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“You want me to do what?” Michael asked, reading glasses perched on his nose as he read over the proposal for the third time.

“I know this is out of your comfort zone, but this could really work in your favor, Michael.”

He raised an eyebrow at his PR manager as he flicked through the documents, positive that this had to be some kind of joke. He hated PR— absolutely fucking loathed it. Though necessary given his line of work, something like this seemed so… arbitrary.

“You want me to pretend I’m dating this woman?” he waved the document around, a picture of you at a red carpet event paper-clipped to the front. “How old even is she? I thought this was supposed to help my image, not make me look like I’m hitting a midlife crisis.”

His manager winced and Bill laughed, hiding the sound poorly behind a cough.

“I understand your hesitancy, but the people and press absolutely adore her. She’s a lovely woman, just give her a chance. You don’t have to marry the girl, just… look happy. Be happy. You deserve that.”

“I’d prefer the real thing over whatever the hell this is.”

The man shrugged, “you never know. You two might hit it off.”

Michael’s eyes danced back down to the picture of you.

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You lit a cigarette, your anxiety pulsing harder than your heart as you sat in the waiting room of a random office building you’d been dropped off at.

This was absolutely insane.

When your manager first brought the idea to you, you thought it was prank.

Fake date Michael Jackson, it’ll boost your record sales.

Not that you were doing poorly, far beyond that.

But you were the next It Girl in the industry. Everyone wanted to be you or be with you but you had garnered a sort of untouchable reputation.

You had trust issues even before your name started to pop up in tabloids and you had completely taken dating off the table.

You just didn’t have the time or headspace for it.

And now here you were because how on earth were you supposed to say no to something like that?

Even if it didn’t end up working out, you were admittedly excited to just meet the man.

Michael fucking Jackson.

You felt like headed as you inhaled another wave of tabacco.

A door then opened, a woman in formal attire smiling warmly at you. “Mr. Jackson is ready for you.”

Christ.

You snubbed the cigarette out into the ashtray and stood on shaking legs, suddenly regretting your decision to wear heels as you followed the woman down a hallway to what you assumed was a conference room.

This was all… very formal. You supposed it was, this was technically a business transaction despite how outlandish it all seemed.

PR relationships weren’t anything new by any means. Celebrities did it all the time for promotions but still, this was Michael Jackson.

Part of you wondered if he even knew who you were, likely so far off his radar of people who actually caught his attention in the industry.

The door opened and you met his eyes immediately, or at least you thought so, given he had aviators perched on his nose as he sat in a chair, lounging in it as if it were a throne.

You faltered for only a moment, not being able to help the starstruck feeling that hit you in the chest.

You sat down across from him, acutely aware of the way he was watching you. His expression skirting along the lines of clinical and your mouth felt painfully dry as you managed a small smile.

He was intimidating. Not in any way that felt threatening, but his presence was a lot.

Like his soul was too big for his body and fighting its way into the room, greedily taking all the oxygen and leaving you a little breathless.

A beat of silence passed and your eyes flicked down to the papers spread out on the table. An array of contracts to amend and sign and you took note of the carafe of orange juice off to his side.

Michael then lowered his sunglasses down his nose, looking at you over the edge of them and they were such a dark brown it felt like you were looking into two pools of ink.

He assessed you, at least that’s what it felt like. His expression flickering faintly, appearing to reach some sort of conclusion as he then set his sunglasses on the table and switching to a pair of reading ones.

It struck you then how attractive he truly was. Something you’d always been aware of, but to be this close to him in person felt surreal.

“I’m Michael.” He said plainly, voice even but it had that gentleness to it that he was known for as he reached a hand across the table.

You nearly laughed at the formality of it but bit your tongue, reaching your own hand across the table and trying not to stumble over your name as his warm skin met yours.

His hand was large, fingers enveloping your own easily.

The next hour was a drone of legal speak. Discussing boundaries and limitations. How many events each of you would attend. A projected end date for this whole endeavor. You tried and failed not to blush when the topic of PDA came up, but it morphed more so into embarrassment as Michael was adamant he barely even wanted to hold your hand.

It was evident he didn’t want to do this and you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that.

On one hand, yes this was just a business deal. But would it really be that bad? He made it seem like you were a child he was having to babysit.

So you rolled your jaw and echoed an agreement— “I’d rather just hold hands.”

“That’s going to make it hard to sell the whole relationship thing, especially given Michael’s track record of women he’s been with—“

“Meaning?” Michael raised a brow.

Both your managers looked at each other, realizing the poor wording.

Your manager cleared their throat. “It’s just, well, Mr. Jackson, the women you have been public with, you’re known for being a very affectionate man. And you know how the press are, they’re likely going to sniff out insincerity.”

Michael sighed, the sound low and barely carrying across the room as he tapped a rhythm into the table. His eyes slated towards you briefly, and it had to have been a trick of the light because you could’ve sworn he fleetingly looked at your lips.

“Fine,” he muttered, scratching his signature across the page in dark ink. “A kiss every now and then.”

“Don’t sound too thrilled,” you said quietly, the words slipping out without warrant as you signed your own name.

He laughed lightly, the sound caught between an exhale as he shook his head.

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It was your first event together, the official debut of your… your relationship.

The word tasted sour on his tongue as he adjusted his cuff links.

“I feel like I’m dropping you off at prom,” Bill said, tone laced with amusement as he looked at Michael through the rear view mirror.

“Way to make me feel old.”

His friend shook his head at that as the car pulled up to a large, albeit ordinary house.

Michael wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting, but he supposed he was used to more lavish properties.

Yours looked… warm. Like a proper home.

It was nice.

Bill then cleared his throat.

“What?”

“What do you mean what? Go knock on that young lady’s door.”

Michael nearly rolled his eyes, in disbelief he was being told to do this at his grown age. “It’s not like I’m actually dating her—“

“Get your ass out of the car and go be a gentleman.”

Michael bit the inside of his cheek and obliged despite the stubbornness that was stirring in his chest. He was a gentleman, something he was rather proud of, but in all honesty he had been expecting Bill to be the one to go get you.

With an annoyed huff he didn’t quite mean, he stepped out of the car and made his way up the steps, eyes trailing along all the different flowers you had in what was clearly a well maintained garden. A loving touch evident in each section and he spotted a bucket next to your front door with gardening gloves draped off the side of it, your initials stitched into the hem.

The image of you gardening was rather endearing but he knew better than to dwell on it.

His eyes turned to your door, staring at the red painted wood for a moment before he bit the bullet and knocked. Suddenly feeling like he was going to prom, even though that had never actually been something he had gotten the opportunity to experience.

He knocked sharply twice before folding his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels as he waited.

Only a few beats passed before he heard the lock turn and the door opened, meeting your slightly surprised gaze— you clearly weren’t expecting him to be to the one to get you either.

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It was odd.

That’s the only way you could think to describe it. Your fingers laced with his as you made your way down the red carpet of the charity event you two were attending that night.

Your ears were still ringing a bit, given how loud people had gotten when Michael stepped out of the car— only to double when he reached a hand down to help you out of the car.

