(Y/n)'s eyes were burning and she knew if she kept them closed for too long then she would undoubtedly fall asleep, but she didn't want to sleep for much longer. It wouldn't do her already crushed body clock any favours if she went to sleep now and woke up at lunchtime.

With a half-empty water bottle in hand, (Y/n) padded down the small walkway in the tour bus until she reached the sofa to the left hand side.

There were her boys.

They looked a mixture between peaceful and exhausted. Ashton was stretched out on his back, his feet propped up on the arm rest with his boots discarded on the floor for added comfort. He had one arm locked behind his head, his bandana pulled down from his hair to cover his eyes so none of the sunlight filtered through and irritated or woke him. And his right arm was strewn over Rory.

The three year old was curled up like a cub, laid on Ashton's chest and stomach with his head tucked beneath Ashton's chin.

They resembled two pieces of a puzzle that slotted together perfectly, and they had been there for a good few hours now. No one had the heart to wake them when they looked so comfy and peaceful and were actually getting some rest.

Leaning over, (Y/n) pressed a tender kiss to Ashton's cheek and then to Rory's forehead before she eased down so she was sitting on the carpeted floor next to them. Her back propped up against the sofa and she laid her head back against Ashton's hip.

She took a few more sips of her drink, closing her eyes for the briefest second before remembering to open them so she didn't fall asleep. They were almost at their next destination; Paris.

They would have a few spare hours to look around the city and visit a few landmarks while the arena was prepped and the stage was put together and everything was ready. Then all they had to do was a quick sound check and then get dressed. There was plenty of time when the band weren't due on stage until roughly nine o'clock.

When she looked up, (Y/n) narrowed her eyes and inclined her head to one side in confusion.

Calum was crouched behind the arm rest of the sofa, leaning over Ashton like he was performing some strange magic trick or some sort of exorcism.

Then she realised what he was doing.

He had a black felt pen in hand and he was very carefully beginning to draw something on Ashton's face. He was keeping the movements and touch light, knowing Ashton wasn't always a deep sleeper especially when he was having a power nap and not in bed like this.

(Y/n) bit the corner of her mouth, keeping still and quiet as she watched Calum and realised that he was doodling a moustache on Ashton's upper lip. It wasn't too detailed or extreme and only reached the grooves either side of his mouth. It reminded (Y/n) of the kind of small, tidy moustache Poirot would have in the Agatha Christie shows and films.

When he was finished, Calum took a picture of his handywork, capturing Ashton in full with Rory curled up on his chest and (Y/n) knew in a matter of seconds, that would be all over the 5sos accounts and media. Giving the fans just a small taste of some of the chaos they got up to when the band was on tour. And (Y/n) and Rory got to be a part of this fun by association.

Ashton wouldn't have come on such a big world tour if his family couldn't come along with him.

Her head stayed pressing back against Ashton's hip and she hummed along to the music playing quietly on the radio, watching the scenery passing them by.

It didn't take long before she felt him move and realised he was beginning to wake up. She reckoned his arm must have gone numb from how long it had been resting behind his head like that and with the way he kept flexing his fingers and stretching them out to try and get some blood and feeling back to them.

He nudged the bandana from his eyes, pushing it back up until it was resting over his hairline and keeping his boyant curls from flopping over his temple and near his tired eyes.

He couldn't quite be bothered to lift his head yet, but he did tilt his chin down to check on Rory. As expected, the three year old was still fast asleep, breathing softly with one hand curled up in Ashton's shirt like he was making sure to keep them both connected even while they slept.

A grin crept across Ashton's features when he looked from Rory to his left and saw (Y/n) was suddenly sat down on the floor beside him. He reached his hand down for her, nudging the back of his knuckles against her cheek and jaw as he grinned tiredly at her.

(Y/n) turned her head and pressed a chaste kiss to the inside of his wrist, nudging her cheek against his touch before she looked up at him, unable to stop the grin that spread across her lips as she spoke.

"I think you might need a shave."

That caused him to frown. His eyes narrowed and he bit the inside of his cheek as he pulled his hand back and reached out to run his fingers along his jaw and over his chin.

"I shaved last night." He knew he had; he'd shaved before he got his hair and make up done for the show last night. He wouldn't need another one less than a day later, especially when he was quite prone to letting his stubble grow out recently.

There wasn't chance to answer to that before Michael was cutting in. "Might wanna try again."

He sniggered as he caught sight of Ashton before he looked back down at the Gameboy he had been playing for a good hour now. Something to keep his mind awake and occupied while they travelled.

(Y/n) darted her eyes down to Rory when he started to move. He wasn't fully awake, but he was wriggling to try and get comfy again. They must have alerted his attention when they started to speak and Ashton began to move.

The little boy nuzzled his nose against Ashton's shirt like he was scratching an itch before he weakly tried to open his eyes. They fluttered like bird's wings and remained half-lidded as he glanced up at Ashton. But when he looked at his dad, he began to giggle.

His arm reached up and his hand delicately patted Ashton's mouth in a silent bid to either tell him what was so funny or try and gage whether he was imagining it or not. Rory kept his cheek glued down against Ashton's chest, though he was still giggling even when he closed his eyes again and dropped his hand from his dad's mouth to rest against his chest instead.

A way look flooded Ashton's face; Rory's reaction had clued him in that clearly something wasn't right with his features.

His hand dug around in his jean pocket until he found his phone and he swiped across to the camera, flipping it to the front camera. His lashes fluttered, eyes blinking into focus while he held the phone up above him like he was trying to take a selfie of him and his boy.

The moment the blank ink caught his attention, a groan vibrated against the back of his throat and he let out a deep sigh which caused Rory to push down on his chest a bit more like Ashton had been winded.

"Oh come on, who did that? And don't say Rory," he bent his head back against the arm rest to try and look for the rest of the band.

He wasn't stupid, his boy was only three so he couldn't have done such a precise design on his lip like that. If it had been Rory the ink would have been squiggly and messy and all over his face, and Ashton was sure he would have woken if Rory had been scrawling all across his face. His boy would have been in fits of giggles too which would have given it away, but he was still practically asleep. So it wasn't him.

He looked around them all again, figuring by the look on (Y/n)'s face that it wasn't her, and although Michael was laughing, he seemed too consumed by his game to pay much attention. It wasn't him. Luke was at the far back, barely within Ashton's sights.

When he looked across and saw the last band member, his lips pursed and he rolled his eyes when he saw Calum sniggering. "Thanks."

There would either be a video or a picture online about this, Ashton was going to have to take a look. Hopefully there wasn't a video, surely he would have woken if Calum was chatting and recording something right over him.

His head tilted back down and he looked at (Y/n) when she leant across and dabbed her finger delicately across his lip, leaving pins and needles in her wake.

"You better hope that's not permanent marker." She pushed up on her knees to kiss his cheek once again, barely managing to move out the way when Ashton sat up rather abruptly.

His hand cradled the back of Rory's head so he didn't jostle the toddler too much, but his complexion paled as a worried look flooded his face. As much as he loved fun and games, he was not going out on stage tonight with a shitty moustache inked across his top lip like this. It better had wash off.

"It's not, right? Right?"

***

It was getting late.

Reaching her left hand down, (Y/n) took Rory's hand and began to smooth her thumb across the back of his hand as he stepped closer to her side. She smiled to herself when he nuzzled his cheek against her leg, cosying up to her side in a way that gave away how tired he really was.

His mid-morning nap with Ashton earlier clearly hadn't done him much good as he was still tired. But he was switching between different time zones recently, it was messing with his sleep routine.

She kept hold of his hand and bent forward to smooth her free hand through his hair, a soothing motion which caused Rory to look up at her with that cheesy, tired grin.

He had enjoyed standing at the bottom of the stage, staring up at the band as they began the show. He had been dancing, jiving and clapping as he stood at the bottom of the stage, staring up at them all in wonder as if it were the first ever show he had seen of the band.

When it was clear he had started to become tired and stopped dancing along, (Y/n) had took him backstage so they could watch from the wings instead.

But now she knew it was about time to get Rory in one of the dressing rooms so he could get some sleep. He would easily crash out on the sofa with his blanket and wake up once the band had finished and came backstage.

"Let's go sit down." (Y/n) knew that he was tired, because he didn't object or put up any sort of fight.

Rory let out a quiet hum with his cheek still meshed up against her leg and he let (Y/n) turn them both around from the arena view to face backstage. It wasn't far to get down to the dressing rooms where they could wait.

Their hands stayed locked together while (Y/n) stepped behind Rory, letting him go first towards the stairs that led down to the main floor. Where all the equipment was kept and the cleaning supplies ready to sweep the stage when the confetti and sweat started to become a problem.

She followed after him, watching the way he lolled his head from left to right along with the music coming from the stage, blasting through the speakers.

It was quite surprising that Rory hadn't wanted his noise-cancelling headphones back on yet. He'd worn them when they were down at the bottom of the stage looking up and feeling the music blasting through the arena and vibrating from the floor.

(Y/n) gave his hand a little squeeze as they walked towards the stairs, though the music was still blasting like waves they were swimming through.

She was sure she could hear Rory murmuring the lyrics to the song as they began walking down the stairs.

Then it happened.

It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One moment Rory was holding her hand up high over his shoulder as they began their descent down the stairs. Then the next, something caught his foot and his little body was propelled forwards.

His hand ripped out of (Y/n)'s hold before she could try and latch onto him tighter.

A scream tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips and her body went rigid, frozen to the spot as Rory seemed to fly. He didn't touch the rest of the steps as he tumbled, flying through the air until he landed with a resounding crack to the right of the stairs, quite far away from the bottom step.

(Y/n) stayed where she was for a few seconds, unable to move with her body feeling like it was made out of cement that had dried to a block.

When her eyes managed to glance down, she saw that it was a cable Rory had tripped over. A stray cable wire was strewn over the steps and there were at least two open equipment boxes.

Her body suddenly became unstuck when Rory let out an almighty screech that rattled (Y/n) to her core and sent her heart into a frenzy.

Her feet barely touched the steps as she propelled herself down and flung down onto her knees beside him.

"Oh baby."

She didn't want to touch him. There was blood. He was bleeding. Her little boy was bleeding. Rory hadn't so much as suffered a nosebleed before, the most he'd gotten was a few scrapes from little stumbles and trips. A grazed arm or cut knees, nothing more.

This was blood, a lot of blood; soaking into his hair and trickling onto his forehead.

It didn't take much to realise what had happened; there was an open equipment box to one side and there was a smearing of blood on the corner of the box. It was a metal box as well with sharp corners that packed a punch. Rory had smacked his head on that corner when he fell.

Tears welled up in (Y/n)'s eyes as she reached out for Rory who let out another belting scream with the last air that was left within his lungs. Until all that was left was shrivelled lungs in his chest while his mouth hung open in a hollow, airless void.

Her hands shook as she held onto Rory's sides and carefully, slowly lifted him up from his stomach and settled him down on her lap instead. His head flopped back against her chest, eyes screwed shut and mouth still gaping open as he shook and writhed against her.

The blood was running like a tap down his face; there was a deep gash down the centre of his head between his hairline, ending just at the start of his temple after his hair ended.

Blood was soaking into his hair and making it stick to his temple, but it was all the blood trickling like thick slime down his temple and towards his eyes that made (Y/n)'s stomach clench and her throat closed off in an attempt to stop herself from being sick.

"I've got you baby," she murmured, trembling as she held him close to her chest.

"Oh God, what happened?"

(Y/n) twisted to crane her neck and look over her right shoulder to where a young girl was standing, dithering to one side like she was unsure whether she was allowed to get any closer. She wasn't part of the set crew who travelled with the band; the shirt she wore had the arena name and logo in the top left corner.

She worked here. Was she responsible for leaving the equipment out like this, for leaving the boxes in the way, crowding the stairs like this?

"He- he's tripped over all this mess. Towels. Do you have any towels or tissues, something for the blood?"

Panic entwined in (Y/n)'s voice as she tried to press her hand to Rory's head, but the action made him flinch and tremor like she had electrocuted him. An awful howl escaped his lips and he sucked in a deep enough breath to wail, but (Y/n) had to keep her hand against his head. She needed to stop this bleeding.

Head wounds tended to bleed more, it could be superficial, but (Y/n) wasn't letting Rory bleed out back here. She had to help him, she had to stem the bleeding first until someone with first aid training could take a look and look after him.

"Okay baby, it's okay," she hushed against his cheek as she began to sway them from left to right.

Within a minute, the young worker was back by (Y/n)'s side, setting down two towels that looked like they had come from the band's dressing room, a handful of tissues and a bottle of water to help clean up Rory's face.

With her left arm bound around Rory's middle to keep him pinned against her chest and settled on her thighs, (Y/n) reached out for the water bottle. She wasn't sure she had ever shaken so much during her life as she tried to open the bottle and tip and spill some water onto the towel and tissues.

She picked up the tissues and began to dab them over Rory's temple and near his eyes so none of it went into his eyes. But it didn't work so well. Tissue stuck to Rory's temple, blood smeared to dark pink streaks across his face and the blood just kept trickling down his head.

She picked up the damp towel, scrunched it up and tried to press it to Rory's head to apply some more pressure and stop the bleeding. He jerked back at the contact so suddenly that his head crashed into her sternum and she almost choked at the force.

"Mummy! Hurts," heaving sobs escaped his lips as he clutched at her arm that was around his waist while he tried to rub at his eyes that were sticky with blood and water.

His little hand rubbed across his eyes, the bridge of his nose and then his cheek. But when Rory pulled his hand away, his eyes scrunched up and another scream left his lips that made (Y/n) cower back and had the crew member wincing and recoiling away from the scene.

"It's okay, shh it's okay."

She didn't believe her own words, and she knew she didn't sound very convincing. There was blood everywhere; her boy was in agony and she couldn't do very much about it. They needed help.

"Go get someone."

The look she received in return was mind-numbing. She stared down at (Y/n) like she had spoken in a foreign language she didn't understand or as if she had asked for the impossible to be done.

"Uh- who?"

(Y/n)'s lips formed into a frown as she stared up at her with narrowed eyes and slouched shoulders.

Surely she wasn't being serious right now. "I saw ambulances parked outside, surely you can get a medic in here. Look at his head!"

