle on the situation than he did, even if you didn’t understand what had just happened.

If you could get Eddie to sit there and listen to him apologize without being scared, which you did, then you could stay for as long as you wanted. 

You’d gone as far as to bring two cans of soup from your own cupboard the next day to replace the ones you’d wasted. 

It wasn’t the last time Wayne yelled at the two of you. Over the years, you’d get up to all sorts of trouble, but he always knew that if he had you next to him, during a lecture, Eddie would be okay, and he would listen. Even if he refused to acknowledge that he’d been in the wrong. 

When school started up in the fall, you and Eddie were inseparable. The kids who had always picked on you for playing with bugs and being poor had taken to bullying Eddie too, which you’d felt terrible about to the point where you told Eddie with tear-filled eyes on the bus ride home that first day, that he didn’t have to be your friend at school anymore if he didn’t want to be. 

He’d looked at you like you were crazy and taken your hand to give it a squeeze, a silent comfort that the two of you would carry on through your teen and adult years. 

Kids had picked on him everywhere he went before he’d moved in with Wayne. He wasn’t being bullied by association; it was just plain and simple schoolyard bullying for being himself. 

From then on, the two of you braved the bullies together, defending each other whenever things got out of hand or the other wasn’t there to defend themselves.  

When Russel Wilks shoved you off the playground so hard that it knocked the wind out of you in the third grade, and you scraped your shoulder up from landing in the woodchips, Eddie punched him in the face. 

It was the first time you’d been sent to the principal's office together. 

Wayne had been listed as your emergency contact since your first day of school the year before, after realizing that you were practically living on your own while your parents worked all day and fucked off to the casino all night. 

He’d shown up looking annoyed as all hell to be called in from work under the premise that the two of you were beating up other kids, which didn’t sound quite right but immediately softened when he saw your crudely bandaged shoulder and the tearstains on your cheeks. 

Eddie was sitting there next to you, looking guilty as all hell, holding your hand while you sniffled. 

“What happened?” he waved off the receptionist when she started explaining, “I’m not askin’ you. I’m askin’ them.” 

“He pushed her,” Eddie muttered, twitching next to you, still wary of Wayne when he was upset despite his and your best efforts. “She fell from high up and hit her head. Her shoulder got all scraped up.” 

“He was laughing and it wasn’t funny,” you breathed shakily. 

“So, you hit him.” Wayne finished for both of you with a tight nod before focusing on you. “Anybody look at your head?” 

“She never mentioned that she hit her-” The receptionist started to argue. 

“Christ.” Wayne scoffed, “Anybody watchin’ these kids or are you just letting them try and kill eachother out there?” 

“I-”

The eldest Munson dropped his keys in Eddie’s lap and told you both to go wait out in the truck while he talked to the principal. 

The two of you shuffled down the hall, hand in hand, and climbed into Wayne’s truck, tucking into the bench seat. 

You’d both been expecting a lecture when Wayne came stomping back to the car. 

He did give one that day. A long one full of curse words. But not for you. 

“We’re sorry!” You both exclaimed as soon as he opened his door. 

“Don’t gotta be sorry ‘less one of you swings first,” He told you seriously, pulling himself into his seat. 

You both looked confused. 

“If you’re defending yourselves or eachother, I’m never gonna be mad,” Wayne muttered, turning the key. 

The engine roared to life after sputtering a few times. 

“Just don’t overdo it. You hit ‘em once, that was smart.” 

Eddie looked at you, you looked at him, and you blinked at eachother. 

You’d been sure you’d be in trouble. 

Nobody said a word the rest of the ride home. 

It was Wayne who broke the silence after he’d let you into the trailer, nudging you inside before you could run off to go find that mangy cat you both loved so much. 

“How hard did you hit your head?” He asked you right away, pulling out a chair at the table for you to sit. 

“She fell off the playground.” Eddie answered for you, “Landed on her back.” 

“Ouch.” Wayne had gotten a lot better at talking to children since Eddie had come to live with him and you’d started hanging around. “That must’ve hurt. Where’d you hit your head? At the back?” 

“I couldn’t breathe, mister Wayne.” Your eyes welled up with tears. “All the air just whooshed right outta me.” 

“Can I see?” he gestured to the back of your head. “Check if you’ve got a lump?” 

“A lump?” You gasped like he’d just told you that you had a week to live. 

You’d always been a bit of a baby when it came to being in pain or scared. 

You were a crier for sure. 

Eddie hated seeing you cry more than anything else in the entire world. 

It hadn’t been much of a decision to punch Russell. He’d done it without even having to think. 

Wayne gathered that the fall had scared you more than it had hurt, since you hadn’t cried the whole way home. 

Eddie hopped up in the chair next to yours and reached for your hand. 

God help him, Wayne could hardly stand to deal with one of you being upset when the other wasn’t around. 

You were both impossible to calm down unless you were doing it together. 

“A lump isn’t the end of the world, hun,” Wayne assured you gently, “we’ll get you fixed right up, don’t you worry.” 

Hesitantly, you tilted your head forward so that Wayne could feel along the back of your skull for anything unusual. 

There was no lump, but you did yelp when he pressed down on one spot. 

“No lump.” He declared and watched you slump over in relief dramatically. “You’ll live” 

He got you some ice, and Eddie held it over the sore spot while you lay face down on the couch next to him, watching cartoons for the rest of the day. 

Wayne let you both stay home from school the following day without mentioning that Eddie had actually been suspended.

You didn’t learn anything about Eddie’s time before coming to live with Wayne until you were thirteen and passing a bottle of whiskey you’d stolen from the top of your parents' fridge back and forth for the first time. 

You’d climbed up to the top of the hill overlooking the trailer park on the fourth of July and watched the fireworks. 

You could just barely see them off in the distance. 

The liquor had made you giggly, but Eddie had this hollow, haunted look in his eyes. 

He didn’t say much, just kept drinking even after you tried to gently suggest that he slow down. 

He eventually ended up flat on his back, staring up at the sky with glazed-over eyes, and spilled his guts without looking at you. 

He told you everything. His dad and how he’d taught him to steal cars after his mom had gotten sick and passed away. How he’d ended up with Waybe because his dad had left him with one of his drinking buddies and gotten himself arrested and subsequently put away for long enough that Eddie wound up in a foster home until they could find Wayne’s information. His voice shook when he told you about how the older kids and sometimes even the parents used to smack him around and yell at him like he was no better than the gum at the bottom of their shoes. 

You listened to it all, sobered up enough by the information that you thought you might start crying. 

Then came the drunken rambling about how he was destined to work at the plant and be a complete failure, which caught you completely off guard because to you, Eddie may as well have hung the moon. 

How had you not noticed how poorly he thought of himself? 

Had he been miserable this whole time without you, even realizing it? 

“If I didn’t have you, I’d be nothing.” He muttered, finally glancing over at you with tears welling up in his eyes. “When you leave me, I’m gonna have nothing, and Wayne won’t like me anymore, and-” 

“Shut up!” Your eyes widened, and your hands darted out to cradle his face in your hands. “I don’t know where all that came from, but Eddie Munson, you are my favourite person on the planet. Wayne’s too. Nobody’s leaving you.” 

The raw vulnerability in his eyes brought you right back to him pulling you under the kitchen table with him when you were kids. 

“I swear to god, Eds. You are everything. With or without me, you are.” 

“I don’t want to be without you.” He whimpered pathetically, reaching for your hand like a scared child. 

He’d be mortified if he’d been able to remember any of it when he woke up the next morning. 

“You won’t be. I’ll never leave you.” You promised, meaning it wholeheartedly as you laced your fingers together and squeezed. “And neither will Wayne. That man loves you so much that he’s put up with having me around for years without a complaint. He’s not going anywhere.” 

He threw up not long after that. 

His hair was long enough by that point that you had to hold it out of his face while he emptied his stomach.  

You thanked every god out there that Wayne was working the night shift on that particular evening. He’d jumped at the chance to get holiday pay and told the two of you to behave before leaving. 

Obviously, you’d done the opposite. 

It took you almost half an hour to drag Eddie back to the Munson trailer and into bed. 

You curled up next to him, like you had so many times before, and felt the air shift. 

You didn’t know it at the time. 

But that night marked the beginning of something you didn’t quite understand until you were a few years older. 

It was the night that you went from loving Eddie Munson to being in love with him.

Dividers and Banners by me on my side-blog @dividers-are-us

Taglist: @justalotoffanfiction @s1mp-4-ga11y @farrowroyale @awkward00noodle @shokihomin @jjmaybankswifes-blog @mdurdenpitt @buckyswife108 @walleloveseve @zroberts13 @gxpsywitch19 @monkeylaura627

[vinecstasy]

Time Takes Away

♥ ♥          Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader 

Summary: Time gives. Makes plants grow. After a bad first date, an experiment ensues. You trade favours, and time just can't stop giving. But, to whom much is given, much will be required, and if you're not careful, time will take away just as easily.

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes

Author’s note: so, i asked for requests and got a lot (thanks babes) @nadixm, @charmingballoon, and an anon fed me three that turned into this: upstairs neighbours who set each other up on blind dates. lmk your thoughts!

Wordcount: 3.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

Joe’s balcony has no right being this nice.

You’re holding the watering can a little like it’s a glass of wine. Loose wrist. Pinky out. Lazy tilt. Not on purpose, obviously, but there’s something almost indulgent about it, the way you pour slowly, evenly, across the soil of the rosemary.

It’s because of the sun. You don’t get this kind of sun on your own balcony. The building across the way throws yours into permanent shade by two in afternoon and refuses to apologise for it.

You want the sun to burn your skin after two as well, please.

Joe’s balcony, on the other hand, gets light like it was specially designed for it. Big, unapologetic rectangles of it, warming your forearms, the bridge of your nose, your knuckles as you tilt the can again. It’s lazy and gold and warm enough that you’ve started to time your watering with late daylight. You tell yourself it’s just practical. That the water evaporates slower this time of day. That you’re helping.

His parsley’s completely giving up. You make a quiet noise of disapproval and pinch the dead bits off with exaggerated care, like Joe might be watching, even though you’re almost entirely certain he isn’t home. You’d knocked before letting yourself in, waited the full three seconds, and told yourself out loud that it was fine, it was just the plants.

You’ve got a key. That makes it official. You’re not breaking in. You’re performing a service. You are, you remind yourself, being useful.

Neighbourly.

You love Joe’s balcony.

You love your own flat, but God, you’d move in an instant to have this sunlit outdoor space for yourself. It’s great. You love every aspect of it. Except for the turf, actually. The fucking plastic turf that he got to cover half of it. You sigh as you stare at it, narrow your eyes at how awful it looks and shake your head. It’s a long story, but Joe likes the feel of it under his feet, so it doesn’t matter how long you frown at it, it’s not going anywhere. You also ignore the one nice chair he has – one. Just one. Not a set, like normal people usually get, but just one, because God forbid someone else wants to have a seat, it’s so stupid, it’s – no, calm down. Please. You said you were going to ignore it.

But the rest of it’s nice.

He’s got plants in matching terracotta pots that he definitely didn’t buy himself. They’re yours, really, in a roundabout way. You pick them up when they get leggy. Repot them when he forgets. You mention neem oil and a spray bottle with a tone in your voice that sounds like you’re a bit mad at him, even though you’re not.

You like taking care of things.

Even if they’re not technically yours.

Especially when they’re not technically yours.

You’ve just crouched down to check the droop of the basil when there’s a sound behind you that feels too sudden for it to be casual.

And then–  

“Jesus!”

You drop the watering can which clatters to the floor with a dull thud, spilling the last of its water over your ankle. You don’t scream, not exactly, but you definitely gasp in capital letters as you press both hands to your chest.

“Oh my God,” Joe says, grinning at the way you ducked into yourself. “You scared me.”

“What– you scared me!” you exclaim, but you’re already laughing, doing your best to ignore the way he carries a cologne-smell that says he’s only just walked in.

His shirt’s half-buttoned as he leans a little out whilst stood inside still, and he looks like he’s amused to have found you out on his balcony. Like he was hoping to catch you in the act of something criminal, not just crouched next to a tomato plant that he hasn’t watered since April.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, even though he clearly did judging by the stupid grin he can’t seem to lose.

“I thought you were out,” you say, picking up the dropped watering can and trying your best to get your heart rate down. You brush your hand over the wet ankle like that’s going to fix it.

“I was,” Joe says, stepping outside now, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I am. Well. Was. I’ve been on a date.”

You exclaim a loud, “Oh?” your intonation saying, tell me more, one hand on the little table you keep threatening to steal for your own balcony.

But then he scrunches his nose and doesn’t match your energy.

“Yea.”

He leans over and flicks one of the dead leaves you just pinched. “It was shit.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then you give a small, awkward laugh and gesture vaguely at the plants, the sun, your entire presence. “Sorry, I’ll be out of your hair in a second.”

Joe doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean back into the flat. Just shrugs and says, “Nah. Stay. Talk to me. I need to speak to a normal person before I lose all hope.”

So dramatic.

You straighten up, brushing your hands on your jeans, and squint at him.

“I didn’t realise a terrible date would turn me into a palette cleanser.”

“It’s a low bar today,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Seriously. She was nice, technically. Friendly. Pretty. Just...”

You wait.

He shrugs. “Not much else.”

“God,” you say, “that’s how I hope every man describes me when they get home.”

Joe rolls his eyes and leans on the balcony railing beside you, the one nice chair remaining noticeable empty. It feels silly that neither of you sits in it, a bit like on the tube when you hope that the one other person standing beside you would just take the last seat just so you don’t look stupid for not taking it yourself.

It’s why Joe needs two of them, you think.

“It wasn’t like that. I just… I talked to her for a week, you know? Good messages. Normal human interactions. No red flags. Thought, maybe…”

“Let me guess. Were you wrong? Was it red flag central?”

“I was so wrong,” he says, with enough theatrical tragedy that it makes the both of you laugh.

“How bad was it?”

He winces. “There was a song. She kept trying to get me to guess the song she had stuck in her head by humming random bits of it and this went on for like half an hour, and I–”

“Did you know it?”

“No fucking clue what she was doing.” The face Joe makes prompts you to cover your mouth with your hand to hide your laughter.

“–And then she started talking about the power of… I don’t know, whatever the fuck, positive vibrations? And how my aura was probably too closed off, and apparently I was giving of pisces vibes?”

Your hand does nothing to hide your snort.

“I don’t even know what that means!” Joe sighs like the afternoon aged him and lets himself fall into his one nice chair - finally. “Anyway. I couldn’t focus. I kept zoning out. Every time she started talking again it was like… white noise.”

“Wow.” You press a hand to your heart. “Romance really is alive.”

“Sorry, I swear I was nice. I tried to be nice. I tried all the… all the, you know, this school corridor nonsense. The whole, ‘I’m not asking you out, I’m just giving you my geography notes’ kind of thing.”

You have zero idea what he’s talking about.

“Is that how you flirted in school?” you ask.

“I didn’t,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. “It’s… I swear it’s the apps. They ruin it before it’s even started, really.”

You’re smiling now, amused despite yourself, watching the way he grimaces like he’s still recovering. “You poor thing. This is what you get for joining a dating app that looks like a perfume ad.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is.”

Joe squints at the ivy trailing along the railing. “Looks good. Did you trim that?”

“Don’t deflect.”

“I’m complimenting your gardening.”

You did trim the ivy, and it’s lovely that Joe actually notices that you do more than just dumping a bit of water into some pots. Joe’s right. The ivy does look good. Then your gaze drifts to the basil again, which is starting to yellow at the edges. Not dry, but soft. Soggy.

You lean over it with a sigh. “You’ve been watering again.”

Joe glances up. “Yea, I… I thought I was helping.”

“You’re not,” you say gently, touching a leaf between your fingers. “You’re slowly drowning them.”

He winces. “Oh, well. Shit. I thought more water was good.”

“They don’t need more water. They need consistency.”

Joe raises an eyebrow, amused. “You talking about plants or people?”

“Both,” you mutter, checking the rosemary next. “You really need to stop.”

“Stop Raya?”

That’s not what you meant, but, “Yes, actually. Stop advertising yourself with a slideshow set to music which is all vibes and no actual information.”

“That’s…” Joe fishes his phone from his pocket and huffs a laugh. “Yea, that’s exactly what it is, actually.”

“It’s hot rich people set to moody music. You don’t swipe on a person, you swipe on how much money you think their parents have.”

Joe raises a hand like he’s ready to defend himself, but you keep going.

“At least on Hinge you have to write something. Make an effort. You learn how someone uses punctuation. You know. Foundational things.”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “You’re on Hinge?”

“Mhmm.”

“And you’re giving me grief about my app?”

“Hinge has words. Words matter. I can weed out the serial kills by the third prompt whereas you just got to stare at someone’s tits and then were told you aura sucks.”

“You’re single,” he says, flatly. “I rest my case.”

“That’s not my fault.” You narrow your eyes at him. “No offence, but… men suck. That’s not the app’s fault.”

“Are you saying your profile is flawless?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re an expert?”

“I’m... yea, sure. I’m a reluctant expert. I’ve been on the front lines.”

Joe tilts his head, eyes squinting in mock interest when suddenly, he holds his hand out, palm up. “All right. Hand it over.”

“What?”

“Your phone. I want to see your profile.”

You blink at him. “You’re not serious.”

“Completely serious. You mock my app, I want to see yours. You’ve insulted my aura– my pisces vibes.”

You wish you were better at hiding your smile.

You hold each other’s gaze for a moment before you sigh, reach into your back pocket, and pull your phone out. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, it’s mutual destruction. I get to see yours too.”

Joe grins like he’s won something and the next thing he says is easy. “Deal.”

You exchange unlocked phones like it’s a hostage negotiation, and in a flash you think of everything on your phone that you wouldn’t want him to see. If this motherfucker is going to go into your notes app, you swear to God…

You throw your phone a nervous glance, and see that he finds and opens Hinge without hesitation. Somehow, that’s a relief. “So, what’s your vibe, then? Clever captions and pictures of you posing with cups of coffee?”

“I am clever, and I do like coffee, but, no.” you correct.

He scrolls for a moment. His eyebrows go up.

“Oh wow. You’re actually trying. You’ve got a poll on here.”

“It’s called effort. You wouldn’t know anything about it.”

You tap at his phone until you’ve found Raya. His music starts playing, and you immediately wince.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You chose this song?”

“It’s a cool song!”

Unfortunately, he’s right. But you’re not going to let him know that.

“I feel like I’m about to watch your biopic.”

He doesn’t look up from your phone. “This picture of you with the dog is cheating.”

“Every other picture of you is from a professional fucking photoshoot, don’t talk to me about cheating.” You spit good-heartedly, making Joe grin as he bites his words.

You both scroll silently for a few seconds, each with the other’s digital love-life in your hands, until you suddenly realise something.

“Imagine if we were on the same app,” you say.

Joe pauses, looks up from your phone with just his eyes.

“Thank fuck we aren’t…” you scoff.

He grins before he frowns. “What would be so bad about that?”

You laugh. “Please. We’re neighbours.”

Joe tuts, eyes back on your phone. “Rude. I’d match with you.” And before you can respond, he smirks and says, “You answered this prompt all wrong. No one wants to hear that your ideal Sunday involves hoovering.”

“Why not? It’s relatable.”

“It’s bleak.”

Okay. That’s enough.

“Hand it back.”

Instead of giving your phone back, he turns away a little as he scrolls down a little more, making sure he’s seen the full thing, and then looks at you. He hesitates a moment, but then holds your phone out to you and says, “This is actually such a waste of time, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

You do the same and give Joe his phone back as well.

He gestures between your phone and his before he slides it back into his pocket. “This. Apps. Swiping and matching. Guessing if someone has a soul based on their height, or whatever.”

You snort. He’s not wrong.

You lean against the railing, since there’s no other seat, and stare into the sun that’s slowly setting. The air’s gone pink around the edges. Daylight slipping. God, you wish this was the view from your flat. You’d spend so much more time outside if it was. You let the silence sit for a moment before you speak again.

“Wouldn’t it be easier,” you say slowly, “if noone could Google each other beforehand?”

Joe turns to look at you.

“Like. Forget the curated photos. The ‘what do you do’ questions. The stalking each other’s socials– shut up, we all do that. But wouldn’t it be better if we just… met someone?”

Joe stares at you.

“No pictures,” you continue. “No bios, or prompts, or slideshows set to music. Just... vibes.” You have to laugh at your choice of words. “Vibes, but, literal in real life ones.”

He tilts his head. “You want to bring back arranged marriages?”

You kick his leg, which prompts him to try and reach for it. You’re too fast though, and he misses.

“I mean, come on. You’d probably go on better dates if someone else picked for you.”

“With respect, this sounds like a challenge.”

“It likely would’ve saved you today’s disaster, wouldn’t it?”

Joe grins, slow and bright. “Yea. Okay. Why not? Let’s switch.”

You blink a couple of times before you narrow your eyes. “Switch what?”

“Profiles.”

“What? No.”

“Yes.”

“Joe.”

“One month,” he says, suddenly sitting up. “You take over mine. I take over yours. We set each other up. Blind dates. One per week.”

“You want me to date your matches?”

“What? No, what are you even– no, we choose the matches. We pick them out for each other, set up a date, and then... we send the other person.”

You stare at him. “She was right you know. You kind of do have pisces vibes.”

“I have brilliant vibes. Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? You have another bad date? That’ll happen regardless.”

Um, full offence, what the fuck?

Joe ignores your facial expression. “I’ll run your profile. You run mine. One month. No cheating”

You look at him. His face is all casual confidence, like he’s not suggesting something completely ridiculous, yet... you can’t lie. This is not entirely unappealing.

“I don’t trust you,” you say, hoping it will stop the discussion.

“Good. Keeps things exciting.” Joe replies, keeping it going.

You chew your lip. “You’re not going to match me with every man you feel sorry for and think deserves a nice evening, are you?”

Joe lifts both hands. “I promise.”

“Because I’m not going to allow you to volunteer me into spending time with a bunch of sad losers who look like they have never touched a woman in their lifetime.”

“Deal,” Joe says, and then, before you can protest again, “But same goes for you. No choosing someone because they seem like they need therapy and you think I could help.”

You narrow your eyes. “Not my fault your vibrations are so positive.”

“Fuck off. One month.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Fine. One month. Deal.”

You shake on it. Joe’s hand is warm and dry and feels too comfortable in yours. Like this is something you’ve done a hundred times before. Like this isn’t the weirdest possible idea for two neighbours to come up with over a sunset and an empty watering can.

You don’t let yourself think about how much of your life has had Joe in it lately, and how you kind of only said yes to this stupid experiment because it means you’ll see even more of him. Not just his plants, or his balcony. Him.

You’ll think about all of that later.

Right now, he’s already pulling up his app again, whistling under his breath.

“God help the women of Raya,” you mutter.

“And the men of Hinge,” he replies cheerfully.

The experiment has begun.

It takes a minute to figure out how to actually do this, but you figure it out quick enough. When you’re all set, you clap your hands together and nod at Joe.

“Yea? Palette cleansed?”

It takes a second for Joe to understand what you mean.

“Oh, um. Yea. Thanks. And for the plants too, it all looks great, as always.”

“And it will remain that way if you stop watering them every time you get bored.” You step back into his flat to make your way back to yours. “So stop watering them every time you bored, Joe!”

Joe laughs as he watches you walk to his front door where you turn, wave and smile just before you disappear through it, and it’s funny how all of that worked out, he thinks, but… yea, his palette really has been fucking cleansed.

What a little time can do, huh.

That night, Joe dreams of a memory he didn’t know he’d kept.

It surfaces quiet and unannounced, like something waterlogged that finally floats. He’s thirteen, maybe fourteen, still gangly, still unsure in his skin. His school uniform sits stiff around the collar, cheap polyester clinging to the back of his neck. His hair’s too long at the back, and he hasn’t figured out deodorant properly yet. Everything he does feels a little bit wrong, like he’s constantly failing some test he doesn’t know the rules to.

Joe’s not unpopular, exactly, but he always thinks he isn’t the type of boy people remember. Just someone trying to be funny enough so that no one notices how often he feels invisible.

There’s a girl.

Of course there’s a girl.

Pretty in a way he doesn’t have the vocabulary for yet, and he’s definitely got a crush on her, just like everyone else in his year, he thinks. The kind of crush that doesn’t ache yet, but just softly simmers. She’s nice to him. Laughs at his jokes. Doesn't sit with him at lunch because she’s got her own cluster of girls, always tight-knit, always buzzing with secrets, but if he catches her eye across the room, she’ll smile and point a finger at him like she’s caught him staring, and it makes him blush every time.

He thinks of her as a friend, kind of. Though he’s not sure she’d say the same. They don’t really talk about anything deep. Not about parents or dreams or how sometimes he feels like he’s floating just outside the center of everything.

But sometimes they walk part of the way home together. She’ll tell him something ridiculous that happened in PE, and he’ll laugh, and they’ll part ways, and she’ll spin around with a wave and a promise of seeing him tomorrow, and he’ll pull a stupid face to make her laugh again which turns his cheeks bright pink.

He’s got a big fat crush on her. The kind that makes your chest hurt in a good way. The kind that makes you want to write her name in the margins of your homework, but he’s got no idea what to do with it.

So, he… he doesn’t really do anything.

Which, honestly, feels fine.

It feels safer.

He likes what they have, the looks across the lunchroom, the exaggerated shoulder bumps in the narrow hallways, the loud laugh when he says something dumb, followed by a teacher telling the both of them off for it.

Why risk changing any of it?

She’s not making a move either, so he tells himself that’s a sign. That this is just what it is, and that it’s good enough for him.

He tells himself that more than once.

And then, like most things, time slips by. Quietly. Carelessly. School ends. Summer ends. And then she’s just… gone.

No more lunchroom glances.

No more slow walks home.

No more excuses to make her laugh.

He doesn’t remember the last time he saw her. That’s the worst part. That time moves so fast you don’t even know when it takes something away.

In the dream, she’s still laughing. Still pointing her finger at him from a couple of tables over. And he’s still blushing. Still waving.

Still hoping.

He wakes up with the echo of it in his chest. This strange, soft ache he hadn’t realised he’d carried all this time, and he wonders, just briefly, what would’ve happened if he’d ever said anything.

If he had ever reached out his hand to hold hers.

If he’d ever told her that he liked her.

If maybe, just maybe, she might’ve said it back.

---

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add yourself

[vinecstasy]

Funfetti

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald (warfare) x fem!reader

word count: 2.3k+

summary: It’s your birthday and between having to get Waylon to soccer and then to Courtney’s— it seems like Mac’s forgotten to celebrate.

warnings: some swearing, Courtney’s a bitch again, suggestive dialogue, lots of cake

notes: Happy birthday to one of my favorite girlies @wheels-of-despair! I hope you can enjoy this as much as I did writing it lmao.

Your birthday starts, unsurprisingly, exactly like any other Saturday. It does not start with breakfast in bed or flowers or even a card. It starts with Waylon tearing through the house looking for his other cleat, and Mac— standing over the laundry basket by the door, holding up a shin guard.

“You wanna explain to me,” he calls toward the kitchen with a sigh, “why this was in the damn couch cushions, bud?”

There’s a clatter of what you can assume is toys and a faint, defensive “I don’t know!” from Waylon.

You roll over in bed, press your face into the pillow and really try not to laugh. By the time you climb out of bed and shuffle downstairs, Mac is crouched by the mudroom bench, trying to retie Waylon’s cleats for him because apparently the kid forgot how to use his own hands. Mac looks up when he sees you, and his mouth softens into that little grin you know all too well. “Hey,” he smiles. Then, once he’s done with Waylon’s cleats, he stands and wraps an arm around your shoulders. He tugs you in and kisses your temple gently, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

That’s it. There’s no big gesture. No confetti cannon. Just his hand sliding down your back when you step past him to pour your coffee. Still— that kiss was all you needed to keep your heart warm, at least for now.

But the morning doesn’t let up.

Mac’s phone goes off just as you pull on your hoodie, about to leave with your guys. So you get stuck driving Waylon to soccer practice while Mac finishes his call on the porch, gesturing wildly at whoever’s on the other end.

Soccer practice is uncharacteristically cold for July, the field is wet from the rain this past week, and it’s loud and full of other parents shouting things like “get in position!” while you sit in the car answering scheduling emails from the office and watching Waylon trot around the field like a distracted golden retriever. When you get him home, you think maybe— just maybe— you’ll get an hour to yourself. But the second you step in the door, Waylon stops short in the hallway and spins around, his eyes wide.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “Mom asked if I could switch this weekend with dad. We’re going to the beach! I forgot to ask.”

Mac, who’s sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out and an unopened beer in his hand, glances up at you, then over at Waylon. His lips twitch like he’s holding in a laugh.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say flatly.

Waylon shakes his head.

Mac sighs and sets the beer down and pushes himself up. “Alright. C’mon, we’ll run you over there. Unless you wanna pack a bag and walk, bud.”

Waylon groans again but disappears upstairs to grab his stuff.

In the car, Mac drives while you sit in the passenger seat watching the sunset through the windshield. He’s got a hand on your thigh. Waylon sits in the back, humming something that sounds like one of Mac’s old records and kicking his bag every few seconds. When you pull into Courtney’s driveway, Mac cuts the engine and leans an elbow on the steering wheel, turning slightly to face you. “You want me to go up?”

You shake your head. “Nope. I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You grab Waylon’s bag, climb out, and walk him up the short path to the door. Your routine for the last month or so. Ever since Courtney found it appropriate to comment on Mac’s appearance. 

And Courtney answers after exactly three knocks, like she was standing right there waiting on you. And of course, she looks perfect— slim little dress, her hair done, flawless lipstick. Definitely not beach ready. She takes one look at you— at your sweatshirt and your messy ponytail and your expression— and smiles. That tight, brittle smile she does. “Well,” she says, looking you up and down. “You look… comfortable.”

You frown, caught off guard for a second.

Waylon slips past her into the house with a quick, “Hi Mom!” and then disappears into the living room.

Courtney doesn’t shut the door and just leave this where it’s at. No. She just stays in the doorway, her arms folded over her belly, gaze sweeping over you like she’d like to wring you out for tracking mud onto her entryway rug.

“You didn’t pack him pajamas,” she adds pointedly.

You hold up his bag to hand over. “They’re in here.”

“Mhm.” She glances at it skeptically, then sighs and finally takes it from you. “Well. I guess this’ll do.”

You bite back about six things you could say and settle on a bland, “Thanks.”

Before you can turn to go, she steps just a few steps closer. She drops her voice so only you can hear, undoubtedly not wanting to disturb Waylon or that new stuck up mop of blonde curls sitting on her couch. “You know,” she says, still wearing that faux-sweet smile Mac never fails to mention that he hates, “he really does do better when he sticks to a schedule. Not… whatever all this running-around you two are doing with him is.”

You stare at her for half a second before answering, voice level, trying not to lose your cool. “He’s fine, Courtney. I think we know him pretty well.”

“Mhm,” she says again, like she knows him better. Even if she only has him two fucking weekends a month. Then she glances over her shoulder toward the living room and chirps, “Way, say goodnight to—” She hesitates, her eyes flicking back to you before finishing with, “—dad!”

You bite the inside of your cheek and step off the stoop before you say anything that would make Mac proud in entirely the wrong way.

When you climb back in the truck, Mac looks up from his phone, one brow raised. “You were gone a while,” he drawls.

You shut the door and let out a long breath. “She’s a delight,” You rub over your face and just lean back in your seat.

That earns you a laugh. “Did she give you the ‘he needs a schedule’ speech?” Mac asks as he eases the car into reverse. One of his hands is placed on the passenger seat as he twists to look out the rear window. 