It had thankfully been rather easy, letting photos do the talking as his arm gently rested around your waist as you posed for photos. His smile easy and well trained with decades more experience than you.

It felt comical that the main thing your mind kept trailing back to was how good he smelled. His cologne felt grounding as your heart finally began to calm down.

You could do this.

But then the questions came.

“Are you two working on a new song together?” A reporter asked.

“Oh, no we…” Christ, speak.

“We’re together.” You felt Michael tug you a bit closer, making you briefly lose balance and to catch yourself, you rested your hand against his chest.

You almost let a laugh slip at the speechless expression of one reporters face. “Together?”

You hummed, because you didn’t know what else to do and thankfully Michael seemed to get the hint and he moved the two of you down the line.

The next morning, it was all over the news.

Your eyes squinted tiredly at the newspaper as you sipped on a cup of coffee, taking in the large headline— THE KING AND QUEEN OF POP, and just below were an array of photos. Michael helping you out of the car. His arm around your waist. A photo of when he had leaned down to whisper that you were doing a good job.

And then your hand paused as you lifted your mug, eyes finally landing on the photo of where his lips were pressed to your temple as you smiled at the camera.

You ignored the fluttering in your stomach, deciding then and there you were absolutely not about to be that reckless and stupidly fall for him knowing damn well that this entire thing was a ruse. You could find him charming and attractive all you liked, but actually falling for him? You were smarter than that.

The butterflies simply had to be a side effect of loneliness.

You kept telling yourself that as the weeks went on.

Told yourself it didn’t mean a damn thing every time his arm tightened around your waist as he guided you through a crowd. That it was nothing when he’d brush hair out of your eyes when it got messed up by the wind. That he was simply a gentleman when he would help fix your dress, fingers gliding lightly against your skin. When he’d light your cigarette even though it was painfully obvious he hated the fact that you smoked.

Because it meant absolutely nothing.

You hadn’t even kissed yet.

Something neither of your managers were thrilled about given they wanted it to be convincing. But Michael reserved himself to pressing chaste kisses to the side of your head or running his lips along your knuckles. Keeping the press at bay for the time being.

The fake dates you two had were both your favorite and something you also loathed. Because he seemed to hate them and that always, always immediately soured your mood the moment you sat down across from him.

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Michael eyed your irritated expression over his glasses as he briefly read the menu of the restaurant Bill had suggested. Not missing the paparazzi who were littered like ants outside, trying to get a decent photo through the windows from across the street.

He wasn’t all that hungry, simply wanting the night to be done with so he could put an end to the charade.

Admittedly, you were easy to be around. Something he was trying not to let himself find comfort in. Maybe it’s because you never asked him for anything. There were no expectations, just contractual agreements and a means to an end. Simple. After each disastrous relationship he’s had, he needed simple.

These fake date nights weren’t entirely opposable at first but every time you two went on one, you seemed absolutely miserable.

He wasn’t used to people acting like they despised his presence, it was usually the opposite.

“You okay?” He eventually asked, finding himself to be a little lost for words which was also entirely new for him.

“Fine,” your tone was clipped as you sipped on your wine.

His eyes flicked down to the bracelet you were wearing— the silver and diamonds glinting in the low light and he faintly traced out the letter M that was engraved into it. A custom Vivienne Westwood piece.

Telling himself for what felt like the hundredth time that he didn’t like the sight of it all that much. Perhaps just a little bit. Trying to not seem too pleased every time someone made a comment about it.

It didn’t mean anything.

Michael pulled his gaze back down to the menu, “you look like you’re trying to shoot my head off my shoulders with your eyes.”

“I’m just looking at you.”

“With an attitude.”

You scoffed. “I do not have an attitude.”

He raised a brow at you, eyes catching on the stain of red wine on your lips. “The way you just said that, says otherwise.”

Your jaw rolled. “Maybe I wouldn’t have an attitude if you didn’t sit there brooding all the goddamn time.”

“I—“ his exhale was caught around a laugh. “I am not brooding.”

“And I don’t have an attitude.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Alright, I’ll bite,” he set down the menu and leaned back in his chair, looking at you pointedly. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem—“

“Honey, you look like you’re about to crawl over this table and slap me.”

You laughed into your wine glass. “Tempting, but this dress is too tight for that.”

“Tempting? Why on earth would you want to slap me if there’s no problem?”

You clicked your tongue, eyes meeting his and your pupils were so blown he nearly forgot what you two were even talking about.

“Am I really that difficult to be around?”

Michael blinked at you. “What?”

“You act like you can’t fucking stand me.”

His brows furrowed as he leaned forward, looking at you like you had two heads. “What on earth gave you that impression?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said with a sarcastic lilt that was coated in a little too much alcohol. “Maybe all the brooding?”

“If I am brooding, it’s because you’re the one acting like you can’t wait to go home and do literally anything else.”

“Yeah, because of you—“

“How is this because of me?”

“More wine?”

Michael turned to the waiter who had approached the table, completely forgetting he was even in a restaurant as his eyes slid back to you. Both of you had leaned in over the table and he had failed to realize how close he’d gotten, just a few more inches and his nose would’ve brushed against yours.

You leaned away first and held up your wine glass, smile tight but polite. “Yes, please.”

The air was definitely different around you from that point on, most of your conversations slipping into arguments that never found an end and would leave Michael frustrated to the point where he was tempted to just… he didn’t know. The thought of grabbing you and kissing you just to shut you up crossed his mind, but he shoved it away.

Shoved it into the dark corner of his mind where he kept all of his improper thoughts of you.

Dreams he had woken up from, telling himself he had most definitely not been grinding into his mattress in his sleep as he dreamt of you. Telling himself he didn’t look at your ass every time you walked by him. That he didn’t think about bending you over his knee every time you got an attitude, which was always, and slapping your ass raw until you cried. Told himself he didn’t love the way you smiled every time a fan told you how much your music meant to them. That he didn’t find dirt under your nails from gardening the most endearing thing in the world.

And Michael told himself he wasn’t about to smack the absolute shit out of his brother as he watched him stand there and shamelessly flirt with you— because Michael wasn’t a jealous man. There wasn’t even anything to be jealous of. You weren’t even his.

Yet his jaw ticked as he watched Marlon make you laugh. A real laugh. Not the pretend one you used during interviews when you tried to act like you were in love with him.

He wanted to hear it again and bottle it away.

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Your feet padded across your room as the phone rang, the hour late and you were freshly showered, the air cool on your damp skin.

You pressed the phone to your ear, wondering who the hell would be calling at this time.

“Hello—“

“It’s Michael.”

You froze, feeling as if the world momentarily stopped before violently hurtling forward again through space, your mind short circuiting a little.

He had never called you before.

“What do you want?” You winced the moment the words left your mouth, realizing how rude you sounded even though you were genuinely just taken off guard.

There was a brief pause and you half expected him to hang up.

“Are you free?”

You blinked, eyeing yourself in the mirror and looking like a drowned poodle. “Tonight?”

“That was in fact the implication of my question.”

Your eyes narrowed at the empty space in front of you. “You’re not really selling me, who’s to say I don’t have better plans?”

He laughed, “do you?”