Rory flinched into her chest and (Y/n) tried to hold him tighter, more secured while she watched the girl trot off, though she looked more like a headless chicken than any form of actual help.

She began to quietly shush Rory, though his wails were so loud that she was surprised no one on stage could hear him. He was rivalling their speakers with his strength and the power of his lungs. He needed help.

There were ambulances parked all around the venue in case anyone got hurt or people down in the standing area got too overheated and passed out and needed medical attention. Surely not all of those medics were busy, surely some of them would be free to come back here.

This was a medical emergency, Rory needed medical attention and (Y/n) wasn't a doctor. Nor could she leave her son here while she went to find someone or drag him all around the venue to find a paramedic or a first responder to help her.

She wasn't quite sure whether it was a relief or a form of torture when two more members of the arena staff turned up, clearly having heard Rory's screams and the panic of the situation.

One of them stood off to one side, speaking into a radio though (Y/n) wasn't sure what he was trying to say or who he was talking to. Whilst the other man stepped closer and seemed to assess the situation.

He deemed it appropriate to move the equipment box out the way, which should have been done in the first place to avoid an accident like this. And he chucked the cable from the stairs to the floor so no one else would have an accident.

Other than that, he stood to one side like he thought this wasn't worth his time but he seemed to know someone had to stick around and make sure the situation stayed contained and didn't get any worse.

The way he was looking at them, how he tilted his head to one side and frowned down at them like he was analysing the pair of them, it made (Y/n) nervous. She couldn't keep eye contact with him, but after a minute of looking between him and Rory, who was still writhing, sobbing and occasionally screaming in her arms, (Y/n) sighed.

"Can you get Ashton please?" It didn't even bear thinking about, to wonder what kind of reaction Ashton was going to have when he came back here and saw what had gone on.

"He's on stage." The young man stood to one side, who had so far tried to stay out of it, spoke up as if it were so obvious that (Y/n) shouldn't have even asked for Ashton's presence.

"Yes. Go get him." The sharp edge to her voice was like a knife cutting through the tension in the air.

She knew he was on stage. She wasn't stupid, this was her husband's band and tour and she knew how things worked. But this was Ashton's son, this was his boy that was hurt and he would want to be here, he needed to be here. What if Rory needed to go to the nearest hospital?

They were in a foreign country, Ashton needed to be there with them if Rory had to go to hospital and have medical attention.

But then it was the other member of the arena crew, the one with a harsh, analysing gaze who shook his head and looked as if he were about to roll his eyes at (Y/n). She saw the name tag on his chest read Darren before he was crossing his arms over his chest and chipping in.

"They're performing. We've got a medic coming to help you, we're not interrupting the performance for this."

"Are- are you serious?" A flood wave of tears began to pour from (Y/n)'s eyes and she had to wipe her sleeve across her face to try and save some dignity. "His son's head is cracked open, I need him! You think I'm going to the hospital without him?"

(Y/n) took a deep breath to try and keep herself calm when Rory wailed and thrashed in her arms like he was about to try and break free from her embrace. But he was only seeking some comfort, some relief, something to take this unbearable pain away or distract him from it.

Sitting still and remaining calm wasn't an option. He was a toddler in the worst pain he had ever felt before, nothing but pain relief and medical attention was going to calm him down.

Tears continued to trickle down (Y/n)'s face and she couldn't stop them, nor did she have the energy to try either.

Shallow breaths escaped her lips until it felt like she wasn't breathing at all, whereas Rory was gulping down big breaths so he could release them in the loudest wails he had ever let out in his life.

His elbows thrashed into her waist and he tried to pull his throbbing head away from the towel (Y/n) was trying to use to put pressure on the wound, but she wouldn't let him. She kept her palm pressed down on the towel, pushing a bit more to keep it where it was so Rory had nowhere to try and pull away from her.

Fury boiled up within (Y/n) when she looked up at the worker, Darren, and he stared down at her with such a bland look that it made her blood curdle. He wasn't going to go and get Ashton for her.

He truly expected (Y/n) to do this alone, to get Rory seen to by a paramedic and taken to hospital. All while Ashton stayed oblivious on stage, performing to the fans.

If she did that, Ashton would hit the roof once he realised his family had gone to the hospital without him and his son had been seriously hurt whilst on tour with them. He would demand to know why no one told him, why he hadn't been informed and why they thought it was right to let him carry on performing when his family needed him.

Well (Y/n) wasn't going to do that. She wasn't sitting here if no one was going to go and inform Ashton of this disaster.

She loosened her grip on the towel, letting it stay flopped against Rory's head so she could reach for his waist and lift him up in her arms. She pushed her strength to her core and her knees and got up from the floor before she twisted Rory around so he was perched on her left hip.

The movement caused him to howl and let out a wail. "I know, shh I know baby boy, it hurts. It's gonna be okay, we'll make it better."

With her left arm tightly around Rory's waist to keep him on her hip, she moved her right hand back to his head and pressed the towel down again.

God, she must look a mess. Blood lathered from her hand up to her elbow and whilst Rory continued to cry, he laid his head on her shoulder and (Y/n) knew the blood was now soaking into her top. She was going to look like she had committed a murder.

Her lips attached to the back of his head, where there miraculously wasn't any blood tainting his hair or scalp. She turned and headed towards the stairs Rory had just tumbled down.

If they weren't going to go and tell Ashton what had happened, then (Y/n) would go and tell him herself.

She got up three steps before a rough hand grabbed at her arm and pulled until she almost lost her grip on Rory.

"You can't interrupt-"

"Get the Hell off me."

Part of (Y/n) felt bad for how she shoved her leg backwards and slammed her foot into his leg to get him to step away from her, but both her arms were full holding Rory and keeping the towel smothered against his temple.

She wasn't being told what she could and couldn't do. This wasn't up to them and (Y/n) needed help, she was going to get her husband whether they wanted her to or not.

With Rory huddled in her arms and sniffling into her chest, (Y/n) hurried up the steps and pelted towards the stage, stopping just on the threshold. No one in the crowd would be able to see her here, and she wouldn't be caught on the cameras and shown up on the screen.

The last thing (Y/n) wanted was for the cameras to pick her up and the crowd to see one of the band member's wives lathered in blood holding a screaming, seemingly battered child.

Tears blurred her vision and had her blinking rapidly to try and look around and catch someone's attention. She didn't care who, as long as one of the band saw her and came to her aid. They would understand, they would get Ashton for her if she could flag one of them down.

Part of (Y/n) knew that she wasn't going to get Ashton's attention. Aside from the fact that he often closed his eyes during performances, he was often looking at the crowd trying to get their attention and interact with them and watch their reactions. He wouldn't be looking in the wings for her, especially if he thought she had gone to try and settle Rory down for a nap.

Thankfully, the others moved about the stage like flies, always going from one end of the stage to the other, weaving in and out of one another.

As soon as Michael turned and his body was facing (Y/n)'s direction, she stepped forward and let go of the towel on Rory's head to wave her bloodied arm in his direction to flag him down.

"Michael! Michael, please!"

Terror was the one and only thing that registered on his face when he looked at her.

The blood must have caught his attention first and foremost, because he whipped the sunglasses from his face, tossed them somewhere on stage- they might have ended up in the VIP crowd, lost to him forever- and pelted in her direction.

The chords he had been frantically strumming were left unfinished and his guitar hung at his torso, making the strap dig into the back of his neck, but that was the least of his worries.

"Hey- Jesus Christ what happened?!"

His hands were reaching out to her once he was stood on the threshold, barely visible to any of the crowd anymore. He held onto (Y/n)'s elbows and leant back to try and look her and Rory up and down.

His first thought was an attack.

Someone breaching the security and getting backstage and attacking Ashton's family. A knife attack came to mind and it didn't seem that far fetched in the moment. But as he looked them over, he saw all the blood on (Y/n) was smeared, it was rubbed onto her clothes, not stuck to them or gluing them to her skin.

The source of the blood was clearly the towel covering Rory's head, and the toddler was wheeing, wailing and sobbing as he shook in (Y/n)'s arms and clung to her with one arm tightly bound around the back of her neck.

He glanced at (Y/n) before he reached out for the towel and carefully peeled it back to try and see the damage.

Michael didn't like what he saw.

No wonder his nephew was trembling and screeching so badly; there was a deep cut to the centre of his head like someone had sliced through his skin like a box cutter through tape. The sight made him grit his teeth and wince as he let (Y/n) place the towel back to Rory's head despite the toddler's whimpers, to try and keep the blood flow stemmed and to a minimum.

"Oh my God."

"He- he fell and hit one of the equipment boxes, I- I… the medics are coming. Can Ash come back here, please? It won't stop."

(Y/n)'s trembling hand motioned to the bloodied towel before she looked up at Michael, an absolutely desperate, pleading look on her face combined with a quiet sob.

"Course. I'll get him, I'll go get him now. Take Rory back, and- and Ash will come wait with you for the medic."

His response was instant. There was no doubt about it, that shouldn't even be a question. Of course Ashton could leave the stage and come and wait with her. He needed to know that his boy had been seriously hurt, that he needed medical attention. Michael wouldn't expect anything else.

His guitar bashed against his stomach and abdomen as he turned and headed back out onto the stage, away from the wings where he left (Y/n) cradling Rory. He cringed at the sound of Rory's retreating cries that felt like knives jabbing into his back and cutting apart his skin.

Michael didn't think twice as he rounded to the left, hurrying around the set until he was on the centre platform where the limo was set front and centre stage.

It took a moment for Ashton to realise someone was behind him and when he did, he almost jumped up from his stool.

None of the band ever came up behind him when they were performing. They would stand in front of the drum kit, they would come up to the sides and stare up at him as they jammed out and performed. But they didn't come up and play right behind him, they were only ever behind him if they were all coming out on stage in procession and Ashton was in front.

He continued to play, sweat dripping down the back of his neck as he turned to his right to look up at Michael, wondering what he was up to and what he wanted to be here.

He wasn't doing this for the cameras, that was for sure. He was crouched behind Ashton almost as if he were hiding behind him, hovering over his shoulder to try and talk to him without picking up any attention from the cameras or the crowd. This wasn't part of the set performance; this was an emergency.

Ashton knew something was wrong when he watched Michael lean over and cup his hand over the microphone attached to the drumkit.

Whatever he was about to say, he didn't want anyone else to hear.

That was enough to put Ashton on edge and give almost his full attention to Michael. His eyes narrowed as he waited impatiently for whatever information he was about to be given.

"Dude, Rory's hurt. You gotta go back and help."

That was enough to have Ashton's skin turning a deathly shade of grey and he stopped playing immediately.

"Is it bad?" He was already shoving his sticks into the holder attached to the drumkit as he spoke. It didn't matter how bad it was, but Ashton still needed to know so he was prepared for whatever he was about to face.

He wasn't sure he had ever seen Michael look at him with such a grave look before as he nodded. "He's bad."

That was all he needed to hear.

One hand tangled in his hair as he bolted from the drumkit, weaving around the wires and steps as he bolted towards the wings that Michael had pointed towards.

Where was his family? What had happened? What had gone on while he'd been on stage for his son to be hurt? And what did bad mean, what kind of injuries did he have to be considered badly hurt?

He felt like a mad man as he launched himself backstage, sure that the cameras had caught him leaving in such a hurry. The crowds must have thought this was some kind of improvised sketch between him and Michael that the others weren't in on.

By now the music had stopped playing. Michael had already stopped and with Ashton rushing off stage in such an abrupt hurry, both Luke and Calum had stopped to find out where the fire was and what was going on.

Ashton didn't know where to look when he propelled himself down the stairs and saw a huddle of people gathered round a terrifying scene.

There was his wife, knelt down on the floor with their boy in her arms, huddled up against her chest.

His stomach clenched and his throat tightened with a great urge to be sick when his sights finally set on Rory. His boy, his little toddler, lathered in blood. There was either a blanket or some kind of towel being smothered against the top of his head, but it wasn't making much of a difference.

(Y/n) was smeared in blood, all up her hands and arms, across her shirt, a few streaks on her face and down her abdomen from moving and carrying Rory around. There was a mountain of bloodied tissues littering the floor like a paper trail and it almost made Ashton gag.

"Fuck! What happened?"

He forced his way in between the few members of the tour staff and the arena crew who were now gathering around to witness what was happening. His knees creaked as he crashed down in front of (Y/n), reaching out to try and take a look at Rory so he could see for himself what he needed to be panicking about.

"He cracked his head on that," venom seethed in (Y/n)'s otherwise defeated tone as she pointed to the equipment box that was still wide open, but had been moved out the way so no further accidents happened.

There was still a trail of blood caked onto one of the sharp corners where Rory had collided with it.

Ashton tried to be as careful as possible, cooing and shushing Rory as he looked at the damage. He brushed his thumb along Rory's cheek to try and give him a bit of touch and affection, though Ashton himself was chewing and gnawing on his lower lip in panic.

That looked bad. Worse than what he imagined when Michael came out to get him.

"Hurts!"

"Oh I know baby, I know." Ashton hushed and leant down to kiss Rory's blood-smeared cheek.

Out the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Michael and Calum both stood at the top of the stairs, leaning over to see what was happening and if Rory had gotten any help yet. He figured that since he couldn't see Luke there, then the singer was still out on the stage, talking to the crowd and trying to explain that they were having a temporary set back with the show.

After all, the whole band couldn't disappear from the stage without giving their loyal fans some sort of explanation.

Darren, the employee who had been less than forthcoming with (Y/n) earlier and who was still stood to one side with his arms folded, now had his sights set on (Y/n). She could feel his gaze burning into her like lasers and when she glanced up at him, she realised how irritated and rather angry he now seemed.

He waved a hand towards Ashton before then pointing towards the stage. "You've stopped the performance."

(Y/n) couldn't help the way she winced and coiled herself around Rory, huddling him closer to her chest so she didn't have to look up at any of them. She wouldn't have gone to get Ashton if she had any other choice, but she couldn't sit here cradling their injured three year old, waiting for medical attention. She couldn't go to the hospital with Ashton being out on stage, none the wiser to what was happening.

There was a snarky look on Darren's face as he grabbed the radio from his waist and hushed a few words to whatever colleague was on the receiving end.