“She did.”

“She give you the ‘you look comfortable’ line?”

“She did.”

He shakes his head as he backs out of the driveway. And by the time you get home, you feel absolutely wrung out.

You still have dishes to finish from breakfast, and there’s so much laundry to fold, and Mac disappears for a little while into the garage to fix something or other while you stand at the sink and let the water run hot over your hands. When you finally shower and crawl into bed, you feel the weight of the day— Courtney’s pointed looks, soccer field wind, the dull ache in your back— they all settle heavily over you.

Mac stays downstairs for a while. The faint hum of the TV drifts up through the floor. You’re just starting to doze when the door creaks open. You roll over groggily and squint.

And there he is— Mac, your beloved boyfriend— standing in the doorway wearing his favorite red plaid pajama pants and that faded old Marine Corps T-shirt that’s definitely seen better days, and he’s holding two plates of Funfetti cake in his hands.

You rub your eyes a bit, blinking as you sit up.

He grins like he’s been caught red-handed. “What?”

“…What is this?”

“What’s it look like?” he smiles, crossing the room. He steps over a laundry basket at the end of the bed and sits on the edge. “Birthday cake. Don’t make me sing.”

You take the plate he hands you slowly, still watching him. But there’s a smile growing on your face.

He sets his own plate to the side and peels off his socks. Then he climbs in bed beside you cross-legged, grabs his plate and digs right in. “You thought I forgot,” he says through a mouthful of frosting.

“You… looked like you might’ve.”

“Nope.” Another bite. “Planned this all along. Tactical Funfetti delivery. Best in the business.”

You can’t help but laugh, and something in your chest finally loosens up. The cake is sweet and soft and absurdly good for something you can assume is from the grocery store. Mac eats like he hasn’t seen food all day, crumbs already clinging to his mustache and a streak of frosting on his knuckle.

“You—” you start, pointing at his face.

“I know,” he interrupts, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Don’t really care. Worth it.”

When you set your plate down to sip your water, he steals a bite of your slice.

“Mac!”

“What?” he says, feigning innocence. His hands up in mock surrender. “Yours tastes so much better.”

You both laugh until your sides ache. When the plates are empty, he sets them on the floor beside your bed and flops back against the mattress with a satisfied groan.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he mumbles after a bit of silence— holding his arm open to let you get comfortable against him. “Even if I didn’t get to watch you square off with Courtney tonight. You definitely handled it better than I would’ve.”

You roll onto your side and rest your head on his chest, smiling against his shirt. “She’s so impossible, I don’t understand how you were married.” you mumble, letting your eyes flutter closed for a few moments.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “But you’re better than her. And she knows it. S’why she acts like that.” His hand runs up and down your arm oh-so-gently before he starts to fidget beneath you. At first it seems innocent— just him shifting to get comfortable— but then his hand lands squarely on your ass. Not casually. Not accidentally. Definitely on purpose.

You lift your head to give him a look.

“What are you doing?”.

He flashes you that crooked, boyish grin that always has you weak in the knees. “Me?” he says innocently. His palm warm as he gives you a little squeeze. “Just… makin’ sure my birthday girl’s still alive after the absolutely brutal day she had. Just lookin’ for a pulse.”

You snort. “Pretty sure you don’t check a pulse there.”

“Shows what you know,” he laughs, already moving his hand up to the waistband of your pajama pants. He tugs very lightly, testing how far you’ll let him tease you.

You arch a brow at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet—” he drops his voice low, intimate for the two of you, and then he leans down so his mustache grazes your jaw in that way that always makes your skin twitch—  “here you are. In bed. With me. So who’s the real fool here?”

You shove at his shoulder lightly, but he just laughs and rolls onto his side to face you fully. One big hand slides over your stomach, under the hem of your shirt, and rests on your boob like he owns everything under the fabric of your clothes. “Y’know,” he murmurs, running his thumb lazily across the swell of your breast, “it’d be a real shame to let all these birthday crumbs go to waste.”

You just look at him, confused. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says solemnly, though the sparkle in his eye gives him away. He presses a kiss under your jaw, “we could just… roll around in ‘em a little. Make some new memories in the Funfetti battlefield.”

You choke on a laugh. “You’re actually the worst.”

“The worst you’ve got,” he corrects cheerfully, nudging you flat on your back and propping himself up on one elbow over you. He leans down and runs his mustache deliberately along your neck, humming thoughtfully as you giggle and squirm. “Mmm,” he hums against your throat. “Frosting. Still smell it on you. This is a problem. Gonna have to take care of it.”

You can’t help laughing even as you squirm away from his ticklish kisses. “Stop,” you giggle, swatting at him half-heartedly.

“Stop?” he echoes, “Stop? Sweetheart, it’s your birthday. You earned this harassment.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, still grinning wide. “You call this harassment?”

“Oh, it’s about to be,” he promises, already slipping his hand down from your chest to your thigh and giving it a firm little squeeze as he pulls it up around his waist. “We’re talkin’… Grade-A, Marine-issued, birthday-level harassment. You’re gonna have to file paperwork about it in the morning.”

You laugh so hard at that you almost forget to stop him when he starts easing his fingers under the waistband of your pajamas for real this time.

“You’re out of control,” you manage between giggles, finally relaxing back against your pillows.

“Oh yeah,” he agrees happily, kissing your jaw again and again. “Completely feral. Somebody’s gotta keep the morale up around here.” And then he pulls back just long enough to give you a completely straight-faced, ridiculous suggestion. “Tell ya what,” he hums softly, like he’s pretending to think about whatever ridiculous idea is about to leave his mouth. “You lie real still… I’ll eat the rest of the cake crumbs off you. Sound good?”

You slap a hand over your face, laughing into your palm while he grins triumphantly. When you peek out at him from between your fingers, his cheeks are flushed red, his eyes gleaming the prettiest brown you’ve ever seen, and there’s still one lonely little sprinkle stuck in his mustache, which somehow makes him look even more incorrigible.

“Mac,” you groan, still laughing, “you’re truly unbelievable.”

“Mm. You keep saying that,” he chuckles as he finally leans down to kiss you properly. The kiss is slow and lingering and full of that ridiculous affection that always catches you off guard. “But you don’t exactly sound mad about it.”

And when his hand slides fully under your pajama waistband and his teeth graze your jaw, you’re forced to admit— silently and rather breathlessly— that you really, really aren’t mad at all.

tags ;; @dancininseptember @robinbuckleywife @kripkie101-blog @bradleybeachbabe @vinecstasy @thejordiverse @preciouslosers @keeryhours

[vinecstasy]

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warfare ⋮ sam x f!reader ⋮ pure smut ˖𖥔 ݁˖

𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐲, 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐦

lazy morning sex, creampie, cuddles

the early morning sun had just begun seeping in through the blinds, casting soft warm stripes across the sheets. you lay curled on your side, feet tangled under the covers, sam’s chest flush against your back.

his skin was warm against yours, his arm draped loosely around your waist. you could feel the slow thump of his heartbeat against your back, and lower his morning wood pressed firm against your ass, thick and hard even through the thin fabric of your panties. you shifted slightly, just enough to tease. you didn’t have to look to know he was awake, you felt it in the slight hitch of his breath each time your hips shifted, your thighs brushing his under the covers, your cotton panties barely holding back the mess already between your legs. his fingers on your breast gave a gentle squeeze through the soft tank, thumb circling, teasing the puffy nipple beneath the thin fabric, and his cock thick, trapped in his boxers, pressed harder to the swell of your ass

“you awake?” he mumbled

“mmh” you hummed as your hips rolled backward just a little more now, grinding up against his bulge, dragging a low curse from his throat. his arm tightened around your waist

“you doin’ that on purpose?” his voice was low

you didn’t answer with words, just wiggled your ass against him again, and this time his hips bucked. not much, he was trying to be good but enough for you to feel him slide right along your soaked panty line, the head catching between your ass for just a second. you bit your lip, eyes still closed, but your body betraying you as you arched your back, with that slight whine that slipped out

“let me see you” he murmured, you turned your head lazily, slow enough for the edge of your cheek to nuzzle the pillow, your eyes meeting his, half lidded, lips pouty from sleep, a smear of drool caught at the corner of your mouth. messy, perfect, his favorite.

his thumb brushed gently across your lip, catching that little smear of drool. his smile was slow and full of tease when he whispered “good morning”

your lips curled. not even a full smile just that sleepy twitch tugging at the corners

he leaned in till his nose grazed yours, his breath ghosting over your mouth before he kissed you, lips parting just enough to feel your breath mingle with his. your thigh shifted, brushing up the bulge of his cock still hard, and he sighed against your lips

“going to take care of me, baby?” he asked, his forehead resting against yours

you blinked slowly at him, mouth brushing his “always do sammy.”

his grin spread without shame. stupid, wide, all teeth

he slowly pushed your tank up higher, exposing your chest to the cool morning air. his hand slipped beneath, cupping your breast fully “fuck, baby… look at you” he murmured, thumb brushing slow across your nipple until it hardened, then giving it a pinch that made your hips jerk

you could feel him smiling behind you, all warm and smug and still so fucking hard. the arm around your waist slid lower, past your belly, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. your thighs tensed and parted for him. he chuckled soft at the warmth and slick he felt there

“wet already?” he whispered, his fingers dipping down, middle knuckle brushing your clit lightly

“been hard on me” you murmured “pressing up on me all morning…”

his cock twitched against you

“you like it?” he whispered, fingers stroking you now, slow and lazy. he slid them back, found your entrance, already wet and rubbed slow little circles around it

“sam” you breathed, he nuzzled your neck, kissed just under your ear. “let me fuck you right here” he said against your skin “slow, deep. the way you like.”

you nodded before he even finished. his hand drifted up your thigh, gripping just under your ass to pull your leg higher over his hip, spreading you open for him

“fuck I love you like this.” he murmured, nuzzling your temple “all ready to make me feel good before we even get outta bed.”

you giggled against his cheek, shifting so your hips pressed more firmly against his, and he hissed through his teeth, rocking against you, letting his bulge grind against you through the thin fabric of your panties.

his hand slid to cup your jaw as he kissed you again, deeper now, more tongue, earning a low groan in his throat when he felt your hips meet his with a slow needy grind

“let’s move these aside, yeah?” he said warm against your ear

you nodded, too blissed out to say much, letting him handle it all. he kissed your cheek as he shifted, one arm slipping beneath your thigh, lifting it, your leg bent and draped over his, exposing you completely. his other hand warm beside your waist as he leaned just far enough to reach down between your thighs. his fingers hooked the damp middle of your panties, tugging the fabric aside

“fuck” he whispered, eyes flicking down to watch the way you glistened “you’re wet, baby…”

you just bit your lip, shifting slightly. then your hand reached back slowly, dragging your fingertips down his stomach until you found the waistband of his boxers. you curled your fingers and tugged, tugged until the elastic gave and he helped you, lifting his hips just enough for them to slide down past his thighs. enough for his cock to spring free, slapping against your thigh with a wet thwack

you moaned just from that, arching for him

“atta girl” he murmured, that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. his cock twitched against your leg, hard and leaking already, and the sight of you spread open for him like that. panties pulled aside, lip between your teeth, your hand still resting where you’d tugged him free damn near could make him cum.

“you want it?” he asked softly, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, the pressure making both of you groan. he kept your leg up, high and wide, thumb pressing into your thigh while he rutted slow between your pussy, not quite pushing in, just teasing, letting the tip bump your clit and smear his precum over your folds

your breath caught. your hips rocked forward and back on instinct “want it so bad” you whispered

he kissed your shoulder “mmfuck, look at this pussy” he muttered, lining himself up, dragging the head through your pussy once more “needy little thing.”

you buried your face in the pillow as he pushed in, inch by inch, his hips flush to your ass, cock buried deep in your pussy. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back onto him just to hear the wet filthy sound of him bottoming out, and your mouth opened in a breathless “ahh, fuck Sam”

“yeah?” he thrust slow and deep “that what you wanted? waking me up like that? grinding that sweet little ass on my cock. beggin’ without saying a word?”

you gasped, moaning into the sheets as his hips rocked again, slow pull out, full push in, again and again till your toes were curling

“uh-huh.wanted it so bad” you choked out “couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

he groaned, fucking you a little harder now. the bed creaked, your thighs shook, you clenched around him and he hissed, his grip tightening on your leg

he fucked you slow and deep, dragging every inch of his cock through your wet, tight pussy, hips thrusting in a lazy rhythm that never stopped, like he had all the time in the world to stay buried inside you. the wet slap of skin on skin was muffled by the creak of the bed, your panting breath, and the low groans that came out of sam as he buried his face in your shoulder

he kissed along your neck, your back, soft warm presses of lips between moans, breathing you in like he couldn’t get enough. every time you clenched around him, his cock twitched and his hips bucked a little deeper

“fuck” he groaned, voice full of sleep “feel so fuckin’ good baby…”

your moans got higher, breathier, every thrust pushing you closer, your body arching back into him, hips rolling to meet his rhythm. you reached back without thinking, your hand finding his cheek, as you turned your head, needing him close. he nuzzled into your temple with a kiss, still moving inside you, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him

“letting me use this pretty little pussy first thing in the morning” he mumbled against your skin

you nodded with a little whimper, too fucked out to give him more than that, your pussy clenching around him “sam, im close” you whispered

“me too baby” he panted, fucking you just a little faster now, losing the rhythm “where you want it?”

you turned your head and caught his mouth, whining into his lips “in me, in me sam.”

he clicked his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head just a little like he couldn’t believe you. “messy girl” he muttered, voice hoarse, but god he loved it, loved you like this, all soft and sweet, desperate around his cock

his thrusts lost all rhythm after that, just rough, deep, and then with a groan muffled into your shoulder, his hips slammed flush to yours, cock twitching as he came inside you, warm and thick and so much it made you whine louder, your whole body clenching tight around him as you finished too. your pussy spasmed around his cock, milking out every drop as his arms locked around you and held you there, stuffed full and shaking

“fuck baby…” he breathed, still twitching deep inside you, his forehead resting on your back. “that’s the best goddamn way to start a day.”

he pulled out slow, thick cock dragging against your still clenching walls until the tip finally slipped free with a wet pop, the sudden emptiness making you exhale. a sticky string of cum clung from his flushed tip back to your pussy, the mess already starting to trail down your thigh. he watched it for a second, hand still on your leg, then gently let it go, your thigh falling limp to the mattress with a little tremble

you were breathing hard, chest rising and falling quick, forehead damp, lips parted as you lay there, dazed and fucked in the best way. he leaned over you, the warmth of him comforting as he pulled you into his arms

“clean you up later” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. his voice was warm, quiet, and exhausted. he always cleaned you up, never forgot. but right now, he just wanted you in his arms

“let me hold you right now” he whispered, his arms wrapping snug around your waist as he tugged you against his chest, your back fitting perfectly into him, his cock still sticky and half-hard against the curve of your ass. he kissed your shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into your thigh

“you were so good baby” he murmured into your hair “felt so fuckin’ perfect…”

your body softened completely in his hold, his breath brushing your temple. you yawned, your eyes already slipping closed as the warmth, the fullness, the way he held you lulled you into sleep

“sleep sam…” you mumbled

“okay, baby.” he whispered, one more kiss pressed to your head, his voice even softer now. his arms tightened just a little more around you. and then he let himself drift into sleep, holding you. both of you fucked out, messy and warm.

need dat morning wood… 😩

@evelinapurmale @gaebestie @roostersluvvr @https-junebug @ilovecheriies @sharpayslilo @iron-rot @cosmosbabydoll @joelmeller @willowpains @violetcamryn @meetmeatyourworst @f4nfic-lover @k-ilisi @iheartgrayson @glassbxttless @gallaghrh @samslvrgirl @vinecstasy @illyrianbrat @livelaughl0ve3 @eddiemunsonsbabygirl @babble28

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

[vinecstasy]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭 • 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚, 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥-𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐧-𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥, 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧- 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐞. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞-𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬, 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐢𝐠. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬, 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒. 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒. 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐏. 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.

part one / part two / part three / part four

Brenda’s hands rose from around her mouth, her stubby hands lifting over her head to clap obnoxiously, though they were soundless in the atmosphere of the frat party. She had caught up, you’d paused for a moment too long- she was here. 

Art glanced down, and your hand was already in his, thoughtlessly. For comfort. To brace him, even if he could handle this, whatever she was doing or about to do. He couldn’t help the breath that slipped between his lips, a huff. He was still weighing the possibility of you being a guardian angel, this was only further confirmation.

But even with the atmosphere and the moment that had just passed, you and Art shared the very same sinking feeling. 

Patrick’s timing was just right as he emerged from the crowd, grabbing Art’s shoulder to brace his best friend too, but his eyes caught Brenda as well. She’d beat Patrick to Art. It was just about the same moment Pierre came looking for you. He’d heard enough about Brenda the past week to know that the sight of her here wasn’t good, catching his own glimpses and following to the source. Both Patrick and Pierre had been in their own races to find you and Art. 

You blinked, shaking your head and turning to pull Art back into the crowd and away, but the music switched off abruptly, just before the chorus. It caught just about everyone off guard, causing a sea of protests and groans about the lack of song. Nobody would think to connect it to Brenda, but as if she wanted everyone on campus to hate her, too, she started climbing on a counter, claiming the silence as her fault almost proudly. Art felt the blood drain from his face, no doubt sinking down to his feet the way all his organs already had.

Brenda’s dark eyes were settled on you before she smirked. She looked around, a room full of eyes on her now. 

 “Where’s the music?!” One guy yelled, followed by a few shouts of the same nature and small yelps and howls, expected from a frat atmosphere. Conversation stayed loud, but attention seemed to be on her for the most part. 

“Let’s go,” Art said, squeezing your hand in his, and you started off again, when she shrieked out, genuinely, in front of everyone. 

“No! No- No, Art- stop!” It was almost a whine, but the second his eyes were back on her, her face reverted right back to that evil smirk. It genuinely startled the both of you to hear her like that. At least she sounded a little crazy. 

“That’s enough,” Patrick said, voice low. “Get down, you’re fucking embarrassing yourself.”

Brenda looked down at him and scoffed, then swung her arm up like the newspaper boys in Newsies, probably trying to engage the audience of drunk, high, and nicotine-buzzed college students. You pressed your free hand to your temple. Art’s hand left your other, rising to fall on the back of your upper arm, near your elbow. A millisecond of an action somehow felt like an entire moment, your heart still thudding, your eyes still imprecise under the influence. 

“Yeah, we all know it’s fake!” Brenda cawed, bending slightly at the waist, fists curled into balls at her sides. Like a toddler. Your heart punched your ribs. “Yeah, everyone knows it now!” 

How?

“What are you even talking about?” Art replied, already fed up, not sober enough to keep fully composed. He was one of the most gracious people you knew; the fact that he was speaking up instead of ignoring her meant that he was near his wits’ end. You couldn’t blame him.

 The crowd buzzed, looking at each other, some not paying any attention, casual, slurred shouts asking for the music back being thrown from every direction. You locked eyes with Pierre, who was in the midst of giving Brenda his dirtiest look. 

“You know exactly what, Artie!” She said, an obvious attempt at niceness, but it came off like sneering. She then turned to the crowd. “If you guys didn’t know, Y/N here and Art Donaldson, star tennis player and graduate of Mark Reballato’s Tennis Academy, with glowing English grades, are NOT dating. But most of them know,” She said confidently, loudly, to everyone who was paying attention, which was more and more people the louder she got. 

You winced. There were so many things wrong with what she had just said, so much in it to unpack. What the fuck? What the fuck. 

“Can you get down?” You asked, blinking. “We can talk outside.” 

“No! I want everyone to know how pathetic you are!” She snapped back without hesitation. At you. Your blinked turned hard in disbelief. What? “I told everyone! Everyone you know! And for everyone here, you know this girl right here-” She gestured massively toward you, and Patrick sidestepped right in front of you before anyone’s head turned. You appreciated the gesture and what it did momentarily, but you patted him on the shoulder and faced Brenda yourself again, trying to keep your breath normal. This couldn’t actually be happening. More eyes fell on Brenda by the second. “She’s not his girlfriend! In fact, she’s not anyone’s girlfriend, never has been in her life.” 

“Brenda, will you shut the fuck up?” Patrick shot back. “How many men have wanted to date you in your lifetime? Fuck- Sorry- Who in your life besides your uncle has wanted to date you in your lifetime?” 

The crowd, now engaged almost entirely, let out a matching ‘Ooo’. Brenda looked a little taken aback, scared, like she’d been jumped at. It was a genius line, you had to admit, but it brought in the attention of even the wallflowers. A little help thrown your way, enough to let you take a full breath in. 

Art looked at you, watching your expression, his hand still on the back of your arm, but of course, Brenda pulled their attention back. 

“Says the guy dumped by Tashi Duncan.” 

Another ‘Ooo’, undeserved. Patrick just laughed with a tone that both you and Art recognized, “Okay, Brenda, why don’t you just-” Art reached out and patted Patrick on the back this time. Patrick nodded, admitting he was probably just adding to the situation. He tapped out, heading a direction to make use of himself.

“Now that everyone is paying attention! Y/N isn’t his girlfriend! It’s fake, she asked him to do it!  A total charity case.” She spouted it like it was scary to speak of. She was so fucking strange. And she was lying. This was bad. 

People still shouted for the music back. Some people were leaving, but most were locked on her. Your cheeks and nose, already pink, were probably closer to red. “How pathetic! And I need all of you to know she set this up, but I can’t even blame her. Imagine being twenty-two and never being asked out.” 

You bit your cheek, eyes narrowing, “Can you stop?” 

“No,” she quipped, then spoke to everyone again. “She faked photos, hand-holding, dinners, all to seem like… Someone would want her. Because nobody actually does. And I told your friends at your little book club, and all your friends at the paper know you’re a filthy, pathological liar and an attention seeker. Also, were you aware of the gossip column your paper has? Yeah, the whole thing is set to be published Monday! Anonymous tip.” 

“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” Art stepped in. You looked over at him, breathing out a little shakily, your eyes welling up from the heat in your face. His jaw flexed. “You know none of this is true.”

She softened, like his words were a slap to the face. “... Quit the act, Art, we all know.” 

“Know what?” 

She scrambled to keep her tone nice, altering it so it sounded more feminine when just a moment ago, her voice had been the same, scratchy, annoying sound it always was. “That you’re doing her this favour! You’re so nice, Art, of course you’d do this, but it’s a lie, and everyone needs to know that you’re actually single! God, nobody would ever believe that she could have a guy like you, all the girls she knows told me they were surprised she even had a boyfriend.” Her words hit you now. People were mumbling, looking at you. “Yeah, everyone, look at her and tell me if she looks like she could have him on her own. Please, she’s been obsessed with him since high school. She reads romance novels, she’s literally making him into her real-life fan fiction. Like she could have Art Donaldson.” 

A few people protested at that, booing her, but others laughed. You felt very cold, despite your body burning under an intense flush. “Haven’t you said enough? Done enough, Brenda? What’s your fucking problem-” Art started, frustrated. Brenda was right about everything being fake, but to turn it on you, it was crossing a line he wouldn’t let anyone cross. 

Your throat felt thick and dry, like it was stuffed with cotton. She was partly right, which was more humiliating than most things. You and Art were just friends, no matter what feelings had started to creep up on you around him lately. Nothing was different for him, he did not want you. Her words began to sink into your skin like a slow branding. 

 She looked through him at you, “Does he make you feel pretty for once in your life? Like an accessory? You’re a pathological liar and manipulator! He is not a toy! She’s treating him like a toy, people.” She gestured again. “He flirts with everyone, you aren’t special.” 

Her words stung, admittedly. “Brenda, stop,” you managed. Art moved in front of you this time, his arm behind him, his hand still gently holding your elbow. “Please.”

 You could be angry later, but you just wanted her to stop. Everything was wrong, this felt so unreal. She was broadcasting private insecurities like she knew you personally, twisting everything for her narrative: You, lonely, manipulating your friend into making you look desirable? What was her angle? How would this benefit anyone? 

“You need to stop,” Art told her, getting just the slightest bit closer to where she was standing, still touching you, but now only his fingertips against your skin. You wished you were more sober. You wished this wasn’t happening, this nightmare, this party. “You don’t know what you’re-”

“You don’t even want her!”

“Why the fuck are you speaking for me?” He bit back. Sharpest you’d heard him speak to anyone… ever. His mind raced, bouncing in every direction. He wasn’t good at this; he was best at being bitter quietly, keeping his peace and others. It had just been enough, all of this was far too much; she had pushed this whole thing much too far. 

When his tone changed, she scrambled again, but her words, though falsely sweetened, were still an insult. People were gossiping around the room, laughing, pointing, and staring. At you, at her, you spotted some girls from the paper who you didn’t know were attending,  looking at you sideways, her eyes reading ‘convinced’. There was no way. People were believing her. 

Art caught that too, hearing amongst the crowd,

“Yeah, I kinda see it-” 

“Twenty-two and never been asked-” 

“Total Mary.” 

“Kinda seemed fake-” 

The energy climbed, Brenda’s disturbing expression getting brighter as she heard the mumbling. She must have felt like she was rallying the people, like she was important up there, but you just stared at her with a fire in your eyes that wasn’t dying, even as your tears flooded them. Everyone who knew you knew? And everyone who didn’t know you now knew you as the girl fake-dating for attention? This was humiliating- you found yourself wanting to hide, run, or both. You’d be grateful if your body somehow managed to burst into a cloud of ash.

“Yeah, isn’t it so embarrassing?” She called out, beaming. 

“Brenda, shut the fuck up!” Pierre hollered. “Nobody likes you!”

Lionel echoed, “Yeah, be quiet, bitch!” 

Art’s eyes darted around the room, trying to sober himself a little more to figure out what to do. It seemed like an impossible position. People had begun laughing louder, more freely, eating the whole situation up like it was entertainment. Fuck all of this, Fuck Brenda, fuck it all. His gaze fell on you, focused on you. You’d been doing all of this to protect him, he wanted to say that and tell everyone, but the crowd was getting louder, and Brenda was barely able to speak over them now.  How could he save this, save you? 

Patrick was telling the truth, saying it how it was, saying it directly to drunk brothers, asking them to remove her, but they really couldn’t care less. They were finding it funny, slurring, asking him about his part in the whole thing. 

Pierre kept yelling things about her outfit and how rude she was. Lionel kept echoing. Art glared at Brenda, “Can you just stop? Can you just call it off? The fuck do you want? Really?” He asked almost desperately. Laughter, eyes on you, questions thrown a million ways. 

She ignored him this time. “Everyone!” Brenda hollered, stomping and clapping over her head to try and contain the mass of the party. It was loud, hollering, protesting, laughing, pointing, and gossiping. “EVERYONE!” She hollered, ignoring Art. “Attention! ATTENTION!” 

A hot tear fell down your cheek and dripped off your jaw, having bubbled over just once, despite how hard you fought it. This wasn’t real, the room was spinning again and not in any way you could control or understand. You prayed that somehow you could magically be sober, at home in bed, safe from this. Patrick yelled at the frat guy to turn the music back on, so that whatever Brenda said next wasn’t heard. Booing, insults, sick, loud laughter. It all felt so cruel and unreal. She looked at you, eyes dark and brooding and evil. 

“You’re gonna pay.” She mouthed. You could see it as clear as day, she looked dumb, sounding it out. 

“Can you-” Art, a kind, adult man, could not reasonably beg Brenda anymore. It was exasperating, he didn’t know what to do except walk away now. None of this was fair. This was the most insane plot, the worst place to do this, and it was so undeserved. For you, for him. All this stalking, brooding, rumours, lies, just because he flirted to lighten the mood for a moment. Brenda formed some parasocial bond, and she would do anything for him but back off of you, apparently. He ran a hand through his hair. 

You touched his arm and he turned to look at you, eyes apologetic and his eyebrows knit. It seemed this was it, Brenda had won, and there was nothing more to say. You didn’t deserve this, any of this, you’d done all of this for him. To… save him. And it didn’t work, but you showed up every time he needed you. Months of this. And this was how it all came to a head? He couldn’t stand to see you this publicly humiliated, this mischaracterized.

These people were deciding they knew who you were just off of Brenda’s lies. They didn’t know anything about the classic books you loved, your fondness for dim lighting, and rainy days. They didn’t know how kind you were or how funny you were, sometimes he swore even Patrick didn’t find you as funny as he did. You went out of your way for him, found a way to balance helping him with all of your responsibilities- Nobody here knew how hard-working you were and that you were almost at the top of the chain at the school paper. Or that without the makeup or these lights that your eyes are actually very bright. He was also well aware that he wasn’t the only person who had called you pretty tonight. He also knew he wasn’t the only one who thought you looked really beautiful, even right now.

He didn’t know what to do. His stomach was twisting, hear racing, his jaw tense, looking at you. Your eyes urged him away from the crowd. Patrick was still shouting for the music from the frat boy DJ,  the guy in the Pikachu costume was laughing loudly, and Brenda was still stomping and yelling for attention again. “ATTENTION!” 

She collected it then, stomping and clapping so hard she almost slipped, which would have been funny if it didn’t get her the near-silence she wanted again. Your heart leapt into your throat, Art’s hand jumping from fingertips on your arm to a rest almost protectively on the small of your back. Reflex. Or…

 He blinked, remembering how drunk he was. 

You were done, you decided. Had enough, feeling defeated, silenced, reputation ruined, humiliated. If you weren’t alone before, you would be now. Not that any of these people’s opinions really mattered, but this twisted view would take so much work or impact to undo, it would never happen. You were going to be stuck this way forever. You graduated soon enough, you figured, mind drunkenly trying to grasp a sober reality. 

Pre-emptively, Art began to pull you from all this, but Brenda shrieked the same attention-stealing shriek, “No!” Her eyes seemed to pop from her head a little. “I’m not done!” The shrillness of her voice hurt your eardrums. The pace of her voice began to pick up, “She begged him to be her first, okay? Do you guys know that? She begged him to take her virginity like it was some kind of deal, but he could never want her!” 

“The fuck?” And “OH!” Came from the crowd. Slight gasps, hushed laughter.  You could faintly hear Pierre start angriy going off, even though he was right beside you on your other side. You were suddenly very dizzy. Art’s hand on your back seemed to be the only thing to ground you. You swore your vision went in and out a few times. 

Brenda’s pace sped even further as she began to lose their attention to her latest phrase. The lie circulated so quickly, she had to speak above it, starting to ramble. “That’s what this is! A performance, an embarrassing one from an embarrassing, lonely, ugly, homely little nerd!” She spat, face rapidly growing red. She was starting to really slip. Her words came sharp, like pellets, rambled out, stumbled over. Your breath was caught. You couldn’t breathe. “Charity, taking advantage of my Art! My, MY Art.” She raved. She looked like a cartoon lunatic. 

“Stop!” Art shouted, trying. Trying. Brenda was beyond containment. He could see that Patrick was almost at the DJ booth and silently prayed for any music at all. Any song. It would be his favourite song for the rest of his fucking life. His heart and yours pounded equally as hard, equally as frantically. You breathed out hard. 

 The room seemed to shift in the atmosphere, the tension rose like a buzzing energy, thick and pressing. Discomfort crossed most of the intoxicated faces. 

She was barking now, spitting as if she was foaming, “You’re mine! My- She’s nothing! I’ve seen her without makeup, she’s ugly! Ugly! She’s not as interesting as me, or- She’s not his girlfriend, it’s FAKE!” 

Art kept telling her to stop. He looked around at all the eyes on Brenda,  all of them hearing her crashing down, burning, all still laughing, still somehow unsure of what to believe. His hand gently rose to the back of your arm again.