“I’m hanging up—“

“Wait.” He rushed, “wait. Sorry, forgive me but I’m used to us arguing all the time and this is me trying to amend that.”

You sat down on the edge of your bed, already eyeing your closet because you knew you were going to say yes. You always said yes to him, even though it annoyed you.

“I’m listening.”

Two hours later you were standing on the front steps of his house. If it could even be called a house.

You adjusted your skirt, telling yourself you definitely didn’t pick it out for him and you definitely didn’t almost cry out of frustration when you couldn’t get your hair to cooperate.

Before you even had the chance to knock on the door, it swung open and you were greeted by the sight of Michael in a simple button up and slacks. Probably the most casual attire he was capable of.

You had no idea what the night held in store for you, no idea what he had planned. And when he guided you through the labyrinth that was his home and your eyes adjusted to the low lighting of the kitchen, your heels came to a sharp halt against the marble flooring.

“What…” your eyes slowly pulled away from the table to him. He looked shy all the sudden, something you weren’t used to seeing on him and it made your stomach do an odd flip. “Michael, what is this?”

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “A truce, I suppose.”

Spread out on the table was an assortment of your favorite foods. Things you had mentioned in passing and not even directly to him, so the knowledge that he had actually been paying attention to you the entire time made blood pool into your cheeks. There was also a bottle of your favorite wine and in the middle of the table was a vase full of Peace Lilies, Hyacinths, and you nearly laughed at the avant-garde arrangement of Olive branches.

You bit your cheek as you tried not smile. “Subtle.”

Michael tsk-d, “you know I’m incapable of subtlety.”

You hummed, hesitantly stepping further into the room, testing the new waters of whatever this was that he was offering.

Michael followed in after you, watching you carefully, intent to read each change in your expression to make sure you liked it.

“I don’t want to spend all of our time arguing anymore and I’d like to clarify that I don’t hate you.”

“I never said—“

“And I would also like for you to hate me a little less.”

You paused at that, finally looking at him. How nervous he seemed, which was outlandish to you.

“I don’t hate you,” you said quietly.

The way your heart thudded when you were around him meant you probably felt the exact opposite.

He pulled out a chair for you, gesturing for you to sit down and you obliged only after a moments delay.

“I’d like for us to be friends,” Michael said as he sat down next you, uncorking the wine and pouring you a glass.

Friends.

You rolled the word around on your tongue as you debated on whether or not you liked the taste of it.

Friends had a finality to it. A boundary. Limits. Lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Thoughts that shouldn’t be had. Words that should never be spoken and promises that were made to be broken.

You didn’t want to be friends at all.

The realization hit you violently, making your chest tight and head spin with nausea but you swallowed it down with wine and smiled at him.

You could pretend. After all, that’s all you had been doing.

“Friends?” You asked, the word tasted bitter.

Michael nodded, fingers drumming a beat into the table as he looked at you. Appearing to have an internal debate of his own for a minute before he offered up his own smile. Soft at the edges and not quite meeting his eyes, but maybe that was just the lighting.

“Friends.”

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He had to have messed up, because how was this worse?

Somehow, he was more miserable.

The fake public dates for press coverage morphed into quiet evenings where you showed him how to take care of plants or late evenings when he’d show you a favorite movie of his. Being more distracted by your head lolling off to the side and slumping against his shoulder, your eyes heavy as you fought to stay awake and watch. The plot of the film long lost in his mind even though he had probably seen it a hundred times.

When you did eventually doze off, he lost against his better judgment as his fingers would twirl some of your hair around his digits. Trying not to take too much comfort in the weight of you against him and the warmth.

His heart leapt to his throat when he carefully stood up, gently laying you down so you’d be more comfortable. About to step away and grab a blanket when your hand suddenly caught his, muttering a stay before you were back to dreaming.

Michael felt like he couldn’t even fully appreciate these moments with you because there was a ticking in the back of his head. The end date of the contract looming behind his eyes and counting down like the doomsday clock. Worried even though he shouldn’t have been that the moment the day came about on his calendar, you’d disappear out of his life. Gone in a moment like breath on a mirror, because why would you stay? What could he possibly offer?

You were in your golden years and he was just—

Michael shook his head at himself.

He had definitely dug himself into a deeper hole.

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Each day you looked at the calendar you felt sick.

Time seeming to pass quicker the one time you wish it didn’t.

But it was tangible. A thing, a creature between the two of you begging to be addressed and growing agitated at being ignored.

You briefly considered scribbling out the date. Maybe ripping the entire month out. Anything to not acknowledge what was approaching.

The shift in energy between the two of you lately had been sweet. The kind that leaves a sticky after taste on the tongue, but you didn’t mind. You cherished them, the small moments you got with him that you knew no one else got.

Your heart swelling in your chest as you watched him kneel down in your garden, dirt staining his expensive boots and pants but not appearing to care as he listened to your instructions.

He was always so careful. In everything he did, there was an art of precision one only had with years of practice. Years of trying to be gentle because he knew he would be rough if otherwise.

You adored him.

Truly you did.

He’d catch you on multiple occasions just watching him. Your eyes intent and open, admiring him just being when his gaze would land on yours and he’d smile. That shyness slipping out and he’d mutter a what? and you always said nothing, before turning away.

The thought of moments like those slipping through your fingers made you panic, a kind of anxiety that made your bones itch and make walls look like their breathing.

When the day arrived, you had completely holed yourself up in your house. Mind spinning and not wanting to deal with it at all, an array of insecurities swirling in your head— because why in the world would Michael actually want to be your friend, your anything, so in a panic you went around the entire house and unplugged every single phone.

If your manager didn’t call you, it didn’t happen.

A completely irrational thought, but knowing the phones wouldn’t ring provided you a little solace.

You even taped over the clocks.

God, you laughed at nothing as you burrowed underneath blankets as a thunderstorm rolled in, you were going insane.

You had no idea how much time passed but you flinched when there was a knock on the door, the sound nearly hidden underneath a boom of thunder.

You wondered if you just didn’t answer, whoever it was would go away. You didn’t want to be perceived. You wanted the entire world to go away because today was not happening.

Another knock followed by the doorbell.

You groaned into your pillow.

More knocking, now sounding urgent.

With a heavy heart, you dragged yourself out of bed, feet making your way through the house and when you opened the door you felt like the lightning streaking across the sky had just struck you.

Because Michael was standing right there. Completely soaked from the rain, dark hair sticking to his forehead and the look on his face.

He looked livid.

“Did you block me?”

You pulled your tongue from the roof of your mouth, still stunned at the sight of him.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to call you.”

You then blushed, embarrassed as the dramatics of your actions started to dawn on you.

“I unplugged all my phones.”

Michael blinked, his lashes heavy and clumped together with water and stars, his eyes were so beautiful.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

Your fingers gripped the handle of your front door, treating it like a lifeline. “I didn’t want to deal with today.”

“So your bright idea was radio silence?”

“Even if I did have them plugged in, I wouldn’t have answered.”

Michael took a step closer, “that’s not—“

“I didn’t want to deal with today, Michael. And you being here isn’t helping, so please leave.” You went to shut the door but his hand came up and easily stopped you.