When he looked down at Ashton, he didn't seem to realise that the drummer was glaring up at him as if willing him not to even bother talking.

"The paramedics are coming from one of the ambulances outside, it's covered. You can go back out there and fin-"

"My son's head is split open, I'm not going back on that stage until he's been seen to."

His response was instant, definite and without a doubt. There was no way that Ashton was getting back up on that stage when Rory was in a state like this. He had a deep head wound, he was in hysterics and agonising pain. Ashton needed to be here, he needed to know what was going to happen with Rory and be with him.

He wouldn't be able to concentrate on the show and finishing the sets when his mind would be focused on Rory and frantically worrying about his boy. He needed to be with Rory and (Y/n), he couldn't leave her either when she was clearly panicking and overwhelmed with this.

"If our kids are hurt we have to be back here, don't try and tell us otherwise." Michael knew he would be the exact same if either of his girls had been hurt during a performance. He wouldn't be out there on stage, he would be sat holding them while they got tended to.

"You still have a show to do. She should have waited like we told her to instead of blundering out there." Darren waved a hand towards (Y/n) who recoiled towards Ashton's side.

"He's hurt I had to." What other choice did she have? How could she not go and get him?

Another round of tears burned in her eyes and made her nose sting with the need to unleash a sob that she was desperately holding in. (Y/n) didn't want to burst into tears, she didn't want to start sobbing in front of everyone, but she was close to her breaking point.

"Hey, don't talk to my wife like that."

Shudders tore through (Y/n)'s nerves when she watched Ashton push up from his knees and turn to face the rather idiotic worker that was clearly getting on his last nerve. And he took a step to the side so he was in Darren's line of sight, blocking (Y/n) and Rory from view.

"Can you not see the fucking blood lathered on my son? You think I'd stay out there performing when he's in this state? You're out of your mind."

"Daddy…" the quiet whimper that followed Rory's voice made Ashton tremor right down to his toes hidden within his boots.

He whipped his head to look over his shoulder and set his sights on Rory who was shaking in (Y/n)'s arms and reaching his little arms out towards Ashton with grabbing fists. He wanted Ashton. He wanted comfort. He was frightened with all the raised voices and tears and he was still hurting. Badly.

Ashton tangled his fingers in his curls, pushing the damp strands away from his temple and raking them further back on his head, suddenly wishing he had a bandana again to keep the strands from his eyes.

He quickly turned and crouched back down in front of them, letting (Y/n) ease Rory from her embrace and into his.

A howl left Rory's lips and both hands encircled around Ashton's bicep once he was seated on his thighs and his right shoulder was pressing into Ashton's torso. He was still hurting. His temple and the top of his head were throbbing, his blood was pulsing and rushing through his ears and beating through his skin and he felt like he was going to be sick.

He closed his eyes and leant into his dad's chest, gripping his arm so tightly his short nails were starting to cut into Ashton's exposed skin, but it didn't matter. As long as he got that comfort that he was seeking.

"I'm here, it's alright I promise."

A quiet utter of "Finally," left (Y/n)'s lips and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand when two paramedics came over to them with a medic bag on their shoulders.

It didn't take long to work out exactly what had happened, without anyone needing to explain. Although someone must have told them what they were coming back here to sort out and what kind of situation they would be walking into.

"Let's try and give it a little clean, see what we're dealing with."

"Shh, it's okay. Hey it's okay baby, I got you." Ashton bound his arms tighter around Rory until he was practically pinning his boy to his chest when he let out such a belting scream that even Luke must have heard it from the stage.

One of the medics poured a bit of saline solution onto the wound to try and cleanse it and clear the blood so they could see how deep the cut was and what kind of treatment he was going to need. The sensation must have felt like fire splitting his skin apart because Rory shuddered, writhed and kicked until (Y/n) leant forward and held onto his legs while Ashton gripped him tighter and tried to shush him.

But Ashton couldn't even kiss Rory's head or whisper into his hair like he usually would, not with that wound being dead centre on his scalp and at the top of his forehead.

"He needs to go to the hospital and get it stitched or glued up. And a scan, plus an X-ray to make sure no damage has been done."

(Y/n) mewled and leant forward until her face was smothered against Ashton's shoulder and one hand was gripping his burning bicep while the other started to rub up and down Rory's leg to try and soothe him.

That was the last thing they needed, taking him to a foreign hospital far from home and having to get him calm enough to go for a scan, and then keep him still enough for an X-ray of his head to see if his skull had been damaged. Though hopefully there would be no damage.

They might have to sedate him to glue or even stitch his temple. Rory was three, there was no way he would sit patiently for a doctor to patch him up like that. Whatever painkillers they gave that were suitable for a toddler might make him sleepy, and that would probably be their best course of action.

Reaching down, Ashton snatched the bloodied towel from the floor and cautiously pressed it back down against Rory's head, despite the yelp he let out in return.

He was cautious as he turned Rory around in his arms so his boy was cuddled into his chest with his chin resting on Ashton's shoulder.

There was a dangerous look in his eyes once he stood up and faced all the staff that had gathered round. With his son cradled to his chest, wife close to his side and band mates already heading out on stage to give their apologies to the fans for what they were anticipating was going to happen.

User1948689: they're so supportive omg!!

Sadie's_sink: I hope the rumours of sadie and finn r true they're so cute

djooowofe: my man always looking so good

y/nnumber11: charlie and natalia were there too omg full cast renuin

strangestfan: no millie? no noah?

y/ncoocho: as soon as those nda's are done we're getting all the drama

millie's101gal: the SKETCH ON THE FINAL LMAO

Y/nnumberone: is nobody else talking about the rumours that y/n and joe are engaged

ARROW: Lisaloo: THEY ARE

Deddyzayn: WAIT WHAT

Harry'sbreard: there's a ring on that finger

Xadenx7: WE WERE AT THE DOOR, THEY'RE ENGAGED

Y/Njoelovechild: OMG !!!!!

With the amount of people outside the doors, calling your name and Joe's it was almost as if it was you that had been on that stage, giving the monologue and doing the sketches.

Finn had smashed it, waiting with Caleb, Gaten and Sadie to go to the afterparty while Charlie and Natalia were headed off in front of you.

You and Joe walked out hand in hand, smiling and waving.

"Oh my god!"

"Joe! Joe! I love you!"

There were more fans than paparazzi, more kind words then hard 'look here! look here!'

"Y/n, I'm obsessed with you!" Called one young man.

You smiled. "Thank you!"

Joe squeezed your hand as he walked you down the path created to your guys car. He looked down at you, a proud and loving grin gracing his lips.

"Y/n! Y/n!"

"Joe!"

"Y/n, marry me!"

You laughed, ducking your head into Joe.

You felt his hand holding yours tug and he held it up. Coincidently it was your left hand, the one holding the golden band with the diamond ring. It caught the light of the flashing cameras.

Joe pulled a smug smile. "She's taken, sorry."

He was not sorry in the slightest. Neither were you.

There was a joyous out cry as Joe opened the door for you, hiding you from the increase in flashing lights. Quickly, Joe climbed in behind you, closing the door as the car rolled away from the chaos.

You looked at Joe.

"What?" he said, grinning.

"I can't believe you just did that."

"Did what?" he teased. He grabbed your hand again, bringing it into his lap and caressing over the metal he'd slid onto your knuckle two weeks ago.

You laid your head back on the headrest and gazed at him. The man that was your promised lover.

"Beautiful," he said. He looked up to you, eyes glancing from your gaze to your lips. "So beautiful."

.

Twt

.

Gram

Liked by…. Y/n, Djotime, SabrinaCarpenter and 1.3m others

Finnwolfhardofficial: my parents are finally getting married, thank you for all the sweet messages, we’ll be getting back to them as quick as possible xoxo 💐💐

Tagged: y/n, Djotime

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User926293: omg 😭😭😭

janiepee: he’s so chronically online it’s funny

harrysdyedhair: FINNNN 😭😭

Y/n: Finn phone down now

Finnwolfhardofficial: but mooooommm

Djotime: thank you son, don’t forget to invite all your friends and coworkers

Posypp: friends and coworkers as if they haven’t worked together for ten years 😭😭

Jorkdjo: this is hilarious

.

Liked by…. Djotime, sadiesink, noahschnapp, finnwolfhatdofficial and 2m more

Y/n: together forever btw

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josiepics: STFU

Djorkme: IM CRYING THIS IS ADORABLE

Milliebobbybrown: ridiculously happy for you two ❤️

Noahschnapp: ❤️❤️

CalebMcLaughlin: ❤️❤️❤️

User0001: sobbing

Djotime: how did you get that picture?

When you joined Stranger Things during its fourth season, you and Joe had instantly clicked. You quickly turned his and Maya’s duo into a trio both on screen and off, but something about Joe had drawn you in so fast and kept you close. 

By the end of that fourth season, you were almost inseparable. You helped Joe through things in his life, and he did the same for you. You ran lines together, and he played you songs he was working on. The quiet hum of the energy and chemistry between you two was almost unbearable, but neither of you was in a position to act on it. The timing was just never right.

Until it was. Sometime between the three years in between shooting the fourth and fifth seasons, your friendship finally bloomed into something more. You had teetered over the edge of the fine line you were both walking.

Neither of you were trying to hide your relationship. From the public? Yes, but not from your cast mates, most of whom you considered your family. You and Joe were just so focused on lines and getting back into the swing of things that it never came up in those early days. It wasn’t until a month into shooting that alarm bells began going off for the others. 

- 

Maya had been the first to notice. She was an avid shipper of the two of you and had always rooted for the two of you before you became anything. 

It was late, maybe two in the morning, and the mid-February air was freezing at this hour. You were all standing in the field outside the WSQK building, waiting around as footage was reviewed and the scene was reset. You were on the tenth take for this particular scene and had been on set since nine a.m., so you were drained. Joe lingered next to you, both of you wrapped in matching thick coats given to the cast between takes to keep warm. 

You stared at your breath drifting through the air in a ghostly manner, arms crossed tightly to your chest. Joe watched you quietly, the exhaustion silencing him too. Next to him, the younger boys were doing little jumps in place to stay warm, and on the other side of them, Maya huddled close to Natalia and Charlie as they spoke softly amongst themselves. 

With no sign that the next take was starting soon, Joe reached out, his arm slinging carefully around your shoulders as he pulled you into him. His arms wrapped around you tightly, hands rubbing your back to create more warmth. Nothing completely out of the ordinary for the two of you. But as you melted into his hold, Maya watched from a distance, a small smile pulling on her lips. Joe leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before resting his cheek against it. 

She has sensed a shift between you in the way that you were both glowing, happy, and close. But now, she had the quiet confirmation she needed. 

-

It was a week later when Winona found out. It had been during a lunch break, you and Joe were sitting at a table by yourselves, but still close to the others to participate occasionally in conversation. The gang had been discussing some new movie that came out that they wanted to see when she shifted her gaze to the two of you after noticing that you had been rather quiet. 

Joe’s arm was resting casually on the back of your chair (that was scooted intentionally closer to his that it had been when you sat down). You were talking quietly about something, Joe’s hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning in quickly and pressing a kiss to your temple, before turning back to his lunch. It had been a fleeting moment, one that really no one saw. No one except a few crew members who had noticed the PDA from the two of you before and didn’t think twice, and Winona. She smiled a small, knowing smile, nd thought to herself, ‘it’s about time.’

-

Later that same day, when filming had wrapped up, everyone had gone home for the night. For you and Joe, that meant retiring to the same small townhouse, the one that sat next door to Charlie and Natalia’s. When asked about it that first day you’d moved in for filming, you both claimed it was a way to save money. Which had been partially true, Netflix wasn’t paying for room and board, and it made no sense for you two to have two separate places in Atlanta. Not when the little time you spent away from set was going to be together anyway.

That townhouse held many perks. You were basically trial running living with Joe before you two would move in together in New York after filming. You've got to live next door to your best friends and utilize all the amenities that your apartment lacked. The main one being the small back garden. The yard almost looked like a tiny oasis; bushes, plants, and flowers in abundance, a small fire pit in the center with chairs surrounding it, and a little pond in the corner. It was peaceful and just the place you wanted to escape to after a long day of filming.

Charlie and Nat were in the kitchen pouring drinks while you and Joe had gone on to start the fire out back. The two of them were chatting about something that had happened that day, hands carrying drinks as their dog, Penny, followed them to the back door, when Natalia stopped in her tracks. Charlie bumped into her, cursing softly as the wine in the glasses sloshed around. He lifted his gaze and followed his partner’s out the glass door. 

Joe had settled in one of the lounge chairs, and you had curled into his lap, the blanket you had brought from your apartment thrown over your laps. Charlie and Nat watched the quiet moment between you, noses brushing, lips ghosting each other. 

“You think they finally came to their senses?” Charlie asks softly. Natalia smiles fondly as she watches her two friends so obviously in love. “I think they did a while ago. We’re just now catching on.” She replies before opening the back door, leading her partner into the garden.

-

The kids were the last to catch on. It was an off day, and you had all piled into two cars and driven the kids to see the movie they had been talking about nonstop. You herded them to the box office to get tickets, then to the concession counter, where they spent entirely too much money on snacks before parading down the long hall to the theater. Luckily, it was a weekday, so it wasn’t busy, and everyone could let loose without too much worry. You and Joe trailed a few feet behind them. He had your drinks tucked into one arm while you carried your popcorn, your free hands linked loosely and swinging between you. 

Gaten had gone to say something to you, but as he looked over his shoulder and saw the way your hands were clasped, he gasped dramatically in true Gaten fashion and nudged Caleb with his elbow. Caleb let out a sound of surprise before looking at Gaten, who was already stopped and turned towards the two of you.

“What are you doing?” He asks, making you and Joe stop right in front of him, looking like a pair of deer in headlights. “Uh, what are you talking about?” You ask, confused and oblivious to his discovery. Now, everyone had stopped and was staring at you and Joe as you stood there, hand in hand, very obviously a couple. 

“You’re holding hands. You’re together, aren’t you?” The shit-eating grin that spreads across Gaten’s face makes you want to smack him upside his head, but instead, you just glance down between you and Joe before looking back up at the kids. Truth be told, you hadn’t even realized you were holding hands. In fact, you had been since you had gotten out of the car, but it was just second nature to you at this point.