 “He doesn’t want her, look at her! Look at her, everyone!” 

Art didn’t say ‘stop’ again, or yell, or curse Brenda out. He could have gotten up there and tried to clear it up, or he could have made up his decision to leave with you, head back to his dorm and get sober and talk this out, deal with it later. You could see his expression as his eyes darted around desperately, jaw still tense. The DJ, Patrick, the Pikachu costume, the speakers, the exit, looking for some way out. His eyes then settled on you, something else shifting. 

It was only a millisecond of a beat. Everyone in this room was blindly believing words. That’s all they were. Word of mouth, hearsay, bullshit. At the basis, it was only words, and words only go so far. Brenda was spiralling, begging them to look at you, but he already was. They were only words. 

His gaze stayed on you for that beat, his expression one you’d only seen once from him. It wasn’t recognizable or understandable, the way his eyelashes fluttered the way they did.

 Was he close, or were you drunk? 

His breath settled just slightly, low, like it was collected in his stomach. Time seemed to resume. All of the drama-hungry, curious eyes Brenda had ordered to look at you now fell on you in unison. 

Your breath caught, just barely, when his foot stepped between yours, anchoring the space that used to exist between you. His hand rose from your back to cup your jaw, and just before he kissed you, his expression faltered, eyebrows knit- like an explanation was on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth found yours first.

And he did kiss you. 

It was like the wind had been knocked out of you, stumbling back just one step with the force he kissed you with. You swore your heart stopped and restarted in that split second, your own hands instinctively coming up to the back of his neck, bracing in return. 

His other hand found your waist again, and suddenly, every spontaneous kiss in any book you’d ever read made perfect, blinding sense. 

You faltered only for the first second, but like anything, your senses took over. His lips were urgent, almost, but no tongue, just a perfectly lined kiss, a perfectly timed execution, the hand on your waist wrapping around you to keep you as close as possible. Those hungry sparks began to crawl up your skin despite your nervousness, despite the roar of the crowd that was laughing and pointing at Brenda while Art proved her wrong. 

He kissed you like you’d never been kissed, with a passion and a push. It was more intoxicating than any drink you’d downed tonight, more dizzying than any amount of anything anyone was on at this party. Nothing in your life had ever been so terrifying and perfect at the same time. It had caught you off guard, first that he kissed you, and second, that he continued. 

Only a moment more, which he hadn’t meant and you hadn’t expected, careful, not rushed, not anything but happening. Your hand now against his chest, his now on your neck…

  It was easy, mutual, when he pulled away, slower than he intended to, admittedly. His breath was still caught, his eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes, and his eyebrows twitched as something half-registered. 

The people erupting and cawing over the kiss were suddenly drowned out as the music came back on. Patrick must have gotten it under control. It drowned out Brenda, who, despite now throwing a fit, had lost all of her power. 

You didn’t look away from Art, trying to read his mind or something, your cheeks growing hot. His lips were still pursed from the kiss, like he was taken aback or confused by his own action. You only noticed that his hand remained when the moment settled in. He kissed you. He kissed you. 

You moved yourself so his hands lost their place on you, blinking hard. You were both still drunk. This wasn’t- This- “I’m getting air,” you breathed. It seemed to snap him out of whatever his internal monologue was, but you couldn’t wait for anything; you needed to get as far from this party as possible. So you turned and pushed through, not caring about anything other than finding the door. 

You made your way out into the cold of the evening. It stung your arms just gently, grounding you in the reality of everything that had just happened. Your fingers pressed to the plush of to your lips as you got as far as you could, crossing the people-littered lawn, the sidewalk, the street, grateful the ground was no longer moving. 

‘Never’ had kissed you on the lips. Art, your best friend of… years and years and years. You could barely think the whole thing over, your mind starting at places and jumping right back to the kiss. How good it was, how it felt, and how you could somehow still feel it. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this or even at all, he wouldn’t want you, Brenda was probably- 

“Hey, are you okay?” Art asked as you walked onto the field across the street. He followed. Something in you burned hot still. Embarrassment? Need to escape? 

Feelings, horrible and singular and so overwhelming. 

You didn’t want to turn or engage in anything. Your only wish right now was to find some way to sort all of this out in your head, at least. “Y/N,” 

You could barely find it in you to stop or even face him. Your heart hammered so fast it felt like there wasn’t even a pulse, just a constant, vibrating heartbeat. He was feeling the same way. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “Are you okay?”  He breathed out a little bit shakily, like he still hadn’t caught his breath since the kiss itself. “I know what I did was sudden, I-”

You weren’t sure what to say- Just- How could this happen like this? How did you end up here, at a party- and then out here not even three minutes post-kiss? It was so much, too much.

 You pressed your palm to your temple- angry, upset, frazzled. You didn’t mean to show it on your face. Art wasn’t sure why the expression rattled him so much; maybe it was just that he could translate your emotions no matter what state he was in. “You’re upset,” he surmised. He knew it, too, who wouldn’t be? But the way he summarized it was that you were upset with him. 

“I’m not,” you said, a little too sharply. Overwhelmed. 

“No? You’re just fleeing the scene?” 

“Getting air,” you breathed, folding your arms, then immediately unfolding them, feeling too confined. The breeze blew your hair around gently. He just looked at you, trying to decode the tells that told him you were cross. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Came from you to contradict, confusing him more. 

He nodded. “Okay,” he paused, hands in his pockets. Your chest felt tight and your hands shaky, but you kept trying to get your head around this. “I feel like I should be apologizing, but what was so- What’s making you so angry?” 

You shook your head quickly, “No, you don’t have to apologize.”

“Yeah, but-” he pulled his left hand out of his pocket to gesture vaguely. “You’re doing all of the things you do when you’re upset. So I know it, even if you’re not saying it. You’re doing the thing- the quiet thing.” 

Your mind raced over everything about him. Hands, gestures, his nose, eyes, smile that wasn’t currently present. The book he bought you, the food he paid for, his reassurance, how he checked your schedule ahead of time, how he asked you all the important questions and made you feel safe. You’d gotten far too mixed up in all of this, but you couldn’t tell him that. Or any of it. Which was more frustrating than how perfect the kiss was.

“You’re kind of freaking me out,” he admit. You saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, his eyes leaning in the direction of a plea. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Art, please.” 

His eyebrows furrowed, “No, I- Why are you angry with me? You’re acting like I did something wrong-”

“You sort of did!” You ran your hands through your hair, trying to figure a way out. 

“What did I do? What’s making you like this? I want to know.” He replied, voice rising just slightly with a twinge of desperation. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Silence, empty. Your heart beat out of your chest. You couldn’t verbalize. 

You shook your head, heart exploding, “You kissed me.” 

“You’re mad that I kissed you?” 

“I’m not mad that you kissed me.” 

“You just said it like it was a felony,” he said, his arm openly gesturing. His eyes scanned over your face, your body, trying to understand. He blamed the alcohol in his system- maybe he was stupid, not getting just why you were so upset. You tucked your hair behind your ears, looking back at him, trying to find the right words. As if it would help, you pressed your hand flat over your chest. 

He blinked hard. He breathed, eyes flickering over your reactions, “I kissed you… yeah.” 

“Why?” 

He felt his stomach flip a little when you asked him that. The one word seemed to sit there, jumping rope. His mouth was suddenly dry, and his mind was completely blank. His answer came too quickly: “I don’t know.” 

Your fingers curled against the skin under your collarbones. The breeze blew by again, rustling the leaves in the nearby tree, the shadows and the peeking streetlight dancing on the grounds like the colourful lights that bounced around the party. You tsked, looking away, finding all of it unbearable, almost.

“-I don’t know- I really just-” he continued, stammering just a little, “I hate the way she spoke about you. I hate the way everyone listened in like they actually cared. I hate how she made you look. I couldn’t just let it sit.” 

You stayed quiet, listening. 

“She was saying all of these things about you, how nobody would want you, that you’re ugly, that you’re nothing. And you looked-” he almost winced, like it was hard to say, “-I hated how you looked like you knew it already. I know you, I could see it. The virginity stuff was just too far-” He added, wincing harder. 

The wind blew your hair around your face. The style had somewhat fallen, blowing in the wind.  The tension was thick, but the breeze was just enough to keep the heat in your face from suffocating you. Wide-eyed, you tucked your hair behind your ears again, arms folding right back over your chest. He continued, “It just pissed me off? I guess? And it was so wrong it was almost funny.” 

His pace picked up, just a little, like he was finding his words. “And I’ve seen you. And I know you, so I know that none of it is true, what she said. Even with the lie about not being wanted, I mean, it’s so far from being true. You’re smart, like really smart. Sharp. Your writing is amazing, and the work you put into it is crazy. You work really hard, and everyone knows that. I know that. And you’re funny- you say things that take me a minute to understand, and then I’m laughing way too hard. You listen. You notice.”

He threw up his hands, eyes earnest, genuine. His words were slow to sink, but easy, and laid out in front of you. “I mean, you have the busiest schedule of anyone I’ve ever known, and you were still there every time I…” He tapered, eyes meeting yours, then darting away. “Needed you.” He found himself scrambling for some sort of reason, not just this monologue, but his mind was blank. Why did he kiss you? That was the question. “You make space for people, even when you barely have space for yourself. She doesn’t know any of that-”

“You make me sound like an angel,” you cut in, a small smile tugging at the corner of your perfect lips. He didn’t even have to try and remember how it felt to kiss you; it was somehow continuous, like his body wouldn’t let him forget it. He exhaled, then inhaled, so that the right words might have space to exist in him. Something like nostalgia took its turn to press on his chest.  “Or a saint.” 

He chuckled, one hand coming up like a visor, the other on his hip. You hated that it wasn’t the right moment to tease him about the pose. That- and his words lightened the storm above your head, but not entirely. “I wouldn’t doubt it.” He replied offhandedly. His expression still seemed anxious, like he was desperate to set things straight. “I don’t know. You’re just good, in a way that feels rare. And it sucks that you don’t see that all the time. I don’t care about what she had to say- I don’t really- well I do- but I don’t care who believes it, as long as it’s not you.”

He swallowed hard, unsure why there was such a lump or why his mouth was still so dry. The ‘why’ echoed around in his head, and all he’d done was monologue about you. He’d said just about everything aside from what made him think to kiss you. Mentally, he started to run over everything- connect the dots or find something reasonable to say. 

A distraction? To shut it down? Only to prove Brenda wrong? 

The problem with saying any of those is that he’d have to make up a thought process that just wasn’t there when he kissed you. Everything he could say would chip off a piece of a reality he couldn’t understand. He struggled, and your chest tightened in his silence. 

Even with this reassurance, even with what he said against Brenda’s speech, it didn’t make your feelings for him any less real. If this was where the fake-dating ended, that was it. There wasn’t anything more to say or do. His words were kind, real, and very sweet. A blessing, a break in all this emotion. But it was his turn to be quiet, lost in thought, and it pulled at you just a little, that this probably was some sort of ending. 

Brenda was right about your feelings for him, and that was just about it. The kicker. Maybe it was just time to accept reality and head back to your dorm rooms, and wake up the same friends you’d always been. You’d been picking petals off flowers, each petal falling with intention, but still only one by one. Still only you. 

The truth to you, was that this had gone too far the second your feelings were even the slightest bit real. He was charming, you knew that. He was sometimes a bit of a flirt, you knew that. You took a deep breath, looking at him, letting the silence wash over you both. Maybe it would be more explainable in the morning, without all the mess, all the alcohol. You let out a slight breath, almost dismissive, and maybe you’d say goodnight, or something small- 

He broke the silence, hand still on his hip, the other gesturing to you, “I didn’t think-“ he started. His heart beat just about as hard as yours. He gestured so vaguely, trying to sort himself out as he spoke. “When I kissed you.” 

You nodded, just slightly, lips parting. “I figured.” 

“You’re still upset with me.” 

“No! I’m not upset with you!” You pressed your fingertips to your forehead. “I know you didn’t think! I know.” 

“Why are you so angry then? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” 

Your breath caught, and you looked at the ground. “You kissed me! You.” You said, trying to formulate a sentence that wasn’t the one your head was screaming at you to say. 

“I know!” He said, voice not quite a yell, nor was it at you, but louder. As if he were trying to convey more than his words could contain. This suspension felt almost pointless from both perspectives, like two people desperately, miserably, beating around the bush. 

You circled back. “So why? Why? Just-” You almost let it slip, finding it as easy as keeping water in cupped hands. “Why did you?” 

“Why does it matter?” 

“Why can’t you answer me?” You stepped just slightly toward him, not for intimidation, not for any reason other than wanting to let him say why. You watched his eyebrows were knit the way they usually were when he was concerned or softened. The shadow of his eyelashes cast across his cheekbones so perfectly, and his hand never left his hip. “You could’ve-” 

“I-” he started but pressed his lips together. 

“You could’ve just left with me, pulled me away, could have said she was crazy to all of them, though I wouldn’t expect you to do that for me-” you continued. His mouth opened, then shut, his blue eyes only on you. Fuck. 

There were about a million things he could have done instead of kissing you. He knew that. He was painfully aware of it, standing in front of you, hearing every one relayed to him. You were drunk and upset and he didn’t care about that, he only cared about listening. 

You listed them off like they were obvious and he’d just done the worst thing in the world, but your hand was laid gently over your heart as you ranted. 

“I know,” he replied in your pause, hands in pockets. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t want you to be,” you sighed, pressing your hand to the side of your neck, but then back to your chest. You couldn’t express what was actually the issue without admitting to far too many things. But it pushed at something in you. Maybe it was the alcohol.  “It’s just- It’s supposed to be fake. Just… Just why, Art?”  

He knew what the response to that should be. He knew he was supposed to say it, but just like telling you that kissing you was just a diversion, he realized that it would be a lie. And he couldn’t lie to you- in fact, he never had. You looked at him with an expression he hated that he brought on. You were so pretty tonight, he hated the mascara that had gone down your cheeks when your stray tears rolled down. It didn’t hit all at once, the realization. In fact, it came over him with surprising ease, the same way it did the urge to wipe away the dark streaks or just any evidence that you were ever sad or upset. 

It came over him with the same feeling that comes with looking for keys that are already in your pocket. Stupidity. Relief. All of the lies he could make up to explain away why his reaction was to kiss you, suddenly subsided. He wasn’t confused about the weird symptoms he was having around you or the way they felt, nor was he confused as to why he couldn’t get the kiss to stop replaying every time he blinked. It was you, it was just you. 

You. With your hair all windblown, two grey streaks down your face, arms folded over your chest. You, his best friend- someone who saved him over and over. You. 

His breath escaped first, another huff- short, quiet. He chuckled then, breaking all of the tension, all of the upset- Just chuckled to himself, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It was born out of half-amusement. Because it seemed to have been the right thread to pull. It was just you. And that explained everything. Your eyes were still wet, but curious, watching the wheels and cogs turn behind his eyes. 

He looked off to the side, jaw flexing just gently, eyebrows just a little furrowed. “I know why. And it’s…” Inhibitions down. It was probably the best time to say something, things were already tangled and complicated and hard and new and- 

“I just… wanted to.” He admitted, shrugging. It wasn’t a dismissive shrug, but rather just to emphasize how much that kiss seemed to be the only way out in that moment. A shrug that read ‘this is this’ and that even given other options, he probably would have kissed you anyway. 

His words hung in the air like another quote. Like someone had snuck live wires in with all your arteries. He gauged your response, the way you stood your ground, watching the flutter of your eyelashes, he always thought he only admired, coming to make sense in his head as full attraction that took on an odd sense of nostalgia. Because, of course, it was you. 

You tried to keep your heart in pace, keep it average, keep it from leaping out of your chest. Your hand pressed against it once more. And it made sense, he knew it, he knew you. He watched you then tuck your hair behind your ears, trying to make sense of how vague he’d been. You could barely figure out what to say. He wanted to. Wanted to? Kiss you? There wasn’t- it couldn’t be that way, it wasn’t, you were friends, this was fake. 

You managed, repeating inner monologue, “Wanted to… what?” 

His eyebrows knit, but that shy, sheepish smile you loved crept its way across his face, the same way his hand gently rubbed his jaw now. “All of everything, all my reasons…” He started, then stopped, unsure how to phrase this right. Everything seemed to be hanging in the balance, carefully stacked on the fragile plate of tension, and years of being friends. “Brenda, she’s- fuck-I know all of the things you listed off, I know all of it, I know I could have done anything else but… kiss you.” He rubbed his face now. He couldn’t get himself to say anything straight out. 

He fidgeted like he was shy, but he was always far from shy with you. This wasn’t that. Your heart jackhammered at your ribs, nearing painful, almost louder than his speaking volume. “I don’t…” But a little sliver of you knew, hoped- it’s why you pried for ‘why’ so hard. 

“I know,” he said, smile breaking just a little more, though he didn’t mean it to. This made sense enough. “It’s just- nothing I could have said to you- to explain- would have been… true. When it happened, it wasn’t fake, I think actually it was the most real thing I could have done. So I… didn’t think of anything else. I couldn’t. It felt like… reflex.” He rambled, eyes meeting yours twice, voice slightly muffled by the fidgeting he did with his lower lip. “Easy. With you.” 

You weren’t sure you were hearing him right. “Art, I’m not- I still don’t-“ If you were wrong, it’d be embarrassing, but nothing here had any hint or inclination to being a part of the mess. Aside from all the drama, all the bullshit Brenda said, out here on the field it was just you and Art. 

“The kiss wasn’t fake.” He clarified. 

“No?” 

“No.” 

“You wanted to kiss me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you. You.” He laughed, hand to his head. “It’s not- I think it’s clear- and it’s on me for not… figuring it out until right NOW. I feel like an idiot, I mean- But do you-” 

It was clear. You breathed out hard, almost like it was a relief, but in reality, it carried much more weight than that. He was standing in front of you, your best friend, your favourite person - close, you hadn’t noticed over the stress, but he was here, in front of you, close to you. And it was a confession. Your eyes flicked between his, genuine, kind. He was saying exactly what you thought. 

“Are you sure?” 

He looked at you, wondering how that was even a question. Sure, he just came to, as if maybe he was asleep, blind, deaf- You were an angel, he could talk about you to anyone for ages, he knew you, everything, all the commitment issues, all the responsibilities, all the history. You were comfortable, easy, safe, soft. And he knew it. Better than he’d known anything else. 

“I’m sure. Is that okay?” He said. 

You laughed and it was breathy, but soft, and as always, contagious. You ran a hand through your hair, shutting your eyes for only a moment. “Yes, it’s okay- I just-” It was overwhelming and real, not something fake that you could both pull yourselves out of anymore. In too deep, much past being written on a page, not dreamed up, but rather just happening. And the words themselves, the admitting of it, the words themselves, weren’t much needed. He knew your tells, after all. 

And you were within reach, so like he would, Art wrapped his arms around you in the middle of that field. You let your head drop against his shoulder, giggling lowly, matching his low chuckle. “God- this is like every book ever.” 

He grinned, hand on the back of your head, “Well,” he chuckled, “If it were to happen to anyone…” 

His feelings were clear, and so were yours. And nothing felt any different, or any more final. Like it had already been this way wordlessly, which was the case. All those moments- his hand brushing yours when it didn’t have to, when you both had no idea if Brenda was around, the way he memorized your schedule, the ‘I’m with you’- the instances piled on you, on him, they weren’t passing moments anymore. They were evidence.

He’d meant it. And you stepped back, not far from his embrace, remembering like a girl in shock. “You kissed me.” 

“You kissed me back,” he said, imagery still as vivid. He couldn’t wipe the cheesy grin off his face. And for good measure in this whirlwind of craze, for his best friend, he added, “And if you let me, I’d like to do it again?”

Pure warmth spread through your body, your hands came up to cover your face, and words aloud, he took your hands to stop you. “Why?” 

His eyebrows narrowed, “Come on.” 

“I’m nervous!” 

“You’re pretty.” His reply was soft but quick. “I keep wanting to explain myself more, but I think we’ve both heard enough monologuing. I just- I keep thinking that maybe you think this is sudden, but it’s not. I’ve always thought you were really beautiful, I just didn’t realize what to do with that- Not because it wasn’t there, but- I’m monologuing.” 

You both laughed, the sound of it almost exasperated, but grounded, “I don’t mind.” 

“Good!” He kicked the grass, hands falling into his pockets. The dim light couldn’t hide the flush of his ears anymore, nor could it hide how pink your nose was. “I just… When she said those things about you, you looked at me in a way, and I just… I did what I could.” 

You grinned. It was his turn to make you forget, to pull you far from the wreckage, quiet the noise in your head, all the internal turmoil a crush brings in the face of some fucked up stalker. He was saving you right now, had saved you from all the eyes inside, from the gossip column, from Brenda. It seemed the roles had reversed, just slightly.  One by one, Brenda’s taloned grip on you, on Art, was let go.

“-And I didn’t think about what would happen after.” He added. “... I think I was using ‘fake’ as an excuse. I don’t even think I can tell you why. Nothing makes sense from then anymore. I was stupid- I like you, I’ve liked you. And I want to kiss you right now, but I’m afraid that if I do, then I won’t stop.” 

You blinked, chest swelling, nervous, but excited, more. This was real. This wasn’t fake; there wasn’t any reason to push away the urge when he was asking you here, on the open field, just yourselves. No friends around, no audience, no Brenda. Not even lurking in the trees. You made sure of it, scanning around yourself before looking back at him. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice almost a whisper now. He reached out to pull you in again, hand on your waist, sending fireworks exploding through your nervous system. You swore he could see them explode behind your eyes, the way he looked at you now. Still low, his voice came teasing, “Not still angry with me, are you?” 

“No,” you breathed, his other hand tucking your hair behind your ear. His smile came back tenfold, but pulled at the corners the way his smirk always did. Your head spun with the greatest words you’d ever read, the best books, the best stories, but none of them were as perfect or as pretty as this. “I’m still nervous. You’re my best friend, I’ve never been more than a friend, I’ve never been anyone’s- I’ve never had- I can’t even speak, my god-” 

“It’s okay,” he nodded, smile unwavering. You were cute, both of you still tipsy, obviously. “We can talk about it sober. For now, I think we just head back to yours or mine. We can text Pat later, I just want you to be-” You kissed him. 

You kissed him with every unsaid word on the tip of your tongue, the words you were too anxious to say properly, arms wrapping around his neck. His hands found your waist like they’d always known their way there, and he kissed you back the same. It was gentle, but open, every piece of you aligned with his, backed up by years of casual intimacy, the ease of knowing each other in almost every way. It seemed that the way it felt to kiss each other was the catalyst, the rare unknown, and the thing that pulled you both so much deeper than you’d both ever intended or anticipated. 

His hand slid up your back, wrapping around you almost like an embrace. It was strange how every push and pull felt familiar, like deja vu or a dream you’d had before. Maybe you’d just read it somewhere. But it was perfect. And nothing else mattered, your hands coming to cup his jaw. Nothing mattered, his hands travelling modestly, thumb gently moving back and forth. Nothing mattered. Expected, careful, not rushed, not anything but happening and happening to you. 

You only pulled away at the loud chirp of a campus whistle, followed by the sound of Brenda screeching her rights at the campus security car that had shown up sometime in your moment.

You laughed, and you laughed loudly- Art unable to keep himself from doing the same, his head falling on your shoulder, just a little dazed. The evil, sweater-vested freak was nowhere to be seen, but most definitely heard as they shoved her into the back of the car. The party was over, you guessed, the buzz of conversation coming to float in the air. Interruption, but… the best kind.

“Fuck Brenda,” you giggled, emphasis on ‘fuck’.

Art laughed softer now, “Fuck Brenda. I’m reporting her tomorrow.”

“Oh, me too, that’s crazy!” You joked. He lifted his head, grinning.

“It’s a date,” he added, chuckling again, pulling you in just a little more so that your attention was back on him. He wouldn’t let Brenda ruin his night or yours (much more than she already had).

And the next day you did just that. Head of security believed you after seeing a badly-taped video of Brenda’s obsessive outburst at the party, said she was set to see the Dean later that afternoon and chances were, with your testament and Art’s, she was on grounds for expulsion.

Brenda was discredited by everyone, and you work at the paper, so no way any gossip involving you made it to print. You did, however, let Patrick write a piece he was quite proud of, though you had to edit out most of the profanities just to make it more readable. The story seemed to get around after that night, the better, more correct story, not the embarrassing one Brenda had spun. It was unexpectedly an easy thing to dismiss.

You spent the day running through everything and turning it into a joke to ease your embarrassment over it anyways. You and Art both remembered everything, so none of it was buried under any of the alcohol, but went unspoken for most of the day in a way that was knowing and comfortable. Saver for later. It was sort of fun, running through how crazy she got. Sure, scary enough, but over now, time to move on.

And Art sat next to you on your bed he way he always did, legs tangled and crossed, though his hand inched closer and closer to yours until his fingers could slip between. There wasn’t any reason, there wasn’t any threat, he just wanted to. And you let him. It was the first time that it really was just for you and him.

Though, Patrick, with the hawks eye, decided after a day of letting it be, to finally say something.

“So what was that kiss about last night?”

“Shut up, Patrick,” Art chimed, tossing a pillow at him.

“No, come on. I’m a genius. This is just like the movies. They always end this way.” He said, kicking back in your desk chair, opening a bag of Cheetos. “Don’t stop. You’re cute.”

You laughed- “Thanks. You gonna share?”

“Hell no.”

You and Art shared a look, then shrugged. Fair enough. The look was maybe a moment too long, maybe just because you could, and maybe just because he couldn’t stop staring at you. A mix of everything, maybe. Years of being your best friend, years of something underlying had made it to the surface. “You know how many times this plan has failed?” Patrick added casually, mouth now full of Cheetos. “You guys take forever to catch on to stuff, though.”

You leaned half against the pillows, half against Art, “What does that mean?”

“Means it shouldn’t have taken Brenda to make you guys finally stop prancing around and kiss or fuck or whatever you virgins do.” He chuckled, sucking the dust off of his thumb haphazardly, then smacking his lips. “I’m a genius, you can say it.”

You and Art looked at each other again, eyebrows furrowed, but both of you stifling a disbelieving laugh. He continued, “It’s been like eight years.”

You picked up your own pillow to throw at him, which led to more laughter, more ache in your ribs, and a swell in your chest. One that didn’t leave all that evening, debriefing with your friends, Pierre and Lionel on speakerphone to join in on the mocking of Brenda, your least-favourite ginger. It didn’t go away, even when Patrick chose the bathtub to sleep in, and you and Art were back on the verge, propped up against the wall.

The lighting in your room had since been dimmed, casting an orange glow across your room. Emma sat propped up on your shelf, cover facing out so it was on display. Your blankets were pushed down to the end of the bed, crumpled up against the foot. You looked over at Art, who had been fidgeting with the bracelet around your wrist for the past five minutes in a comfortable silence.

“You’re pretty,” you said, breaking the silence. He looked up, eyes wide and soft like he’d never expected that. It made you smile. “I’ve wanted to say it a while.”

His smile broke across his face, ears pink. “Thank you.” He said, quiet and tired. You yawned, smiling harder in return and tucking your hair behind your ears. “Are you heading to sleep?”

“Think so,” you replied, so casual.

“You’ve got all morning dedicated to brainstorming writing contest ideas,” he chuckled, referencing your schedule on the wall. He was perfect. “Can’t miss that.”

You bat it away, rolling your head against the wall to face him better, “We can skip that, actually.”

“Really?”

“I’ve got my topic,” you nodded. “A girl… and a best friend… and a stalker.”

He shook his head, covering his face and flopping down sideways, head on your pillows, pulling you with him. “Bestseller.” He nodded, eyes on yours, studying you, looking at you in a way he’d always kept himself from subconsciously. You were perfect. “Can I be honest?”

The air thickened, your stomach fluttered. This was all new. You nodded in return.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

Your mouth twisted to the side a little, nerves still spiking, but there was always the fact that he was just Art. And you were just you. So you propped yourself up on your elbow, grinning as you kissed him. Once. Quickly.

And then he kissed you, closing that small gap again quickly. And then once more. And then his hand came up to cup your jaw, gently pulling you into a final kiss that came soft and open, carrying the weight of all your years. A compilation of moments leading to now, a trail that Patrick had somehow been master-planning that lead to this, now. Your body flushed warm in a way you’d never felt, not even reading the best of romance novels. You felt high in a way no writing spree could get you, different than a blunt. He was dizzying. And this was real. You actually were a fish out of water after all.

“Mm- question-“ Art said, pausing for just a moment, but kissed you again despite his pause. Good measure, he figured, but he tried to speak again and was met with whatever magnetic force you’d been wielding, unable to not kiss you once more. It made you smile when he did. “Are we dating? I mean- is this… real now?” You didn’t think he’d be the one to ask, but he spoke with a tone that discredited everything Brenda could have ever said about you not being wanted. You were. More than.

You and Art weren’t blind to the parallel when you responded with a cheeky, all-knowing smile. “Think so. Thank you.”

“No, always,” he replied in your fashion. And he kissed you again. Nothing else mattered. Picking petals off flowers was such a silly game to play.

a/n: and its over. i love you all for being here and reading this far, i really hope you enjoyed this little fic. i know it’s only four parts, but i started this piece all the way back in january and for it to finally be fully released in july… im proud of this, i hope this ends up in your faves. requests open. mwah.

taglist: @maximofftwinsbitch @y08h @sugarfaist @matchpointfaist @grimsonandclover @lalalandofive @ladystardust-thinks @queensunshinee @museboos @diyasgarden @theynothem @dumbbandpoetic @thecontrash @animalcrossingshameless

[vinecstasy]

Family Holiday X Dad Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Plot: You guys all meet Will in LA for a family holiday and Your daughter Daisy brings her new Boyfriend.

If anyone ever tells you that going on a family holiday with four teenagers is “a dream,” they’re either lying or heavily medicated.

Packing alone took three full hours, four arguments, and two missing chargers that we eventually found in the freezer. Don’t ask.

“I said only one suitcase each!” I reminded them for the fifth time, while Daisy tried to smuggle her entire skincare shelf into a zip compartment and Kai packed only his PlayStation.

“That’s not a holiday essential, Kai.”

“It literally is, Mum.”

Millie was making an outfit spreadsheet, Theo had lost his passport again, and somewhere in the madness, Tom showed up with a rucksack and a hopeful grin.

“Hi, Mrs P! Thanks for letting me come!”

Will, if he’d been here, probably would’ve evaporated on the spot.

The flight was… long.

Kai and Theo had an armrest war that turned into an actual argument about who was “breathing louder,” while Millie asked me every half hour how long was left. Daisy and Tom, thankfully, just shared headphones and whispered about something that made them both laugh every five minutes.

At one point, I saw Tom brush Daisy’s hair off her face and I made a mental note to prepare Will for impact the second we landed.

After fourteen hours, a crying toddler behind us, and one spilt Sprite incident, we landed in sunny Los Angeles.

And there he was.

Will stood just outside baggage claim, sunglasses on, scruffy stubble, phone in hand. He looked like someone out of a press photo except the second he saw us, he lit up like a Christmas tree.

He waved wildly, nearly smacking a man with a golf bag, then jogged over.

“Finally,” he breathed, grabbing me in a hug first, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I’ve missed you so bloody much.”

“Missed you too.”

He moved on to hug Millie, then Kai (who accepted it with the grumpy grace of a teenager too cool for affection), then Theo.

And then he stopped dead when he spotted Tom.

Standing next to Daisy.

With luggage.

Will froze. “I’m sorry… is that? what is? why is Tom here?”

I gave him the look. You know the one. The shut up or we’ll argue in front of everyone look.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “We’re on a family holiday.”

“He’s practically family,” Daisy muttered, grabbing her suitcase.