“Michael.”

“No.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“But I told you to.”

“And I’m not listening, do keep up.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

You’d hardly realized how close he had gotten, his shoes now scuffing along your own feet and his chest nearly pressed to yours as he looked down at you, your mission to slam the door on his face long forgotten.

“I don’t want to deal with today.”

“You said that.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw tightened as he looked at you, eyes flicking between yours and you felt like your heart was rotting out of your chest.

You couldn’t do this.

Not now or ten years down the line. It was torture.

“Listen, I know we said we’d be friends but—“

“I don’t want to be your fucking friend.”

The words left him in a way that nearly sounded painful, his eyes never leaving yours as you stood there and stared at him with your lips parted, whatever you were gonna say dying then and there on your tongue.

Your eyes searched his, how dark they were and the intent behind the ferocity in them.

The moment you looked at his mouth, it was over.

His hands found the sides of your face, fingers sinking into your hair as he pulled you to him and then his mouth was on yours. A lighter thrown into a gasoline soaked fire pit because finally— the snap of months of self restraint engulfed you immediately in flames as your own arms wrapped around him, fingers twisting in his wet clothes and desperate to pull him closer as his tongue slipped past yours and you moaned.

Fucking finally.

The sound that left you seemed to set off some trigger in him because not a moment later Michael dipped down and picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you back into your house. Mouth never leaving yours as he stumbled his way through the front entry and into the living room. Lowering you onto the couch but following suit, hips settled against yours and grinding.

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Your next public appearance together, the contrast was frankly jarring.

Michael couldn’t keep his eyes or hands off of you.

His arm tighter around your waist, hand sitting lower on your hip and nearly possessive anytime you started to lean away from him.

And good lord, he was practically eye fucking you the entire night, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he watched you talk.

Even the reporter looked embarrassed as if they were interrupting something.

“Michael, stop it.” You muttered, not meaning it all as he kissed you, one of his hands resting against the side of your throat, not giving a damn that you were in public.

He didn’t care at all as you two walked into the venue and his hand lightly slapped your ass as you walked through the door first. Smiling to himself as you blushed, his eyes catching on the M bracelet you now never took off.

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michael jackson masterlist

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Michael shifted on the leather seat, his fingers nervously drumming against his thigh. He was wearing the iconic military jacket—the brilliant blue one adorned with heavy gold braiding, a sparkling sequined sash, and, of course, the single white glove. He looked regal, larger than life, like a king preparing for his coronation. But when his dark eyes flicked over to look at you, all that carefully crafted pop-star mystique completely evaporated. He just looked completely and utterly breathless.

"Oh my god," Michael whispered for what felt like the twentieth time since you’d left the hotel. His voice was soft, rich, and trembling slightly with an intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Angel… I just… I can’t take my eyes off you. I really can’t."

You couldn't help the brilliant smile that spread across your face, your rich, brown skin glowing warmly under the car's interior lights. For tonight, you had pulled out all the stops. You were wearing a custom-made, floor-length silk gown in a light, stunning white cream that provided a breathtaking contrast to your complexion. The dress hugged every single curve of your body before pooling elegantly around your heels. Your hair was styled to perfection, framing your face beautifully, and your makeup highlighted your features flawlessly. You looked like a literal goddess, and Michael was reacting like a man who had just witnessed a miracle.

"Michael, you've said that five times already," you teased gently, reaching over to place your hand over his gloved one. "You’re going to make me blush, and I don't want to ruin my makeup before we even step onto the carpet."

"I don't care," he insisted, his grip tightening around your hand. He leaned in closer, the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne—a mix of expensive musk and sweet vanilla—wrapping around you. "I mean it, Y/N. You look so beautiful it’s actually hurting my chest a little bit. Look at you. Just look at how gorgeous you are."

His free hand reached up, his bare fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a reverence that made your heart skip a beat. His eyes were wide, dark, and dilated, drinking in every single detail of your face, your shoulders, the slope of your neck. There was a raw, heavy hunger buried deep in his gaze, a sharp contrast to his usual gentle demeanor.

"You're going to be the most beautiful woman in that entire building tonight," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, gravelly rasp that made your stomach flip. "Everyone is going to be looking at me, but all I'm gonna be doing is looking at you. I'm so proud to have you on my arm. So proud."

"Thank you, angelface," you whispered, using his nickname, a private intimacy saved only for moments like this. "You look incredible too. Tonight is your night."

"Our night," he corrected fiercely, leaning across the small space to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, being careful not to smudge your lipstick but still managed to communicate the sheer weight of his devotion. "Our night, beautiful."

The limousine finally crawled to a halt in front of the Shrine Auditorium. The noise outside swelled into a deafening crescendo. Flashbulbs began firing rapidly against the tinted glass, creating a strobe-light effect inside the vehicle. Michael took a deep breath, the public persona clicking smoothly into place, but as he looked at you one last time before the door opened, his eyes flashed with a promise that made your blood run hot.

The rest of the night passed in a dizzying, historic blur.

From the moment Michael stepped out of the car and reached back to pull you out with him, the world went completely mad. The cameras went into overdrive, the flashes so bright they left spots in your vision. But true to his word, Michael kept you glued to his side. His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his large hand pressing firmly into the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of reporters and photographers. Every few paces, he would lean down, his curls brushing against your cheek, just to whisper, "You look so beautiful, mama," or "They're all staring at you, I swear it."

Inside the auditorium, the energy was electric. It was gonna be a memorable night, and everyone knew it.

One by one, Michael’s name was called. Producer of the Year. Album of the Year. Record of the Year. Best Pop Vocal Performance. Over and over again, he stood up, the crowd erupting into thunderous applause, standing ovations that shook the very foundation of the building. And every single time he stood up, he kissed your cheek first. Every time he walked up those steps to accept another golden gramophone, he looked back at you sitting in the front row.

By the time he walked up to the podium for his final acceptance speech of the night, having tied and shattered records by winning a staggering eight Grammy Awards, the atmosphere was euphoric.

Michael stood at the microphone, adjusting his sunglasses, the crowd finally settling down into an expectant hush. He thanked the academy, he thanked his family, he thanked the Records, and he thanked his fans. His voice was humble, sweet, and filled with genuine awe. But then, he paused. He took off his sunglasses, his dark eyes sweeping over the crowd until they locked onto you.

A soft, incredibly tender smile broke across his face.

"And... I want to thank someone very, very special to me," Michael said into the microphone, his voice echoing beautifully through the massive auditorium. "Someone who has been my rock, my inspiration, and the joy in my life. Y/N..."

The cameras immediately panned to you, your face filling the giant screens in the arena. You offered a shy smile, your heart pounding against your ribs as the crowd cheered.

"Thank you for believing in me when things got hard," Michael continued, his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring the thousands of people watching. "Thank you for your love, your patience, and for just being the beautiful, incredible woman that you are. I wouldn't be standing up here tonight without you. This is for you, too. I love you."

The crowd erupted into an absolute frenzy. Your eyes welled with tears of pure pride and love as you watched him hold up the trophy, his gaze never leaving yours. He wasn't just the biggest star in the world in that moment; he was a man completely, utterly consumed by his love for you.