“Oh, yeah. Surprise.” You say with a shrug as if it weren’t that big of a deal. Joe squeezes your hand gently as Finn lets out a gasp. “I knew it! Caleb owes me ten dollars.” Caleb groans, and Joe’s brows furrow. 

“Hold up, did you guys seriously bet on our relationship?” He asks, his tone barely hiding his amusement. Finn shrugs. “We knew it would happen eventually. We bet on when it would happen. I said you were already together.”

You roll your eyes but smile at the younger boys you had come to see as little brothers. “Yeah, yeah. You were right. But guys, it's obviously not public yet, and we’re trying to keep it that way for as long as possible, so please keep it zipped.” The boys nod and give playful salutes as they promise not to say or post anything that would expose you. 

They continue into the theater, but you and Joe linger outside in the empty hall. He tugs on your hand, turning you towards him. “Cat’s out the bag, huh?” You smile, stepping closer to him. “To be fair, we weren’t fully hiding anything on set. We just dialed it down.” Joe smiles and leans down to press a quick kiss to your lips. 

You see it in slow motion: the guitar passed to a tech like relaying a baton, the sweat-dark hair flopping over his eyes, the grin breaking open like a firework taped to the night. Security reaches for him – habit - but he ducks under an elbow, sneakers squeaking on the rubber runway. The crowd thinks it’s part of the encore ritual; they scream louder. He doesn’t look back. He’s a comet yanked out of orbit, tail blazing with leftover spotlights, and you’re the gravity he’s obeying for once.

Twenty steps. Fifteen. Ten.

You step forward just as he skids to you, chest heaving, sweat-slick T-shirt clinging to the architecture of him. The heat coming off his skin feels illegal - like touching the surface of a star that’s decided, for one impossible second, to hold still. He doesn’t speak; he folds. His arms cinch around your waist, lifting you an inch off the ground so your shoes dangle useless, and the roar on the other side of the curtain becomes a distant ocean while you drown in the smaller one crashing against your collarbone.

“You were humming the riff,” he pants into your neck, voice shredded velvet. “- I heard only you.”

You don’t bother denying; your throat is too full of bright confetti. Instead, you card your fingers through the damp curls at his nape, feel the heartbeat jackhammering under his shoulder blade against your breast. It’s the same tempo as the encore lights still strobing somewhere far behind him - red, blue, gold - colours sliding over your joined bodies like graffiti made of pure photon.

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Forehead to forehead, both of you breathing the same pocket of air, trading carbon dioxide like love notes. His sweat transfers to your cheek, a warm constellation you’ll later refuse to wash off. “Take me home,” he whispers, though neither of you moves. The phrase hangs, small and round, a marble moon between mouths.

Backstage clatter swells - cases rolling, cables coiling, managers calling - but here in the wings it’s suddenly quiet enough to hear the soft pop of a distant amp powering down. You slip your hand into his, interlacing until the spaces between fingers disappear. His thumb sweeps once across your knuckles - an apology for every second he had to spend away, a promise for every second still coming.

Together you step deeper into the dim, leaving the riot of applause to finish itself without him. The corridor swallows you both, velvet-dark and humming like a held note. Somewhere behind, the lights finish their fade to black; ahead, the exit sign blooms ruby, a private sun. You walk toward it, palms soldered, heartbeats syncopated, the echo of the last chord still ricocheting off your ribs like a secret encore only the two of you will ever hear.

The corridor behind the stage is a vein of purple dusk, lit only by the EXIT sign bleeding red onto the concrete. You and Joe move through it like divers ascending slow, still tasting the bright pressure of the show on your skin. He hasn’t let go of your hand; his palm is furnace-hot, callus rough against the cushion of your thumb, and every squeeze is a Morse sentence: I am here I am here I am here.

You pass flight cases stickered with cities that feel like ex-lovers - Berlin, Sydney, Chicago - names that were once pinned him to maps you couldn’t touch. Now they’re just scuffed luggage while he walks beside you, sweat cooling into salt constellations across his collarbone. You want to lick them, to taste the time zones still crackling on his skin, but you settle for brushing your knuckles along the inside of his wrist where the pulse flutters like a trapped moth.

A security door sighs open onto the loading bay. Night air folds around you both, thick with river and diesel and the sugar-copper scent of summer storms that haven’t decided to break. The bus idles twenty yards away, a whale-blue Prevost humming low, its under-glow painting the tarmac in aquarium light. Roadies zig-zag loading ramps, but Joe tugs you left, skirting the chaos, aiming for the blind spot between trailers where darkness pools like spilled ink.

There he stops, backs you against the cool metal of an equipment truck. The panel is still sun-warm at your shoulder blades, but his body in front of you is hotter - radiant, newly forged. He plants both hands on the truck either side of your head, caging you without touching, a cathedral of want. Spotlights from the arena roof leak over the rooftop in fractured lances, sliding across his cheekbones like slow lighthouse beams. You can see the tour grit in the creases around his eyes - tiny galaxies of silver glitter someone tossed during the encore, now glued by sweat to his skin.

“Hi,” he says, voice raw velvet, as if the word is a door he’s kicking open.

“Hi,” you answer, and the syllable tastes like carbonated sky.

He dips, nose brushing the shell of your ear, inhaling once - long, deliberate - like he’s sampling a rare record he’s about to play only on headphones. “You smell like home,” he murmurs. “Not the place. The feeling.”

Your hands find the hem of his tee, slipping underneath to the furnace of him. His back is a map of muscle and sweat, every ridge a highway you want to drive at dusk. You trace the ladder of his spine; he shivers, presses closer until the bass drum still living in his chest becomes your own second heartbeat. Somewhere a roadie shouts a cable count, but the noise is wallpaper, distant and peel-away.

He pulls back just far enough to see you - really see - eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the hazel. “I played that entire set to the left stack,” he confesses, breathless. “Because I could see your reflection in the chrome.” He laughs, soft, astonished at himself. “Thirteen thousand people, and I was busking for a ghost of you.”

You rise on tiptoes, kiss the corner where sweat meets smile. He tastes of salt and adrenaline and the mint gum he always spits out right before the encore, as if clearing space for something real. When your tongues touch it’s a secret handshake, a promise passed mouth-to-mouth like a contraband lyric. He answers by dropping one hand to the small of your back, pressing until every inch of you seals to him, an envelope licked shut.

Thunder finally decides to speak - distant, velvet rumble - but neither of you flinch. Rain will come; you can already smell the water rising from the hot pavement. Let it. Let the sky unzip and pour. You are waterproof together.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down the slope to the pulse hammering under your skin. “Stay on the bus tonight,” he whispers against your throat, words hot as soldering iron. “Bunk with me. I want to fall asleep to your breath in my headphones.”

You tip your head back, granting access, eyes fixed on the seam of night between trailers where the stars look like road-case rivets hammered into black velvet. “Where are we headed?”

“Anywhere that doesn’t start with ‘stage’ and end with ‘goodbye’,” he says. The sentence vibrates into your collarbone, settles there like a tattoo inked by sound.

Behind you the loading ramp clatters shut - finality. Tour manager calls his name, voice thin with schedule. Joe ignores it, interlacing your fingers again, pulling you toward the bus steps that glow like a welcome mat made of ice-cream neon. You climb together; the door hisses sealed, cutting the outside world to a murmur.

Inside, the aisle is dim, lined with bunks curtained in submarine blues. The air smells of coffee grounds and worn paperbacks, of miles and the vanilla candle he insists on even though management hates open flame. He leads you past the lounge, past the fridge humming lullabies to a bowl of green-room fruit, all the way to the back where his bunk waits like a secret compartment in a magician’s box.

He draws the curtain open. Suddenly seeing a pocket universe: foam mattress, twinkle lights he’s clipped along the ceiling, a tiny speaker already pulsing a barely-there beat - some half-finished demo he claims isn’t about you but is. You toe off shoes; he does the same, jeans dropping in a soft heap, T-shirt following until he’s just boxer-briefs and moonlit skin. You follow, peeling layers until only the thin cotton of your tank separates you from the drum of his heart.

He climbs in first, tugging you after, sliding the curtain again until the world reduces to the hush of shared breath and polyester blankets. The bus lurches - slow roll toward the interstate - and you sway together, a cradle rocked by diesel and destiny. He spoons behind you, nose buried in your hair, arm heavy across your ribs, palm cupping the cage where your heart beats so hard it feels like it’s trying to audition for his next song.

“Sing,” you whisper into the dark.

He hums - no words, just a low melody that might be the lullaby version of the riff he played tonight. The vibration sinks through your spine, pooling warm in your belly. Outside, rain finally arrives, ticking against the hull like notes of every roof you’ve never stood under together. You sync your breathing to his until the bus, the storm, the continent rolling beneath the wheels all become the same slow four-four.

Sleep tiptoes in, but before it claims you, he murmurs, so soft it’s mostly air: “I used to be scared the road would swallow me. Now I think it’s just making room for us.”

You answer by threading your fingers through his where they rest over your heart, squeezing once - yes. The bus accelerates, merging onto the highway, and the last thing you feel before dreams close is the gentle pressure of his lips between your shoulder blades, sealing the night like a wax stamp on a love letter addressed to everywhere you’ll wake up together.

The bus drives all night - one long exhale down the interstate - while you and Joe stay curled in the narrow bunk like two vinyl records stored in a single sleeve. Somewhere past three a.m. the diesel rumble becomes a lullaby older than both of you; the highway joints click beneath the tires in a slow, hypnotic 6/8, and you drift, surface to dream and back again, always aware of the furnace of him at your spine. Every time the coach sways, his arm tightens - a quiet reflex, as if your body is the tempo he refuses to lose.

At four-fifteen the rain stops. You know because you surface to the absence of it, the way a song feels when the reverb tail is abruptly cut. The world outside is ink-wet, highway mirroring sodium lamps in long bleeding streaks. You blink; Joe’s eyes are already open, two candle-flames studying the curve where your shoulder becomes neck. He doesn’t speak - just traces a fingertip along that slope, collecting moonlight and skin in equal measure, then presses his mouth to the same trail as if sealing an envelope only he can open.

You shift to face him. The bunk is so narrow noses almost touch, breath mingling, shared oxygen turning gold. “Where are we?” you whisper.

He reaches behind his pillow, fishes out a cracked-screen phone, thumbprints it alive. GPS blinks: somewhere between Knoxville and forever. “Mile marker two-oh-six,” he says, voice gravelly from show and sleep. “But the map show properly.” He drops the phone, slides a leg between yours until hips fit like puzzle pieces cut by a drunken carpenter - imperfect, perfect.

You kiss him because language has too many edges. It starts soft - apology for every mile he’s ever driven without you - and deepens fast, reckless, the way a song jumps tempo when the drummer catches holy ghost. His hand slips under your tank, palm splayed over the small of your back, pressing you closer until the thin cotton becomes nuisance. You help him peel it off; the fabric catches on your wrist, and for a suspended second, you’re handcuffed together by your own shirt, both of you breathing laughter into each other’s mouths. Then it’s gone, tossed to the foot of the bunk, and skin meets skin like two long-lost tour laminates finally scanned.

He rolls halfway on top, careful of the low ceiling, elbow planted beside your ear. With his free hand he traces the line of your ribs one by one, as if counting the measures of an intro he wants to memorize. When he reaches the last rib, he keeps going, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. You arch, a silent high-hat, and he answers by dipping his head, taking you into the warm cave of his mouth. The bus hits a pothole; you both sway, teeth clicking gentle, the momentary stumble turning into laughter that dissolves back into hunger.

Somewhere up front a door creaks - the driver changing playlists maybe - but the curtain stays closed, a thin fabric galaxy between you and obligation. You slide your own hand down the plane of his stomach, feel the muscles twitch like strings he’s suppressing an urge to bend. When you slip beneath the waistband he exhales - a shaky C-sharp against your collarbone - then catches your wrist, kissing the pulse there instead.

“Not yet,” he whispers. “I want to worship slow.”

So, he does. Mouth maps south: sternum, solar plexus, the soft delta below your navel where he lingers, breath damp and reverent. Each kiss is a footnote: I was here, I am here. When he hooks fingers into the band of your shorts you lift hips without thinking, let him slide them away. The air is cool, but his hands are fire, parting thighs like pages of a confidential set list. The first stroke of his tongue is a bass drop in an empty arena - felt rather than heard, reverberating through bone. You bite your own knuckle to stay quiet, but a whimper escapes, small enough to be swallowed by tire hiss.

He tastes you like he’s discovering a new chord progression - experimental, delighted, repeating the licks that make you gasp, abandoning the ones that don’t. When you come it crests white behind your eyelids, a confetti cannon fired in slow motion, and he stays, mouth gentle, riding the aftershock the way he rides a sustained note until feedback becomes lullaby.

After, he crawls back up, presses his forehead to yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue - salt, storm, backstage electricity. “Good morning,” he murmurs, though dawn is still only a rumour.

You trade positions, pushing him onto his back, wanting to return the hymn. But he captures your wrists again, shakes head, eyes soft. “Just be here,” he says. “Let me hold the echo.”

So, you fold into him, legs tangled, cheek to chest where his heart thumps steady four-four. The bus changes lanes, a gentle sway, and you ride it together, two needles sharing one groove. Sleep returns, but lighter now - surface of a lake rather than depths - and you drift aware of everything: the citrus of his deodorant faded to skin truth, the way his pinkie keeps twitching against your ankle as if practicing a riff, the faint metallic clatter of freeway reflectors under tires becoming hi-hat eighth notes.

Sunrise sneaks in through a tear in the curtain - first a hairline of peach, then a blade, then a flood. You wake to gold pooled on the blanket and Joe’s eyes already open, watching you like you’re a song he’s afraid to forget. He lifts a finger, traces the luminous stripe across your cheekbone as if collecting sunrise to keep in his pocket.

“We’re at a truck stop,” he says. “Smell the coffee?”