Will muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Not in this lifetime.”

The drive to the house Will had rented near the beach was full of jetlag, fast food wrappers, and Taylor Swift blasting from Millie’s phone. Tom sat quietly in the back, clearly aware he was treading on very thin ice.

Will was gripping the steering wheel like he was imagining it was Tom’s neck.

The house itself was gorgeous modern, white walls, big windows, palm trees in the garden. A little oasis of calm.

Until…

“Right,” Will said, unlocking the front door. “Sleeping arrangements.”

I shot him a warning look.

“What?” he whispered back. “There is no way your fourteen-year-old daughter is sharing a room with her boyfriend on a trip that I’m funding.”

“Keep your voice down.”

He cleared his throat. “So. Theo and Kai, you boys are sharing the big room upstairs. Tom, you’ll be in with them.”

Tom nodded quickly. “Yeah, of course. Sounds great.”

Daisy groaned. “Seriously?”

Will turned to her. “You’ve got your own room, next to your sister’s. It’s got a view of the pool. Very fancy. Very separate.”

Millie grinned. “I like this villa already.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being reasonable. The boy’s lucky he’s not sleeping outside.”

I chuckled as I walked into the kitchen to put away the snacks we’d picked up. Will followed.

“He’s really staying the whole week?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes. He’s polite, helpful, and clearly terrified of you.”

“Good. He should be.”

I turned, leaned against the bench, and smiled at him.

“You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be calm but your left eye’s twitching.”

Will sighed. “I’ve been gone for a month, Y/n. I haven’t kissed you properly in four weeks, I’ve lived off instant noodles, and now I’m expected to watch my daughter frolic on a beach with a boy while trying not to have a stroke.”

I stepped closer. “Poor baby.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A bit.”

He leaned in, rested his forehead against mine. “Ten minutes alone. That’s all I want.”

“We’ll find a moment. Promise.”

Just then, Kai shouted from upstairs, “WHO STOLE MY PHONE CHARGER?!”

Theo’s voice followed: “You brought three! Stop acting like you're dying!”

And so it began.

The beach was quiet, golden, and warm the sort of place that makes you feel like time’s slowed down just for you.

The kids ran ahead, their laughter carried by the ocean breeze. Kai and Theo were already waist-deep in the waves, hurling a rugby ball back and forth with more splash than success. Millie was lying on a towel with a paperback, sunglasses on and headphones in, doing her best “unbothered queen” impression. And Daisy and Tom? Well, they were building a sandcastle like they were six years old probably because they knew Will was watching them like a hawk from behind his sunglasses.

We walked a little behind them all, hand in hand, our feet sinking slightly into the sand with every step. Will’s thumb traced lazy circles over the back of my hand.

“I love this,” I said softly, watching the kids mess about in the waves.

Will nodded, his voice calm for the first time all day. “They’re mad as anything, but they’re ours. All of them. I miss this.”

“We miss you too.”

He kissed the top of my head, pulling me a little closer as we strolled along the edge of the water.

“They're growing so fast,” I said, watching Theo try to rugby tackle Kai straight into the sea foam. “Even the chaos has changed. Used to be crayons on the walls. Now it’s missing chargers and hormonal grunts.”

“Don’t,” Will groaned. “Next thing you know Daisy’ll be in uni with Tom, and I’ll be retired, shouting at clouds.”

I chuckled. “You’ll still be telling her to keep the door open at Christmas.”

“Damn right I will.”

We stood still for a moment, watching them all our beautiful little chaotic family. The setting sun made everything golden: Millie’s curls, the sparkle of the ocean, even Kai’s ridiculous neon swim shorts.

Will squeezed my hand. “We did alright, didn’t we?”

I turned to him, smiling. “Yeah. We really did.”

That evening, after too much sun, sand in every shoe, and a burger dinner that left everyone too full to move, the house finally went quiet.

Theo was FaceTiming his mates. Kai had disappeared into his gaming headset. Millie was watching some crime doc in bed. Daisy and Tom had settled in the lounge to watch something light with way too many “accidental” moments of their hands brushing.

Will emerged from the ensuite in a plain white T-shirt, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. “Ten bucks says Daisy tells Tom he has to go to bed first so she doesn’t get told off.”

“I’m not taking that bet. I’d lose.”

I stood by the glass balcony doors, watching the moonlight ripple across the pool. The sound of waves crashing in the distance was like a lullaby.

Will came up behind me, slipped his arms around my waist, and rested his chin on my shoulder.

“Beach. Family. Burgers. Finally quiet,” he said softly. “And you, standing in moonlight.”

I smiled. “You’re getting poetic in your old age.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

We stepped out onto the balcony, the warm night air brushing against our skin. The stars were out, and the whole house was still for once, no shouting, no Nerf bullets, no cries of “MUMMMM!”

Will turned me toward him, hands still on my waist. “So...”

I raised a brow. “So?”

“Balcony’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”

I smirked. “Trying to recreate the pantry experience, are we?”

He laughed. “Look, when you’ve got four kids and a week’s worth of jet lag, you grab your moments where you can.”

I reached up, pulling him in by the collar of his T-shirt. “Then shut up and grab it.”

He kissed me like we had all the time in the world soft at first, then deeper, his fingers threading through my hair. It was the kind of kiss that made me forget everything: the dishes, the laundry, the panic over forgotten homework… just him and me and the stars.

A sliding door creaked open.

We froze.

Daisy’s voice: “Umm… sorry, but have you seen the charger for the...FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO YOU TWO EVER STOP?! Seriously the balcony?!”

Will groaned, forehead against mine. “We’re cursed.”

I laughed so hard I nearly fell over. “You said ten minutes of peace. You got seven.”

“New record.”

the next morning it was inevitable.

Daisy smirked as she passed the Jam. “Just saying, if anyone wants to kiss someone, maybe don’t do it on a balcony. At night. In plain view. With the door wide open.”

Theo nearly choked on his lemonade. “Mum?! Dad?!”

Millie buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God, I can’t live like this.”

Kai just went, “Ew. Ew ew ew. I sat out there earlier!”

“Sorry, kids, but when your mum looks that good under moonlight, a man forgets there are glass doors and children with functioning eyes.”

Cue a collective, theatrical groan.

Daisy covered her ears. “MAKE IT STOP.”

Will leaned over and kissed my cheek, smug. “Don’t worry. We’ll find another balcony tomorrow.”

“NOOOOO!”

It had been a few days since we landed in LA, and somehow our family had slipped straight into a new rhythm. Late mornings. Beach afternoons. Suncream arguments. Sand in places sand should never be. And surprisingly, Will had even stopped death-staring Tom every time he breathed.

Mostly.

On Thursday, the day started like most others: with Kai shouting that someone stole his socks (they were on his own feet), Millie doing her mascara at the breakfast table, and Daisy begging for more alone time with Tom.

Will mumbled something about "supervised proximity", and I just rolled my eyes, buttering toast.

As I went to tidy up the breakfast plates, Will suddenly appeared behind me, his arms sliding around my waist.

“Don’t make plans tonight,” he murmured into my ear.

I turned, narrowing my eyes. “Why?”

“Because I have something planned. Just for you and me.”

“Wait a date night?”

He grinned. “About time, yeah?”

At exactly 5:30pm, Will stood in the kitchen, freshly shaved, smelling like the cologne he used to wear back when we were just two stupid twenty-somethings dating. He handed me a note written in his messy scrawl:

Go upstairs. Put on that blue dress I love. You know the one. There’s a car waiting. No questions. Just trust me. Love you, x

I smiled down at it, heart warm.

Upstairs, I found the blue dress already laid out on the bed with a pair of sandals next to it.

As I finished curling the last piece of my hair, I heard muffled voices downstairs low and suspiciously transactional.

I stepped out of the bedroom and padded quietly to the landing, peeking down toward the lounge.

There was Will, standing in front of Theo and Kai like he was preparing them for battle.

“Alright,” he said seriously, “here’s the deal. Your mum and I are going out for a couple of hours. Romantic meal, candles, the whole thing. While we’re gone... you’re in charge.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Of what exactly?”

Will glanced toward the hallway where Tom and Daisy were supposedly ‘just watching a film’.

He leaned closer. “Of keeping Romeo’s limbs at a safe distance from Juliet. I want eyes on him at all times. If he leans in, you lean harder. If he tries anything, you cough violently and ruin the mood.”

Kai looked bored. “So basically third wheel their entire evening.”

“Exactly.”

Then came the sound.

The unmistakable rustle of money.

Will pulled out two crisp £100 notes from his wallet and held them up like a magician performing a final trick.

“This... is yours. Each. If you keep your sister’s dignity intact and her boyfriend two cushions away on the sofa.”

Theo’s mouth fell open. “Mate. I would’ve done it for a tenner.”

Kai took the note, inspecting it like it might be fake. “What’s the refund policy if I see something scarring?”

“You’re a soldier now. There’s no refund. Only honour.”

That’s when I spoke up from the stairs. “William Jack Poulter. Are you bribing your sons to babysit Daisy’s love life?”

Will jumped about a foot in the air. Theo and Kai whipped around like they'd been caught with stolen goods.

“Uh hello, darling,” Will said, slipping the notes behind his back too late.

I stared at him, arms folded. “You’re paying our children to police their sister?”

“She’s fourteen,” he said indignantly. “We’re going out. That boy is still here. This is a preventative measure.”

I blinked.

Then I started laughing full on, can’t-breathe, wiping-my-eyes kind of laughter.

“You are unbelievable.”

“And yet you married me.”

“Only because I didn’t realise your dad paranoia came with a payroll.”

Will wrapped his arm around my waist and I kissed him, just once, and Kai groaned from the sofa. “Not again. Seriously, this is not part of the deal.”

Will turned, still holding me, and called out, “Add another fifty each if you don’t mention the kiss to your sisters.”

Theo immediately zipped his lips.

At 7:00 sharp, we were driven a few minutes down the road to a tucked-away rooftop restaurant, glowing with fairy lights and overlooking the city. There were candles. Wine. A small table set just for two.

Will pulled out my chair. “I figured after a week of chaos, you deserved a little stillness.”

I couldn’t help the grin stretching across my face. “You romantic sod.”

“Guilty.”

We talked for hours not about the kids, or flights, or packing snacks just us. He told me stories from set. I told him about the book I’d secretly been writing in my notes app. We laughed until we cried. Held hands across the table. Stole kisses under the string lights.

It felt like being twenty again. Only better. Because now we had a whole history behind us.

It was 1:04am when I was jolted from my blissful, dream-filled sleep by the bedroom door creaking open followed by footsteps… and muttering.

I blinked blearily at the digital clock glowing on the nightstand.

“Will?” I croaked, sitting up halfway. “What’s happening?”

My husband stood at the foot of the bed, in nothing but pyjama bottoms, looking absolutely furious.

In his grasp, by the arm was Daisy. Wide-eyed. Dishevelled. Wearing a hoodie that definitely didn’t belong to her.

“I caught her,” Will announced dramatically, as if he’d just intercepted a burglary.

“Caught her doing what?”

“She was trying to sneak Tom into her room. At 1am.”

I blinked. Slowly.

“Are you serious?”

Daisy huffed. “We were just going to talk. It’s not a crime.”

Will glared. “He was barefoot. That’s pre-snog posture and you know it.”

I fell back onto the pillow and groaned, pressing a hand over my face. “Of course it is.”

“I had one request. ONE. Keep the door open, keep your hands to yourself, and don’t sneak him in while I’m trying to sleep.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything!” Daisy said, clearly horrified.

Will, with the righteous indignation of every sitcom dad in history, declared: “You’ve lost your room. You’re banished. Welcome to Hotel Mum & Dad.”

Before Daisy could protest, Will marched her over and plonked her directly onto his side of the bed.

I blinked at her. Then at him. Then sighed.

“Come here, baby,” I said, opening my arms.

Daisy let out an exhausted sigh and curled up against me like she used to when she was little. Her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo and rebellion.

“You’re not mad?” she mumbled.

“No,” I said gently, stroking her hair. “But sneaking boys in at 1am? You’ve got to know that was going to end in disaster.”

She giggled quietly, burying her face in my shoulder. “I didn’t think he’d hear me.”

“He’s got dad hearing,” I muttered. “It activates when a male teenager enters a 10-foot radius of his daughter.”

Will stood over us with his arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Great. Brilliant. Now I’m the bad guy and I’ve been kicked out of my own bed.”

I opened one eye. “No one kicked you out, babe.”

He huffed, climbing into the remaining corner of the bed, flopping down like a martyr.

“She’s taken my spot,” he grumbled, pulling the duvet dramatically over his legs. “You’re my cuddle buddy. This is emotional theft.”

I smirked in the dark. “You can have me back tomorrow.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

Daisy snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I caught you sneaking in a boy at one in the morning. I’ve earned the right.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Daisy, half-asleep, whispered: “Sorry I gave you a heart attack.”

Will sighed, a little of his bravado fading. “Just… you’re my baby, Dais. And I know I’m over the top. But I’d rather be annoying and protective than pretend I don’t care.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “You’re annoying, but also kind of cute. In a tragic dad sort of way.”

He grinned in the dark. “I’ll take it.”

Five minutes later, I could hear Daisy’s soft breathing as she drifted off against my chest. Will was curled on his side, pouting across the pillow.

“Still sulking?” I asked softly.

“I was mid-dream,” he whispered. “We were on a yacht. Alone. You were wearing that bikini I like. Then bam teenage daughter appears with her boyfriend in the hallway and now I’m fighting for duvet space.”

I chuckled, reaching across the bed to take his hand.

“You’re doing a great job, Will.”

He laced our fingers together.

“Even if I’m cuddle-deprived?”

“Even then.”

No one warned me that going to a theme park with five teenagers would feel like both a military operation and a full-blown emotional rollercoaster.

Millie wanted aesthetic Instagram photos. Kai had a hit-list of every thrill ride and zero patience. Theo was mostly there for the churros and girls in crop tops. And Daisy… well, Daisy wanted to go on absolutely everything with Tom.

Which meant Will wanted to go on nothing with Tom.

walking past a Ride Will threw his arms out dramatically.

“Right, team Poulter! let’s go!”

No one responded.

Theo had earbuds in. Millie was scrolling TikTok. Kai was speed-walking toward a rollercoaster, muttering, “If I miss the front row, I’m disowning you all.”

Daisy and Tom were holding hands and Will made a noise like a kettle about to boil.

He turned to me. “Am I old? Is this what it feels like? Do they think I’m embarrassing?”

“You are embarrassing,” I said, kissing his cheek. “But in a charming, lovable way.”

Will’s plan to reclaim his “cool” status included:

Buying everyone matching tourist hats (“Dad. No.” Theo groaned).

Using slang unironically (“That ride was lit, yeah?” Kai cringed so hard he nearly dislocated).

Attempting a TikTok dance with Millie in the queue for churros.

Let’s just say… he tried.

“Do you think I should dab ironically or?”

“Will.”

“Right. Retiring the dab.”

He did win them back slightly by smashing a ring toss and winning a massive stuffed bear, which he triumphantly carried around for an hour before gifting it to Daisy much to Tom’s visible discomfort.

“Take that, Romeo,” Will whispered smugly.

Later that afternoon, the boys went off in search of frozen lemonade, Millie had wandered into a gift shop, and Will had finally allowed himself a 15-minute sit-down in the shade (with dramatic groaning about his knees, obviously).

I spotted Daisy a little ahead, sitting alone on a low wall, scrolling her phone with her chin tucked into her knees.

I wandered over, sinking down beside her.

She glanced at me. “Hey.”

“You alright?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

I nudged her knee gently. “Wanna tell me what about?”

A pause. Then she said, “I really like him. Tom.”

I smiled. “I know.”

“It’s kind of scary,” she admitted. “Liking someone this much. Feeling like… if they stopped liking you, it’d wreck everything.”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. First love hits different. It’s huge and dramatic and messy and exciting all at once.”

She looked over at me. “What was yours like?”

“Your dad.”

She smiled softly. “That makes sense.”

I tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “But it wasn’t always easy. We argued, we learned, we had to grow together. That’s the big part growing, not just falling in love.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “Do you think he really likes me? Not just the, like, teenage ‘you’re pretty’ stuff.”

I kissed the top of her head. “I think if he’s willing to put up with your dad threatening him every three minutes, he’s serious.”

She giggled. “True.”

We sat in silence a moment, the sounds of the park swirling around us. Music, chatter, the occasional distant scream from a rollercoaster.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” I said.

“For sneaking Tom in at 1am?”

“No. For being honest. For being brave enough to feel all of this at fourteen. And for letting me in.”

She smiled again, more gently this time.

“I’m glad I’ve got you, Mum.”

When we returned to the group, Will was dramatically leaning on a railing, a lemonade in hand, complaining about how “no one warned him theme parks had so much standing.”

Theo was trying to balance a bottle on his head. Millie was sunburnt and unbothered. Kai had a churro in each hand and no shame.

And Tom? Still cautiously holding Daisy’s hand… under Will’s ever-watchful eye.

“You’re staring again,” I said quietly, slipping my hand into Will’s.

“I’m monitoring. It’s a loving stare.”

“You’re such a dad.”

He grinned. “Best job I ever had.”

[vinecstasy]

RAW…i mean AWW

small warfare reunion

[vinecstasy]

Not ready for this X Dad Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Plot: Your youngest Daughter is going on her first date but Will isn't ready to let her grow up just yet.

AN: think this might be the start of some interconnected standalones with Will and these 4 kids. Let me know what you think.

If you’d told me ten years ago I’d be living in a whirlwind of noise, lost shoes, mismatched socks, and endless questions about what’s for dinner with four kids and Will Poulter as my husband I’d have laughed. And then cried. And then maybe laughed again.

Because this life? It’s bonkers. Beautiful, mad, loud as hell… but I wouldn’t change a single second of it.

Well. Maybe this second.

“She’s not going!” Will shouted from the hallway, arms crossed like he was channelling Liam Neeson in some dad-vigilante movie.

“She’s literally curling her eyelashes, Will,” I replied, half-laughing, half-trying-not-to-throttle him as I stirred a bubbling pot of spaghetti.

“She’s fourteen, Y/n.”

“Yes, fourteen, not four. She’s going on a date. To the cinema. With a boy she’s been mates with for two years. In daylight. With his mum picking them up.”

“She’s too young.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain.

From upstairs came the unmistakable wail of Kai, our fifteen-year-old hurricane of a son. “MUM! THEO TOOK MY SWITCH!”

“He broke it when he was younger!” Theo’s deep voice yelled back from his bedroom. “It’s technically mine now!”

“Oh my God,” I muttered, abandoning the sauce and heading for the stairs. “I swear, if someone doesn’t start acting sane in the next five minutes, I’m throwing the Wi-Fi router in the bin.”

“I’m sane,” Will muttered from behind me, sulking like a teenager.

“Are you, though? You just tried to hide Daisy’s favourite top in the washing machine so she couldn’t wear it tonight.”

“That top’s too tight.”

“That top is fine, and if she wants to wear it to the bloody Odeon, let her live her life.”

Will scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets like a toddler who’d been told off in nursery. “He’s gonna try and hold her hand, Y/n.”

“And?”

“And then he’s gonna want to kiss her.”

I turned slowly on the stairs, both hands gripping the banister.

“Will. Love of my life. You once snuck onto my balcony at uni to kiss me under the stars after one date.”

“That’s different,” he mumbled. “I’m charming.”

I snorted so hard I nearly slipped on a sock Kai had left dangling on the third step. I made a mental note to add “Clean up Mount Sockmore” to my to-do list.

Just as I hit the landing, Millie Daisy’s twin emerged from their room in a full face of makeup and what looked suspiciously like my earrings.

“Millie,” I said warningly. “Have you got my...”

“Gotta go, Mum! Amelie’s waiting. We’re filming a TikTok on the roof!”

“THE ROOF?”

“Joking!” she grinned, skipping down the stairs. “Kind of.”

Theo passed her on the way up, eyes glued to his phone. “Can I dye my hair silver?” he asked, without looking at me.

“No.”

“Even if I...”

“No.”

He sighed like I’d just crushed his dreams of becoming a K-Pop star.

I finally found Daisy sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed, cheeks flushed with nerves, mascara wand in hand. She looked so beautiful. So grown up. It hit me square in the chest.

She glanced up. “Is Dad still being dramatic?”

“Like Daniel Day-Lewis in a soap opera,” I said, collapsing onto the bed beside her.

She groaned. “He actually said he’d buy a ticket and sit behind us in the cinema just to ‘keep an eye on things’. Like, seriously?”

I laughed. “He means well.”

“He’s so embarrassing, Mum.”

I nudged her shoulder gently. “You’re his baby. His little girl. In his head, you’re still wearing unicorn wellies and giving him pretend cups of tea.”

She smiled slightly, dabbing on some lip balm. “I just… I want him to trust me.”

“He does,” I said softly. “He trusts you completely. He just doesn’t trust the boy.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned into me. “It’s just Tom, though. We’ve known him for ages.”

“I know. But that doesn’t stop your dad picturing you in a bubble forever.”

She was quiet for a moment, and I could tell something was swirling in her mind.

“I feel bad,” she said finally.

“For going on a date?”

She nodded. “It’s like I’m… I don’t know. Not his little girl anymore.”

“Oh, Dais,” I said, wrapping an arm around her. “You’ll always be his little girl. You could be forty with kids of your own and he’ll still look at you like you’re five.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Sweet. It’s sweet.”

She giggled. “I just want him to be happy for me.”

I squeezed her hand. “He is happy for you. He’s just a bit overwhelmed. But I’ll talk to him, okay?”

“Thanks, Mum.”

As she got up to check herself in the mirror, I made my way back downstairs.

I found Will in the kitchen, pacing like he was waiting on lab results.

“She’s wearing the lip gloss,” he said grimly. “The one with the shimmer.”

“Will. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t be that dad.”

“I am that dad,” he muttered. “I’ve become that dad.”

I walked over and placed my hands on his chest, grounding him.

“She’s growing up,” I said softly. “But that doesn’t mean she’s leaving us. She still needs us. She’ll always need you.”

He swallowed. “I don’t know how to let go.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to learn to stand a little further back. Give her space to be who she’s becoming. And trust that we’ve raised her right.”

He sighed. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

He looked at me, eyes a bit glossy. “She’s my baby. The last one.”

I smiled. “I know. She’s the one who made us feel like our family was complete.”

“She’s the one I held for hours that night she was born, remember? you had Mil and I had Dais and I wouldn’t even let the nurse take her.”

“I remember thinking you’d never put her down.”

He laughed quietly. “I didn’t want to. I still don’t.”

I squeezed his hand. “She might be the youngest, but she’s got you wrapped tighter than any of them.”

“Okay,” I said, rubbing his arms. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to smile when she comes down. You’re going to tell her she looks lovely. You’re going to trust her. And you’re going to keep your binoculars in the shed where they belong.”

He blinked. “You knew about those?”

“I know everything.”

Just then, the front door slammed. Millie shouted from somewhere, “Mum, there’s glitter in the dog’s fur again!” and Kai yelled, “Theo’s using my toothbrush to clean his trainers!”

I turned back to Will, deadpan. “Should we just… run away?”

“To Italy?”

“To the shed.”

Daisy descended the stairs a moment later, cheeks pink, nervous and glowing. Will stood to meet her.

“You look lovely, love,” he said quietly. His voice cracked ever so slightly.

She beamed. “Thanks, Dad.”

And when Tom rang the bell and Daisy left, waving from the car window, Will stood in the doorway for a solid five minutes. I stood beside him, resting my head on his shoulder.

“She’ll be alright,” I murmured.

“I know.”

There was a crash in the lounge. Kai had apparently knocked over the laundry basket and was now using the clean clothes as a fort. Theo was DJing some weird techno remix from his phone. Millie was arguing with the dog.

Will exhaled deeply and looked at me.

“Our life’s ridiculous.”

“It’s perfect,” I said.

He grinned. “It’s chaos.”

“But it’s ours.”

And as we stepped into the living room, picking up odd socks and half-eaten biscuits from under the cushions, Will grabbed my hand.

“Do you think we’ll survive the next few years of this?”

I paused.

“…Absolutely not.”

We both burst out laughing.

But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The mood swings, the slammed doors, the chaos, the constant background noise of someone yelling “MUM!” it’s all part of the life we’ve built. And at the centre of it all, holding it together with duct tape, cold coffee, and big, ridiculous love… was us.

Just doing our best to keep up.

The front door clicked shut just after 9pm, and I barely had a chance to call out “how was it?” before Daisy was already slipping off her shoes and heading straight for the stairs.

Will shot me a look from the sofa, brows raised. “No debrief?”

“She’s probably just nervous. I’ll go up.”

I padded up the stairs and found her in the bathroom, scrubbing lip gloss off with a flannel like it owed her money. Her cheeks were flushed in that teenage way equal parts excitement and embarrassment and I smiled.

“So…” I said, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.

She glanced at me in the mirror. “It was fine.”

“Fine?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. It was good. We got pick ’n’ mix. He didn’t spill his drink on me. The movie was alright.”

I gave her a look, the sort that only mums can give. “That’s a very… media-trained answer.”

She grinned. “I’m just tired.”

I stepped into the room and smoothed a bit of her hair back. “Alright. I won’t press.”

But I knew her too well. There was something dancing behind those eyes something she wasn’t ready to say out loud. And that was fine. I’d wait. I always did.

She gave me a quick hug, muttered a goodnight, and disappeared into the twins’ room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Downstairs, Will was still on the sofa pretending to watch some crime documentary, but I knew his attention was divided between the telly and the sound of Daisy’s footsteps.

“She say much?” he asked as I flopped down beside him.

“Standard teenage report. Minimal details. Heavy on the shrugging.”

He sighed. “I hate this.”

“You hate anything you can’t micromanage.”

“Exactly.”

I nudged him. “Come on, let’s go to bed. She’s safe. She’s fine.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

It was just past 10pm when we finally settled into bed. The house was quieter than usual either a miracle or a sign of something sinister.

Will lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

“You’re still thinking about it,” I said, turning onto my side.

“I just… what if he kissed her?”

I laughed under my breath. “You kissed me after our first date.”

“That’s different.”

“You snuck through the kitchen window, Will.”

He grinned. “That was romantic.”

“That was trespassing.”

Before he could argue, we heard something through the wall.

A soft giggle. Then Millie’s voice: “Oh my God, no way!”

Then Daisy’s voice, low and thrilled: “We made out. Twice.”

There was a beat of silence between us.

Will blinked.

His eyes went wide.

And then, predictably, he started to sit up.

“Absolutely not,” I said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back down. “Do not go in there.”

“She’s fourteen, Y/n!”

“She’s not pregnant, Will. She kissed a boy. It’s called growing up.”

He looked personally victimised. “I need air.”

“You need to chill out.”

We stared at each other for a moment, his dramatic huffing filling the room.

Then I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The way his chest puffed up, the horror on his face it was all so perfectly him.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, climbing over him and pressing a kiss to his lips.

“I’m protective,” he mumbled.

“You’re a soggy sponge.”

He scoffed. “A very masculine soggy sponge.”

I rolled my eyes, but kissed him again. This time, slower. Softer.

His hand found my waist and he smiled into the kiss. “Do we have five minutes of peace?”

“Unlikely. But let’s try.”

For a moment, the world shrank down to just us. The kiss deepened, his fingers curled into the hem of my shirt, and for once, it felt like we might actually have a second to just be together.

Until

BANG!

The bedroom door flew open.

“I need a shield!” Kai shouted, launching himself across our bed and hiding under the duvet like a soldier in a foxhole.

Theo burst in half a second later, wielding a Nerf blaster and looking utterly feral. “YOU CAN’T HIDE FOREVER!”

“KAI STOLE MY SKITTLES!” Theo screamed.

“I PAID FOR THOSE WITH MUM’S CARD!”

“I HAD PERMISSION!”

“DID NOT!”

“BOYS!” I shouted, pushing myself upright as Will sat there blinking like someone had just slapped him with a fish.

“OUT!” Will finally yelled. “Go shoot each other somewhere else! We are busy!”

Theo narrowed his eyes. “Busy doing what?”

Will pointed dramatically at the door. “Out. Now.”

Kai poked his head out from under the covers, hair like a bird’s nest. “Can I have the rest of the Skittles?”

“OUT!”

The door slammed again.

Silence.

We both just sat there, breathing heavily, dishevelled, stunned.

Then I turned to Will, hair messed, shirt rumpled, completely over it.

“Well. That was nice while it lasted.”

Will dropped his head back on the pillow. “You’d think with four kids, we’d be better at sneaking in some time for ourselves.”

I snorted. “At this point I’m considering booking a hotel room just to hold hands in peace.”

He pulled me closer again, brushing my hair off my cheek. “Even with all of this chaos, madness, constant interruptions I wouldn’t trade it.”

“Me neither,” I whispered, nestling into him.

“Although…” he added thoughtfully, “if Daisy ever mentions snogging again, I’m moving into the shed.”

I grinned. “Only if I get the bed to myself.”

It had been a week since Daisy’s first date and, to Will’s horror, Tom was now “coming round to hang out.”

Hang out.

Those two words had nearly sent Will into cardiac arrest.

“What does that even mean?” he’d muttered that morning, slathering butter on toast with enough aggression to qualify as assault. “'Hang out.' Is that code for snog in the hallway when no one’s looking?”

I’d sighed, already sipping my third coffee and pretending not to notice Millie posting a TikTok of herself dancing in the background.

“They’re going to be watching a film in the lounge,” I said. “In daylight. With the curtains open. It’s not a rave, Will.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not above hiring security.”

“Will.”

“I just want him to know that I know what he’s thinking.”

“You don’t even know where your own phone is right now.”

“That’s different.”

Tom arrived that afternoon, awkwardly clutching a bag of sour cream & onion crisps and a bottle of Fanta. To his credit, he was polite and made solid eye contact when he greeted us. Will, naturally, stared at him like he was auditioning to date all four of our children at once.

“Hi, Mr Poulter,” Tom said nervously.

Will stood a little taller, his arms folded in a way that absolutely screamed I’m watching you, mate.

“Hi, Tom. Just so you know keep the door open. Feet on the floor. Hands to yourself. I will be walking past regularly.”

Tom blinked.

Daisy, mortified, grabbed his arm. “Come on, let’s just go.”

They headed for the lounge. Not two minutes later, Will strolled past, slowly, like he was doing laps of the house.

I caught him on his third pass.

“Oh for God’s sake,” I groaned, grabbing him by the elbow and steering him towards the kitchen.

“I’m just checking!”

“Will. You’ve circled the lounge more times than a fly trapped in a wine glass.”

“I don’t like it!”

“I know. But you’re going to drive her mad if you keep this up.”

He sighed, defeated, as I nudged the pantry door open to grab a tin of chickpeas.

Then I turned, saw the look on his face, and smirked.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re bossy when you’re annoyed.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “You like that, do you?”

“A bit.”

Next thing I knew, I was backed up against the pantry shelves, tins rattling as Will leaned in to kiss me.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” I whispered between kisses. “Millie’s out with her friends, Theo’s at football, Kai’s locked into that war game, and Daisy’s preoccupied.”

“Oh, the holy grail,” Will murmured against my neck. “Silence and no one interrupting.”

We giggled like teenagers, limbs tangled, his hands on my waist, lips trailing along my jaw. There was something so perfectly us about it stealing a moment in the middle of chaos. The thrill of being nearly caught, the comfort of knowing we still had this between us.

And then

“OH MY GOD.”

We broke apart instantly.

Daisy stood in the pantry doorway, eyes wide in horror, holding an empty bowl for popcorn.