The moment the televised broadcast ended, the backstage area became a madhouse of executives, celebrities, and security guards trying to steer Michael toward the official after-parties. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone wanted to celebrate the historic night.

But Michael wasn't having any of it.

The second he was clear of the main stage, his hand clamped tightly around yours, his fingers intertwining with yours so fiercely it almost hurt. He was moving fast, his long legs eating up the pavement as his security detail cleared a path through the backstage corridors.

"Michael! Michael, wait!" Frank Dileo, his manager, came jogging up alongside him, puffing on a cigar. "We gotta go to the CBS party, Mike! Clive Davis is expecting you, the press is waiting, we gotta—"

"No, Frank," Michael cut him off, not even breaking his stride. His voice lacked its usual soft, compliant edge. It was firm, absolute, and completely non-negotiable. "Tell them I'm tired. Tell them I'm not feeling well. I'm going back to the hotel."

"But Mike, you just won eight Grammys! This is the biggest night of your life!"

Michael stopped abruptly, turning to look at his manager. He didn't look tired at all. In fact, his eyes were burning with a desperate, frantic energy, a wild hum vibrating through his entire posture. He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your emerald green dress, your exposed collarbones, the rich warmth of your skin, and a visible shudder went through his frame.

"I'm going home, Frank. Secure the car. Now."

Frank looked at Michael, then looked at you, seeing the absolute fire burning in Michael's eyes and the flush on your cheeks. Realization dawned on the manager's face. He sighed, throwing his hands up. "Alright, alright. Security, get the limo around back. Now!"

Within minutes, you were pushed through a back exit and shielded into the waiting limousine. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the world once again.

The car hadn't even pulled away from the curb before Michael was moving.

He didn't wait. He didn't say a word. He practically threw himself across the seat, his large hands coming up to frame your face as he crashed his lips against yours.

This wasn't the gentle, sweet kiss from earlier. This was desperate. This was needy. This was a man who had been starving all night while surrounded by a feast. Michael groaned deep in his throat, his tongue immediately sliding past your teeth to claim your mouth in a deep, wet, possessive kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, completely disregarding the perfect styling, pulling you closer until your chest was crushed against the hard, heavily embroidered front of his bedazzled jacket.

"Michael," you gasped out against his mouth, your hands coming up to grip his broad shoulders as the limousine accelerated. "Michael, wait—the driver—"

"The partition is up," he panted, his lips moving down your jawline, biting softly at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making you arch your neck with a soft sigh. "It's up, mama. God, you don't know what you did to me tonight. You don't have any idea."

His hands left your face, sliding down the silk of your dress, his touch frantic and heavy as he gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly and pulling you right onto his lap. You straddled his thighs, your cream gown riding up over your knees. Michael’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving against yours. The heavy gold trophies were sitting in a bag at the floor of the car, completely forgotten. The only thing that mattered to him was the feel of your body against his.

"You looked so beautiful," he whimpered, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark, wild, and dilated to the point where the iris was almost entirely gone. He looked completely unraveled, his usual composure entirely stripped away. "Seeing you sitting there... watching me... knowing you're mine. All those people staring at you, wanting you. I thought I was gonna lose my mind, baby. I swear I was."

"Michael, I'm right here," you whispered, running your fingers through his damp curls, feeling the frantic heat radiating off his skin. "I'm yours. Only yours."

A broken, needy sound left his throat, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Show me. Please, just let me get you back to the room. I need you so bad. I'm shaking, mama. Look at me, I'm shaking."

He held up his hand—the gloved one—and it was indeed trembling with a raw, kinetic energy. The sheer adrenaline of winning eight Grammys, combined with the agonizing, hours-long torture of wanting to touch you, had pushed him completely over the edge. He was a desperate man, and you were his only salvation.

The trip up to the hotel penthouse was a blur of shadows and hurried footsteps. Michael kept his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his head down, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.

The moment the heavy wooden door of the penthouse suite clicked shut behind you, the silence of the room was immediately shattered.

Michael didn't even turn on the lights. The only illumination came from the moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, dramatic shadows across the luxurious room and highlighting the city skyline outside.

He grabbed you by the waist and pressed you back against the closed door, the heavy wood cold against your back, but your front was burning hot against him. He tore off his sunglasses, throwing them carelessly onto the floor, followed immediately by his single white glove.

"Michael—"

Your words were swallowed by his mouth. He kissed you with a ferocious, unbridled passion that left you completely breathless, his tongue plundering your mouth over and over again. He was needy, Whimpering into the kiss, his hands moving frantically over your body, tracing the curves he had been staring at all night.

"I need to see you," he panted, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, his eyes wild in the dim light. "I need to see this beautiful, gorgeous body out of this dress. Please, baby. Let me see you."

His hands found the zipper at the back of your cream gown. With a swift, practiced motion, he pulled it down. The silk hissed as it parted, loosening around your frame. Michael didn't waste a second. He pushed the straps off your shoulders, the heavy fabric sliding down your body, pooling at your feet in a dark wave on the carpet.

Michael stepped back just an inch, his breath catching audibly in his throat as he looked at you. You stood before him in just your underwear, your rich brown skin glowing like polished bronze in the soft moonlight. The contrast against the dark room was breathtaking, and Michael looked like he was staring at a masterpiece in a museum.

"Oh, God," he breathed, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, his chest heaving. "Look at you. You are so... you're a goddess, mama. You're so beautiful it makes me want to cry. Look at what you do to me."

He didn't wait for a response. He reached for his own clothes, his movements frantic, almost clumsy in his desperation. The iconic blue bedazzled jacket was unbuttoned and tossed carelessly onto the floor, the gold braid clinking softly against the carpet. His shirt followed, thrown aside until he stood before you bare-chested, his lean, toned muscles rippling in the moonlight, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin from the sheer adrenaline of the night.

He stepped back into your space, his bare chest pressing against yours, the heat of his skin instantly transferring to you. He swept you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all, and carried you over to the massive king-sized bed.

He came down over you immediately, pinning you into the soft mattress with his weight. He didn't give you a moment to breathe. His hands found your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly beside your head, his long fingers locking with yours.

"I need you so much right now, baby," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "I've been wanting this all night. Every time they called my name, every time I stood up there... all I could think about was this. Was you. How gorgeous you looked. How much I love you. Please... let me show you."

"Michael, yes... please," you groaned, arching your hips up against his, desperate for the contact, completely consumed by his heat and his need.

He moved with an urgent, frantic energy. In a matter of seconds, the remaining barriers of clothing were gone. Michael hovered between your thighs, his body trembling, his skin hot and slick against yours. He looked down at you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your beautiful, dark skin against the white sheets, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"You're so beautiful, mama. So beautiful," he chanted like a prayer, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

He didn't ease into it. Driven by hours of pent-up desire, the adrenaline of a historic night, and a deep, possessive need to completely consume you, Michael drove himself deep into you with one firm, heavy thrust.

A loud, breathless gasp tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as he filled you completely. It was intense, overwhelming, and utterly perfect.