The bus rolls on once you both have your fill, swallowing asphalt like a tape machine devouring ribbon - each mile a new layer of hiss and heart-thump added to the master. You finish the coffee while the sun climbs higher, glazing the windshield until the road ahead looks dipped in liquid gold. Joe’s thumb keeps tracing idle circles on your shoulder blade, each revolution a silent bar of music he’s already memorized. When the caffeine hits, he turns, eyes bright as fresh patch cables. “C’mon. I want to show you the boneyard.”

He means the under-bus cargo hold - coffin-dark, smelling of road dust and guitar cases bled dry of their last hotel room. He flips the latch, the door yawns down like a drawbridge. You crouch inside among flight cases stencilled DO NOT DROP - his, yours now too by proxy. He drags out a battered tweed suitcase, clicks it open. Inside: four battered notebooks, a handheld recorder with a cracked screen, a child’s Casio keyboard missing three keys, and a velvet pouch that clinks like tiny church bells. He loosens the drawstring - capo, copper slides, a single glass bottleneck glowing sage-green. “Souvenirs,” he says, “from every almost-song that didn’t die.”

You lift the recorder; its plastic is warm from miles. He presses PLAY. A hiss, then a fragment: him humming a melody you’ve never heard, thin and yearning, recorded at 3:12 a.m. somewhere last winter. You realize the tempo matches the sway of the bus exactly, as if the highway was only ever waiting for its own soundtrack. He watches your face, anxious boy with a secret valentine. You nod - yes, keep it - and his shoulders loosen, relief flooding like a fader pushed back up.

Back in the lounge the others are waking - drummer pouring cereal that smells of childhood pantries, guitarist scrolling set-list notes on a cracked iPad. They greet you with sleepy nods, casual, as if you haven’t just been crowned unofficial sixth member overnight. Joe claims the corner booth, pulls you beside him, opens a notebook across both your laps. The pages are hieroglyphs: chord grids, coffee rings that look like lunar eclipses, margins crowded with tiny handwriting - half poetry, half grocery list. He tears one out, folds it into a paper plane, launches it toward the drummer who catches it without looking. “New bridge,” Joe calls. “Bridge literal,” drummer answers, sticking it behind one ear like a rogue receipt.

You spend the morning like that - pages passing hand to hand, suggestions scribbled in pen stolen from the driver’s logbook. When you offer a lyric - God how lucky can a simple man be - Joe freezes, rereads, then sings it under his breath, melody blooming like time-lapse poppies. He writes your line in capital letters, tags your initials beside it, a permanent tattoo on the page. Ownership shared, history amended.

Afternoon bleeds in through tinted windows, turning everyone sepia. The bus stops for fuel somewhere off I-40 where the air smells of fried catfish and diesel. You step out, asphalt soft enough to melt shoe rubber. Joe buys two glass-bottle Cokes from a rusted machine, caps clinking off the concrete like dropped picks. You drink leaning against the warm flank of the bus, thighs touching, watching eighteen-wheelers grunt past. He hooks his pinkie through yours, secret handshake against the backdrop of America’s arterial flow. A billboard looms - HELL IS REAL, white letters on black. He lifts your joined hands, kisses your knuckles, murmurs, “Not today.” Back on board you pocket both caps; later they’ll become tambourine jangles wired to a mic stand, a private percussion only you two know is there.

Night resettles, different city, same highway hypnosis. Soundcheck looms - 8 p.m. somewhere in Ohio. You watch from side-stage, same wings but now marked territory: a folding chair labelled DO NOT MOVE with your name taped crooked in Sharpie. The set is tighter, fed by the day’s newborn bridge. When Joe sings your lyric he glances sideways, finds your eyes, holds them for four full measures - public secret, forty-thousand witnesses none the wiser. The crowd roars, but you hear only the inside voice he saves for pillow talk.

Post-show the ritual quickens: towel, water, sprint. This time he doesn’t wait for corridor darkness; he scoops you right off the stage steps, guitar tech dodging around you both like water around stones. He’s still radiating, sweat-slick, smelling of magnesium and adoration. “Bus ten minutes,” he pants against your temple. “Stay with me.” You do, fingers laced through his belt loops while he signs a scatter of posters, autographing across the chest of a hand-drawn cartoon version of himself - ink you’ll later tease is more accurate than he admits.

The lounge is transformed: fairy lights yanked from bunk to ceiling, drummer’s vape clouding mood-light, coffee table converted to makeshift studio—laptop, interface, two battered headphones split by aY-cable. Someone hands you the second can. You listen to the afternoon’s rough demo: your lyric now wrapped in a chorus that climbs like ivy, Joe’s voice double-tracked, close and far at once. When the final chord rings he hits stop, looks at you across the glowing screen. “Makes the album?” he asks. You nod, throat thick with unsent telegrams.

2:13 a.m. and the bus rolls again, headlights carving tunnels through Appalachian fog. Everyone else drifts off - bunks curtain by curtain until only the fridge hum remains. Joe kills the lounge lights, leaves only the console LEDs - red, green, tiny planets. He drags a blanket from his bunk, spreads it on the narrow aisle floor. You lie there sandwiched between washer-dryer and spare cymbal case, staring up at the fairy lights reflected in the black bus windows - stars inside stars. He produces the Coke caps from his pocket, places one on your sternum, one on his. “Polarity test,” he whispers, grin wicked, and kisses you until the metal grows warm, until you forget which body owns which heartbeat.

Clothes peel away layer by layer, quiet so the sleeper orchestra doesn’t wake. Naked on industrial carpet, you giggle into each other’s mouths at the absurdity - rock-star and lover, floor-level, heaven-level. He enters you slow, reverent, hand cradling the back of your head, so the road bumps don’t bruise. The bus sways and you roll with it, a private tide. Each thrust is a quarter-note, the distant engine a bass drone, your shared breath the only melody. When you come you bite the meat of his shoulder to stay silent, and taste tomorrow. He follows, burying his face in your neck, exhaling a sound that might be your name or might simply be gratitude.

After, he pulls the blanket higher, tucks you against him spoon-style, both of you fitting diagonal across the aisle like kids hiding from flashlights. The Coke caps have rolled off, spinning lazy circles until they settle against the baseboard - two moons parked. You watch them, drowsy, while he draws patterns between your shoulder blades that feel like chord charts. Outside, fog thickens until the windows become pure white - no world, no future, no past, only the warm dark now.

You whisper, “What happens when the tour ends?”

He answers without hesitation, voice a low vibration at your spine. “We keep writing. Rent a house with creaky floors, fill every room with cables and plants. Soundproof the basement, leave the windows open. Tour will come back - it always does - but we’ll be the constant, the loop that never clips.” He kisses the knob of your neck. “Home is just a slower tour bus. You and me, we’ll drive it at thirty-five miles per hour forever.”

Sleep takes you both mid-sentence, the bus carrying your tangled bodies through fog, through mountains, through time zones clicking like subtle hi-hats. And somewhere between mile marker infinity and the next venue exit, the rough mix keeps playing on repeat inside the laptop, your lyric drifting down the aisle like a ghost learning the shape of its own future, until every sleeper breathes in time with it, until even the highway itself hums the verse - God how lucky can a simple man be - over and over, softer, softer, until daylight slips in pale and rose-gold, and the bus rolls on, unfinished song leading the way home.

You inhale; the bus has stopped, engine ticking cooling metal. Somewhere beyond the curtain, band and crew shuffle, grumbling good-natured about showers and bad diner eggs. But here the world is still only two bodies. He finds your hand under the blanket, interlaces, raises it to his lips, kisses each knuckle like dialling a rotary phone that only calls one place: home.

“Stay the whole leg,” he says quietly. “Ten cities. We’ll write the rest of the record in the lounge at three a.m. You can veto any lyric that makes you cry in a way you don’t like.”

You smile, thumb brushing the bow of his upper lip. “And the ones I cry in a way I do like?”

“Those make the album,” he answers, grin crooked, eyes shining with sunrise and something braver.

The door at the front of the bus bangs; voices rise - schedule, soundcheck, radio promo. Reality retrieving its instruments. You both sigh, reluctant orchestra. He sits first, spine cracking gentle, then helps you up, finds your scattered clothes like retrieving pick-sticks from a dark stage. When you dress it feels ceremonial: each article a promise snapped back into place. He keeps your tank, though, balls it, tucks it into his pillowcase like a flag.

You emerge together into the aisle. The lounge smells of burnt coffee and yesterday’s pizza, but the windows show a Tennessee sunrise so pink it hurts - sky blushing at its own audacity. Crew glance up, smirks soft; they’ve seen lovers before, but they also haven’t seen this. Joe ignores them, steers you to the coffee pot, pours one cup, hands it to you first - ritual. When you sip, the steam fogs your vision, and for a moment the future is opaque, delicious.

He leans close, whispers under the clatter, “Mile marker two-oh-six is ours now. We’ll name the interlude after it.” Then louder, to the room: “Everybody, she’s riding shotgun the rest of the tour. If you need me, check her pulse first.”

Laughter, eyerolls, but also acceptance - family extending. The driver restarts the engine; the bus exhales, rolls toward the on-ramp again. You stand at the windshield, coffee warming your palms, Joe’s arm a shelter across your shoulders. The road unfurls like a cassette ribbon pulled by an invisible hand - miles of possibility spooling out, each white stripe a quarter-note rest.

Good. | @hairringtonsteve

turns out joe doesn’t really cope well with his emotions and cries when he’s tired.

spoiler alert. | @/hairringtonsteve

of course you and joe would bond over something as dumb as spoiling movies and tv shows you’ve (mostly) already seen to each other. weirdly enough, it also kind of is a massive turn on for joe. huh.

Key to your heart. | @bluesfortheredj

Prop Mishap | @allthingsfangirl101

New Year’s Confession | @/allthingsfangirl101

Joe Keery Masterlist | @/allthingsfangirl101

Joe Keery Masterlist | @pankowcrumbs

Proud | @/pankowcrumbs

You and Joe are on stranger things with your daughter who is playing Holly.

Set | @/pankowcrumbs

visiting Joe on set of Season 5 of Stranger Things with your toddler.

GO GO JUICE! | @leaderwonim

when famous pop star y/n gets too drunk and may have confessed her big crush on joe keery to joe himself OR in other words, ain’t nobody safe when yn’s a little bit drunk!

SLOW DANCE | @/leaderwonim

turns out, your little drunk texts to joe keery actually helped you secure the man of your dreams!

DUFFER SISTER!READER | @starkwlkr

Crush | @/starkwlkr

Forever, In Every Flash | @pink-petal-horns

Imagine | @torturedpoetism

just inevitable | @voidreynolds

bf!joe x reader who is utterly obsessed with him

He Found You In The Crowd | @mollienotes

During the final night of Djo’s Another Bite Tour, the encore turns into something unexpected. As the crowd demands one last song, Joe Keery notices a familiar face in the front row, someone he’s seen before, someone he remembers. When he invites you on stage, the moment unfolds beneath lights, surrounded by cheers, camera flashes, and video crews capturing everything for tour archives, social media, and memories meant to last longer than the night itself. What begins as music becomes recognition, comfort, and a fleeting connection neither of you will ever forget.

life’s simple pleasures | @crappymixtape

just thoughts about joe and how he’d be as a taurus in love, how he treats you, how he’s grounded and loves every tiny little detail of life, and never wants to leave your side

CONTROVERSIALLY!YOUNGER!READER SOFT LAUNCHING JOE KEERY, Part 02 |  @inbred-eater

joe keery x musician!reader | @vinecstasy

Joe passionately rambling on about Y/N for six mins and thirty-four seconds video | @dayoldtea

Steve Harrington and Penelope Carter did not stay together at the end of the fourth season of Stranger Things, and the internet has a lot to say about that. In contrast, to warm the hearts of Stenny’s fans, one fan shares a six mins and thirty-four second compilation of Joe Keery passionately rambling on about you, his girlfriend, and coincidentally Penny Carter herself.

𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 | @dimepdf

Y/n’s viral trending interview where she shuts down rumors about her marriage that has got Twitter in a chokehold.

WIRED INTERVIEW. | @/dimepdf

Joe Keery’s first public interview with his lovely wife.

Y/n Y/l/n & Joe Keery | Unscripted at the Golden Globes | @sc3ptre

You and Joe take the Golden Globes stage to present an award, but honesty has other plans. Two very rich showrunners didn’t see it coming, but you were there to call their bluff.

joe keery being obssesed with his girlfriend: a compilation | @harrysfolklore

Tears run down my … | @bluetimeombre

SMAU | @dolliscent333

your instagram stories as fashion designer soft launching joe keery!

Spill or Fill Your Guts! | @idk-harrington

When you and Joe sit down for a special edition of James Corden’s Spill or Fill Your Guts, the game quickly escalates from awkwardly gross to dangerously intimate. With each outrageous challenge and horrifying cloche, laughter fades into a charged tension neither can ignore. Flirtation, confessions, and unspoken feelings rise to the surface, making one thing clear: this is more than a game, and losing isn’t an option.

Wild Q&A Special “Stranger Things” | @/idk-harrington

What starts as a simple interview turns into pure chaos. You and your co-stars, Joe Keery, and Charlie Heaton take on fan Q&A questions in honor of Stranger Things Season 5 and the end of an era — and nothing goes as planned. Wild questions, nonstop laughter, unhinged answers, and chaotic energy all around. A funny, chaotic goodbye to Hawkins that no one was prepared for.

age gap | @/idk-harrington

When the media catches on to the fact that you and Joe, longtime coworkers, are more than friends, the internet can’t stop talking. The age difference becomes a “controversial” topic online, and suddenly every glance, every coffee break, and every late-night text is dissected. Between navigating public scrutiny and your own hearts, you both have to figure out how to protect what’s yours—without giving the world a front-row seat to your love.

Rumors…? | @/idk-harrington

Rumors spiral online after a single moment goes viral, and suddenly every look, every pause, every almost-touch is under a microscope. With the internet convinced you and Joe are hiding something you’ve never dared to claim, the line between perception and truth blurs.