She stared at us. We stared back. Will’s hand was still on my hip.

“I was getting snacks,” she said flatly. “You guys… hide in here to make out?”

Will cleared his throat. “No. I mean well sometimes.”

“Mum, why?”

I opened my mouth to say something, but Daisy cut me off with a dramatic groan and stormed off, muttering, “That’s the last time I eat anything out of this cupboard.”

Will turned to me, lips twitching.

“She’s gonna tell the others, isn’t she?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Dinner that night was a war zone.

We sat around the table, plates full of spaghetti bolognese, garlic bread scattered like debris, and all four kids absolutely buzzing with energy.

“So, Mum,” Millie said sweetly, barely suppressing her grin. “Pantry’s looking… cosy these days.”

Kai howled. Theo looked like Christmas had come early.

Daisy smirked triumphantly. “I told you.”

Theo shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “Please tell me you weren’t on top of the cereal.”

“Guys,” I said, laughing and horrified all at once.

Kai wrinkled his nose. “That’s where the Weet-Bix lives!”

“Nothing happened on the Weet-Bix,” Will said defensively.

“Oh my God,” Daisy gagged. “Dad, stop talking.”

Millie grinned. “You two are so embarrassing.”

Will lifted his fork, unfazed, and pointed it dramatically across the table. “I will not apologise for thinking your mum is fit. That woman’s a ten. How do you think you lot were made?”

All four kids groaned at once.

“EW!”

“DAD!”

“I’m never eating cereal again!”

I covered my face with both hands. “Why are we like this?”

Will leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Because we’re fun.”

I looked around the table at Kai with sauce on his shirt, Millie pretending to die from second-hand embarrassment, Daisy dramatically slumping in her chair, and Theo still trying to sneak his phone under the table.

And then I looked at Will. Grinning like an idiot. Proud as anything.

And I thought: Yeah. This is our chaos. And I bloody love it.

[vinecstasy]

𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warfare ⋮ smut w plot ⋮ Ray & Tommy ⋮ x f!reader ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

3some, creampie, spitting, fingering, oral, jealous Ray

Ray’s hand was already on your thigh, thumb stroking in little circles as if coaxing you into a yes you’d already given him countless times. that small cocky smile tugged at his mouth, the one he only let show when it was just you and him and he was already unbuckling his belt. the mattress dipped under your hips as he pressed in close, his lips meeting yours, slowly like he wanted to sink into it the same way he sank into you every time

you barely heard the creak of the door, but Ray did. his lips parted from yours with a wet pop, as he turned frowning

Tommy stood there, one hand still on the knob, like he knew damn well what he was interrupting and maybe liked it. “Hey” he said casually, like he hadn’t just walked in on Ray halfway to having you spread

Ray’s jaw twitched “Jesus Tommy, fucking knock” he muttered, though he hadn’t moved away from you. his hand still on your thigh, fingers squeezing just a little tighter

“I did knock” Tommy said, stepping in like he belonged there too. his eyes went to you, already a little glassy eyed, cheeks flushed, lips kiss bruised “Door was half open.”

“That don’t mean ‘come the fuck in.’” Ray’s voice was sharp, but not mad. just… a bit on edge. he looked back at you, then at Tommy, then back again. he wanted to tell Tommy to get out, that this was his time, that you were his fucking girl, not anyone’s entertainment tonight. but the words caught in his throat, because he knew what you were. you were the sweet little barracks bunny, always so giving, so good, always wet and willing when any of them needed to blow off steam, and Ray. Ray had just been lucky enough to get to you first tonight

still, he’d been the first to kiss you, the first to slide inside, feel you clench around him with that little gasping moan he loved. and now Tommy was just going to walk in like he could have the same thing? no warning, no asking?

Ray didn’t move, but his grip on your thigh tightened again. he leaned down, brushed your cheek with his knuckles “you okay with this?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer before glancing at Tommy “She’s already mine tonight. you want in, you wait. or you get over here and ask real nice.”

Tommy blinked surprised, Ray never shared. but then again, you weren’t just anyone. you were their girl, the one who always took what they gave with a smile and a moan

“Fuck man. you can’t wait?” Ray snapped, he stepped back, off the bed, he stood there half-hard and annoyed

but Tommy didn’t stop, didn’t even flinch

He stepped right up beside Ray at the edge of the bed, tall and sure. he raised his hand, fingertips dragging lightly across your cheek until he tapped gently twice. just enough to get your eyes on him

“cmon bunny” he said “Tell Ray how sharing wouldn’t hurt.”

Ray’s eyebrows drew together, his mouth twitching in disbelief, like he wanted to deck Tommy right there, but couldn’t. because he’d heard you before, moaning through a mouthful of cock while Erik pumped into your pussy and Elliott claimed your ass. Ray had heard it all, seen it, jacked off after it. that time you’d taken all three… Erik, Sam, Elliott, and come so hard you’d cried a little

he knew what you were capable of. he’d fucked you open himself, watched your little body take what no one else could, and loved it. he just didn’t want to see someone else in it. not now, not Tommy

but Tommy knew you too. knew how your thighs twitched when you were trying not to beg, how you bit your lip like that when your mind was caught between want and guilt. and he could see it now, see you chew the inside of your cheek, hesitating, glancing from one man to the other like the choice could possibly be hard

except it was. because you wanted Ray. wanted the warmth of his hands, the way he kissed like it meant something, like it hurt to let you go. but Tommy, he was impossible to deny. he knew how to touch you like you were his from the start, like the moment he stepped in the room you’d already agreed

you looked at both of them. Ray stiff holding himself back, fists slightly clenched, and Tommy calm, sleeves rolled up, watching you. and you bit your lip again, this time softer

then your hand reached out and found Ray’s, warm and calloused and trembling just slightly under your fingers. you rubbed slow, soothing circles into his palm, not meeting his eyes like it was an apology

Ray’s jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed the swell of emotions in his chest. he didn’t want to do this, not with Tommy. but he saw that look in your eyes, that soft little tilt of your head, that pleading look that didn’t need words. and fuck, how could he say no to you when you were like that?

Tommy saw it too. saw the moment your mouth softened, your lips parting just barely like your body already made the decision. he stepped closer, his fingers brushing over your collarbone now “you want me to join?” he asked again, voice lower now. his hands undid the cuffs of his shirt, one button at a time, as if he already knew the answer

Ray didn’t move, not at first. but his thumb rubbed back against your hand now, a slow little stroke that said he wasn’t going away

you nodded, silent, but your knees shifted again, thighs parting slightly on the bed, your other hand coming up to rest on Tommy’s forearm, guiding him closer

Ray cursed under his breath, but stepped back in, standing on the opposite side of you, his hand still in yours

you led them to the bed. Ray stripped first, yanking off that olive compression shirt with a low grunt, muscles flexing, his dog tags clinking faintly as they dropped against his chest. his pants came next, then his boxers, until he stood hard in front of you, thick and veiny, his cock flushed deep red at the tip, curving slightly up toward his stomach

Tommy followed, more slower, he kicked his boots off with a thud and then undid his belt, pants sliding down his hips. his cock was already hard too, tall, smoother than Ray’s, a little slimmer but longer, the head glistening with precum

you stared, lips parting as you took them in. they weren’t like Erik, Sam, or Elliott. those three had their own shape, their own size. but Ray and Tommy were something else. both hard, both eager

they sat down, one on each side of you, Ray leaned in first, his fingers threading gently through your hair, tugging your head back just enough before he kissed you again, this time rougher, making up for what Tommy had interrupted earlier. his lips crushed yours, teeth dragging along your bottom lip

Tommy’s lips brushed your neck, lightly at first, but you gasped when he licked up the curve, dragging his tongue slow and wet from the crook to your collarbone. “Mmmh” you moaned into Ray’s mouth

Ray groaned into the kiss, hand moving to your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. his mouth left yours with a wet click, trailing warm open mouthed kisses down the side of your face, over your jaw, until he was kissing the top of your breast, while Tommy mirrored him on the other side, his lips brushing the soft curve of the swell

you arched between them, the fabric of your bra caught between their mouths

and then, with a flick of your fingers behind your back, the clasp gave, the bra slipping down your arms, catching briefly before falling to the bed

they didn’t waste a second

Ray’s mouth latched onto your left nipple, warm and wet, tongue swirling slowly around the stiffening bud, lips tugging just enough to make you whimper. he sucked softly, like the moment narrowed to just your tit in his mouth, his tongue flicking up and over until your hips rolled unconsciously toward his thigh

Tommy cupped your other breast, kneading with a strong hand while his mouth met your nipple, sucking hard and fast, his teeth grazing with just enough pressure to make your thighs clench “fuck, these tits” he muttered between licks “could stay here all night.”

Ray chuckled low against your breast, never lifting his head, just shifting to nibble the edge before sucking you in deeper. his hand stroked down your side, pulling your body closer to his, his thigh slotting between yours

you gasped, your back arched, nipples caught in two mouths. Ray’s tongue warm and slow, Tommy’s lips eager and fast. one hand reached for Ray’s hair, your fingers tangling in the short buzz, holding him against you. the other found Tommy’s thigh, gripping it tight

your panties clung to your pussy, the cotton darkened and sticky between your legs, you could feel it every time your hips shifted, their mouths were still on your chest, your skin glistening with spit, lips swollen from suckling your tits, tongues flicking lazily, like they weren’t in a rush to stop

your hands found their cocks. one in each fist and they both hissed through their teeth when your fingers wrapped around them. Ray’s was heavy and hot in your palm, thick enough that your fingertips didn’t meet. Tommy’s was slimmer but longer, your hand sliding slick over the precum at his tip. you stroked them both slowly, feeling the subtle differences, the way Tommy twitched when your thumb teased just beneath the head, the way Ray pushed into your grip like he needed more

Tommy groaned against your breast, mouth pulling off with a wet pop, lips slick and parted “Fuck, she’s gonna make me cum just like this” he muttered, eyes dropping to watch your hands working them, his tongue darting out to taste your spit on his lip

Ray’s hand slid down, across your belly, fingers dragging over the waistband of your panties until he reached the warmth between your thighs. he groaned low, a real sound, almost in disbelief. his fingertips pressed into the fabric, feeling the way it stuck, the wet squish of your pussy through cotton

“Jesus Christ” he muttered, and smiled into your skin before pulling his mouth off your nipple with a little flick of his tongue. his breath was warm against the trail of saliva cooling on your chest, and you shivered as the air met your wet skin, nipples stiffening into hard little peaks

he leaned up, mouth brushing your ear “You ready?” he whispered. then he added your name at the end. your name. the one none of the other men even asked for. the one you told him once, when you had your first sweet encounter. Ray kept it like a secret, never sharing, never saying it around the others

you looked at him, and nodded slowly

Ray kissed your temple, almost tender, before sitting back

Tommy exhaled sharply “Alright” he groaned, shifting on the bed beside you, his cock slick and flushed from your touch “get on your hands and knees.”

you obeyed

you moved carefully, the mattress dipping under your knees as you turned away from them, your hands on the sheets, your ass lifted. the slick between your legs gleaming in the soft light, your panties riding up into the folds of your pussy, a wet outline they both stared at

Ray moved first, pulling them down slow, savoring the way the soaked fabric peeled from your skin with a sticky sound “Goddamn” he muttered, watching the mess you’d made. your folds were glistening, flushed, parted slightly from how swollen you were with want

Tommy knelt behind you, his hands already on your hips, thumbs brushing the curve of your ass “Look at that pussy” he breathed “all that just from us sucking your tits?”

you whimpered, your face pressed to the sheets, ass arched higher

Ray slid a hand down your back, fingers trailing your spine “You ready for both of us?” he asked, his voice back to that rough gentleness only he had, the kind that said he wanted you fucked out but still looking at him when it was over

you nodded again, this time needier, a soft “Yes” coming out of your mouth

Tommy was already lining up behind you, hands spreading your ass, cock heavy and throbbing as he leaned in, his tip brushing the soaked, swollen entrance of your pussy, your body so ready for it, already clenching around nothing, begging to be filled. but just before he pushed forward, Ray’s hand found his shoulder

“Don’t” Ray said, quiet but sharp

Tommy froze, blinked, then let out a short laugh “Why?” he smirked, glancing over his shoulder “She your girlfriend or something?”

Ray’s jaw flexed, his fingers twitching slightly where they still rested on your lower back. he didn’t answer for a second, then finally muttered “No.”

because you weren’t

not officially. you hadn’t called it that, and neither had he. you fucked, you kissed. you slept together, not just after sex, but through the night, legs tangled under the same sheet like that space belonged to both of you. he knew how you sounded when you finished, how you looked when you were trying to hide the tremble in your lips, how you whispered his name softer when it wasn’t about the orgasm but about him

Ray didn’t like sharing. not your pussy. not while he was here, not when he was hard and aching and full of that kind of possessiveness he never let anyone else see

“It’s not about that” Ray said finally, his voice gruff “She’s mine tonight. you want a hole, you pick a different one.”

Tommy stared at him for a second, then shrugged “Okay man.” no anger, just a slow move around the bed, his cock bobbing as he moved, expression calm and faintly amused

he crouched at the edge of the bed in front of you, his knees spread wide on either side of your arms. you lifted your head, panting, strands of hair clinging to your cheek as Tommy leaned in

his hands came up to cup your face, surprisingly gentle, thumbs stroking over your skin “Pretty fucking thing” he murmured. then he reached down and grabbed his cock, guiding it up, not to your mouth, but to your cheek

smack

the thick head slapped against your left cheek. not hard, just firm enough to jolt a surprised squeak from your throat. you gasped, blinking up at him

then the other side. slap

you flinched slightly, eyes shutting waiting for the next one, your cheeks stinging just faintly with the wet imprint of him, Tommy let out a low teasing laugh, and you smiled. just a little. your lips curled at the corner, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to keep it in check

“Good bunny” Tommy chuckled, brushing his cock along your lips now, smearing a line of precome over the curve of your mouth

behind you, Ray watched the exchange with something beginning to settle in his chest. but he didn’t stop. he slid two fingers down the curve of your ass, spreading you wider, watching your pussy open and glisten. he exhaled hard through his nose, then leaned in and kissed your lower back

because while Tommy played at your mouth, Ray was treating you like something worth taking his time with

he sank to his knees on the bed, hands gripping your hips with that same attention he always showed your body. his thumbs spread your folds, and he took a moment, just a moment to stare at the wet mess of your pussy. his cock twitched, desperate to be inside

Ray loved your pussy. he loved the way it opened for him, stretched for him, held him tight like your body knew him and only him. he buried his face between your cheeks, tongue flat against your folds, licking one long, hot stripe from your entrance to your clit

you gasped around Tommy’s cock as he slid it into your mouth at the same time, just the head, letting you suck and swirl your tongue while Ray ate you from behind

Ray moaned into your pussy, drunk on the taste “Fuck” he rasped, spreading your ass wider, his tongue flicking your clit now, fast, then slow, then fast again

no matter how many other cocks you’d taken, how many cocks you’d moaned around, how many times you’d been stretched and filled. it was always different with Ray. always deeper, always more

he knelt back up, finally guiding the head of his cock to your entrance, dragging it through your slick folds once, twice. then he looked down at you, still on your hands and knees, sucking Tommy’s cock, your cheeks flushed from the slaps, your ass trembling, waiting for Ray.

Ray’s hand slid up your back again, and he leaned over you, mouth close to your ear

“gonna fuck you now” he whispered “you’re gonna finish on my cock before he even touches your throat.”

then he pushed in

Ray slid into your pussy in one smooth thrust, the thick head parting your folds with a slow, stretching burn that had your mouth falling open before Tommy even touched you again. the sting was sweet and sharp, your slick pussy wrapping around him like it knew his shape by memory, because it did. your walls clenched, like they’d been aching for him all day, and Ray grunted deep in his chest, fingers digging hard into your waist

“Goddamn” he groaned, voice husky “still so tight for me”

behind you, the slap of his hips meeting your ass was already there, his cock bottoming out with every thrust, his balls slapping wet against your pussy with sticky, dirty sounds as he fucked into you, slow at first, savoring the way your body trembled around him. one hand slid up to grip your ass, spreading your cheeks wider, letting him thrust deeper and harder

your breath hitched, right before Tommy shoved his cock deeper into your mouth

“Open up bunny” he groaned, voice low and strained, his fingers stroking your cheek for half a second

and you did. you opened wide for him, tongue flat, eyes half lidded, but there was no warning, no slow entry, just the sudden, brutal push of his hips forward as he fed his cock down your throat in one hard thrust

you gagged, your throat squeezing around him as your eyes watered, tears instantly gathering at the corners from the force of it. the tip slammed against the back of your throat, and your whole body jolted, but you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t. Tommy’s hands grabbed your head, one fisted in your hair, the other gripping your jaw tight, holding you steady as his cock filled your mouth to the base

“Fuck yes” he huffed, head falling back, a broken groan leaving his throat “look at that mouth, taking it like a fucking champ.”

you barely had time to breathe, tears falling freely as Tommy pulled back just enough for you to suck in a ragged gasp and then shoved in again, faster, harder

he wasn’t letting you set the pace

Tommy was fucking your throat now, his hips thrusting forward over and over with wet slaps, spit and precum drooling from your lips, pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down onto the bed beneath you. your nose brushed the hair at the base of his shaft with every thrust

Ray didn’t stop either. his grip on your waist tightened, his other hand palming your ass as he fucked into your pussy with the kind of rhythm you loved, deep, rough, perfect. his cock grazed that spot that made your thighs shake, your pussy clench, and your back arch

the sound of your wet pussy sucking him in filled the room, sticky and messy, Ray’s balls slapping your folds with each thrust, louder now as he picked up speed. the force of it pushed you into Tommy’s cock even more, your whole body between them, stuffed front and back, no space left for anything

and both of them were talking

Ray’s voice was low and breathless against your back, “that’s it… take it…. this pussy’s mine, fuck… look how good she’s taking us.”

while Tommy’s tone was rough, and cocky, hips grinding into your face as he groaned “bunny, you’re a goddamn dream… take it all. yeah that’s it, choke on it.”

you tried to moan, tried to answer, but all that came out was a desperate, muffled sound around Tommy’s cock, your throat clenched, as drool ran down your chin

you were completely fucked, and you loved every second of it

Tommy’s grip on your head tightened, hips still grinding into your throat, as he looked down at you, sweat forming on his brow, breath ragged “Bunny” he groaned, cupping your cheeks tighter between thrusts “tell Ray how much you love getting fucked by me.”

you tried to shake your head, tried to look at Ray who was still buried balls deep in your pussy behind you, but Tommy didn’t let you move. his cock thrust deeper instead, forcing another gag from you, your eyes watering even more

Tommy didn’t need an answer. not a real one. because this wasn’t about fairness, this was about fucking your throat open while watching Ray lose composure behind you

he chuckled, cruel and sweet all at once. “does he even know you love getting carried with cock inside you?” he sneered, his hand brushing damp hair from your cheek mockingly “Hmm? has he ever carried you like I do, bunny?”

and he wasn’t wrong. you remembered that night when Tommy had lifted you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, your back slammed to the wall while he fucked you so hard your moans had echoed down the hallway. he was the first. the only one who’d ever fucked you in the air, held you tight, pounded into you until you were sobbing and coming down his cock while clinging to him

and now he was shoving himself down your throat again

“Whose cock do you love more?” he bit out “me… or baby Ray’s?”

Ray let out a half-choked noise, part groan and part grunt at the nickname, his rhythm slowing for just a second. his hand tensed hard on your waist as he thrust into your pussy again, harder now

you gagged again, your throat squeezing around Tommy’s cock, unable to speak, unable to answer, but Tommy didn’t care

“That’s right” he groaned, looking down at your wide, watery eyes, mouth stuffed full “you got nothing to say.”

then he spat. warm saliva splattered across your cheek, sliding slowly down toward your jaw, sticking to the trail of tears and spit already dripping down your chin

your pussy clenched at the shock of it, humiliation. your thighs trembled and Ray felt it, felt that around his cock, how your walls squeezed tighter as you moaned helplessly around Tommy

Ray’s hand came down across your ass, the sound loud and sharp, your body jerking from the impact

“you love getting spat on, huh?” Ray rasped his breath catching in his throat

you couldn’t respond, your mouth still full of Tommy’s cock but your body clenched so hard around Ray he nearly lost control

“Shit” he muttered under his breath, grinding deep into your pussy “guess we’ll have to try that next time.”

then, without pulling out, Ray licked two of his fingers, reached between your legs, and slid one finger into your pussy beside his cock

your body shuddered. the stretch was instant, your pussy now full by more than just his cock. you moaned, gargled and desperate around Tommy

Ray grunted, the feeling of his cock pressed against his own finger inside you driving him wild “you’re fucking unbelievable” he groaned “so good.”

then he slid another finger in

you whined around Tommy’s cock, body tensing hard as your pussy gave, taking both fingers and his cock all at once

“Fucking look at her” Ray moaned “She’s swallowing it. goddamn greedy pussy.”

Tommy looked down, watching the way your body trembled, your mouth still full of him, your nose pressed to his skin

“Bunny’s fucking filthy” he muttered “and she loves it.”

Tommy’s cock went into your throat again, your lips stretched wide, spit slicking down your chin in messy strings. your throat flexed and tightened, trying to fit him, trying to breathe around him

your hand slid up his thigh, trembling, and found his balls

you cupped them gently at first, your fingertips brushing the tight skin, then massaged them slowly, rolling them in your palm like you knew exactly what he needed and fuck, you did

Tommy gasped, a moan coming straight from his throat. “Fuuuck” he stuttered, his voice all strangled, hips stopping mid thrust as the pleasure came over him. his head fell back, mouth open, as he hissed through clenched teeth “don’t stop bunny- shit, that’s… fucking perfect.”

Ray behind you, was pounding harder now, losing rhythm. his thrusts got sloppier, rougher, his fingers digging into your waist and ass as he pulled you back into each slam of his hips. his balls slapped wet against your pussy, thick smack after smack, the sound filthy and filling the room

you felt it, all of it

the way Tommy’s cock throbbed on your tongue. the way Ray’s cock fucked deep inside your pussy with every thrust. the way your body trembled

and then it hit. your orgasm washed over you, your pussy clenching down around Ray, your moan a helpless muffled sound around Tommy’s cock. your thighs jerked, trying to close tight, but Ray only shoved them open wider, keeping you spread

you sobbed through it, twitching “yeah, that’s it” Ray breathed, watching your pussy clench “right on my cock, just like that. you feel fucking amazing”

Tommy was close too. your throat clenched, your hand still kneading his balls, and he let out a moan “fuckk goning to fucking cum-”

He slammed in deep, holding your face flush to him, his cock buried to the base down your throat

you nose was crushed against him

Tommy finished first. his cum spilled straight down your throat, thick and salty, flooding your mouth before you even had a chance to react. you gurgled softly around him, gagging slightly as he held you there, eyes closed

then he pulled out with a slick pop, his cock twitching in his hand, and you gasped for air, your mouth going open

you stuck out your tongue, slick and heavy with his cum, eyes watery but proud, your cheeks flushed

Tommy looked down at you and smiled “Goddamn.”

then you swallowed, Tommy groaned “Let me see, bunny.”

you opened your mouth again, tongue clean, glistening with spit but no cum left. not a drop, all of it swallowed whole

“Good” he rasped, cupping your chin for a second “Fucking perfect.”

Ray was next, his grip on your hips hard, his cock thrusting in and out of your pussy, he buried himself as deep as he could, groaning through gritted teeth

“Shit, I’m- fucking”

he came with a sharp, ragged groan, hips jerking, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled thick, warm cum into your pussy. his whole body tensed behind you, then fell forward, forehead resting between your shoulders, one arm wrapped tight around your belly, holding you close as he filled you up

you both stayed like that, shaking, breathless, skin slick with sweat, spit and sex

Ray kissed the back of your neck softly, still inside you, his cum already leaking out around his cock

Tommy exhaled with a chuckle, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth

Tommy rose from the bed, his breath still ragged, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth while he reached for his shirt. his boots thudded softly as he shuffled around, tucking himself back into his pants. he glanced at the two of you on the bed, you on your knees, Ray still buried inside you, and offered a smirk over his shoulder

“Not bad sharing, baby Ray.” Tommy muttered, buttoning his fly “let’s do this again.”

Ray didn’t respond. Tommy moved closer and left a quick, small kiss to your lips, barely even there but looking right at Ray as he did.

Ray didn’t even look at him. just stared down at your back, his jaw tight, still breathing through the last of his orgasm. Tommy’s footsteps echoed softly as he left the room, door swinging open with a creak and then shutting behind him with a click

Ray waited until the silence settled

then he pulled out. slow and careful his cock slick and your pussy leaking with both your wetness and his cum. your thighs trembled from the your orgasm, your pussy still clenching weakly as the emptiness settled in

but Ray didn’t let it sit

he leaned down immediately, hands gentle on your thighs, spreading you open just enough before his mouth met your overstimulated pussy

you gasped, hips jerking, but Ray just held you still and moaned softly into you. his tongue licked at the mess, his lips sealing around your entrance to drink every drop of his own cum spilling out. he was careful, soft where Tommy had been rough, cleaning you like this was how he made it right

because Ray always cleaned up after his mess

you reached up and wiped Tommy’s spit off your cheek with the back of your hand

Ray pulled back after one last long lick, then kissed your pussy, just a soft press of his lips, before sitting back beside you on the bed

you shifted, your body feeling heavy and tired, you sat back on your heels with a quiet sigh. Ray was right there, his hand finding yours, and you leaned in without needing to think about it

your lips met his in a kiss that was tender and sweet, none of that desperation from earlier. just you and him

“next time” you whispered, your voice honest and quiet against his lips “just you and me.”

you kissed his cheek like you always did when it just you two.

and Ray turned his face into your kiss, eyes shut, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a soft hum. he didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to.

Ray and barracks bunny situationship sneak 🤫

@babble28 @livelaughl0ve3 @bradleybeachbabe @sharpayslilo @iron-rot @irrelevantsnowy @joelmeller @willowpains @k-pevensie28 @violetcamryn @luna-sungirl @nerdgirlbutinpink @f4nfic-lover @k-ilisi @https-junebug @glassbxttless @gallaghrh @samslvrgirl @vinecstasy @illyrianbrat @pr3ttygrlz @ddlydevotion @onmyknees4kai @heegasm @alexislameee @coconuttiez8d @legoflowrs @gaebestie @roostersluvvr

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

[vinecstasy]

💕💞💓💗

[vinecstasy]

God bless the 1975

[vinecstasy]

how much aura do i lose by sobbing whilst the 1975 headline glastonbury, when i’m alone in my living room watching on tv…

like that’s my band and i feel like a proud mam 🥲

[vinecstasy]

#needthat

𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐨𝐲

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warfare ⋮ Erik x f!reader ⋮ dad!Erik ⋮ fluff ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

bc i saw Will poulter w a baby in his arms 🥹

𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐄𝐫𝐢𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬��𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

you don’t remember the pain. you know it was there, because the nurses kept telling you to push, because your fingers still remember clutching the sides of the bed. but what you do remember is Erik

you remember the way he stood frozen at the foot of your bed, eyes locked on the tiny, squirming baby in the nurse’s arms, his mouth parted slightly. he looked almost in awe as if he couldn’t believe what was happening was real

the nurse handed him the baby, bundled up, and Erik hesitated just for a second before pulling the newborn close

you were still catching your breath when they helped Erik sit into the hospital chair beside you, shirt off, chest bare. he looked at you, soft eyes, almost like he was asking for permission and you gave him a small nod. he pressed your son gently against his chest, skin to skin, cradling the baby

“Hey…” Erik whispered as he pressed a kiss to the top of the baby’s head

a tiny hand, curled around his much bigger finger

you watched them from your bed, that image would live in your mind forever. Erik sitting there, bare chest, your baby nestled against him like he belonged there

and deep down, you knew, you knew by the way Erik looked at him, eyes wide and teary, as if the world had just given him something he never thought he deserved. you knew, without a doubt, that they’d be inseparable

and you were right

your son turned out to be the biggest papa’s boy. he never wanted anyone else. he wanted Erik to hold him, Erik to carry him, Erik to feed him, rock him, nap with him. you? yeah you were loved, but when Erik walked into a room, your son perked up and wanted to be with him

Erik never minded, not once. he carried your son around, always one hand up against his small back, the other lifting him from beneath.

and when your son started speaking?

“Dada.”

that was it. dada, dad, daddy

morning, noon, and night, it was all he said. looking for him when he wasn’t around, arms stretched up whenever Erik passed by. even when Erik came back sweaty, tired, sometimes from training or deployments he never turned him down. he’d scoop him right up and hold him close, letting his little boy fall asleep tucked against his chest.

and whenever your son scraped his knee, Erik was there, he’d scoop him up, press his lips to the top of his messy hair, and whisper “you’re okay. I got you”

on sick days, when he couldn’t sleep unless he was curled up against someone, it was always Erik holding him through the night, resting his chin on the top of his small head

even on the hard days. the tantrum days, the loud, everything is wrong days, Erik never lost his patience. he’d kneel down, speak gently, always tried to understand before reacting. he held your son the same way he held you when you were at your lowest

Tonight it was one of those quiet, late family nights. you were tucked into the corner of the couch, Erik’s head warm and heavy on your thigh, and your son sprawled out on top of him, cheek smushed against Erik’s chest, one arm resting lazily across his torso. the movie had just ended finally, and the credits rolled slowly

you and Erik had both tried to warn him

“this one’s really long” you’d said earlier, brushing your son’s hair back as he looked up at you. Erik had added “there’s no way you’re going make it through the whole thing”

but he’d pouted, really pouted and insisted, and well, neither of you could say no. so you’d given in

you stretched your arms over your head with a tired sigh, your fingers brushing through Erik’s hair as your arms came back down

he didn’t move, just turned his head slightly to press a kiss to your inner thigh before looking down

“He fell asleep” Erik whispered, there was a faint smirk on his lips and a little patch of drool darkening his shirt where your son had been resting

you smiled down at them, running your hand gently along your son’s back “we told him” you murmured

“he really wanted to watch this movie too” Erik said, his palm resting on the small of your son’s back

“you got him?” you asked softly, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway

“Yeah” he hummed, giving you a small nod

and with that, Erik placed a hand under your son’s back, the other beneath his legs, and slowly sat up from the couch, your sweet boy never even stirring. he was completely out, mouth slightly open, head resting back against his dad’s shoulder

you stood with him, walking beside Erik as he carried your son down the hallway like he was still that same tiny newborn against his chest. you opened the bedroom door, pulling back the covers while Erik gently settled him into bed, tucking him in tight

you son didn’t even blink awake just instinctively reached out and grabbed one of Erik’s fingers in his sleep

you both stood there a moment, watching him

Erik’s arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you close “You think he knows?” he asked quietly

“Knows what?” you looked up at him

“How much I love him” he said

you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder “Yeah” you whispered “he knows. you show him every single day.”

and Erik just nodded, eyes on your sleeping son

the house was quiet again.

after tucking your son in, you and Erik had climbed into bed without saying much, just tired murmurs of “I love you” and a goodnight kiss as you curled into each other. Erik wrapped his arms around you like he always did, chest pressed against your back. you drifted off quickly, with the soft sound of his snoring at your ear

until a loud, sharp panicked cry came from down the hall

you jolted awake first, heart racing. Erik stirred awake as well, groaning softly as he sat up and rubbed a hand down his face, trying to shake off the sleep. the cry came again, this time with a broken little wail that made your chest tighten

“Must be a nightmare” you whispered, turning to look at him in the dark light

Erik nodded, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed “Yeah.”

you both got up at the same time, walking down the hall, bare feet against the cold wood floors. Erik pulled you into a lazy side hug as you walked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. you leaned into him without thinking

when you opened the door to your son’s room, he turned his head toward you instantly. his cheeks were tear streaked, eyes wide, bottom lip trembling. he sat upright in bed with his blanket clutched in one fist, the other rubbing his eye as more small sobs came out

your heart broke at the sight

you stepped forward, arms open, already on your way to soothe him “what’s wrong?”