Michael let out a low, guttural groan, burying his face in your neck as he began to move. He didn't hold back. He began to pound into you with a fierce, relentless rhythm, his heavy, powerful thrusts rocking your entire body against the mattress.

"Ah, god, my angel... you're so tight, so warm," he gasped out, his voice completely unraveled, stripped of any pop-star perfection. He was just a man, desperate and needy, completely losing himself inside the woman he loved.

His pace was fast, hard, and unyielding. Every time he drove his hips against yours, a soft, pathetic whimper would escape his lips, showing just how much your body was affecting him. He gripped your hips with his large hands, his fingers digging into your plush skin, anchoring you to him as he set a punishing, intoxicating pace.

The room was filled with the heavy sounds of his ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic friction of your bodies meeting, and the soft, breathless cries slipping from your lips.

"Michael... oh my god, Michael," you cried out, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper into you.

"Tell me you're mine," he begged, his thrusts growing even harder, faster, driving into you with a desperate intensity that brought you right to the edge of a cliff. He leaned down, his sweat-damp curls brushing against your face, his lips frantically kissing your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth. "Tell me, baby. I need to hear it. I need you so bad."

"I'm yours, Michael! I'm yours!" you cried out, your voice breaking as the pleasure began to crest over you.

Hearing those words completely broke whatever restraint he had left. Michael groaned, a raw, dominant sound, and increased his pace even further, his body moving in a blurred, powerful rhythm. He pounded into you, showing you with every single heavy stroke just how much he worshiped you, how much your beauty had driven him insane all evening, how much he needed to claim every single part of you.

The friction was unbelievable. You arched your back, your eyes rolling back as a wave of intense, shattering climax ripped through your body. You clamped tightly around him, your voice crying out his name into the quiet penthouse.

The tight, crushing sensation of your release immediately pushed Michael over the edge. He let out a loud, ragged cry, his body going rigid as he delivered one final, incredibly deep, heavy thrust. He buried himself as deep as he could possibly go inside you, his muscles locking up as he poured himself into you, his chest heaving violently against yours.

For a long, breathless moment, the world stopped moving. There were no Grammys, no fans, no records broken. There was just the two of you, tangled in the sheets, breathing heavily in the moonlight.

Slowly, the tension left Michael's body. He collapsed against you, burying his face in your hair, his breath still coming in ragged, shaky gasps. He didn't pull away; instead, he wrapped his long arms tightly around you, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest, as if he still couldn't get enough of you.

"Oh, god," Michael whispered into your hair, his voice incredibly soft, returning to that sweet, vulnerable tone you knew so well. He was still trembling slightly. "My baby... thank you. Thank you so much."

You smiled softly in the dark, your hands gently rubbing his back, feeling the slow, steady heartbeat beneath his skin. "For what, Michael?"

He shifted slightly, lifting his head so he could look down at you. In the moonlight, his eyes were soft, wet with emotion, and filled with a love so profound it took your breath away. He reached up, his bare hand gently caressing your cheek, brushing away a stray curl.

"For being my real prize tonight," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Those trophies... they don't mean anything compared to this. Compared to you. You're the most beautiful thing in my world, baby. Never forget that. I love you so much."

You pulled his head down, kissing him sweetly, completely secure in the knowledge that no matter how big the world got out there, right here, in the dark, you were his entire universe.

The walkie’s been quiet tonight. And god, do you hate it. Because nights like this have started to feel dangerous in a whole new way. Because silence leaves room for thought, and thinking opens up doors you can’t afford to walk through right now.   

The van’s parked beneath the treeline on Cornwallis, though it’s less than a pathetic excuse for a cover. The branches are stripped bare this time of year, skeletal limbs clawing at the sky, dripping silver in the cold moonlight.

There’s nothing to do here. Nothing to chew on except the same square of Wild Cherry Bubble Yum, sucking the sugar dry until the flavor’s gone and your jaw starts clicking louder than the aimless buzz of static.

It’s been months of this. Months of driving around in circles, chasing ghosts, getting nowhere. Months of Hopper’s vapid updates crackling through the radio while you and Steve rot in the van like two strangers locked in the same cage.

Except, you're not exactly strangers, are you? 

No. Not after hours spent side by side in the dark, listening for things that aren’t there, waiting, hoping, pretending that this isn’t the closest thing either of you has had to a date in months.  

But you don’t do dates.

You do the backseat.

You do frantic, messy sex on ugly shag carpet, killing time in a metal box while you both wait for the world to change, or maybe for it to just end already.

You fuck until it hurts, until your skin stings and your lungs burn, until the sound of your own blood is louder than the relentless beep-beep-beep-beep of the telemetry signal.

You fuck. You wait. Then you fuck again.

No restaurants, no movies. No roses or candles or foreplay.

None of that normal, mundane shit. Not anymore.

It’s just this. This van. This backseat. This hideous carpet and those cheap vinyl seats that squeak every time the car rocks.

This strange, suspended limbo where you touch each other like it doesn’t mean anything—just habit born of frustration and boredom—only it’s getting harder each time to keep pretending that’s true.

The windows are fogged up like hell tonight, late-December air leaking in through the busted seal on the back door. It nips at your skin, makes you squirm, sends a chill sharp enough to forget the gnawing emptiness that’s slowly eating you both alive.

Your foot’s wedged up against the ply lining, his jacket bunched beneath your head in a makeshift pillow. His skin glistens with sweat, slick to the touch; boy runs hotter than a furnace, even in the dead of a Midwestern winter. You feel his palms burn against the back of your thighs when he hoists up your legs, hooking them around his waist.

If you close your eyes, if you pretend hard enough, you can drown out the high-pitched beeps bleeding through the headphones beside you. Replace the crackle of static with the desperate slap of skin on skin, the creak of the van as it rocks and shudders with each snap of his hips.       

But it's his voice that shatters your focus, his chest heaving against yours while he pants close to your ear:

“You know we’re—we’re not supposed to be doing this, right?”  

No shit.

It’s kind of funny, actually. You almost laugh.

But the sound that comes out of your throat is less a laugh and more a strangled exhale, one that’s cut off and jagged because, well, it’s a little difficult to make noise when he’s fucking into you this fast, this hard, his weight pinning your ribs to the carpet with barely any room for air.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you manage, voice thick with breath and taunting mirth. Your words get punched out in uneven bursts that match the frantic pace of his hips. “Did you want to stop so you can ask for permission?”

You tip your head back, glancing pointedly at the walkie sitting on the dash, then turn back to him with a smile so saccharine it's nearly cruel. Lips pouty, brows scrunched in mock sympathy, it’s all, Too much for you to handle, huh? Poor baby.   

It’s the same bullshit game. Every time.

You poke, you prod, you tease and you push, because he always has to push back. The suggestion that he can’t keep up, can’t fuck you good enough to hold your attention, that’s his hairpin trigger.

You feel it in the muscle running down his back, how it ripples under your fingers as his pace quickens, hips snapping harder.  

It used to fluster him. God, it used to make him sputter: pink cheeks, hand to the back of his neck, indignant little huffs and breathless excuses. Back then, a jab like that—must be losing your edge, huh, Harrington?—was enough to make him roll his eyes and pretend he didn’t care as much as he did.