Definitely not basic (DJo Concert) | @/idk-harrington

“s/n going to djo’s concert”

“Thirst Tweets” Chaos | @/idk-harrington

What happens when you and Joe Keery read thirst tweets on camera? Absolute chaos. Laughter spills, shoulders brush and every scroll brings a new level of embarrassment, flirtation and “how-is-this-even-legal” commentary. From meta fandom takes about Steve and Katherine to borderline accurate observations about you and Joe yourselves, the room can barely contain the energy—or their reactions. Professionalism goes out the window, sparks fly, and somehow it all lands on live TV.

gap tooth smile | @earth2starkey

she’s in the balcony, he’s on stage, and for one song, the world shrinks down to just the two of them. every note, every lyric, every glance carries the weight of months apart

joe keery 💋 headcanon Pt 1, Pt 2 , Pt 3 | @cherriesnkisses

texts between you and joe | @/cherriesnkisses

rockstar bf x popstar gf! | @/cherriesnkisses

THE RUMORED BEAU | @rues-daya

Backstage Rhythm | @deftlude

summer loving | @dontpulloutman

BEST FRIENDS | @/dontpulloutman

NOTJUSTTHEGIRLFRIEND | @eddies-ed

they call you joe keery’s nepo girlfriend  like it explains everything. it doesn’t. this is about being loved loudly, standing beside him without disappearing, and never needing a headline to matter.

roman empire | @emswayoflife

celeb!reader makes an offhand comment about finding Joe Keery attractive, and the Internet blows up.

Paradise trip. | @balletteens

You and Joe always tend to take some trips in his boat.

DOWN BAD - PART I | @barnesonfilm

just us… | @loversagile

HOME | @/loversagile

YOU AND I GO FROM ONE KISS TO GETTING MARRIED | @marsaffair

as stranger things comes to an end, you say goodbye to your character for the last time and share the unexpected news that you're getting married to your co-star and on-screen partner, joe keery

Honey-Light Coma | @keerymehome

A stolen, syrup-slow dawn: you and Joe float in half-sleep, trading wordless kisses and breathing in lavender-drenched sheets while city noise stays locked outside.

The bass is still rattling your ribcage even though the last chord just died out.

Sweat drips from Joe's dark curls, catching the stage lights like liquid obsidian as he throws his head back one final time, laughing that wild, breathless laugh that always makes your stomach flip. He's wearing the black tank that's been clinging to him for the last hour—thin cotton soaked through, plastered to every ridge of his chest, every line of muscle that flexes when he grips the mic stand like it's the only thing keeping him upright.

You’re standing just offstage, tucked behind a monitor, arms crossed tight over your chest like that’ll somehow keep your heart from punching through your ribs. It doesn’t. Nothing ever does when he looks like this.

Rockstar Joe is a different animal.

On red carpets he’s charming, a little shy, that boyish grin that makes interviewers melt.

In interviews he’s witty, self-deprecating, all soft eyes and a smirk.

But up there? Under those lights? With thousands of people screaming his name?

He’s fucking filthy.

The way he rolls his hips into the mic during the slower songs, the way his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he growls a lyric right into the stand like he’s fucking it, the way his big hands—those same hands that hold your face so gently when you’re half asleep—curl around the neck of the guitar like he’s choking something he wants to ruin.

Your thighs clench involuntarily. Again.

You can feel it already—the slick heat pooling between your legs, the way your panties are starting to stick to you every time you shift your weight. You’ve been watching him for ninety minutes straight and your body is traitorous, shameless, throbbing in time with the kick drum that’s long since faded.

He catches your eye.

Right there, mid-bow, still panting, still glowing with adrenaline and sweat and pure fucking victory—he finds you in the dark wings like he’s got a radar for you and only you.

The grin he flashes is slow. Dangerous. The same one he gives you when he’s about to pin your wrists above your head and whisper exactly what he’s going to do until you’re crying his name.

Your breath hitches.

He mouths something at you—too quick, too far for sound, but you read his lips clear as day.

“Stay right there, baby.”

Then he turns, waves one last time to the roaring sea of people, and starts jogging offstage—long legs eating up the distance, black boots thudding heavy, hair dripping, chest heaving, eyes already locked on you like a predator who just spotted dinner.

Your pulse is in your throat, between your thighs, everywhere.

He’s coming for you.

And you’re already soaked for him.

He doesn’t slow down.

Joe comes barreling off the last step of the stage like a man possessed, long legs eating the distance in three strides, and before you can even uncross your arms he’s on you.

Strong hands grab your waist, lift you clean off the floor like you weigh nothing—your surprised yelp swallowed by his mouth crashing into yours.

The kiss is filthy from the first second.

All teeth and tongue and desperation, tasting like salt and adrenaline and the faint cherry of the Red Bull he chugged before the encore. He groans into your mouth—deep, guttural, the sound vibrating straight down your spine—and you feel the hard press of his body molding to yours, chest still heaving, skin fever-hot and slick with sweat.

Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, thighs clamping tight, and that’s when his hands slide down.

Big palms cup your ass through your skirt, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, kneading shamelessly while he walks you backward without breaking the kiss. He’s not even trying to be subtle—thumbs hooking under the hem, tugging the fabric up just enough that cool air hits the backs of your thighs and you know the crew scattered around can probably see everything if they look.

You don’t care.

Neither does he.

He growls against your lips, low and wrecked, “Fuck, baby… been thinking about this ass the whole goddamn set.”

Then he rolls his hips forward—slow, deliberate—and you feel it.

The thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his jeans, grinding right up against your soaked panties. The friction is obscene, the ridge of him dragging over your clit through too many layers, and you whimper into his mouth, nails biting into his shoulders.

He laughs—dark, breathless—right against your lips.

“Yeah… that’s it,” he mutters, voice shot from screaming lyrics for two hours. “Feel how fucking hard you got me? Ninety minutes of watching you watch me… knowing you were dripping for it.”

Another grind, harder this time, and your head falls back against the nearest wall with a soft thud. He chases the motion, sucking a bruising kiss into the side of your throat while his hands keep working your ass, spreading you open just enough that every roll of his hips feels like he’s already fucking you through the denim.

“Need to get you to the dressing room,” he rasps, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Right fucking now. Gonna relax after that show… gonna spread you out on the couch and fuck you till you can’t remember your own name.”

He punctuates it with one more filthy thrust of his hips, letting you feel every thick inch he’s dying to bury inside you, then finally—finally—starts walking again, still carrying you like you’re his personal prize.

Crew members scatter, smirking, pretending not to see.

Joe doesn’t give a single fuck

His mouth is back on yours, hungry and messy, one hand still palming your ass while the other fists in your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it.

The hallway to the dressing rooms has never felt so long. And you’ve never been so wet in your life.

Joe doesn’t put you down.

Not even once.

He keeps you wrapped around him like a second skin, your legs locked at the ankles behind his back, his forearms hooked under your thighs while he strides down the narrow backstage hallway. Every few steps he bumps you gently against the wall just to steal another kiss—messy, laughing ones that taste like sweat and victory and the two of you being stupidly, deliriously happy.

You’re both giggling like idiots.

Breathless little sounds slipping between your mouths every time your lips part for air, then crash right back together. His curls are dripping onto your collarbone, cool droplets sliding down your chest, and you can feel the rapid thud of his heart against yours, still racing from the stage.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and wrecked and so full of want it makes your clit throb. “You have no idea what you do to me up there. Every time I looked over and saw you… wearing that little skirt, biting your lip like you’re trying not to moan in front of everybody…”

He punctuates it with a slow grind of his hips, dragging the hard length of his cock against you again, letting you feel how thick and ready he is.

You whimper, fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

“Joe—”

“Shhh,” he laughs softly, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot under your ear. “Everything I wanna do to you right now? That’s rockstar girlfriend privilege, sweetheart.”

He slows his walk just enough to speak the words right against your skin, voice dropping into that dangerous velvet rasp he only uses when he’s about to ruin you.

“Gonna eat you out on the couch till your thighs shake. Gonna bend you over the makeup table and fuck you so deep you feel me in your stomach. Gonna make you ride me while I watch those pretty tits bounce and tell you how good you look taking your rockstar boyfriend’s cock.”

Another giggle bubbles out of you—half embarrassed, half desperate—and he catches it with his mouth, kissing you sloppy and deep while his hands slide up under your skirt again, thumbs brushing the soaked edge of your panties.

“Gonna mark you up so everyone back here knows exactly who you belong to,” he continues, nipping at your bottom lip. “Gonna come inside you and then plug you up so you’re dripping me the whole ride home. Privilege, baby. Only you get this version of me.”

You’re dizzy with it—his words, his scent, the way he’s carrying you like you’re weightless, the obscene press of him between your legs with every step.

The door to the dressing room is finally in sight.

Joe kicks it open without breaking stride, still laughing low in his throat, still kissing you like he’ll die if he stops.

He’s not putting you down until he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

And you’re already shaking for it.

The door slams shut behind you with a bang that echoes like a gunshot.

Joe doesn’t even bother locking it—he’s too far gone for that shit.

He spins once, still carrying you like you’re nothing, and then throws himself backward onto the big black leather couch that takes up half the room. You land on top of him with a soft oof, straddling his hips, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs.

The impact jars a laugh out of both of you—breathless, giddy, filthy.

His hands are already everywhere.

Fisting the hem of your top and yanking it up and over your head in one rough pull. Your bra follows half a second later—he doesn’t even unclasp it, just shoves the cups down so your tits spill out into his waiting palms. Big, calloused hands cup you hard, thumbs brushing over your nipples once, twice, making you arch and gasp into his mouth.

You’re kissing like you’re trying to devour each other.

Teeth clacking, tongues sliding messy and wet, little moans swallowed back and forth. He tastes like stage sweat and cherry energy drink and pure fucking need. You bite his bottom lip hard enough to make him growl, and he retaliates by sucking your tongue into his mouth like he’s starving.

Your fingers are shaking as you claw at his tank top—damp, clinging, ruined. You drag it up his torso, breaking the kiss just long enough to rip it over his head and throw it somewhere behind you. His skin is scorching, slick with sweat, chest rising and falling fast under your palms as you rake your nails down the defined lines of his abs.

“Fuck—baby—” he pants against your throat, voice gravel-rough from screaming all night. “Need you naked. Now.”

He’s already working on your skirt, bunching it up around your waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down your thighs. You lift up just enough to help, kicking them off one ankle while he shoves his jeans open, fumbling with the zipper like his hands don’t know how to work anymore.

You feel him—hot, thick, leaking—spring free against your inner thigh, and the sound you make is shameless, desperate.

Joe groans like he’s been punched in the gut.

“Look at you,” he rasps, eyes dark and blown as he stares down between your bodies. “So fucking wet for me already… dripping all over my cock before I’ve even touched you properly.”

One hand slides between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick folds, spreading you open. Two thick digits push inside without warning—deep, curling—and you cry out, head falling forward onto his shoulder.

He pumps them once, twice, then pulls out just to smear your wetness over the head of his dick, stroking himself with your slick while he watches your face.

“Gonna fuck you so hard you forget there’s a whole arena full of people who just watched me lose my mind thinking about this,” he mutters, voice shaking with restraint. “This pussy? Mine. This body? Mine. You’re my goddamn privilege, baby.”

Then his mouth is back on yours—harder, hungrier, teeth and tongue and pure desperation—while his hands grip your hips, lining you up, ready to sink in deep and never let go.

Joe’s grip on your hips turns bruising.

One second you’re hovering, dripping down the length of his cock where he’s been teasing the head against your entrance—slow, filthy circles that have you whining into his neck—and the next he’s done playing.

He yanks you down hard.

All at once.

Thick, hot, stretching you open in one brutal, perfect slide until he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed tight against your ass.

The sound that rips out of him is animal—low, guttural, a broken “Fuuuck—” that vibrates through your whole body. His head falls back against the couch, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for a second like the feel of your pussy clamping around him is too much, too good, too everything.

You cry out sharp and high, nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders, thighs trembling from the sudden fullness. He’s so deep it feels like he’s rearranging you, the fat head of his cock kissing your cervix in a way that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

He doesn’t let you adjust.

Not tonight.

Not after that show, not after ninety minutes of eye-fucking you from the stage while thousands screamed for him.

He starts moving—short, punishing thrusts up into you, using the grip on your hips to slam you down to meet every roll of his. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room immediately, obscene and loud, mixing with your gasps and his ragged breathing.

“Goddamn, baby,” he growls, voice shredded. “So fucking tight… pussy sucking me in like it missed me.”

His hand shoots up, fingers tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck. He yanks your head back—hard enough to sting, gentle enough not to hurt—and your mouth falls open on a moan.

That’s when he does it.

He leans in, eyes black with lust, and spits.

Right into your open mouth.

Hot, messy, filthy.

The taste of him—salt and stage and pure Joe—hits your tongue and you swallow without thinking, whimpering around the act like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever done to you.

Because it is.

He watches the whole thing, lips curled in that dangerous, satisfied smirk.

“Good girl,” he rasps, thumb smearing the spit that dribbled down your chin. “Swallow it like you swallow my come later.”

Then he kisses you—deep, claiming, tasting himself on your tongue while he fucks up into you harder, faster, the couch creaking under the force of it.

Every thrust punches the air out of your lungs.

Every drag of his cock against your walls makes you clench.

He’s not holding back anymore.

And neither are you.

Joe’s tongue is deep in your mouth again, fucking it the same way his cock is fucking your pussy—slow, deep rolls that make everything slick and obscene.

You’re both a disaster already.

Saliva strings between your lips every time you pull back for air, thick and shiny, dripping down your chin, his, mixing with the sweat on his neck. You don’t wipe it away. Neither does he. You just chase it—licking into each other’s mouths harder, messier, like you’re trying to drink the other one whole.

He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating straight to your clit where it’s grinding against his pelvis with every bounce he forces you to take.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he rasps, voice wrecked and gravelly, pulling back just enough to watch the spit connect your bottom lip to his. “Drooling all over me like a needy little slut. My needy little slut.”

He dives back in, sucking your tongue hard, then lets it go with a wet pop so he can spit into your mouth again—once, twice—watching it land on your tongue before he seals his lips over yours and pushes it back in with his own.

You moan loud enough that it probably echoes down the hallway.

His hips snap up harder, cock driving so deep it punches the breath out of you every time.

“Goddamn, this cunt’s greedy tonight,” he growls against your mouth, words slurring with spit and lust. “Squeezing me like it’s trying to milk every drop right out of my balls. You want that, huh? Want your rockstar boyfriend to fill you up till it’s leaking down your thighs for the rest of the night?”