“I want dad” he hiccuped, his little voice cracking as more tears rolled down his cheeks “I want daddy.”

you froze mid step, blinking. then turned your head over your shoulder

Erik was right behind you, just as surprised, his brows lifted and his mouth twitched like he didn’t know whether to laugh or tear up. he blinked, then stepped forward slowly

“Are you sure?” he asked gently, crouching down to your son’s eye level “mom might be better at making you feel better. she’s good at that right?”

but your son was already reaching out, arms lifted toward Erik

you stepped aside with a small smile, watching as Erik scooped him up and settled down at the edge of the bed, trying to fold his long legs into the small mattress space. he barely fit, knees halfway off the bed, but he didn’t care. not even a little

he laid back, pulling your son onto his chest, one hand holding him close, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles over his back

“Close your eyes” Erik whispered “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

your son let out a shaky breath, his little fingers curling into Erik’s shirt as he began to settle. his cheek pressed against Erik’s chest, right where his heart beat

that tiny bed suddenly felt like the safest place in the world because Erik was in it. because your son knew he was safe there, wrapped up in his father’s arms, where nothing bad could ever touch him

and you knew again, just like you knew in that hospital room, that no matter how big your son got, Erik would always be the one he ran to. and that they’d always be inseparable.

he can be my daddy #TUCKMEINTOBED #🍪🥛💤

@ddlydevotion @ilovecheriies @sharpayslilo @iron-rot @alexislameee @witchywidow97 @willowpains @k-pevensie28 @violetcamryn @spacec0wgirl777 @meetmeatyourworst @f4nfic-lover @tenseoyong @https-junebug @glassbxttless @gallaghrh @legoflowrs @samslvrgirl @vinecstasy @illyrianbrat @ilovecheriies @babble28 @livelaughl0ve3 @bradleybeachbabe @sharpayslilo @gaebestie @roostersluvvr

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

[vinecstasy]

this diva 🔥

[vinecstasy]

LONG LIVE GASOLINE!!! LONG LIVE @stevie-petey !!!

track five: gasoline, pretty please

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

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

Rating: general, some swearing, blood

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eye twitches. “The greatest.”

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

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

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

Steve swallows. “Right.”

“Then that’s what I’m here to do.” 

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

He still hasn’t forgotten the taste.

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

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

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

“Oh, definitely.”

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

“Seems I have some competition, then.” 

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

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

Childish laughter bubbles in your chest. “Never.”

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet you’re the only one he performs for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he allows you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Part of my job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m really not.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nancy would kill me–”

“We both know she’d agree with me.”

“Okay, no–”

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

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

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

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

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

Steve drinks again. “It’s only beer.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s what you said last night.”

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

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

But he can’t tell Robin any of this. 

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

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

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

Robin breathes out. “Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jonathan blinks. “Yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Niceties and pleasantries. 

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

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

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

I could never forget you.

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

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

But he knows you, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Steve?

His post-show ritual has just arrived. 

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

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

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

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

It’s the only release he can afford. 

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

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

Max snorts. “Took them long enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

There are snippets Steve remembers, though.

Like being forced to ski in Colorado.

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

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

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

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

Jonathan quickly sits up in bed. “We?”

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

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

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

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

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

Of course you fucking roped him into your idea.

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

“I told you to get up!”

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

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

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

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

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

“It was Steve’s fault.”

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

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

“I’m sleeping,” he says, monotone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We never signed a fucking waiver.”

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

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

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

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

“I’d rather fucking die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, so let’s get to skiing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little help, here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snow falls all over. Your second winter together. 

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The most overqualified concert photographer in history.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

November, 1989, the Februarys recover from skiing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s really good at doing that.”

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

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

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

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

“They really loved your work. A lot.”

“Where’s this going?”

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

“Oh.” 

“They’re based in New York–”

“Gregory.”

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

“Gregory.”

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

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

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

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

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

And Steve. All you could think about was Steve. 

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

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

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

Him. 

Gregory can’t even say his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gregory trips. “I-sorry?”

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

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

You smile wickedly. “Gotcha.”

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

–

Leonard books the Februarys three shows in California. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike shrugs. “Ted’s an ass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– 

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

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

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

And they oblige.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I saw three.” Max leans against the wall with Robin, who holds her hand to remind the other that tonight was real and not some far-fetched dream.

“I counted four!” Mike pretends to punch someone. “I mean, how fucking sick is that?”

Steve rough houses with the kid, ducking and weaving faux punches. “We’re fucking rockstars, Wheeler!”

Mike screams a cheer and Jonathan echoes it and the three boys all begin to grapple at each other and wrestle. Max and Robin watch with rolled eyes, though their fond smiles are hard to hide.

You take a picture of the childish scene before you. The Februarys wrestling one another, celebrating their biggest sold out show. Your cheeks ache from how hard you smile. The scene reminds you of nights in your apartment in New York, pizza boxes everywhere and empty beer cans with soft rock playing over an old record player. 

“Alright, I got everyone’s room key–” Gregory joins everyone backstage, distracted with arranging the multitude of key cards in his hands, and almost walks right into the wrestling match. “Oh. They’re fighting.”

“Don’t worry, they’re just messing around.” You reassure him. 

“This time.” Max adds. 

Gregory makes an uncomfortable sound and you just shake your head. “Leave him alone, Max.”

“Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Robin grabs a key card from Gregory. “God, I’m glad Leonard is a rich bastard. I’ve missed having a queen sized bed and AC.”

“I like the bunks on the bus.” Max says, though she grabs a key card as well. “I just hate that you’re all on the bus as well.”

Robin flips her off while you point at yourself. “Don’t group me with the band. I’m on the other bus. Far away. Just how I know you like it.” 

“That’s a good point, actually.” Suddenly Robin grabs your arm, pulling you towards the boys who are still wrestling. She steps between them and blocks their punches, effectively ending their impromptu wrestling match. 

“What the hell, Robin?” Steve asks incredulously. He was just about to put Mike in a headlock. 

“Y/N is going to sleep with us.”

“What?” He chokes on his spit.

Jonathan and Mike are no better. Both whip their heads towards you with genuine fear in their eyes. You’d be offended if you also weren’t completely mortified yourself. 

You raise your hand. “Hi, do I get a say in who I sleep with?”

“Not this time, pretty girl.” Robin pats your arm. “Don’t worry, we can all hole up in my room. You’re long overdue for a sleepover with the Februarys.”

“Platonically, I hope.” Gregory butts in. “For reasons I can’t legally specify, Leonard has banned intergroup relations.”

Mike looks at Steve and Jonathan jams his elbow into the kid’s ribs. Everyone else pretends not to have noticed. 

“As much as it pains me to say, it’ll be strictly platonic.” Robin sighs. “It’ll just be us making Y/N miserable while she tries to develop film.”

“Again, do I get a say in this?”

“No.”

Jonathan rests his elbow on your shoulder. “I’m in.”

Mike shrugs. “Oddly I miss the chemical smell.”

You frown. “That’s not a reassuring answer.”

“If Mike is huffing chemicals, count me in.” Max says. “I’d pay to see that, actually.”

Robin claps her hands. “Then it’s settled. Mandatory band slumber party tonight. Gregory and Y/N will get shitty pizza with Mike and Jonathan while me and Steve get the drinks–”

“I’m not joining.” 

The light in her eyes dims. “What part of ‘mandatory band slumber party’ do you not understand?”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. A defensive act. He shifts his weight and looks away. “I have other plans tonight.”

“Harrington.” A stagecrew member knocks on the door. A hallway full of girls wait behind him. 

Right on fucking time.

Robin’s jaw tightens. “Is this still you trying?”

I meant it. I really am trying.

Steve finally meets her eye. “Yes,” he answers, calm, unmoving. He doesn’t have it in him anymore to explain what he can’t quite understand himself. All he knows is that he can’t be in the same room as you, not sober, not drunk. He’ll only ruin everyone’s night and he can’t risk losing the band entirely, so he’ll sacrifice fragments of them if it means they’ll still remain whole. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Will we?” Max’s question severs.

He swallows the hurt he knows he isn’t allowed to feel. “You will.”

It’s the most he can promise. 

In the silence of the dressing room Steve plasters a smile on his face, fixes his hair, snatches four bottles of liquor from the bar cart, and shoves past the crew member. The hallway explodes into expected feminine cheers. 

“Leonard was right.” Robin says through her teeth. “California is where you’ll get a venereal disease."

Something about her words pinches nausea into your stomach and twists your intestines into knots. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, the bitter cold air numbs the sickness within you.

– 

Robin somehow ends up with a record player in her hotel room. She sighs in relief when she sees it and promptly demands that Jonathan to dig through his suitcase and play the first record he finds. 

David Byrne’s voice floats through the room. Max lays on the bed with a comic, humming softly along to the song while Mike sits at her feet, messing with his guitar and scribbling chord arrangements he likes. 

Jonathan and Gregory sit on the couch. The two of them discuss aspects of the music industry that the Februarys don’t necessarily deal with themselves. Jonathan expresses an interest in the business side, asking Gregory a million questions a minute. 

You’re hunched over the vanity, carefully placing rolls of film into clear liquid and watching as the images come to life. Robin sits on the table itself, watching with her usual curiosity. 

Then, because she’s Robin, she allows her thoughts to be voiced. 

“What the fuck is going on between you and Steve?”

You spill an entire bottle of developer onto the table. Quickly standing up, you clear away the film at risk of being soaked. “Shit.”

Robin helps you, though she doesn’t take her eyes off your anxious frame. “Quite a knee-jerk reaction, there. If you try and tell me it’s nothing, I’m afraid I’ll have to tie you to a chair.”

“What’s with this band and tying people to chairs?”

Jonathan gets up from the couch and cleans up the mess with some leftover napkins the pizza joint provided. “Robin’s question came off a little strong, I’ll admit, but we’re really worried about Steve.”

“And while he’s been spiraling into a manic alcohol-induced sexual delusion,” Max scrutinizes you. “You’ve been weirdly normal about it.”

“So,” Mike concludes. “Something fucked up happened that you aren’t telling us.”

“Besides the obvious sleeping with each other in Chicago.” Robin hands you the film she salvaged. “Here you go, by the way.”

Your head spins. “Is this an intervention or some shit?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless we need to make it one.”

“I’m sorry, but when Steve and I crossed the line and jeopardized the band you guys were rightfully pissed off.” Turning around, you face everyone. “But when we agree to remain professional for the sake of our jobs, you’re worried about us?”

Robin narrows her eyes. “What do you mean you agreed to remain professional?” 

“We…” Suddenly aware of how naive it all sounds, you hesitate to explain. “We made a deal.”

“Well go on.” Mike opens his arms. “I’m sure this will only further add to our problems.” 

You throw a bobby pin at Jonathan. “Can you shut him up?”

“No, I’m on his side for this one.”

“Y/N,” Robin forces your attention back. “Tell us what deal you made.”

All eyes on you, there’s nowhere left to run. 

The back of your knees hit the bed. Weak to the fall, you land against it, exhausted. “We made the deal the first gig back in New York.”

“The closet!” Mike exclaims, pointing at you wildly. “That’s when I saw you guys leaving the closet together!”

“You slept together that night?” Max gags.

You quickly correct them. “No. Jesus, have some faith in us, alright? We were in the closet because Steve was a fucking mess performing that night and it was clear there were still some unresolved… feelings, I guess. So I forced him into the closet and we made a deal: remain professional and stop letting our issues affect the band.”

“You forced Steve to be your coworker?” Robin almost can’t believe it, it’s almost too absurd to believe, but really she suspected something akin to it already. You’ve been more distant from the band. Most nights Steve can’t even look at you. Carefully curated sentences silence the laughter that she hasn’t heard since leaving New York. 

“If that’s how you want to look at it, then sure. I forced him to be my coworker.”

Jonathan softens his voice. “And you’re okay with it?”

“Of course I’m not okay with it!” Exhausted laughter rattles your empty ribcage. “Of course it fucking hurts when Steve sleeps with yet another girl and of course I’m fucking miserable pretending that it doesn’t hurt. You don’t think I’m fucking terrified he’ll drink himself to death?”

No one says anything, which only makes you laugh even more hysterically. “Jesus fuck, this is my job, this is your job. What else am I supposed to do? Wait for him to get his shit together? Jeporadize everything again just for a small figment of fucking hope?” 

“You shouldn’t have to make yourself miserable for us.” A soft hand cups your cheek. When your eyes open, Robin’s mournful regret stares back at you. “That isn’t fair to you.”

Gregory coughs. The action itself doesn’t give away anything. He remains silent and merely observes the conversation, but the cough was meant for only you to understand. Your conversation from Colorado hangs between you. The Jinxs and their offer. His uncertainty that you’d survive four more months of cold civility with Steve. 

“Didn’t I tell you that I was the Februarys’ biggest fan?” You try to deflect the rawness of Robin’s grief for you. 

Max studies you for a moment. “You don’t take as many photos as you used to.”

“I took almost a hundred photos of you guys tonight.” Entire rolls of film dedicated to the Februarys. 

“She’s not talking about the pictures we pay you for.” Mike says with uncharacteristic kindness. 

Nothing they’re saying makes sense. “I always enjoy photographing your shows. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“And when you’re not taking pictures of our performances?” Robin pushes you just a little more, just enough to get you to see what everyone else already knows. “What are you taking pictures of, then?”

Once, you would’ve told her that you take pictures of Mike chasing Jonathan with a frog through a national park. Pictures of Max with her comics on the bay side of the bus, a moment of peace between shows. You would’ve told Robin that you take pictures of her as she gets ready in the mornings, a lazy image of her in the bathroom mirror with tired eyes but a warm smile. 

Once, you would’ve taken a photo of the way the snow freckled in Steve’s brown hair and how it melts golden in the sunlight. How he looks encased in the green pine of the mountains. The way his hands grip the ski pole and the velvet red of his jacket matching the rosie flush of his face. 

But you can’t tell Robin any of this, because it never happened. You never took the photos. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you’d been too afraid to. The memories you want to preserve are the same memories you try to forget. In putting aside your turmoil and grief for the sake of the band, you’ve slowly lost pieces of yourself in the process.

You’ve slowly lost the love for the art your mother left behind.

Gregory coughs again, this time with more force. It’s enough to break the mountainous silence and bring the attention off of you and onto him. “Excuse me,” he clears his throat excessively, putting on a show. “Didn’t someone say there’d be drinks?”

Robin allows the distraction, worried she’s pushed you too far. Tossing Gregory a beer, she offers one to you as well. “Here. You look like you need one.”

“Thanks,” your mumbled response doesn’t make her feel better. You crack the can open, drink the bitter liquid, and it tastes better than the empty realization of tonight.

– 

The second night in Los Angeles follows the same as the first night.

Steve stumbles into sound check covered in hickies and a bruised eye. He reeks of alcohol and his normally tanned skin looks grey. The Februarys’ bite their tongues when they see him. At the very least he’s shown up for rehearsals sober, albeit hungover. 

You watch them sound check as you normally do. As you watch the band go over the setlist and bicker as usual, the conversation from last night sits heavily in your skin. When Steve shows Robin how to hold a guitar in order to settle a playful argument, you reach for your digital camera before you can second guess it.

The image of them comes out hazy. You were too quick, too ill prepared, but even the lack of skill can’t explain the broken way Steve’s body appears in the photo. The shadows under his eyes are only emphasized in the pixels. The hickies that mar his body look more like cruel bruises than passionate ones. 

Unsettled by how devoid his beauty has become, you put the camera down. You don’t want to remember Steve this way. 

The show itself doesn’t help the pit of dread in your stomach. The overcrowded audience feeds into Steve’s spiral. They shout his name and jeer crude remarks and toss beer cans for him to catch and crack open after every song because he shotguns them with impressive speed. They’re too blind to recognize that he’s fading.

You break from your usual habit of taking pictures of the crowd. Something about the people in the venue makes you uncomfortable. You don’t like how they treat Steve like their shiny new toy. 

Instead you focus on the band the whole night, photographing Robin’s lithe fingers and Jonathan’s exposed neck and Max’s light eyes and Mike’s wild hair and Steve’s lips.

Only the lips you photograph are hard to recognize. Bitten raw and dry and chapped. They no longer resemble the soft lips that used to kiss you to sleep. 

The dread in your stomach only grows. Nothing about this is right. 

You’re desperate at this point. As soon as the show wraps up you jump over the barricade and intercept the Februarys before they walk into their dressing room.

“Wait, hold on a second.”

They all jump back, surprised by your sudden appearance. 

“Someone’s here early.” Robin remarks, eyeing you. “What’s up, pretty girl?”

“I just–” A hickey peeks through the top of Steve’s collar and it punches you in the throat. Your entire body goes numb, yet your nervous system screams at you to run. “Can I take some pictures of you guys? I-I mean, how I used to? After your gigs where I’d take pictures of your guys’ instruments and outfits and–”

“Breathe, dude.” Mike clamps his hand over your mouth. “You’re stressing me out.”

Jonathan slaps his hand away. “You’re all sweaty from performing, don’t be gross.”

“You know fast talkers stress me out!”

“You don’t just shove your hand onto someone’s mouth–”

Robin pushes both boys behind her. While they continue to argue, she grazes your arm. “Take as many pictures of me as you want, babe. You know I love it when I’m your muse.”

Max kicks the boys, causing them both to kneel over in pain. “And these idiots will agree once they get their heads out of their asses.” 

“Perfect,” exhaling in relief, you look past the group for the missing member. “And Steve–” 

He isn’t there. 

Robin lets out an exasperated breath. “Where the hell did he go?”

Your mouth opens to suggest checking the dressing room, but the words die in your throat when a horde of girls run past you. Steve is in the center of it all, already drunk off the attention, tattered in lipstick marks and booze.

–

California feeds the excess of loneliness innate in Steve.

Every night the alcohol consumes him. He drinks to forget how your lips kissed the inside of his thighs and then he drinks even more to feel the phantom touch you left behind. The girls he sleeps with are happy to pretend to be someone else for him. 

They all just want to be able to say that they fucked a rockstar. 

Steve just enjoys the sensation of being held, if only for a brief second between parting lips and hushed tongues. 

He hangs precariously on the thin line he drew out of faulty promises and hurt feelings. A tightrope of his own creation, Steve toes the line between preserving enough of himself for the Februarys and erasing the remaining pieces to forget you.

The morning the band leaves for San Bernardino, he spends the entire drive nursing a hangover. He buries himself in blankets to block out the excessive sunlight and has to clutch onto his bunk railing to steady himself against the rocky pavement that jolts the bus back and forth. 

Robin spares him enough sympathy by hand feeding him some crushed granola and even asks Mike and Jonathan to keep their voices down so that Steve can sleep. 

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve her in his life, but he’s glad he did at least one thing right. 

By the time they arrive at the festival grounds of Glen Helen, it’s late noon.

Max sees them first.

“Holy shit…” She stares out the window, for the first time in her life completely speechless. 

“What’re you–” Mike pushes beside her. His jaw drops. “Oh fuck.”

Hours before the Februarys are expected at the amphitheater, a sea of people intersperse through the trees and tall grass of the forest. Thousands lay in the grass and stand with their friends and clink their drinks together and inch their way closer to the stage. A haze of smoke clouds over them, some acrid wood, some herbal.

“Jesus fuck.” Robin can’t take her eyes off the crowd. The bus creeps past them down a private road and it takes several security guards to clear the way. A dozen onlookers try to follow the bus, but they’re denied access. 

Jonathan roughly pulls Steve out of bed. He’ll want to see the visceral proof of their success. He has to be reminded of it in order to accept that it’s real. That it’s his.

“What the fuck–” Steve hits Jonathan’s chest as he falls off the bunk, but Jonathan doesn’t even blink. He shoves Steve towards the window instead. 

“Remember this,” he tells Steve. “Remember why we do this.”

I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.

A sold out show of thousands, and they’re all waiting for the Februarys.

When Steve was twelve his father taunted him for wanting to learn the guitar. When he was sixteen he was told by his mother that he would only suit a traditional career if given enough luck. When he was twenty-one and waiting tables in a shitty diner downtown all he had to his name were two songs. One Robin wrote, and one he wrote. 

Now he’s twenty-four. One EP, one album, dozens of songs, and a sold out show at Glen fucking Helen his last night in California. 

And everyone does know the Februarys’ name. 

Leonard greets them when they step inside the dressing room. “About time you kids made it to beautiful fucking Hollywood!”

Gregory coughs. “We’re in San Bernardino, sir.”

“Same shit.” The man waves his hand in the air. “I don’t give a damn. So long as the speed is fresh and the women are titty it’ll always be Hollywood to me.”

Max barely suppresses a snarky comment. He’s her boss whether she likes it or not. “We didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I!” Leonard cackles. “But I was bored and own a plane. Bought her after McCartney lost a bet with me. Bastard hasn’t answered any of my calls since. It’s a shame, really. Beautiful wife. She’s who I named the plane after.”

“And you think Paul McCartney hasn’t called you back because he’s upset he lost a bet ten years ago,” you say carefully, tilting your head at Leonard. “And not because you named an airplane after his wife?”

He lights a cigarette. “Who gives a fuck why he hasn’t called back? Moral of the story is that I’m here and expecting tonight’s show not to be a complete ass fuck like Chicago was,” smoke drifts around Leonard. “Tell me, will I be fucked in the ass tonight?”

Steve steps forward, a handsome smile covering the scent of alcohol that leaks from him. “Not unless we have your consent, sir.”

“Aw,” Leonard clasps a thick hand to Steve’s face. “The alchie thinks he can make jokes now, huh?”

Jonathan has to cover Mike’s mouth before the kid can break out into hysterical laughter. He ends up dragging him outside, away from the rest of the group. Leonard watches in amusement. Steve watches in shame.

“We’ll give you a show.” Robin cuts through the silent standoff. She hates how quickly Leonard can turn Steve into a broken shell. He idolizes the man more than she’d care to admit. They all do. “We can promise you that.”

Leonard takes another drag. He lets the smoke simmer in his lungs. You feel his eyes travel slowly from you to the remaining members of the band. 

Smoke gets exhaled. “Then let the show begin.”

–

People shove against you and compress your chest to the barricade and loudly talk over one another in an anxious anticipation for the show that will start any minute. Warm bodies and hard limbs stifle your breathing, yet in the deafening chaos of it all you wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Maybe it’s the outdoor sanctity or the loose alcohol or the access to drugs and sweat and tears, or maybe it’s simply the music, but the Februarys have never experienced a crowd quite like this one. 

“You guys are fucking rowdy!” Steve whistles into the mic after the second song. The ground shakes beneath him in response. His ears ring from the impact of the screams. Feeling like a little kid given his favorite toy, Steve bites his lip and leans over the mic, “Can you guys scream a little louder for me?”

White, bone rattling noise echoes back.

“That’s what I like to hear!” His laughter rings throughout the amphitheater. Boyish, prideful, charming like honey. The sweet taste of it fills your mouth as you watch Steve enamor the audience. He gets them to bite onto his wit, to eat from his maroon voice. 

Stars glisten behind Steve in the dark of the night and yet he outshines the galaxy without even trying. 

He decided to tempt the stars tonight by playing into the part himself. Stealing a dress suit jacket from Gregory and pairing it with a tight button down shirt with only the first few buttons done, he drips grungy Hollywood with his silver cross necklace stacked against endless chains around his neck. 

Rosie has come out to play. 

“This next song is a favorite of mine,” Steve caresses the mic stand and smirks when he gets the reaction he’s desired. “It starts out a little rough, messy, even. But isn’t that what teasing is all about?”

Jonathan starts the count and Robin plays the first few chords. Immediately everyone recognizes it.

Tease sends the crowd into a frenzy. Energetic and sensual and fucking addicting, they dance and scream along and beg for more, just as the song instructs them to. 

Steve feeds into their wanting ways. He bounces around and head bangs with Mike and kisses Robin’s cheek and plays right back to Max and even slams down on one of Jonathan’s cymbals and he comes back to life after months of vacant death. All smiles, all love and passion and endearing charm. 

This is the Steve Harrington you fell in love with.

Terrified you’ll miss the rare glimpse of the boy you once knew, you take as many photos as you can. You don’t pretend to find anyone else in the viewfinder. The images you take are all of Steve.

His jaw and the shine of his nosering. The cross that nestles against his chest and the buttons that don’t cover anything else. The moles that adorn his melancholy skin. How the pads of his fingers press against his guitar and the thrust of his hips. 

He’s a beauty that offers no salvation.

You get lost in it. 

That’s when someone slams the camera into your skull.

It happens quickly, faster than you can even fully react. All you remember doing is screaming out in pain as the camera hits the crest of your temple and crying at the blinding pain throughout your entire body. 

“Fucking bitch.” You will never forget the way the assailant slurred viciously, unsteady on his drunken feet yet unwavering in his venom. “Blocking my goddamn view.”

Blood drips down your brow. You can’t see out of your left eye. Someone screams your name and pulls you behind them. He sounds like Gregory. You aren’t sure. Your ears ring too loudly from the impact of the assault to focus on anything other than the pain that explodes in your skull. 

“Don’t fucking touch her.” 

Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage?

The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin. 

“Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

“Steve!” Gregory tries to pull him off. You don’t know where you are. Your ears ring and there’s so much blood and you should be doing something. You can’t just let Steve ruin another show for you, but metal fills your mouth and you think you bit through your tongue from the impact. 

Security shoves through the crowd. Jonathan jumps down from the stage to help them pry Steve off from the man now screaming out in pain. Gregory calls for more help and suddenly Robin’s familiar and warm and gentle arms drag your body over the barricade. 

“You’re okay,” she whispers against your ear as she pulls you from the crowd as carefully and quickly as she can. “Can you move your legs for me? We gotta get you backstage, sweetheart. Help me out, here.”

Numb and overwhelmed you do as you’re told, forcing your legs to move. Robin guides you through a swarm of people. The second you’re backstage, away and alone from prying and public eyes all demanding more, you finally break. 

The tears come faster than you can stop them and your body shakes so violently that you’re afraid you’ll fall. Robin takes you into her arms immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she holds you tight to her chest, careful not to touch the bleeding wound on your head. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone get some fucking gauze!” Max screams at any crew member who will listen. She runs around and slams through every drawer she finds, Mike right behind her. 

“Is Y/N okay?” He asks, too nervous to look at you.

Robin holds you even closer. “She will be, but let’s just focus on finding something to clean her up first, okay?”

Both kids look so distraught and worried and it breaks something even deeper within you. Weaker than ever before, tears wet your face and the dull ache nauseates. Humiliation coats your skin, fear claws at it. 

But it all fades the moment Steve runs into the room.

“Y/N.”

He doesn’t look at anyone else. He doesn’t hesitate or wait or overthink. In seconds his arms replace Robin’s. Fear paints every inch of his face. His hands trace every dip of your skin. 

“You’re hurt.” Raw despair drips into Steve’s voice. He cups your face and carefully tilts your head so that he can inspect the injury. He has to hold his breath to steady how irrevocably his heartbeat stings seeing you in so much pain. “Oh, angelface.”

Steve’s touch burns, yet it makes your skin cold and you aren’t sure if you want to pull away or collapse into the cavity of his chest. “You’re okay, yeah? Just look at me. Max and Robin will find you something to stop the bleeding.” He brushes hair out of your face and attends to you in such a delicate way that you never thought you’d see again. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Though your tongue feels raw, you still can’t resist reassuring him. “You’re not the one who hit me.”

He doesn’t respond, instead grabbing the gauze that Robin offers and dabs your temple with a wet rag that Max threatened a crew member for. The cold stings against the wound and you wince with every touch, but Steve shushes you with soothing words. He apologizes under his breath over and over again. 

“You can’t be serious.” Jonathan’s raised voice gets everyone’s attention. He stands in a corner with Gregory, who Steve hasn’t let come any closer to you. 

“What’s going on?” Max sets down the rag and stalks towards the men.

Mike jabs a finger at Gregory. “This asshole just told us to go back on stage.”

Robin laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, fuck no.”

“You guys sold 20,000 tickets,” Gregory closes his eyes, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. “You only have five songs left, it’d be unprofessional to waste the remaining time–”

“Y/N was just fucking assaulted!” Jonathan’s malice surprises everyone. He doesn’t fucking care what Gregory or anyone else thinks. You’re one of his closest friends and your blood hasn’t even dried yet. “No way in hell are we going back out there.”

“I care deeply for Y/N, and what happened tonight was despicable,” Gregory tries to look at you, but Steve blocks his view of you. Suppressing an agitated sigh, he begs the band to understand. “But I wouldn’t ask you guys to do this if it wasn’t important.”

Steve tightens his arms around you. “We’re done. End of discussion.”

“If you’d just listen to me–”

The door opens. Leonard Branham walks in. “Let them cut the show early.”

Gregory’s jaw drops. “Sir, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m plenty serious. I mean,” Leonard snorts loudly and gestures towards you and Steve, holding each other still. “Look at these two kids. Young and in love. No better drug than that. Even I can be sympathetic enough to that, you heartless cow.”

Max stifles a laugh. Mike doesn’t. 

You ignore the way Steve’s fingers dig into your waist when Leonard says “in love.”

Gregory clenches his fists. This is the most uncomposed you’ve ever seen him. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a sold out show. Thousands of dollars that people paid for.”

“And I don’t give a shit. I’ve already made millions off this band anyways.” Leonard claps Steve’s shoulder, reminiscent of a proud father. “Fuck if I care if this kid’s knight in shining armor act makes me lose a few thousand. At least it’s entertaining!”

“But–”

Leonard’s amusement quickly turns to displeasure. He reels Gregory with a steely look. “I don’t pay you to suck my dick, do I? I pay you to do as I say, and right now I’m telling you to go make the announcement that the show’s over.”

Swallowing down humiliation, Gregory nods his head stiffly and leaves without another word. 

“Fucking asshole,” Steve says under his breath, pulling you even closer. 

“Alright, well.” Leonard adjusts his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He flits through the endless money within it before settling on five hundred dollar bills. He shoves the cash in Robin’s face. “Here, take this. Should be enough to cover the girl’s injury. If you need any legal fees: don’t.”

She accepts the money, albeit reluctantly. “Thank you, Mr. Branham.” 

“I repay my investments. Remember that.” He shrugs, looking right at you when he says it. A silent reminder of his offer with the Jinxs that you have yet to accept. “Anyways, I should get going before the horde of angry people pit me like a pig. Good luck.”

The Februarys don’t even blink at his departure. They swarm around you instead, asking you a million questions a second. 

“Do you feel sick?”

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“Do you need ice? More gauze? Stitches?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“She’s injured, not blind, Mike.”

“Had to make sure.”

Steve remains silent, holding you rather than asking his own questions. In his selfish ways this is the only thing he knows will keep him calm. Your scent, your soft skin against his, your hair in his face, your body with his. 

You try to answer their questions and ease their concern, but as you attempt to reassure Robin that you don’t need stitches, a loud, macabre sound leaks through the dressing room from the audience outside. 

They’re booing the Februarys. 

A deep, hollow vessel of dread sinks into your stomach. 

“You have to–”

Mike cuts you off. “Wait, you know I’m only holding up two fingers, right?”

“The show, you guys can’t–”

“I really think we should get your wound looked at.” Robin touches your face slightly and frowns at how deep the gash appears now that the blood has been wiped away. “I’ll take you. We can use the money Lenny left.”