But the end of the world has a way of sanding people down.

And Steve Harrington has been ground into something different.

Sharpened by way of dulling, it’s left him callous. Darkened his appetite where he once craved softness: vanilla sex, vanilla sweetness.

Now, he doesn’t flinch at sharp edges. Doesn’t crave the normal, mundane shit. Not like he used to.

“You’re really kind of—hah, fuck—insufferable, you know that?” He breathes, teeth dragging down the curve of your neck, lips sealing around your pulse point to suck. It’s not hard, doesn’t hurt, but it stings all the same when you realize he's keeping it gentle on purpose. Aiming for bruises soft enough to fade come morning. None of it ever meant to last.

“Insufferable, huh?” you murmur, laughter breathy and slurred as he grinds you down into the carpet. “Jeez, big word for a guy who—”

You don’t get to finish. Not when he shifts, driving up at an angle that has your back arching off the floor. The pressure makes you clench around him involuntarily, a sharp gasp torn from your throat.

“Who’s what?” He’s impossibly close now, nose to nose, every ragged breath he draws leaving you gasping for your own. His arms cage you in, sparing no room to squirm away as he quickens his pace. He’s zeroing in on one spot and one spot only, hitting deep enough to make your eyes sting, pressure winding tight in your stomach.    

“Finish it,” he murmurs, undercurrent of a command that has you clenching around him harder. “You had something to say, didn’t you? Say it then. Come on, baby.”

And it’s strange, isn’t it? This push-pull inside him. The way he taunts with a word so sweet and disarming as baby. The way he’s rubbing over your clit, caressing, really; two fingers, gentle circles and careful pressure. His other hand’s holding yours against the carpet, only he isn’t holding you down, no, he’s holding you in. Holding you close, holding onto you, fingers laced together, palm to palm.

And all the while, he’s got you pinned under his gaze. Staring down over the bridge of his nose, molten amber, sharp as broken glass, those eyes don’t miss a single thing. Sweat beads at his temples, hair falling into his eyes with every thrust as he tilts his head just so, predatory smile playing at his lips while he revels in the rapid flutter of your lashes, the way you struggle to return his gaze.

You squirm under the weight of it all, his attention, his intensity, the thick press of him nudging deep-deep-deeper inside.

"Yeah? Right there?"

He lets out a quiet sigh, almost a laugh, tongue lolling out to drag across his bottom lip. A flash of white teeth, a hairline fracture in flawless porcelain, it’s all mock sympathy; Too much for you to handle, huh? Poor baby.  

“You close already? Gonna come for me?”

“Shut u—oh my—fuck!"  

The pleasure slams into you all at once, more pain than relief. You clench around him like a vice, pulsing helplessly, squeezing, whimpering, endless waves of blinding-white heat crashing through you. The force of it cuts deep crimson half-moons across his skin.

“Shit!” He comes not a second later, collapsing onto his elbows and burying his cry into your mouth.

You’re still trembling through the tail-end of your orgasm when he slants his lips, licking into you, tongue sliding over yours in a slow, insistent rhythm that steals what little breath you have left. You’re too wrecked to question it, too gone to do anything but part your lips for him, panting wildly into the heat of his mouth. The aftershocks are making your whole body jolt, stomach tensing each time he draws out slowly before sinking back in, fingers refusing to let up on your throbbing clit.

He doesn’t stop talking afterward, either. Never does.

Quiet praises muffled against your lips, words tumbling free like he can’t hold any of it in:

Yeah, there you go. Keep coming. Let me feel it. So pretty, you know that? All fucked-out on my cock.

The blood’s rushing so fast past your ears it’s hard to hear much of it at all.

And yet, in the deafening roar of your own pulse, his words feel more real than anything he’s admitted in the light of day. 

That's it. All mine, just like this.

...

The Wild Cherry bubble pops in the quiet of the van.

A tacky patch of it clings stubbornly to the corner of your mouth, and you chase it with your tongue just to have something to do.  

The van smells like warm vinyl and sweat. Crisp deodorant. Steve’s shampoo.

Heat still clings to your skin in places you don’t want to acknowledge. Your thighs tack slightly against the faux leather when you shift.

Another pop of the bubblegum punctuates the silence like a starting pistol, restlessness coiling in your stomach until it snaps into confession:

“I think we should establish some rules.”

Steve freezes mid-page flip. For a guy who acts like nothing rattles him anymore, he’s still a stickler for order. Rules are the anchor he clings to when everything else is falling to shit.

His eyes snap to you.

“Rules?” he repeats. “For what?”

As if he doesn’t know.

You don’t bother answering, just let your gaze drift to the back.

The place where you’ve been making all your worst decisions since Crawl #4.

The ridiculous, shag-carpeted shrine where your self-control goes to die on its knees. Where Steve Harrington’s mouth has done just about everything, including the thing Rule #3 is about to outlaw in permanent ink.

He follows your gaze, blinking once, twice. His jaw tightens so sharply you can hear his teeth click.

Looking back, that should’ve been your first warning.

But you, idiot that you are, reach into the glove box instead, pulling out the beat-up WSQK notepad with the frayed spiral and the coffee stain on the cover.

You start writing.

Rule #1: No talking about it outside the van. Rule #2: No touching once we’re done. Rule #3: No kissing. Rule #4: This e—

“—Woah, okay, hold on—give me that.” He snatches the notebook from you mid-scribble, lifting it up to read.

His eyes skim the list, and you watch his expression shift in real time.

Steve Harrington has never been good at hiding his face. It’s always been a little unfair to him, expressive in ways he’d probably kill to tone down. He tries to school it now, but you catch everything.

Confusion. Disbelief. Annoyance.  

“No talking… fine, whatever,” he mutters, eyes darting back and forth. “No touching once we’re—” He squints, incredulous. “No kissing?”

He looks up at you then, blinking like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“But... we did that already. Like, a lot.”

You clear your throat. “Yeah. That’s why we’re making this list now.”

Something in his expression pinches, subtle but sharp. “Right. Sure. I mean, yeah. Makes sense if you were... if you weren’t into it.”  

You shake your head, unconsciously mirroring the divot between his brows. “It’s not about that, Steve. I just… I don’t want this turning complicated, that’s all.”

He scoffs, quick and humorless. “Yeah, 'cause there’s nothing complicated about this, right? What, a whole legal contract just so we can... make out in a van?”

“Make out?” you echo, raising a brow.

He reddens. “You know what I mean.”

Wordlessly, you pry the notebook from his hands and finish writing the last rule.

Rule #4: This ends when the Crawls end.   

He falls silent. Stares at that line for a long time.

Long enough that you start to wonder if he’s about to laugh, or call this whole thing off, or just climb out of the van and never look back.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes aren’t the same. They’re muddled, knotted, dark with something you’ll never be able to put words to.

“The hell does that mean?” he asks quietly.  

“It means… when the Crawls are done, this stops.” you say, equally quiet.

He blinks, slow. Once at you. Once at the notebook.

His head drops again, nostrils flaring in a tiny, sharp breath.