You nod frantically, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll feel tomorrow under the hot shower.

“Say it,” he demands, one hand fisting your hair to yank your head back so he can see your face—mouth open, spit-slick, eyes glassy. “Tell me what a dirty fucking girl you are for me.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m your dirty girl,” you gasp, voice shaking as he slams up again, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “Want your come… want it so bad… please—”

He laughs—dark, breathless, filthy—then licks a long, slow stripe up the side of your face, tasting the mess of sweat and drool and him.

“That’s right, baby. My perfect little cumslut. Gonna stuff this pussy so full you’ll be dripping me for days. Everyone’s gonna smell me on you when we leave. Gonna make sure they know who owns this cunt.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, tongues sliding sloppy and desperate, more spit spilling out the corners, dripping onto your tits where they bounce with every brutal thrust.

He’s not slowing down. He’s not gentle. And you wouldn’t want him any other way.

You take over.

Hands braced on Joe’s sweat-slick chest, you start riding him like you were born for it—slow at first, grinding deep, circling your hips so his cock drags against every sensitive inch inside you. Then faster. Harder. Bouncing on him with wet, filthy slaps that echo off the dressing room walls.

Joe’s head is thrown back, throat bobbing, eyes half-lidded and dark as he watches you work yourself on his dick. His hands roam—gripping your ass, spreading you wide, thumbs digging into the flesh like he wants to leave permanent marks.

“Fuck yes, baby… look at you,” he groans, voice thick and wrecked. “Riding me like a goddamn queen. Taking every inch like it’s yours.”

You lean forward, tits swaying right in his face, and he doesn’t waste a second.

His mouth latches onto one nipple—hot, wet, sucking hard—while his tongue swirls messy circles. Then he pulls off with a wet pop, only to let a thick string of saliva drip from his lips straight onto your breast. It lands hot and slick, rolling down the curve of your tit, over the nipple he just sucked red and swollen.

He groans at the sight, low and desperate, then dives back in—licking up the mess he made, tongue flat and sloppy, dragging saliva everywhere. He coats you in it, painting your tits shiny and dripping, spit trailing down your stomach as you keep bouncing, keep fucking yourself on him like you can’t stop.

And then—without warning—his hand slides lower.

One thick finger traces the tight ring of your ass, teasing the sensitive skin, spreading the wetness from your pussy back there. You gasp, hips stuttering, but he holds you down with his other arm, keeping you impaled on his cock.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your wet nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “Gonna make you feel so fucking full.”

He pushes in slow—slow enough to make you feel every millimeter, every stretch—until that single finger is buried deep in your ass, curling just right while his cock keeps pounding your pussy.

The double fullness hits you like a freight train.

You cry out, loud and broken, head falling back as your rhythm turns wild—desperate, sloppy, chasing the edge. Joe’s mouth is relentless on your tits, licking, sucking, drooling all over them until they’re glistening, spit dripping down your ribs, pooling where your bodies meet.

“Goddamn, you love this, don’t you?” he growls, finger fucking in and out in time with his thrusts. “Love being stuffed in both holes while I cover these pretty tits in my spit. My dirty fucking rockstar girlfriend.”

You’re shaking, thighs burning, pussy clenching so hard around him you can feel every vein, every throb.

He’s right there with you—hips snapping up to meet yours, finger deep in your ass, mouth latched to your breast like he’ll never let go.

And the mess? It’s everywhere.

Saliva, sweat, slick—dripping, sliding, ruining the leather couch beneath you.

Neither of you cares. You’re both too far gone.

You’re gone. Completely fucking gone.

Your pussy is creaming around him now—thick, white rings of slick coating his cock every time you lift up, only to slam back down and take him deeper. The wet, filthy sound of it is obscene, louder than your moans, louder than the muffled bass still thumping through the walls from the afterparty outside.

Joe’s eyes are locked between your legs, watching the mess you’re making of him like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“Jesus fucking Christ, baby,” he groans, voice hoarse and reverent. “Look at that… creaming all over my dick like a good little slut. Making such a pretty mess for me.”

He thrusts up harder, meeting every bounce, forcing more of that creamy slick to drip down his shaft, down his balls, soaking into the leather beneath you.

You’re shaking—thighs trembling, clit throbbing against his pelvis, every nerve screaming as the pressure builds and builds.

He feels it.

Feels the way your walls flutter and clench, the way you’re right on the fucking edge.

“That’s it, princess,” he growls, low and dark, one hand still buried knuckle-deep in your ass. “Come on… cream on this cock. Dirty me up real good. ‘Cause right after you come? You’re gonna get on your knees and clean every fucking drop off me.”

The promise hits you like a slap.

Your rhythm stutters, hips grinding down desperately as the words sink in.

Joe doesn’t let up.

He pushes a second finger into your ass—slow, stretching, burning just right—until both thick digits are pumping in and out, scissoring you open while his cock keeps ruining your pussy.

You cry out, high and broken, head falling forward.

He grabs your jaw with his free hand—rough, possessive—tilting your face up so your mouth falls open again.

Then he spits.

Right on your tongue. Hot, thick, messy—landing perfect before he seals his mouth over yours, pushing it deeper with his tongue, making you taste the raw, filthy claim of it.

“Swallow,” he mutters against your lips, fingers fucking both your holes in perfect, brutal rhythm. “Swallow it while you cream for me, princess. Show me how much you love being my dirty fucking girl.”

You do.

You swallow hard around his spit, around the moan that rips out of you as your orgasm crashes through you—violent, blinding, pussy gushing more cream around his cock, ass clenching around his fingers like it’s trying to pull him deeper.

Joe groans like he’s dying, hips snapping up to fuck you through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking, sobbing, dripping everywhere.

He’s still rock-hard inside you.

Still throbbing.

And he’s nowhere near done.

Your orgasm doesn’t just hit—it fucking destroys you.

It rips through your whole body like lightning, starting deep in your core and exploding outward until every muscle locks and shakes uncontrollably. Your pussy clamps down on Joe’s cock so hard he hisses through his teeth, hips stuttering as your walls flutter and pulse around him, milking him with desperate, rhythmic squeezes.

You’re shaking—full-body trembling, thighs quivering violently around his hips, fingers digging so deep into his shoulders you’re probably drawing blood. Your back arches so sharp it hurts, head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream that finally breaks into a raw, broken cry of his name.

“Joe—fuck—Joe—!”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your whole body jerking with aftershocks every time he keeps thrusting up through it, dragging it out, making you ride the wave until you’re sobbing with how good it feels.

He’s watching every second of it—eyes blown black, mouth parted, completely fucking mesmerized.

“That’s it, princess… come all over me,” he growls, voice shaking with restraint. “Look at you shaking like a fucking leaf. So goddamn beautiful when you fall apart on my cock.”

His fingers are still buried deep in your ass—two thick digits stretching you open, pumping slow and steady while your pussy creams and gushes around him, slick dripping down his balls, soaking the couch, making everything slippery and obscene.

You can’t stop trembling.

Your legs feel like jelly, hips twitching involuntarily as the aftershocks keep rolling through you, making you grind down harder on him without meaning to, chasing the last sparks even though you’re oversensitive.

Joe groans deep in his chest, head falling forward to rest against your collarbone for a second, breathing ragged.

“Fuck… you’re still clenching,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Pussy won’t let me go. Greedy little thing.”

He pulls his fingers out of your ass slow—making you whimper at the loss—only to bring that same hand up to grip your jaw, tilting your face so he can see how wrecked you are: flushed, tear-streaked, lips swollen, body still shuddering on top of him.

He kisses you then—soft at first, almost tender, tasting the salt of your tears and the mess of spit from earlier.

Then he smiles against your mouth, dark and dangerous.

“You did so good, baby… came so hard you’re shaking.”

His cock is still rock-hard inside you, throbbing, leaking precum, untouched by his own release.

He rolls his hips once—slow, deep—making you gasp and jerk again.

“But we’re not done,” he whispers, nipping your bottom lip. “Not even close. Now… be a good girl and clean up the mess you made.”

His eyes flick down to where you’re still joined, to the creamy white coating his shaft, dripping down to his balls.

“On your knees, princess.”

Your body is still trembling. And you’ve never wanted anything more.

You slide off his lap slow, legs still trembling like they might give out any second.

Joe watches every movement—eyes dark, hungry, chest rising and falling fast as you sink to the floor between his spread thighs. The carpet is rough against your knees but you don’t care. All you can focus on is him: cock still rock-hard, glistening with your cream, thick veins pulsing, the head flushed dark and leaking precum in fat, slow beads.

He reaches down, wraps a hand around the base of his shaft and gives himself one lazy stroke, smearing your slick all over himself while he stares at your wrecked face.

“Fuck… look at this mess you made, princess,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Covered me in your come. All creamy and white. That’s all you, baby.”

You whimper, mouth watering, thighs pressing together because even after that insane orgasm you’re still aching.

Joe smirks—slow, filthy—and lifts his cock, heavy and hot in his hand.

Then he taps it against your cheek.

Light. Teasing. The wet slap of skin on skin is soft but obscene.

You gasp, eyes fluttering.

He does it again—harder this time, the fat head smacking your other cheek with a quiet thwack, leaving a shiny streak of your own cream across your skin.

“See that?” he growls, voice dripping with satisfaction. “See how fucking shiny I am because of you? That’s what your tight little pussy did to me. Left me dripping with your come like a goddamn trophy.”

Another tap—right across your lips this time, the head dragging slow, painting them glossy. You part your mouth on instinct, tongue darting out to taste the salty-sweet mix of you both.

Joe groans deep in his throat.

“Good girl… open wider.”

You do.

He slaps his cock against your tongue—light, playful smacks that make you moan around nothing, eyes watering with want. Each one leaves more of your slick on your face, on your lips, dripping down your chin.

“Look up at me while I mark you,” he orders, free hand tangling in your hair to hold your head steady. “See what a perfect little mess my rockstar girlfriend is. Face all pretty and filthy just for me.”

He keeps going—soft slaps to your cheeks, your tongue, the corner of your mouth—until your face is streaked and shiny, until you’re breathing hard through your nose and trembling all over again.

Finally he stills, holding his cock right against your parted lips, the head resting heavy on your tongue.

“Now,” he rasps, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, spreading the mess even more. “Clean it up, baby. Every fucking inch. Show me how much you love tasting yourself off my dick.”

Your hands come up to grip his thighs, steadying yourself.

And you lean in.

You don’t hesitate.

Your hands slide up Joe’s thighs—nails dragging slow over the tense muscle—before wrapping around the base of his cock, still slick and warm from being buried inside you. It twitches in your grip, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark and shining with your cream.

You lean in and take him slow at first.

Lips parting wide, tongue flat against the underside as you slide down, savoring every inch. The taste hits you immediately—salty, musky, mixed with the sweet tang of your own release. It’s filthy. It’s perfect. You moan around him the second he fills your mouth, the vibration making his hips jerk forward.

“Fuuuck, baby…” Joe groans, head falling back against the couch, one hand fisting your hair loose enough to let you move but tight enough to remind you who’s in charge. “That’s it… just like that. Suck your mess off me like a good girl.”

You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling messy circles around the head before you sink deeper—taking him to the back of your throat in one smooth glide. Your eyes water instantly, but you don’t stop. You bob your head slow and deliberate, lips stretched tight around him, spit already starting to drip from the corners of your mouth.

You pull off just enough to lick a long, slow stripe from base to tip, cleaning every creamy streak you left behind. Then you dive back down, sucking harder, tongue pressing flat against the thick vein that runs along the underside.

Joe’s breathing turns ragged, hips rolling up in shallow thrusts he can’t quite control.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice wrecked and reverent. “Taking me so deep… throat so fucking warm and wet. Cleaning up every drop of that pretty cream you left all over my cock.”

You hum around him—deep, needy—eyes flicking up to meet his. His gaze is blown black, lips parted, watching every filthy slide of your mouth like he’s memorizing it.

You speed up.

Head bobbing faster, wet slurps filling the room, spit dripping down your chin, onto your tits, mixing with the earlier mess he made. One hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, twisting slick and firm, while the other cups his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight and full they are.

Joe’s grip tightens in your hair.

“Goddamn… yeah, just like that. Fuck—suck it harder, princess. Show me how much you love tasting yourself on me.”

You do.

You take him all the way again—nose brushing his pelvis, throat relaxing to let him hit the back—holding him there while your tongue works the underside, throat fluttering around him.

He curses under his breath, hips bucking once, twice.

You’re drooling everywhere now—messy, shameless, spit stringing between your lips and his cock every time you pull back for air.

And you’ve never felt more owned. More wanted. More his.

You don’t stop at the shaft.

You pull off his cock with a wet, obscene pop—strings of spit and cream connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head for a filthy second before they snap. Joe’s breathing is heavy, ragged, watching you like a man on the edge of sanity.

You dip lower.

Your tongue drags slow, deliberate, from the base of his cock down to his balls—hot, heavy, drawn tight against his body from how close he is. You lick the seam first, tasting the salt of his skin mixed with the creamy remnants of your own release that dripped down there earlier.

Joe curses under his breath, hips twitching forward.

“Fuck… yeah, baby. Just like that.”

You open your mouth wider, taking one ball into your mouth—sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling slow circles around the sensitive skin. The weight of him on your tongue is perfect, heavy, and you moan around it, the vibration making his whole body tense.

You switch to the other one, giving it the same treatment—sucking, licking, laving it with wet, messy strokes until both are shiny with your spit, glistening under the dim dressing room lights.

Joe’s hand tightens in your hair, not guiding, just holding on like he needs something to anchor himself.

“Goddamn, princess… you love those balls, don’t you? Licking up every bit of your own mess off them like it’s fucking candy.”

You hum in agreement, the sound muffled as you mouth at them again, tongue flicking the underside, tracing every ridge, every vein. One hand stays wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking slow and slick while your mouth worships lower—sucking one ball deep, then letting it slip out with a wet pop only to take both as far as you can, cheeks hollowing.

He groans loud enough it probably echoes down the hall.

“Shit—look at you. Face buried in my balls, drooling all over them… my perfect little cockslut. You gonna make me come just from this? Gonna suck my load right out while you tongue-fuck my sack?”