Max nods. “Use every last cent that bastard left.”

They aren’t listening. No one is listening. “Please, just go back on stage–”

Only Steve hears your pleading. It’s always him. “You heard Lenny, Y/N. The show’s over.”

“But-but I’m fine.” This isn’t what you want. The booing persists and leaks through every crevice of the dressing room and drills into your skull and it only seems to be deafening you. “The fans, they’re upset and-and you can’t just let them down like this–”

“Y/N,” Steve pinches your chin between two fingers, forcing your head to tilt up at him. In his eyes is tenderness. Resentment cannot be found. “I don’t fucking care what the fans think. No show is worth your safety.”

You guys sold 20,000 tickets.

Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.

Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.

The booing outside grows into a nauseating crescendo and Steve looks at you with such softness. You can’t be the reason he loses a childhood dream that’s already been salvaged from ruin because of you. 

Desperate, you raise your voice to be heard over the roar of the audience’s fury. “But this is everything you’ve ever dreamed of!”

“And I’m not sacrificing you for it! Nothing is worth losing you! Do you understand that? I’m not fucking losing you. I-I can’t lose you.” 

All the air escapes your lungs.

The confession rings throughout the room. 

And you stare up at Steve with no resolve or hesitancy or fear of what he’s said, as if you’ve expected it, as if you’ve always known, and isn’t that why you left that Chicago morning? Because Steve couldn’t admit to you what you already knew?

But as he stands before you, breathing in and out heavily, his adrenaline finally abandons his body. It leaves him weak and afraid. Like a shock to his system he comes back to himself, realizes where he is, who is with him, what he’s just admitted. 

Everyone looks at Steve and they know. They know he’s in love with you they know he’s going too fast they know he bruised his knuckles tonight because he’d rather be in pain than to have you afraid and they know you’re wound so deeply into his skin and this is all happening too fast he’s going too fast.

Steve lets go of you as if you’ve burned him. Maybe you have.

The door slams shut.

No one calls after him.

–

Robin and Jonathan shove you into the back of a taxi and drag you into the first emergency room they find. Jonathan fills out all the paperwork. Robin holds your hand while a kind nurse cleans your injury. 

Two hours later you’re cleared of a concussion and discharged with an ice pack to your head. The nurse instructs you to take it easy the next few days. Robin promises the woman she’ll keep an eye on you and Jonathan picks up your prescription pain meds for the swelling.

You’re just relieved that your camera made it out alive without any damage. Your skull took the brunt of it.

Even though it’s nearly one in the morning by the time you get back to the hotel, Mike and Max are waiting in the lobby. When they see you, they jump to their feet. 

“What’d the doctor say?” Mike eyes your bandage wearily. “Are you brain damaged?”

Max pinches his side. “Can you be normal for five seconds?”

Though their worry endears you, the pain meds haven’t kicked in yet and your head feels like it’s on fire. Smiling thinly at them, you manage small reassurance. “I’m fine, guys.”

“No concussion, which is good.” Jonathan steps in for you. “She just can’t do anything reckless for a few days.”

Max snorts. “I’m sure that’ll be easy.”

“Now isn’t the time.” He gently berates her remark. “It’s late and we’ve all had a long day. Let’s just get some sleep. Tomorrow you guys can be your usual asshole selves.”

Mike boos, but Robin swats his chest and looks pointedly at Max. “Do as Jonathan says or I’ll hit you, too.”

She rolls her eyes but yanks the back of Mike’s shirt and drags him to the elevator. Jonathan accompanies them, kissing your forehead with a whispered goodnight as he leaves. The kids send you one last concerned glance before the elevator doors close and they’re gone.

“Do you need anything else?” Robin asks you, eyebrows knit in worry.

You shake your head. “I’m fine. Really.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “I can stay in your room tonight.”

“Robin,” you squeeze her hand, understanding her worry but hating the sensation of it. “I love you, but tonight was overwhelming and I just…”

All you’ve felt since leaving Glen Helen is overwhelmed frailty. The crash of your camera lens to your head, the man’s slurred anger, Steve’s fists cracking his skin, Leonard’s indifference and Gregory’s guilty eyes. 

The terror on Steve’s face when he saw all the blood. His desperation to hold you, to search your skin for any other injuries and kiss them better. How raw his voice was when he confessed to you what he’s fought so hard to hide.

Closing your eyes, you exhale the weakness that bites your lungs. “I just really want to be alone right now.”

The edges of Robin’s eyes soften. “Yeah,” she says. “Of course, but if you’ll allow me to be selfish, I’d like to at least walk you to your room.”

You kiss the back of her hand. “Guide the way, Buckley.”

Her soft laughter eases the ache in your head for just a moment. Your hands remain intertwined the entire way to your room. She only lets go of you once you’re at your door, but even then she lingers. 

“You know I love you, right?” Robin studies your face, as if trying to find something within it. “You’re still my best friend.”

You want to tell her that of course you know she loves you, but for some reason the words die in your throat. For hours now your body has been locked in a state of fight or flight. A varying mix of emotions heighten and depress every minute and all you want to do is close your eyes forever.

“I love you, too.” You caress her cheek, allowing yourself this one thing. Grabbing the key to your room, you unlock the door. “Thank you for taking care of me tonight.”

Robin cups the back of your head and kisses your hairline, right where Jonathan did earlier. “Always,” she mumbles against the skin there. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.”

You leave her standing in the hallway. The silence in your room somehow amplifies the ringing in your ears. Alone for the first time all day, your knees sink to the floor, too exhausted to find the bed. 

You don’t know how long you stay like this, head down and knees pushed against your chest with the hard floor beneath you. Long enough to leave your body numb to the pain, though not long enough to lessen the tugging in your chest that begs for attention. 

Not now, you plead to yourself. Please. 

The tugging in your chest only continues to constrict. Crawling out of your skin, you throw off your shirt and unzip your skirt and stumble into an old t-shirt before falling into bed. You force your eyes closed. Inside your ribcage something buries itself into the bones there. A million pins prick your skin.

A string ties around your throat and pulls tighter and tighter. Your chest squeezes, rattles your lungs, the begging doesn’t stop.

You have to see him. 

Steve’s room is across from yours. It takes you less than a minute to cross the bridge of the hallway that divides you. Your legs carry you to his door, where you stand, hesitating, ears straining for any sign to turn around. That you’re making another mistake. 

But there’s only silence in his room. 

He’s alone.

Memories of the last time you stood before his hotel door flood your mind. Pleasurable, bitter flashes. The kiss that was on your lips from someone else. How Steve kissed them clean and poured liquid honey down your throat. The screaming the morning after. Vicious words that ruined the sanctity that the night had salvaged. 

You knock on the door and wait several heartbeats. 

No one answers.

Frowning, you test the handle and find that it’s unlocked. Your breath catches. For a moment you consider going back to your room, but the tugging in your chest pleads for release, it pleads for the reassurance that he’s okay. 

You let yourself inside.

What hits you first is the stench of alcohol. Then you see the remains of the room. 

Fragments of plates are shattered on the floor. Torn pieces of sheet music litter between the glass. A table on its side, thrown against the wall. Clothes strewn everywhere, torn from their suitcase and left in piles throughout the room. Cigarette butts burn holes into the carpet. 

Careful to avoid the mess you’ve made, you step through the ruin.

Steve sits at the foot of his bed, a crumpled body on the ground. His head tilts to the side, knees curled into his chest, more a child soothing a hurt too big for his body than a broken man. 

His glossy eyes find you in the dark room. A weak sound escapes his lips. A sheen of sweat covers his face, drenching his body. Paler than you’ve ever seen him, you’re afraid to ask how much he’s had to drink tonight. 

“Is this real?” Steve’s hoarse question breaks the last of your resolve. He stares up at you like a little kid, lost and alone. “Are you real?”

“This is real.” You talk to him like an injured animal, lowering your voice, approaching him slowly. “I’m real, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers something incoherent. The sound weakens your knees and sends you to the ground beside him. Back against the bed, Steve’s head falls to your chest and you cradle his frail body that shakes through tears.

You’ve never seen Steve cry before.

You’ve seen him exhale elated laughter, you’ve seen his face twist in moanful pleasure and ecstasy, you’ve seen him spew bitter words and malicious anger, but you’ve never seen him cry.

“I’m sorry,” he cries into your skin, repeatedly, without pause, like a prayer that he begs salvation from. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

You don’t know what exactly he apologizes for. He doesn’t know, either. The only thing he knows is that he’s missed being in your arms and that his mouth can’t form any other words. All he can say is your name and the remorse that builds in his chest and spills down his face. 

Eventually Steve falls asleep pressed to your ribcage. Your arms fall numb but you don’t want to let him go. Early morning sunlight creeps through the window and you stare at his sleeping profile like you used to, back when everything was easy with him. 

Steve still looks the same as he used to. His freckles align in the same place, eyelashes still kiss his cheeks that are stained with tears. But his pale skin cracks at its edges, dry and lifeless. The warm gold he used to be is gone. You can feel the ridge of his spine through his shirt, the outlines of his ribs. 

Sucked dry by the alcohol and sex, Steve has become a skeleton of his potential. 

Blinking back your own tears, your finger strokes his cheek. Even in his sleep, Steve leans into the touch. 

You can’t keep doing this to him. 

The deal had been suffocating Steve. You had been suffocating him, all for the false hope of holding onto the scattered pieces of your relationship with him. There was never any other way for this to end. The pieces settled where they landed for a reason. 

His mistaken confession tonight only evinces it.

And I’m not sacrificing you for it.

Steve would give up everything for you, renounce his entire life for the possibility of remaining at arms length of you, to even just breathe the air you exhale. 

And it’s killing him. What you have is slowly killing him. It isn’t something that can be messily stitched back together, not like you once naively believed. 

Robin was right. You really are a catalyst. 

Gregory’s offer nips at the scattered remains of your mind. Go back to New York. Photograph another band. Give up the Februarys. 

Tomorrow you’ll talk to them. They deserve to be the first to know what your answer will be. But tonight, you hold Steve and watch the sun rise over the wreckage of a reliquary love. 

– 

“What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving us?” 

You should’ve known Robin would voice her disbelief over the news loudly and with great proclivity. 

“Robin–”

“Absolutely fucking not.” 

She paces the room and laughs to herself hysterically. When you asked the Februarys to meet you in the hotel’s conference room before leaving for Vegas, she thought you were just going to ask them to pose for a few more photos. Maybe confess that it was really you who ate the last batch of cookies that El sent. 

She didn’t think she’d be stepping into the conference room with a goddamn resignation speech prepped and ready. 

“This is a joke, right?” Mike looks around the room, as if expecting Leonard to jump out from behind the curtains. When he doesn’t find anything, he aims his disbelief and upset at Gregory, who unhelpfully stands beside you. “What the hell did you do to Y/N in her concussed state?”

“I was never concussed.”

Gregory pushes his glasses up. “And this was entirely her decision.” 

Max can’t look at you, arms crossed on the couch as if to protect herself against the sting of betrayal. “Some bullshit decision.”

“C’mon, guys,” you hate the hurt on their faces. “It’s only for a few months. We all still live in the same building.”

“I don’t.” Max’s eyes cut right into you, forcing you to look down at the ground. 

Jonathan sits on the couch next to her, his own arms crossed. He’s looking at you like he looks at particularly complex and almost uncomfortable displays of art. You recognize the look from the classes you shared together and from late nights exploring the city to find inspiration for your next film projects. 

“Why do you want to leave?” He asks you, no hint of anything in his voice. Emotionless, without any indication how he feels, and in the lack of emotion he reveals the quiet regret that his eyes can’t hide. 

“I don’t want to leave, it’s just–” The excuse gets caught in your throat, its jagged edges cut your gumline and stab your teeth. Steve sits alone, in his own seat away from his bandmates, and he hasn’t once looked at you since waking up to you at the end of his bed this morning, tucked away from him. 

You aren’t sure how much he remembers from last night. You aren’t sure that you want to know. Not when he remains quiet now, head turned away from you as you tell the Februarys that you’re leaving. 

“I miss New York more than I thought I would,” you miss the weightlessness the city provided you, but you can’t say that you miss the city itself. Only the memories you made within it. “And I figured that if I photograph the Jinxs then maybe it’d revitalize my love for photography. Go back to my roots, you know?” 

Robin chokes on her spit. “Did you just say the Jinxs?”

You give her a funny look, unsure why that’s what she chooses to focus on. “Yeah. They’re the band that requested me from Lenny.”

“Oh dear fuck.” She clutches her stomach.

Immediately Mike turns on her. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I-I happen to, um. Know Amelia Sloan. Pretty well.” Robin squeaks out, face red and splotchy in embarrassment. “She’s the lead singer.”

Jonathan drops his head. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you.”

“You’re sleeping with the enemy?” Mike jumps away from Robin as if she’s physically injured him. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I didn’t know she’d try to take Y/N away from us!” Robin exclaims, panicking as well. 

Max glares at her. “You probably fed the idea into her head.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t talk about Y/N or the band whenever I’m sleeping with a girl.”

Mike scoffs. “Of course you do, it’s how you get laid in the first place. And now you’ve slept with the goddamn enemy. Not even Steve has done that!”

Steve closes his eyes. Jonathan rolls his. Robin tugs at her hair.

Max still can’t look at you. 

“Stop saying I’m sleeping with the fucking enemy!”

As the Februarys continue to argue, Gregory gives you a silent can we please get the fuck out of here? look, which you don’t hesitate to act on. Using their argument as a distraction, you slip out the room to go call Leonard and inform him of your decision. 

The moment the door closes behind you, Steve throws himself off the seat and grabs his things. “I’ll see you guys on the bus.”

His voice comes out raw from disuse and the alcohol that burned it last night. He can’t stay in the conference room where his friends mourn the loss of you. Not when he desperately wants to mourn as well. Alone. 

But suddenly the Februarys look at one another in frightening synchronicity and within seconds they’re jumping into action. Jonathan throws himself onto Steve, hooking his arms tight. Mike and Max gather anything in the room that can be used as a weapon and throw them behind the couch. The giant oval table that the hotel provides in the conference room gets shoved against the door by Robin, locking everyone inside. 

“What the hell?” Steve fights against Jonathan, but the guy’s surprising strength has him pinned to the wall. The rest of the band members stand in a circle around them and Steve’s cynical laughter cuts into the silence of the room. “Is this a fucking impromptu intervention?”

“I think we can all agree you’re long overdue for one.” Robin snarks back. 

Steve tightens his fists. “Fuck you, Buckley.”

“No, fuck you.” She sneers. “You need to sort your shit out with Y/N, do you hear me? Because I’m not fucking losing her over some petty miscommunicated feelings that goddamn third graders can express more eloquently.”

“We actually really like Y/N.” Max says. “She’s our friend.”

“She takes us to parks!” Mike gestures wildly. “And she actually thinks I’m funny!”

Jonathan nods solemnly. “She’s been good for us, Steve. Even you have to see that.”

“Do you guys think I want this?” Steve’s eyes sting and the cavity in his chest collapses. Baring his teeth to protect himself, never to be malicious, he sucks in a defeated breath. “I mean, fuck. I can’t even go an hour without seeing her and you think I want her to leave?”

His head knocks weakly against the wall behind him. He lets it hang there, tired of holding himself up. “That’s the fucking problem. We aren’t good for each other. If she’s unhappy then I can’t stop her from leaving.”

Mike makes a mocking gag of a sound and stomps over to his bag. “Oh, just shut the fuck up.” He grabs a book from within it and throws it down on the table. The thud echoes throughout the room. “Open the goddamn book.”

Steve tilts his head at Jonathan. “I’m pinned to a fucking wall right now.”

Robin yanks Jonathan off of him and then grabs the back of Steve’s shirt, collaring him, before throwing him onto the table without any gentleness. “And now you’re not. Open it.”

A pulsing ache instills Steve’s body. It screams at him to run. Taunts him to ruin everything yet again. The rusted leather book that gets thrown at him like a stray dog gets thrown a bone persecutes him to open it; it sees through who he is and all he tries to hide.

Inside the book are all of your photos. Steve could recognize the style of your art anywhere after spending hours observing the way you create it effortlessly. 

“How the hell did you get Y/N’s portfolio?” He doesn’t understand why it’s being presented to him now.

“Mind your own business.” Mike grunts.

Robin pushes the book closer to him, her eyes now gentle yet again, sympathetic. “Look through the photos, Steve.” She brushes hair out of his face and pauses for a moment, thinking through her words carefully. “Really look at them and finally fucking accept what’s been obvious from the start.”

Steve shakes his head. An image of himself stares back at him, smiling into the mic with your familiar handwriting beneath it, February, 1989, my first time hearing rosie sing.

“I-I can’t–”

“You can,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to his. She breathes in the shaky exhale he releases. “Remember why we stay.”

She kisses the crease between his brow. Steve wonders how he can tattoo the kiss into his skin. 

“We’ll see you on the bus.” Max throws his earlier words back in his face, though there’s a lighthearted teasing behind them. She grazes Steve’s shoulder, an uncharacteristic act of tenderness towards him. 

Jonathan stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives him a small nod. Mike waves a sad goodbye and Robin leaves with one last reassuring smile. 

He’s alone again. 

Yet he doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to run. Instead, Steve finds himself wanting to run his fingers through the pages of your portfolio. He loves every picture you’ve ever shared with him, but he’s never seen this collection of photos before. The edges of the book’s pages are frayed and worn from love. Small doodles decorate the gaps between pictures, small comments and thoughts meant only for you to read. The portfolio encompasses who you are, the purest manifestation. A small sense of guilt tinges Steve’s chest at the idea that he’s intruding on something you wouldn't want him to see. 

The kiss that Robin left on his skin warms, reminding him of what she’s asked. 

A collection of your work resides in the book. The pages start from the very beginning of your time with the Februarys. Within the images Steve recognizes the first night you ever photographed the band, a picture of his face pressed against Robin’s as they share a mic. It’s been a long time since they’ve been so close during a performance. 

Steve swallows the remorse down and flips through the photos. They’re a collection of every memory he’s ever wanted to preserve, but within the images he can’t help but notice a repetitive pattern that connects them all together. 

All the photos are of him. Each and every one of them contains pieces of him. But it’s not the photos that fill his chest with dandelion fondness. It’s the words you write beneath them.

Snow on his winter jacket with a box in his hands, standing beside a bright yellow taxi in front of your old apartment – Steve, the gentleman who carried all my boxes. 

His head buried under a blanket, hair peeking out the first morning he woke up to your laughter – A surprising early riser.

Silver rings around his fingers as he taunts Jonathan for questioning your decision to include a Velvet Underground song – Jonathan might be onto me. 

The corner of Steve’s mouth as he smiles at the first crowd you documented for the Februarys – What a dangerous smile. 

All the photos contain the same date.

February, 1989.

You’d only known Steve for a week prior to the documented film and yet you captured such a softness to him. You’ve always seen through him, Steve knows this, but he didn’t think the view would be so gentle in the destruction that it brought. 

But even in the destruction, the soft way you photograph Steve never quite disappears.

A lipstick mark on his cheek, red and vibrant despite the bitterness that came before it – Rosie with my kiss on him.

Pink lights encasing a halo around him – And he claims I’m the angelface. 

His back against a small restaurant window, sitting next to Robin and listening to a story she tells him because he couldn’t bring himself to sit next to you – I love how sunlight is gentle with him.

The photos are dated with different months, different stages of the deconstruction you brought upon each other, yet the softness remains. 

And in the most recent photo, dated only yesterday, displays Steve in his suit from Glen Helen, a hand on his hip and his shirt straining against his chest – There’s my rosie.

You must’ve added the picture this morning. Before you told the Februarys that you were leaving, you glued one last photo of Steve into your portfolio, depicting him as the rockstar he pretends to be, captured in a light that makes him feel like he’s worth something.

Steve is your muse just as much as you’re his. 

It’s then that he finally releases the breath he’d been holding ever since he ran into his apartment one night, sweating and late for what he thought would only be a simple introduction to a possible new roommate, but instead he found you in his living room golden and holy.

From the very beginning, he’s loved you.

And you’ve loved him. 

You still love him. 

– 

Steve spends the entire three hour drive to Vegas going over and over the portfolio. He memorizes every picture, every line of writing, every small detail and drawing and messily glued on scrap of art and each passing minute his body warms. 

No one talks to him during the drive, though the Februarys share secretive glances with one another. He kept the portfolio. He walked onto the bus. They’ve done all that they can. They just have to hope that it’s enough.

You meet everyone at the venue, smiling as if you haven’t just made the band mourn the loss of you. Gregory chose to stay on the bus, worried that his presence would only further upset the band. 

“Welcome to Vegas.”

Robin takes your camera from you and places the strap around her own neck. “I imagine this will be your last show with us, considering Leonard doesn’t value anyone’s time or money but his own.”

Opening the stage door for the Februarys, your smile turns into a bittersweet one. “You know Lenny so well.”

One by one the band members step inside, each offering you their own remorseful smile. Max thanks you under her breath as you hold the door open, Mike winks playfully, and Jonathan grabs your shoulder for a brief moment and squeezes it. 

“Let’s make this show count, then.” He says, slow, savoring the last moments he has left with you. 

You grab his hand. “I like the way you think, Byers.”

Jonathan laughs and walks inside, leaving only Steve outside, the last of his band mates. You glance at him for a moment, unsure how to look at him after the vulnerability he wept last night. His stoic reaction to you leaving hurt you this morning. You’re not sure you know how to be around Steve anymore. 

But he surprises you. He always surprises you. 

Steve grabs the door and his other hand lands on your waist, his fingers slotting around the skin he once carved his prints into, and gently, ever so gently, moves you to the side so that he can hold the door open instead. 

“After you,” he murmurs, a playful lilt in his voice. 

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

“Always.” 

One word, and still it kisses your fiendish skin. 

You walk inside. The venue is beautiful. Mike has already made himself at home, sprawled across a lush cream couch. Robin sits at one of the vanity tables, fixing her makeup and luminescent as ever. A mosaic covers one of the walls and forms an image of a field of desert flowers, its multicolored tiles bright and smooth to the touch, Max’s finger runs over their edges in silent awe. Jonathan stares at the wall of photos next to the mosaic, a picture of every artist who has ever performed in the venue displayed. 

An empty frame waits with the Februarys’ name etched into the wood. 

You nudge Jonathan’s side. “Think I could take your guys’ photo?”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know if you’re qualified.”

“Hilarious.” Grabbing your camera from Robin, you spin around and clap your hands. Once you have the Februarys’ attention, you point at the mosaic wall. “Listen up, assholes. I’m taking your portrait for the wall and you’re all going to smile and look happy. Understood?”

Mike salutes and Max pulls him to her side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Robin walks from the vanity and stands behind her, placing her chin on Max’s head and smiles wide. Jonathan stands beside Mike, two brothers who stand back to back like a vintage poster. Steve takes his time walking over to them, as if savoring the final moments of normalcy. 

He stops next to you. “Where do you want me?”

His question startles you. You didn’t think he wanted your input anymore, not like he used to. “Oh, um,” you clear your throat and try to lessen how tight your vocal chords are. “Stand next to Robin, behind Jonathan. Try to balance the height difference, maybe? And try to be in contact with someone. You’re all linked together, I really like the patterns it forms.”

Steve has a tender look in his eyes that makes you suddenly nervous. Voice dying off, you struggle to finish the sentence. “I-I mean, if that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.” He walks to Robin and presses his cheek to hers, eliciting a giggle, and ruffles Mike’s hair. With an easy, charming smile, he asks you, “this alright?”

Bringing the camera to your face, you can’t suppress the gooey smile that melts into your lips. “It’s perfect.”

The Februarys all knit together in a beautiful and intimate piece of history that only they possess. Childhood friends smile at one another. Their bodies embrace. There are no unattached strings between them, only clean, uniform lines that draw them even closer together. 

A family. 

Once you’ve taken the picture they break away from one another, though the lighthearted energy remains. An easy peace settles over the dressing room, lighter than it’s been in a long time. Not wanting to lose these final moments of delicacy, you take as many pictures as you can, for old time’s sake. 

Your viewfinder captures Robin in the mirror, Steve helping with her hair. He braids the strands together, fingers lithe from years of practice. She winks at the camera and his coy smile sets your heart pounding. 

A game of tag breaks out between Mike, Jonathan, and Max. You follow their childish laughter with your camera. Max’s emerald green jacket clashes with Mike’s burnt orange t-shirt and Jonathan’s gold rings that Nancy gifted him for his birthday. Their youthful smiles paint the nostalgic memory. 

You take pictures of the instruments in the room, just as you used to. Mike’s sage guitar resting against an amp, nestled next to Max’s red bass and Steve’s blue guitar, an explosion of colors all combining into something iridescent. Robin plays her keyboard for you and you capture the light that spills onto her fingers and onto her pink fingernails.

As you capture every fleeting detail you find, eyes never leaving your camera, you feel someone watching you. The weight of Steve’s gaze, impossible to forget. From the corner of your eye you notice his honeyed eyes. His eyes simmer on your skin, though you’re terrified to meet them. 

When a stage crew member knocks on the door and gives the Februarys their usual five minute warning, Steve finally looks away and turns to his bandmates instead. Something akin to content settles into his features. 

“We know why we’re here,” he tells them. “We know why we stay.”

“Because it’s only us.” Robin finishes, knocking her head against his. 

Steve pulls her close, he pulls everyone close. “It’s only us.” He affirms. “And we know what we have to do tonight.”

Max smirks. “We give them a show.”

As they lean against one another you take a photo of the harmony between them. The easy way the group looks at one another. How bright Steve’s eyes become when he’s with them, when he’s talking to them and laughing with them.

This is how he’s supposed to be, you think. Alive and bright. 

Steve leans down, the Februarys follow, and he allows the anticipation to build into barely contained desperation. The seconds spill over and he looks at his friends and bites his lip and can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

“Showtime.”

The Februarys break into cheers. 

Steve will never grow tired of the sound. 

– 

The Vegas venue is one of the smaller venues they’ve performed in. Capped at a capacity of one thousand, the sold out show murmurs conversations and speculation as the audience awaits the Februarys. 

You stand at the center, placed in the barricade that only gets built for you. Camera warm in your hands, you breathe in deeply. The excited rumblings of the crowd, the hot stage lights, the scent of bodies and smoke and alcohol in a building meant to be danced in. 

You hope you never forget any of it. Already you grieve the loss of this version of you, this part of your life, that you will never get again. Not quite like this. Never the same. 

Your reverie ends with Steve’s arrival on stage. He walks up the mic while the rest of the Februarys take their places behind him. The crowd bursts into the cheers they’ll never get used to hearing, that you hope they’ll always receive. 

Steve grabs the mic stand, fingers lazily wrap around the metal. His skin glows golden under the stage lights, a thin silk shirt drapes over him in a dream-like manner. “We fucking made it to Vegas!”

More screams and applause. He chuckles, the rough edges of the boyish laughter presses against your chest. “God, you guys know how to make a guy feel special.” 

Mike plucks a few strings to the tune of the crowd’s pleasure. Steve nods along, extends his arm towards the kid. “Over here we have Mike Wheeler on electric guitar, arguably better than me,” he bows down, getting Mike to laugh. “Next we have Robin Buckley on keyboard, isn’t she pretty?” Robin plays a few chords and scrunches her nose in flirtatious manner. Steve blows her a kiss and turns to Max. “Here we have Max Mayfield on bass, a fucking monster.” The girl shoves him, but not even she can hide her smile. Finally Steve drags the mic stand to Jonathan and places a messy kiss to his cheek. “And last, but certainly not least, we have Jonathan fucking Byers on drums!”

A series of beats get pounded into the drums and at Jonathan’s cue the crowd goes fucking wild. Whistles and energetic praise all demanding for the show to finally begin, for the music they came for to come to life and become a part of their jugulars. 

Steve lowers the mic and gets caught in the moment. He can’t believe any of it is real. 

You watch his awe. The volume inside the venue only grows louder and Steve’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. In the crowd his eyes find you already staring back at him, and because nostalgia has always tasted sweeter dipped in melancholy familiarity, he winks at you. 

Your heart beats out of its chest. He ducks his head seeing the blush that blooms on your cheeks, and the shyness, though endearing and lovely, lingers in the back of your mind. 

“We’re the Februarys,” Steve shouts into the mic, teeth peeking through his confident smile. “Let’s go!”

Jonathan dives into the first drum solo and Max plays along, head banging to the rapid staccato tempo that Mike one day thought of alone in his room one night. Robin accompanies the tempo with a slower set of chords and Steve grabs the mic and the venue drenches in his clear voice. 

Throughout the night you lose count of how many pictures you take. It doesn’t matter to you. Your final night with the Februarys will be preserved through the film. This you’re sure of. 

Though as the show continues you find your attention drawn to the way the Februarys whisper between the songs. Poorly hidden glances at you follow the whispers. Their behavior confuses you slightly, worries you, but you’re desperate for one final memory of the Februarys that’s painted in lovely pinks rather than remorseful blues, so you push down the disquiet and cheer along with the crowd instead.

The setlist was carefully curated by Mike and Robin the week leading up to the tour. It took multiple days, arguments, and compromises before they were able to settle on which twelve songs to perform from their EP and album. You watched them agonize over the unseen details, such as whether Going should bleed into Lower East or whether it’s better suited as a closing song and if the flow of the music should tell a story or leave the audience unexpecting.

So when the Februarys don’t perform Rosie, a song that nearly broke the band apart trying to figure out where to put it in the setlist, you find it more than a little odd. 

None of the band members stumble over the unexpected setlist change. They knew they wouldn’t be performing it tonight. Instead they wrap up their set as they normally do, ending with Going where Steve screams everything he has into the microphone. 

Except he doesn’t say anything when the song is over. He doesn’t think the audience for the show or wishes them a good night. He’s completely silent as the fans scream for an encore, for any semblance of more. 

Mike moves first, unplugging his electric guitar from its amp. Max does the same with her bass. From his drumset Jonathan unplugs the microphone that sits next to him. Robin turns off her keyboard and goes to the wings of the stage. She brings out Steve’s acoustic guitar. He takes it from her. 

You watch along with the crowd, straining your neck to understand what the hell they’re doing. They’ve never done something like this before. The show feels unfinished, yet they take apart their instruments as if it is. 

Steve walks over to the edge of the stage. He stands in front of you for a moment, eyes only on you. A hush falls over the venue. Every breath gets held, you’ve forgotten how to release yours. 

He sits down. Close to the edge, his feet dangle over the sides, as close as he can possibly get to you given the constraints of the stage layout. Robin places a mic right next to him, angled so he doesn’t have to hold it, leaving his hands free for his guitar. 

“We’re going to sing Rosie a little differently tonight,” he murmurs. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

The question is only meant for you. He knows you’ll understand it.

Heart beating in your throat, you nod. 

Thank you, Steve mouths back, fingers already playing the beginning notes of the song. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t blink when he swears to you, for everything.

Under the dim pink lights he plays the song he wrote that spilled from his chest and onto a piece of paper one night. Steve had been alone in his room staring at his ceiling. Your laughter floated through the bedroom walls, giggling with Robin about something. He had traced the cracks in the building’s walls, silently whispering to himself rosie rosie rosie, unable to get the sugary saturated way the endearment fell from your lips the night before. No one had ever given Steve a name before with so much charm and sincerity. 

You get all rosie. I think it’s cute.

He remembers pulling out the photo you’d taken of him and staring at it, awestruck by how unreal it all felt to be portrayed as a rockstar. Steve had always had the far fetched dream, but somehow the growing recognition and crystallizing music couldn’t satiate the itch. He didn’t feel that he deserved it. But then there you were, somehow able to soothe the overwhelming craving for more that has always plagued him, all with one photo. One moment. 