You pull back just enough to look up at him—eyes glassy, lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping with spit—and nod, slow and needy.

Then you dive back in.

Tongue flat, licking long stripes up from his balls to the head of his cock, cleaning every last trace of cream, before sucking one ball back into your mouth again, rolling it gently while your hand pumps him faster.

Joe’s thighs are trembling now.

His abs flex hard under your other palm.

He’s close—dangerously close—and you can feel it in the way his cock throbs against your fingers, in the way his balls draw even tighter against your tongue.

“Fuck, baby… don’t stop. Gonna paint that pretty face if you keep going like this.”

You don’t stop.

You worship harder.

Joe’s whole body is strung tight, muscles locked, hips twitching every time your tongue flicks over his balls again. He’s breathing like he just ran a marathon—short, sharp, desperate—and his hand in your hair is shaking now, fingers flexing like he’s fighting not to pull you off.

You suck harder, taking both into your mouth one last time, rolling them slow and wet while your hand pumps his cock in long, slick strokes.

That’s when he snaps.

“Fuck—enough, baby. No more sucking.”

His voice comes out rough, almost pained. He yanks your head back by the hair—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make you gasp, mouth open and shiny with spit.

You look up at him, dazed, lips swollen, chin dripping.

Joe’s eyes are wild—pupils blown so wide they’re almost black, cheeks flushed, chest heaving.

“I’m not coming in your mouth tonight,” he growls, low and dangerous. “I want to come inside you. Deep. Fill that perfect little pussy till it’s overflowing.”

Before you can even blink he’s moving—fast, strong hands grabbing under your arms, hauling you up off the floor like you weigh nothing.

He spins you around in one fluid motion.

Your back hits his chest, his arm banding around your waist to keep you upright while he bends you forward.

He pushes you toward the arm of the couch—the wide, padded leather one at the end—and plants your hands on it for balance.

“Hold on, princess.”

He kicks your feet apart wider, rough but careful, then presses his body flush against yours from behind. You feel the heat of him everywhere—sweaty chest to your back, cock sliding hot and slick between your thighs, teasing your entrance without pushing in yet.

Joe’s mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth grazing, voice right in your ear.

“You’re gonna take every drop, yeah? Gonna let me breed this cunt while you’re bent over like this.”

One hand slides down your stomach, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles while the other grips your hip hard.

You’re still shaking from your last orgasm, oversensitive and dripping, but the need is already building again—sharp, aching, desperate.

He lines himself up, the fat head nudging your entrance, spreading you open just enough to tease.

Then he thrusts in—hard, deep, one brutal snap of his hips that buries him to the root.

You cry out, loud and broken, fingers digging into the leather.

Joe groans like he’s dying, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second.

“Fuck… still so tight. Still creaming for me.”

He starts moving—slow at first, savoring every inch as he pulls almost all the way out only to slam back in, setting a rhythm that’s punishing and perfect.

His hand stays between your legs, fingers working your clit in time with his thrusts, while the other slides up to wrap loosely around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive.

“Gonna come inside you, baby,” he pants against your ear, voice wrecked and filthy. “Gonna pump you full… make you walk out of here dripping me. My good girl. My fucking rockstar princess.”

Every word is punctuated by a deep, grinding thrust that hits exactly where you need it.

You’re already climbing again—fast, too fast—body shaking, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around him like it never wants to let go.

The second he’s buried deep again, he stops holding back. No more teasing. No more slow grinds. He fucks you like a man who’s been starving for this exact moment since the first chord he played on stage.

His hips snap forward—fast, brutal, relentless—each thrust slamming into you so hard the arm of the couch creaks under your grip. The sound of skin slapping skin is loud, wet, filthy, filling the entire dressing room like a second heartbeat.

You’re bent over the padded leather, ass up, back arched, fingers digging into the cushion as he pounds into you from behind. Every stroke hits that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, makes your legs shake like they’re about to give.

“Fuck—fuck—take it, princess,” he growls, voice shredded from screaming lyrics and now from pure animal need. “Take every goddamn inch. This pussy was made for this cock.”

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips so hard you’ll have fingerprints tomorrow, sliding up your back to fist your hair and yank your head back just enough to see your face when you moan his name. One palm comes down on your ass—sharp, stinging slap—then the other cheek, making you clench around him harder.

You cry out, loud and broken, body rocking forward with every punishing drive.

He’s moving so fast now it’s almost punishing—short, deep, frantic thrusts that make your tits bounce wildly, make your whole body jolt. Sweat drips from his chest onto your back, mixing with yours, making everything slicker, hotter.

“Goddamn, you feel that?” he pants against your ear, leaning over you, chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you exactly where he wants. “Feel how deep I’m fucking you? Gonna come so hard inside this cunt… gonna flood you till it’s running down your legs.”

His other hand snakes between your thighs again, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing fast, messy circles—matching the brutal rhythm of his hips.

You’re shaking again—full-body tremors, thighs quivering, pussy fluttering around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper. The overstimulation from before mixes with the new wave building so fast you can barely breathe.

“Joe—oh god—too much—fuck—”

“Not too much,” he snarls, teeth grazing your shoulder. “You’re gonna come again. Gonna come on this cock while I fill you up. Be my good girl and milk it out of me.”

He speeds up even more—impossible, but he does it—hips pistoning like a machine, cock dragging against every sensitive wall, head hitting your cervix with every thrust.

You’re sobbing now—pleasure so sharp it hurts, tears streaking your cheeks, mouth open in endless moans.

He’s right there with you—grunts turning into groans, thrusts turning erratic, balls slapping against you with every slam.

“Fuck—baby—I’m close—gonna come—gonna come inside you—”

Joe’s last thrust is brutal—deep, grinding, hips flush against your ass as he buries himself as far as humanly possible.

“Fuck—baby—take it—take it all—”

His voice breaks into a raw, guttural groan that vibrates through your whole body. You feel him swell inside you, cock pulsing violently, and then he’s coming—hot, thick ropes flooding your pussy, painting your walls, spilling so deep it feels like he’s marking every inch of you from the inside.

The sensation tips you over again.

Your second orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave—sharper, more intense than the first, ripping a scream from your throat as your cunt clamps down hard around him, milking every last drop while you shake and sob against the arm of the couch.

You’re both trembling.

Violently.

Joe’s arms wrap around you from behind, holding you tight against his chest as he keeps rolling his hips in slow, lazy circles, pushing his come even deeper, making sure nothing escapes. You can feel the wet warmth of it already starting to leak out around his softening cock, dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

Finally—after what feels like forever—he stills.

Both of you are gasping, chests heaving in sync, skin slick with sweat and spit and everything else you’ve done to each other.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead he carefully maneuvers you both—still joined—until he’s sinking back onto the couch, pulling you down with him. You end up sprawled across his chest, legs tangled, his cock still half-hard and nestled inside you, keeping most of his come plugged deep where it belongs.

The leather is ruined—sticky, warm, wrecked—but neither of you gives a fuck.

You’re both completely spent. Exhausted. Boneless.

Joe’s arms come around you, one hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, the other resting possessively on your ass like he’s claiming it even in the afterglow. His breathing is still ragged, heart hammering under your ear.

For a long minute there’s just… silence. The muffled thump of music from outside, the distant sound of crew laughing, the wet squelch when he shifts slightly inside you.

Then Joe lets out a low, breathless laugh.

“Jesus Christ, baby…” he murmurs, voice hoarse and wrecked. “We’re not making it back to the hotel tonight. I’m pretty sure my legs are fucking jelly. And you—” he squeezes your ass gently, chuckling again when you whimper at the overstimulation “—you’re not walking straight for at least a week.”

You manage a weak, giddy laugh against his neck, nuzzling into the damp skin there.

“Worth it,” you whisper, voice small and fucked-out.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, kissing you slow and soft this time—nothing like the desperation from before. Just tender. Sweet. Full of that post-sex glow that makes everything feel hazy and perfect.

“Yeah,” he agrees, brushing his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. “So fucking worth it.”

He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin, one hand carding through your messy hair while the other stays splayed on your lower back.

Outside the door, the world keeps going—afterparty, fans, chaos.

Joe's POV-

I didn’t expect it to hit me the way it did.

It was past midnight when I finally got home, the kind of late that settles into your bones. Set days like that leave you hollowed out too tired to think properly, buzzing in that uncomfortable space between adrenaline and exhaustion. My jacket smelled like coffee and fake smoke, my phone battery was clinging to life, and all I wanted was silence.

I turned onto my street and everything looked the same as it always did. Parked cars. A flickering streetlamp. My house rising up ahead, dark and quiet.

Except for one thing.

The light was on.

Not the harsh overhead one I sometimes forgot to turn off. Not the bathroom. The soft lamp by the sofa, the one Y/N had insisted we move closer to the window because the glow feels warmer there. It spilled out through the curtains like something alive, a quiet beacon cutting through the dark.

I slowed without meaning to.

For a second, my brain didn’t catch up with my chest. It was just a strange, physical pull, like my body recognised something my mind hadn’t named yet. I stood there on the pavement longer than necessary, keys heavy in my hand, staring up at that little square of light.

She left it on for me.

Y/N had only moved in a few weeks ago. Her boxes were still half-unpacked, her books stacked in uneven towers on the floor because she hadn’t decided where they belonged yet. There were still negotiations happening over drawer space and whether my kitchen knives were “actively hostile” or just dramatic.

But the light... The light felt permanent.

I unlocked the door quietly, more out of instinct than necessity. The flat greeted me with warmth: the faint smell of the candle she liked, something vanilla and amber, mixed with the ghost of whatever she’d cooked earlier. The light hummed softly, casting gentle shadows across furniture that suddenly felt… shared.

My shoes came off by the door, placed neatly where she’d lined them up earlier that week. I’d teased her for it 'who organises shoes like they’re in a museum?' but now I paused, looking at the little domestic evidence of her existence here.

I dropped my bag and stood there, just breathing.

God.

I’d lived alone for years. Long enough that silence had become normal, even comforting. Long enough that coming home meant collapsing onto the sofa with takeaway and letting the day drain out of me in front of whatever nonsense was on TV. Long enough that no one noticed when I came in late, or not at all.

And now

There was a light on because someone knew I’d be out late. Because someone had thought of me when I wasn’t there.

I leaned my forehead against the doorframe, eyes closing, chest tight in a way that startled me.

It wasn’t grand. She hadn’t stayed up waiting. She hadn’t sent a dramatic text or made a big deal out of it. She’d just… left the light on.

I thought about all the years before her. All the nights I’d stumbled into dark flats, cold rooms, the quiet pressing in so hard it almost felt loud. I thought about the relationships that hadn’t worked, the almosts, the people who liked the idea of me but not the reality of my hours, my absences, the way I disappear into work.

And then there was this.

Something so small it could’ve been accidental. Something that probably hadn’t cost her more than a second’s thought.

It nearly undid me.

I found her asleep in bed, sprawled diagonally like she’d fought the mattress and won. One arm flung over my pillow, hair a mess across her face. She was wearing one of my old T-shirts, the collar stretched just enough to expose her shoulder.

I stood there longer than I should have, watching her breathe.

This was it.

Not the applause or the stages or the noise. Not the version of love that looks good from the outside. This quiet, unremarkable moment that cracked something open inside me.

I changed silently, slipping into bed beside her. She stirred immediately, instinctively, rolling towards me like she’d done it a hundred times already. Her hand found my chest, warm and familiar, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

“You’re home,” she murmured, half-asleep.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Sorry it’s late.”

She hummed, pressing her face into my shoulder. “I left the light on.”

I swallowed.

“Thank you,” I said, though my voice came out rougher than I meant.

She smiled against my skin, already drifting again. “Of course.”

Of course.

I didn’t sleep much after that.

My mind wouldn’t stop spinning, melodies threading themselves through my thoughts, words forming and dissolving before I could catch them. That feeling...the ache, the warmth, the realisation sat heavy in my chest, insistent.

I slipped out of bed before dawn, careful not to wake her, and padded into the living room. The light was off now, replaced by the pale blue of early morning. I sat on the floor with my guitar, back against the sofa, and let my fingers find something honest.

It came easier than I expected.

A rhythm first. Gentle. Steady. Like footsteps coming home.

Then words.

Not polished. Not clever. Just true.

I'll try for all of my life Just to find someone who leaves on the light for me Leaves on the light for me

I stopped, breath hitching, fingers hovering over the strings.

That was it.

Not fireworks. Not drama. Just devotion disguised as habit.

I worked until the sun crept higher, until my voice was scratchy and my heart felt tender in that bruised, beautiful way. I recorded a rough demo on my phone, knowing it wasn’t finished but certain it was something.

When Y/N woke later, I was still there, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scribbled lyrics and empty mugs.

She blinked at me from the doorway, hair wild, eyes sleepy. “Did you… sleep?”

“Barely,” I admitted, grinning.

She padded over, dropping onto the sofa behind me, arms wrapping around my shoulders. “You okay?”

I leaned back into her, resting my head against her collarbone. “Yeah. Just… inspired.”

She laughed softly. “That’s ominous.”

I hesitated, suddenly nervous. “Can I play you something?”

Her arms tightened. “Always.”

I turned slightly, guitar settling against my thigh, and played. Just me and the song in its rawest form. My voice wavered in places, emotion catching unexpectedly, but I didn’t stop.

When I finished, the room was quiet.

I glanced back at her. She was staring at me, eyes glossy, one hand covering her mouth.

“Hey,” I said quickly. “It’s rough. Just a draft...”

“You wrote that,” she said softly, “last night?”

I nodded. “This morning.”

She swallowed. “Why?”

I set the guitar aside and turned fully to face her. “Because you left the light on.”

She frowned slightly. “Joe, I...”

“I know,” I interrupted gently. “I know it was nothing. But to me? It was everything.”

Her eyes filled properly then, tears slipping free before she could stop them. “Oh.”

“I’ve spent so long thinking love had to be loud,” I continued. “Big moments. Big gestures. But last night I realised… I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to do something that simple for me.”

She reached for my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “I didn’t know it would mean that much.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I said, smiling through the tightness in my throat. “You didn’t do it for that reason.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to mine. “I’m really glad I moved in.”