That night Steve wrote Rosie. He still considers it the easiest, and truest, song he’s ever written.

And now he performs it for you. He was always meant to only perform the song for you. 

Steve’s lonesome fingers pluck the guitar strings. Mike and Max stand to the side, their instruments at their sides. Jonathan sits at his drums, head down, softly swaying to the melodic chords that remind him of his own love in New York, waiting for him. Robin leans over her keyboard, head in her fond hands as she watches her friend serenade you.

Slow, raw, aching, Steve never once looks away from you as he sings. His ember voice lilts through the guitar’s symphony. Everything he was never able to tell you, that he was afraid to tell you, intertwines within the strain of his voice and the pleading way he plays. 

Rock-a-bye-posie? 

No, maybe it’s ring-around-my-baby?

Or could it be rosie and falling down with you?

Through the blurry tears in your eyes you watch Steve. The ragged pause of his breath between the lines, his brown eyes a melted toffee adoring you, the darling way his freckles and moles dance across his skin as he sings. 

He’s never looked more beautiful begging.

Mixed up all inside my head the rush of lullaby blues.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

Or could it be forever rosie?

Steve plays a little harder going into the bridge. He gasps for air and his wanting turns into a requiem. “Yes or no?” He prays into the open wound before you and begs you to fill it with something holy. “Can I be forever rosie?”

“Angelface,” the scratch of a guitar string cuts the softness of the requiem. He has to tell you. He has to get you to listen and know that has given himself entirely to you. He wants you to forever call him rosie, to always be the cause of the flush on his face. “Pretty please,” he begs under his breath between the lines, broken and aching. 

Just before the bridge fades Steve prolongs the melody. He adds to the song, an extension of himself. He will not be left for want and nothing. “Let me be forever rosie,” his timbre softens around the edges of his prayer, finally tying his sacrament to you with the parting words, “forever rosie and falling into love with you.”

The final guitar note echoes irrevocably. 

Rosie has come to an end. 

All around you there are screams. Loud, blinding screams. The ground shakes and people cheer and throw their hands together in a frenzy that only music can strike. But you don’t hear any of it. The spillage of praise for the boy in front of you fades into nothing when he looks at you. 

“Thank you,” Steve acknowledges the crowd, though his heart isn’t in it. His heart resides in your chest. He gets up and turns to the Februarys, linking his arms through Robin’s and Mike’s as they all line up in the center of the stage and take their final bows. 

Robin blows you a kiss as she exits the stage. Jonathan and Mike both wink, following her. Max simply waves before she joins her friends. All of them knew what tonight would bring. 

Just before Steve steps off the stage he quickly grabs the microphone. He only has one last chance to beg you to stay. When tonight ends, he could lose you forever. 

Losing you would be the one thing Steve would never recover from.

“Please don’t leave,” his lips press against the mic, desperate to ensure you hear him. His eyes sink into your chest. The words press into your bones. “Not when I’m finally ready to promise you everything.”

And then he’s gone. 

You don’t remember jumping over the barricade. You don’t remember running through the crowd, weaving through the onslaught of bodies. You don’t remember the hot desperation that singed your veins or the spiraling need to find him, for more. 

All you remember is Steve waiting for you.

He waits for you in the dressing room, one last stand, one last attempt. He draws into himself when he notices you standing in the doorway. Neither of you move. He watches you, tries to read your body language. 

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

He doesn’t know anymore. 

But then you’re running into his arms. 

The kiss starts the same way your relationship did. Messy, fast, all encompassing. There isn’t room for anything else. There was never room for anything else. 

Steve draws you so tightly into his chest and makes such a delicate sound. You nip his bottom lip, tug at his hair, and he answers your pleads with nails digging into your hips, where he carves himself into the outline of the bones there. The tender flesh welcomes him home, your skin exhales in relief, where have you been?

“I love you,” Steve bites the confession into your lips and soothes them with another kiss. “I love you,” he sighs against the mouth that he craves. “I love you,” he will die a happy man if all he is ever able to say again are these three words, marked nipped into your collarbones with his greedy teeth. 

“I’ll stay,” you answer the prayer, merciful face wet with tears. “I love you, rosie,” you feel him smile against your lips. You were always going to end this way. He was always going to be your rosie. 

Steve moves his lips to your cheeks, then to your nose, the crest of your forehead, the ridges of your collarbones, etching the same promise into them. It may never undo the hurt you brought upon each other. The scars left behind may not fade, but the tragedy of humanity wasn’t the fall of Eden, but the failure to stay in the garden. 

When you love someone, you stay. 

“I’ll stay.” Steve promises, human just as you are.

It is the only innate instinct to keep trying to hold onto one another. It is embedded within human history, and you once swore to him that you were going to be a part of his history.

-

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[vinecstasy]

[𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞] 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, drabble

you were sound asleep, breathing slow and steady, your mouth slightly open as you drooled against Tommy’s arm. he didn’t mind. if anything, it made his lips twitch into the softest smile. you laid on your side with your cheek tucked against his arm, Tommy was right behind you, chest flush against your back, one arm curled beneath your head and the other wrapped securely around your waist like he was afraid to let go. you legs were tangled together under the covers, his bare feet brushing yours with every slight shift

he felt the damp patch cooling against his bicep. he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, you’d be embarrassed if you knew. he hoped you wouldn’t notice in the morning

this. you. was supposed to be the good part. coming home, sleeping in a bed again, holding the person he loved, feeling safe. this was what people always said would fix things

but it all started the same way every night.

Tommy’s breath hitched as the dream crept in

a hole in the wall, Elliott on the stacked mattresses, Frank somewhere in the corner, a flash of metal, the clatter of something bouncing once before it exploded

he could still feel how close he was, how it left his ears ringing, and shook him

the IED came after. that smoke, that silence that followed, the kind that wasn’t really silent at all, just filled with the buzz and mumble of his own scrambled head

he remembered it all.

his grip on you tightened unconsciously. just a little, the dream wasn’t letting up. his heart started to race, sweat collecting at his brow, his body suddenly feeling hot. he wanted to kick off the covers, rip them off even. but he didn’t want to wake you, didn’t want you to get cold

his body twitched in his sleep, the way it always did when the dream got too real, like his body was trying to run even while his mind was stuck. his palms were damp, the faintest ringing starting up in his ears, distant but sharp

and you were still sound asleep beside him.

until Tommy suddenly jerked upright with a strangled gasp, almost a choked off yell. the arm under your head yanked back too fast, startling, rough, but not on purpose. his whole body jolted awake

he sat there, hunched forward, one hand flat over his chest like he was trying to hold his heart in place, the other up against his forehead. the ringing was louder now, the throb in his head wouldn’t stop

“Fuck” he huffed voice raw

you sat up slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep, but soft with concern. you turned toward him, trying to figure out how bad it was, what to do, what to say

from the corner of his eye, Tommy saw you. his throat tightened at the sight of you looking at him like that. gentle, worried, still waking up

“Shit baby” he mumbled, not daring to look directly at you “I didn’t mean to. go back to sleep.”

Tommy didn’t want you seeing him like this. not shaking, not crying without tears, not waking up like he’d just come back from someplace that was his hell

he hated that you were seeing it now

he hated the look in your eyes. not pity, but tenderness. the kind that made it hard to believe he was really home

“Tommy…” you whispered, already reaching for him, fingertips brushing his arm

but he pulled away. not harsh, not in rejection. just a reflex

“I’m okay” he said voice strained, the words sitting wrong in his mouth “lay back down.”

he tried to soften it for you, tried not to sound as wrecked as he felt, but the crack in his voice gave him away

but you knew better. even if he never told you the details, the why or the how of it. you’d never forced him to talk, never demanded the full story. you didn’t need it

all you ever did was stay. and for Tommy, that was more than he knew how to ask for

so you laid back down like he asked, your body warm against the sheets, but your eyes open and on him

you watched the way his chest rose and fell too fast, like he couldn’t slow it down

you saw the way his eyebrows pulled tight, even with his eyes shut, like he was still stuck somewhere else

you caught the slight tremble in his fingers, the sweat clinging to his brow, the crease of a frown that tugged on his face

he sat there like that for a long while. silent and not really moving

and even though he told you to sleep, you knew he needed you more than he’d ever say

so you waited.

after a while, Tommy finally moved. slow, hesitant. like lowering himself back onto the bed was something he had to think about, something that cost him to do

when his back finally hit the mattress, he let out a shaky exhale, and his eyes stayed on the ceiling

“I’m sorry” he said quietly

barely a whisper and it nearly broke you

because Tommy didn’t have to apologize for a single thing. not for the nightmares, not for the shaking, not for waking you up. you would’ve stayed up all night if it meant he didn’t have to feel alone

still, to him, saying sorry felt like the right thing to do. like it was the only thing he could do for waking up his girl in the middle of the night with something he couldn’t even begin to explain

you leaned into him, resting your cheek gently against his shoulder, your hand finding his arm and rubbing slow, soothing circles along the skin

“I’ve got you” you whispered “You’re home.”

he moved a little, just enough to turn onto his side, facing you now. his eyes were softer but still tired

and you just looked at him. taking in the lines of his face, how they’d softened just slightly, how his breathing had slowed, how close he was now

you whispered little things to him, sweet things

words like “you’re safe” and “I’m here” and “you don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to.”

and slowly, he finally wrapped his arms around you again, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, nuzzling there like that was the only place in the world where he could breathe right

you felt the softest murmurs against your skin “I’m sorry…” and “I’m okay…”

like he needed to say it enough times to believe it

and you held him through every word against your skin, until the shaking stopped, until his breathing matched yours, until he was asleep again in your arms.

everytime i remember how he was just THE NEW GUY and how close he was to the grenade and IED my day gets ruined 💔.

@babble28 @livelaughl0ve3 @bradleybeachbabe @sharpayslilo @iron-rot @irrelevantsnowy @joelmeller @willowpains @k-pevensie28 @violetcamryn @bib200 @luna-sungirl @nerdgirlbutinpink @f4nfic-lover @k-ilisi @https-junebug @glassbxttless @gallaghrh @samslvrgirl @vinecstasy @illyrianbrat @pr3ttygrlz

[vinecstasy]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭 • 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡, 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝—𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 ‘𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜’.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐧𝐧𝐧 <𝟑 𝐫𝐨𝐦-𝐜𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨- 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟐𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞/𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫- 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟓𝐭𝐡

Art Donaldson had a problem.

He had been waiting way too long for you to finish your research, quietly watching you take notes on some book for the past forty minutes. And Art had been there waiting for you to get home from your meeting at the Stanford paper prior to all of this waiting. But he was patient, though he was hungry beyond any belief. You promised to get food once you got in, but here you were forty minutes later.

Art, though completely infatuated with the idea of eating the entire menu of the local food joint- still admired your dedication. You’d always been like this, very focused, very on top of things, even when it got in the way of parties, events, and games. You were on top of things so that you could enjoy more at the end of the day. Plus, it wasn’t all the time you delayed plans. It wasn’t exactly like he ever minded anyway.

He’d known you since he was twelve and met you in the mess hall of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy. You were always a good, no- great tennis player, but school, writing, and reading, always came first. It was a wonder that Stanford had such a notorious knack for creating excellent pro tennis players and journalists.

You shut your journal with a sharp knocking sound, blowing a gust of wind in your face. Immediately, you wanted to toss the book across the room to fully detach. You’d been sucked in again, you couldn’t help it, you were given the best piece to write about out of everyone. One you actually wanted to research. You’d talked Art’s ear off about it the day prior, which was also why he was okay with waiting. This was exciting for you. It was cool to see you so lost in the things you like.

“Hungry?” You asked, looking over at him, knowingly. Your eyes shone with an apology he didn’t need. “I’m sorry, it’s just there’s so much to annotate-” But he was already grinning, standing, and tossing your jacket over your head in milliseconds, and you laughed as you maneuvered it enough to put it on.

He chuckled, “No, it’s fine, I promise. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone use an entire pen’s ink in one sitting.”

“You didn’t say anything, I’m sorry!”

“No-“ He laughed “It was cool to watch, why would I?. Not like you’d hear me anyway.” And he teased.

The air was just beginning to crisp, leaves were just starting to turn, and the air smelled fresh as you and Art made your way across campus. “Oh- I forgot to tell you. Patrick says he’s going to visit when he’s back around, but he’s set on going to a frat party.” Art said. He was sporting a cobalt blue sweater and matching backward hat, if that was of any importance. His hands were in his jean pockets, and he nodded your way as he spoke. “I told him you wouldn’t want to go to anything like that, so I was thinking of trying to wrangle him into a night drinking in my dorm. Thoughts?”

You cringed a little at the party part, but settled when he mentioned the change of plans. “Is he dead set?”

“I like to think I could change his mind.”

“And pry him away from sorority girls?”

“I’m persuasive,” he smiled. You shook your head. “My dorm, though?”

You tsked, smiling back, “When?”

“The only day of the week that you’re completely free.” His smile turned to a grin as you kept down the cobblestone path. Your eyes narrowed, just slightly, then widened. “I checked.” He admit.

“My calendar? Okay, but-”

“Almost done-,” he interjected again, grin widening. “Patrick says he’s bringing vodka, but I also already wrangled him into buying a proper mixer so you and I aren’t paying the overpriced campus mixer prices or going out of our way to find a cheaper one elsewhere…”

You breathed out a laugh, “If he wasn’t broke before…”

“Penniless.”

“Poor guy.” You grinned, it was a cheeky smile. “Thank you, though.”

He shook his head, “Partially because I wanted a mixer too… Don’t thank me too much.” He said as he opened the door for you. The diner on campus was a quaint little 50s-themed place, complete with multi-state license plates and walls plastered in 50s icons. You nearly knocked into the cardboard cutout of Elvis that had truly seen better days.

Art took a seat in front of a large screen-print style Audrey Hepburn that sprawled across the pale turquoise wall. “He should be here Friday, so we can obviously do our regular shit when he’s around, but drinking is on Saturday night because on Sunday you don’t have book club until two…ish.” He gestured.

“I’m weirded out that you looked at my calendar,” you admit with a constant smile, picking up the menu. “I have my doctors' appointments on there as well as what they’re for.”

He chuckled, “I don’t remember anything else, if that helps.”

“It does,” you sighed contentedly. “Saturday is perfect- I’m glad one of us checked. Last time he came unannounced, it was a disaster, I barely saw him.”

“I think that’s why he called ahead,” Art got in before drink orders were taken by the sweet lady who worked at the diner. She was a kind, happy lady with short grey curls and perfect wrinkles when she smiled and a very notable gold rosary around her neck. She knew the two of you by name and was always slipping you both free desserts. However, she didn’t seem all that happy today.

She took the drink orders without her usual cheeky banter. One thing about her is that she would, without a doubt, always flirt with Art. It was part of who he was; he was just a charmer that way, so of course, he would always flirt back ten times harder. No harm in it, she was well past divorced.

Sometimes it was a little out of pocket, but always fun to watch. She jotted down your orange soda and his root beer with her lips pinched, avoiding eye contact like she was working corporate.

Art’s eyes met yours, then looked back at her, then over the woman’s shoulder. As far as you knew, there wasn’t any change in management, the owner was working the cash.

You watched as his expression shifted from puzzled to what looked like the most annoyed look you’d ever seen on his face. As if attracted by magnets, Art pressed his hand to the side of his head. Your eyes couldn’t help but follow, turning to see a girl at the diner’s counter, laughing with one of the other waitstaff.

He seemed to know the girl, though you didn’t. At least not by face. She sat on a turquoise barstool across the joint, sporting a sweater vest and jorts, a curly ginger bob, big front teeth, and light eyebrows that you had to squint to see. She was pretty, by standards, but otherwise not much. She had a honking sort of wheeze-laugh, loud enough you could tell it was disturbing the other students just trying to get a bite.

You looked back at Art as the waitress walked back to the kitchen to get your drinks. “What was that about?” You asked, leaning forward just a bit to be quieter.

“Her,” Art replied coldly. You’d never heard his voice filled with so much dread. Your eyes narrowed just slightly. Clouds passed over the sun outside, casting the sunny diner into shadow. Like something truly ominous was about to be revealed. You appreciated the imagery the world was throwing at you. “You remember me saying something about some girl asking me out after class?”

“A month ago, yeah,” you nodded.

“That’s her. But I didn’t tell you that she’s been following me around and getting her friends to come ask me things. I might’ve told Pat- I’ve been distracted- but it’s getting really…” He breathed out, looking over his shoulder again, “...weird.”

“You have a fan!” You joked. “I’m sorry.”

He hid his own smile, dropping his head, “I guess so,” he sighed, chuckling lowly. “But she for sure is doing damage when I’m not around, because that’s what she’s been doing.”

“She’s talking to people you know behind your back?”

He nodded, lips pressed together. “Yeah. So, I got paired with one girl in my other class, history- her name was Tina- We exchanged information and we figured out our topic. The next day, Tina is someone else’s partner. She-” he gestured to the girl behind him, “-asked Tina to swap, the day it was assigned. I didn’t know it had anything to do with me until I came in the day after.”

You looked at him, baffled as he told the story. “I know it had something to do with me when Tina, who spoke to me just fine the day it was assigned, shot me the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen and genuinely- I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this- darted away. And next thing I know, she- over there- is my new partner.”

You rested your chin on your hands. “That’s… too much for a history project.”

“I know!” He hushed.

“That’s- yeah, that’s so odd. She has to like you or something; that’s a lot of work just to be your partner. Was she at least any good? What do you know about her?”

He let a breath slip his lips, tousling a curl that fell on his forehead. “Too much. I know she likes animals and isn’t that bad with history stuff. And that she likes me, yeah. Her name is Brenda, if that makes anything… clearer.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, of course she’s a Brenda.” You looked over at Brenda, who did fit the exact description of a person named Brenda. “Okay, so what did Brenda tell the other girl?”

“No idea,” He replied, looking back up. “Got her friends to ask if I was single. It’s been so much worse since that.” He trailed off, eyebrows narrowing slightly. “I think she told the waitress the same thing… but by worse, I mean-”

You connected the pieces. “Yeah- What the fuck- How is she here? Talking about you before you even get here?” He nodded, agreeing with your questioning. “So she knows you’re single, which she’s taking as an invitation to... Genuinely stalk you? Because somehow she thinks that’s the way to your heart? I mean, did you flirt with her?”

He went quiet, rubbing his temple. You sighed back a smile. “A bit. But for fun, to make it bearable- she’s not my type. At all…” And it should be noted that Art was not a player. He flirted for fun, but it was always more friendly than romantic. He would do it all the time with you, it wasn’t so deep. Very platonic. It was how you’d been such good friends for so many years. He wasn’t serious, you weren’t delusional. Poor Brenda though, addicted- obsessed? “Which would make this my fault, but the stuff she’s saying behind my back- it’s- that’s crazy.”

The drinks were set on the table with no conversation still. Art thanked her gently, kindly. What could Brenda have possibly said to turn a sweet old woman on Art, who was, by nature, a kind person? His mom was the most charitable woman you’d ever met, and raised him with the morals of the greatest gentleman. There was no chance that there was anything he could truly have done to turn anyone off of him the way the waitress seemed to be. He was almost, by definition, a good person.

You talked about the situation until your meal hit a halfway point. You and Art had swapped seats, your back now facing the giant Audrey Hepburn so that he’d have his back to her. You kept watching the back of Brenda’s head. You were both wary of her presence, Art a little more disappointed that he had to be on edge the whole time for the meal he was anticipating so strongly every second of those forty minutes.

When the meal was over, you found you were both pretty anxious to get out of the diner that you loved so much under normal circumstances. You played Art’s story over and over again, finding it weird, then a little disturbing, but also a little funny. You agreed on that. You both tried to keep yourselves unknown, even though you could both feel the eyes she had in the back of her head, watching you make your way to the opposite end of the counter to pay.

While Art was insisting on paying the bill even after you ordered extra sides (thinking you were paying), Brenda overheard. It was obvious that she’d been waiting to hear something, sitting alone, but keeping oddly quiet since you and Art swapped seats. Art only said, “My treat.” And her head swivelled so fast, you could have sworn you heard her neck crack.

You looked away at Art, who met your eyes with a bewildered expression, and huffed gently. He left his usual twenty-dollar tip, and without waiting another second, you were both easily out the door. You went the weird way home, talking about her, the diner lady, possible theories as to what could have been said, and how Art should probably change his routes to class for a little while. You talked about her until he was laughing again, doing laps around the campus until you figured it was probably time to turn in. He thanked you for hearing him and tightly hugged you goodbye before you went your separate ways.

Saturday rolled around in no time at all. Your piece for the paper was coming along nicely, so nicely you’d forgotten to eat lunch. You rolled your phone over and flipped it on.

Art: r u free?

You: yessss

Art: will be over in 5

You: what whyy

Art: bored

Art: have you eaten???

You clicked your tongue, defeated by him reading your mind from five minutes away.

You: noooope

Art: will be over in 10

You spent those ten minutes cleaning up all your papers, brushing your hair, and throwing on a skort to obviously not reveal the fact that you were studying and working in a gigantic purple crewneck and your pink and orange striped underwear. A comfortable writing secret of yours. You smelled the food through the door before there was even a knock.

You put the last binder away and hopped over to the door, opening it to Patrick holding up a bottle of vodka and a very green-coloured glass bottle of margarita mix from the local store that charged fifteen dollars just for the bottle.

“Hiii!” You greeted your other best friend, hugging him as he wrapped his bottle-holding arms around you the best he could.

“How’s it going?” Patrick asked, stepping aside.

“Good, oh-” Your eyes locked on Art, sporting that wide, crooked grin of his with arms holding several brown bags of the food you’d smelled. “You didn’t have to.”

He just kept grinning, “I figured you wouldn’t let yourself actually have the day off. And you always forget lunch.” Which was too true. Much too. “Got your favourite. And the extras.” Both boys started putting things down in your room, the food on your little desk table and the drinks against the foot of your bed. The food was then unpacked and passed around, the three of you sprawled across your dorm room- Patrick at your desk chair, feet up on your radiator, you and Art sharing space on your bed.

Patrick spoke with his mouth full of burger, “Guess who we ran into on the way over?”

You weren’t sure, but he didn’t phrase it very enthusiastically- you could tell, even with the food in his mouth. You had a small inkling, looking over at Art, who pressed his mouth into a straight line and nodded, swallowing before saying anything. “Her.”

“She’s so fucking weird,” Patrick added. “Art, you tell her what happened or I’m going to get out of pocket.”

Art nodded again, eyes meeting yours. You didn’t notice how close together the two of you were sitting, but Patrick noticed how your knees overlapped, how your arms were against each other’s. He had a spark go off in his head like a bad lighter, but like a bad lighter, that spark was gone in seconds... “So she’s been telling people that I am into her,” Art said, deadpan. “And we are ‘talking’.”

Your fingertips shot up to your temples, then covered your mouth, in incredulous reaction. “She’s delusional,” you gawked. “Have you told her to her face that you aren’t interested?” Your stomach slightly flipped.

“Twice now.” Art’s expression was that of slight disgust and a sort of disappointment. “It’s actually fucking weird. Patrick came to watch my practice, we both saw her talking to my coach.”

Patrick nodded, mouth full again, “Had the audacity to come up to us as we were leaving. She has a lisp, you know? Like a big one. Mike Tyson style, she-”

You and Art couldn’t help but laugh, caught off guard by the Mike Tyson comparison. You’d been friends so long, there was that mutual lean, where you both leaned into each other as you laughed. It helped to have some levity for Art. He could do with that. It made this whole thing a lot less overwhelming. Patrick sat, shaking his head with a chuckle.

“Mike Tyson?” You giggled. Art reached out and grabbed your fries before they fell off the bed. “Oh- thank you.” You smiled as Art made a little divot in your blankets, tucking the fries snugly into it so they wouldn’t move. It was honestly kind of sweet. Who else would do that for you? Who else would think of that? “Anyways, I hate her. What the fuck is her problem?”

The comment received a good snort from Patrick, who gestured wildly, burger in hand, as he chewed eagerly. “Me too- But fuck, she’s so weird, she’s all over him as he’s telling her we have to go, like she just clings onto his forearm like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

“She thinks it’s okay to touch you? Freak,”

Both boys chuckled- Patrick continued, “But she asked who I am, and that was awkward, but fine. Art is slipping his arm out of her grasp as she’s yapping about how good Art is at tennis, and every time, I'm watching her do it again, and he’s trying his best, I can’t remove her, so she keeps grabbing him even after his fourth time pulling away.”

Art presses his hand to his forehead, rubbing his eye, “And so we finally get away. My coach says he wasn’t expecting my girlfriend to be ‘so…’,”

“So, what?”

Patrick chortled, “The guy didn’t- couldn’t finish the sentence.”

“She’d told my coach that she was my girlfriend,” Art summarized. “And she was worried that the enhancing drugs I’m taking are affecting me in too many other ways.”

Your eyebrows immediately furrowed, unable to tell if he was joking.

He swallowed and nodded, “And he’s great, so he told me about it and I made sure to tell him she’s not my girlfriend and she does NOT know me, but if she can go around saying that shit…”

You laughed, but not because it was funny, but because it was such an absurd move on her part. Why was she saying anything? The anger made your stomach flip again. Patrick thought it was appropriate to reach down and grab the bottle of alcohol from the foot of your bed. He cracked it open, and immediately, it was passed to Art. “That’s insane. Who- Why?”

The conversation began, a real one, getting deep into psychological reasons why she might be so obsessed and couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. The bottle got passed around, alcohol finding its way into your now-empty soda cup, mixed with that much too expensive mixer Patrick bought. The hatred grew into making fun of her, and the boys had surprisingly sassy things to say. Soon, you were all laughing, making light of it, sprawled dizzily across your dorm bed.

You were lying diagonally, the back of Art’s head resting on your stomach, his body opposite diagonal, and Patrick was sitting across the far end, back to the wall. All three of you were aching from laughter, sighing heavily to catch your breath. Patrick had just compared Brenda to this one tennis teacher back at MRTA, who was a complete nutjob, calling the teacher ‘Brenda from the future’, which was funnier when he said it.

Your head was swimming, you knew you were feeling it. It settled in, a warm feeling, your eyes feeling like they moved from left to right after your brain told them to. Like your whole body was lagging. It made you smile. Your hand sat atop Art’s head, your fingers twisting his hair gently. It felt like-weirdly silky. “She sucks.” Art said. “I wish there was a reset button on people so she’d have no idea who I am.”

“What would make her leave you alone?” You asked, absentmindedly.

“She’s gotta have a boundary,” Patrick said, a little muffled by the cigarette between his lips. “She wants you bad.” Art didn’t have a response. The silence slipped in, filling the room. You were thinking, Art was thinking, Patrick was thinking. “Is she a homewrecker?”

Art turned his head. “Probably.”

He chuckled, “No, like, would she really? I feel like she wants you because she knows you’re for the taking and therefore she’s the only answer.” Patrick was onto something, for once. He was usually not the leader in having good ideas, but he’d had the least to drink (so far). “You flirted with her, so she thinks she’s in the running. You can tell her no, but I think- I think you have to show it.” You and Art both sat up at the same time, him scooting back to where you sat against the pillows at the head of your bed. He swayed a little, locking eyes with you as you shot him a teasing nose scrunch for it.

He tapped the side of your thigh in return. “Art needs a girlfriend.” You both ignored the way Patrick acted out an explosion coming from his head. “I’m a genius.”

Art grinned, shaking his head, “Would it work?”

“That’s your question?” You giggled.

“It might,” Patrick shrugged, passing Art the cigarette.

Art took a drag, “Where am I getting a girlfriend? I can’t date anyone without leading them on, it wouldn’t be real.” He blew the smoke upward. Patrick locked eyes with you. You narrowed your eyebrows playfully in response, unsure of what he was thinking. If you were sober, you would have caught on a lot faster. Your eyes were currently a little slow to blink. Art looked at Patrick as well, for an answer he seemed to have, grinning ear to ear.

You and Art seemed to catch on at the same time. Your eyes widened. “Me?”

“It works!” Patrick said, picking up the bottle and taking a fat swig. “Tell me it wouldn’t!” He gestured widely with both hands. “It doesn’t have to be real. You hang out all the time, you get food all the time, and you’re both comfortable around each other. And just saying, she’s prettier than half the girls I’ve seen on campus-”

“Woah,” you giggled. “But-”

“Okay, calm down,” Patrick shushed you, joking, obviously. “Tell me it’s not worth a shot.”

You and Art looked at each other, with him having to tilt his head back almost all the way. You weren’t exactly yourself, so maybe you could give it proper thought at another time, but the concept hung in the air like static.

You’d always told yourself that you never really had time for a real relationship. There was always so much to do in a day, so many things you were already committed to. You’d always brushed it off, saying you had too much on your plate, secretly thinking maybe it was just too much to prove. Your lower lip settled between your teeth as you weighed it. You were busy, but if there was anyone you had time for, it was him.

You’d never been anyone’s girlfriend. Could you be a fake girlfriend?

He smiled a little- You weren’t sure if he was uncomfortable or weighing the same question. You were both a little too out of it for this. He then shrugged slightly, pressing his hand to his chin, eyebrows raised. He turned back to Patrick, sitting up, “Could work.” The cigarette became yours again.

Patrick looked smug. You shook your head at him too, rolling your eyes as you took a lengthy drag off the cigarette.

He was open, “I’m not against it. You’d be saving me.”

You blew the smoke at Patrick, over Art, “I don’t know, would the rumours stop?”

“After a while, if she gives up,” Patrick said, slouching down a little. “Which she pretty much has to, right?” Wrong.

You clicked your tongue, taking a second drag, “I think the better answer is you guys fake date. Then she’d be gone for sure.” You gestured with the cigarette between your fingers.

Art and Patrick shared a look, then the three of you were back to finding things a little too funny, and the idea was pushed to the back burner. A few more shots were downed, a conclusion never found, but it was still hanging in the air.

Eventually, it was so late that you were all too tired to leave or do anything. Patrick fell asleep at the end of the bed, and you and Art were left awake, lying down, both of you about a shot away from being sick, on the verge of sleeping too. The only light left was the dim light of your corner lamp. You weren’t even sure he was awake until he rubbed his eyes and looked over at you to check if you were awake still.

He had been thinking about the fake dating thing. You were one of his best friends, and had been his best friend for years. When he thought of you, he thought about your passion, dedication to your work, and your killer tennis serve. He agreed with Patrick that you were one of the prettier girls- to him, at least. He looked over your eyelashes, your nose, and your face in general while you stared off at the wall. You did spend a lot of time together, you were comfortable touching, and you always smelled really good. He could fake date you; he knew that. It was weird that he was debating it, because it felt like a funny but solid idea for getting Brenda off his back. It was cut and dry. So when you turned to look at him, why did it feel so strange?

“I’m so drunk,” you whispered, smiling at the ceiling, a hand coming up to cover your eyes.

“Me too,” he replied, unable to not grin in response. Dizzy, he pulled the blanket from beside him and tossed it over you, making sure it covered your feet. “Do you need anything?”

You didn’t answer, the words just skimmed past you. “Are we fake dating?” You asked, shutting your eyes with a tired giggle. Your head was pounding already and other thoughts came and went, but the answer had come to you, clear. Easy. Of course you’d do this for him.

He chuckled, “I think so. Thank you.” He felt the gratitude sweep over him the way the alcohol did.

“No, always…” You mumbled. “Tomorrow. Fuck Brenda.”

“Fuck Brenda,” Art returned, leaning over you, careful not to let his shirt fall in your face as he turned your lamp off with a click.

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