The page crinkles under his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice low. “Okay. Rules. Sure.”

That should’ve quieted the ache inside you. It only stirs it up worse.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the page, jaw working quietly as he idly spins the plastic ring along the spine.

He draws in a breath.

“Except, just—” He falters, swallowing it back with a light shrug. “That third one seems kinda unrealistic, don’t you think?”

You tip your head, letting your voice lilt playfully. “Why, you don’t think you could do it?"

His eyes snap to yours, quick, sharp, the dim light doing nothing to soften the way he's glaring.

You hold his stare for all of one, two, three seconds before he huffs and looks away, eyes rolling to the ceiling.   

Without looking at you, he thrusts his hand out. “Gimme the pen.”

You place it in his palm.

Jaw tight, he bends over the page and scribbles something fast at the very bottom, the scratch of the pen hissing sharp.

You don’t see what he’s added until he tosses the notebook back into your lap.

And later—when the weight of your own choice collapses in on itself and you’re left trying to make sense of the pieces—you’ll remember the way his hand trembled.

You’ll remember the tight press of his lips. The quiet, swallowed words he never let out.

And you’ll realize this was the moment where things truly went wrong.

Two letters. Pressed so hard into the paper you can feel them from the other side.

S.H.  

Aside from you, him, and the night nurse tucked behind the registration desk, the hospital waiting room was a total wasteland. Steve hadn't known it was possible for Hawkins to have so few emergencies. And, terrible as he knew it was, he actually wished there were a few more right about now.

He needed noise. Something to distract him from your erratic footfalls and the dull hum coming from the TV hanging in the corner, playing outdated commercials on a loop.

Reach out and touch someone, coaxed the pretty housewife in an AT&T ad.

Steve curled his fingers into the sides of his shirt, nails scraping over his ribs. Can't you see that's what I'm trying not to do? he wanted to ask her.

He wanted to reach out.

He wanted to lay a hand on your arm. Give you his sweetest smile. Promise that everything would be okay.

It didn't matter that he didn't know that for a fact. That his medical license was nonexistent and his track record as a successful psychic was, well, also nonexistent. He would promise anyways. And if things turned out to be not okay, he would find a way to make them okay.

But Steve liked having fingers. And touching you without permission was a surefire way to lose a few.

So he kept his arms folded over his stomach. Watched your shoes bounce, ignored the housewife's bad advice, and slipped into the molasses-thick torment of his own never-ending thoughts.

How well do you have to know someone before you can offer comfort that helps instead of hurts? Steve would've guessed Vaguely-Acquainted-via-Small-town-Lifestyle-and-Shared-Trauma-at-the-Hands-of-Freaky-Nightmare-Creatures would've been well enough, but had no doubt you would disagree.

He stole a glance at you from the corner of his eye.

God...was it weird to think you looked beautiful like this? Legs bouncing, gnawing on your thumbnail? Glaring holes through the double-doors labeled Authorized Personnel Only like they'd just smashed your brother's camera, and you were definitely about to kick their ass for it.

Steve was familiar with that glare.

Steve dreamed about that glare.

That was the moment he'd started trickling into love with you, he was pretty sure. When you found him two days after the camera incident, caught the front of his polo in your fist and pulled him so close that the tips of your noses nearly brushed. His face was already bruised from Jonathan's right hook, and with the way you were growling at him, he should've been worried that Little Byers had come to make the damage permanent.

But he hadn't been worried.

He had been too focused on the cute way your upper lip curled with every threat. How every hue in your eyes swirled together to make his new favorite color.

And when you walked away, he knew — knew — that from that moment on, he would do anything to stay the subject of your attention.

Steve frowned at the double-doors. Was it weird to feel jealous of a couple of hunks of wood and steel?

Uh, yeah, he answered himself. Totally insane, actually.

Before he could try to shake any further sense into himself, you slammed your Chucks down on the linoleum hard enough to make him flinch. To no in particular, you shouted, "Holy shit — is everyone here just fucking terrible at their jobs or does it actually take two-fucking-hours to figure out if someone's dying?"

Steve fought the urge to smile at you. Mouth like a sailor and a heart like a man-eating mermaid. You were the whole package, really.

Unfortunately the night nurse didn't seem to agree. She paused mid-crossword puzzle to shoot you a sharp look through her colorful, thick rimmed glasses before slamming the frosted divider shut.

In his head, Steve could hear the gritty voice of his old basketball coach during a bad fourth quarter. You're up, Harrington! Blow it and this whole team goes to hell.

Double unfortunate, since Steve had a bad habit of blowing things when it came to you.

"Hey..." His voice was practically a whisper, his hands pinned firmly against his ribs as he watched you for any sign of reaction. "No one's dying, okay? Will's a strong kid. He's gonna be just fine."

Your head snapped his way. The look on your face was terrifying enough to make the demogorgon blush.

"Oh yeah? And when did you earn your doctorate, princess? Before or after finishing high school with a negative GPA?"

Youch.

He took a long, steadying breath. This was fine. You had a right to be upset right now, and Steve had experience dealing with childish outbursts.

"Kids get sick," he told you calmly. "It's probably the flu! Dustin had it a few weeks ago. Maybe Will picked it up from—"

"Did Dustin sweat literal buckets, all but vomit up his own intestines, and then pass out on your bedroom floor?"

"Well, no, but—"

You cut him off with a razor-thin smile. "Then shut up."

You slumped back into your seat. The double-doors won your attention back and your dirty Chucks resumed their worried beat.

Steve felt like an idiot. Good news was that if he was an idiot, then Dustin was, too.

This whole thing had been the kid's idea anyhow.

"She's terrified!" Dustin cried when Steve answered his call, so loud he winced and pulled the phone back from his ear. "Apparently she already checked the Wheelers' and Jonathan's not there, and their mom's working another late shift and you already know that Melvald's phone doesn't work for shit."

Steve hadn't known that, actually, but he did interrupt with a stern Language, Henderson! that Dustin decidedly ignored.

"She wanted to see if I could get Mom to take 'em, which honestly speaks v o l u m e s about how terrified she is, because I've always thought she kinda hated my mom for all those comments about the holes in her jeans, which like, fair, ya know? Anyways, she wanted Mom to come get them, but I told her that wouldn't work because its already past eight, so you know Mom's already down at the library with her fellow knitters." Steve didn't like what it said about his social life that he did know that much. "I told her I could try calling, but that the odds of any of those old bats hearing the phone were pretty much slim to—"

"Dustin."

"Hm?"

"Not that this isn't riveting stuff, buddy, but maybe you should take us back a few steps and tell me what's got her terrified?"

The past few years had prepared Steve for something World Ending Awful. Who was dying? How many of the kids were involved? Did he have time to get his bat? Had demodogs somehow infected all of Hawkins with demorabies or something?

So, when Dustin had simply replied with "Will's sick," Steve had been a little shocked.

Not so shocked that he didn't immediately reach for his keys, though.

"Now's your chance!" Dustin cried before Steve hung up. "Saddle up, cowboy! Show her your good side! Make her love you!"

Steve hadn't bothered reminding him that all his sides were good. Maybe because he didn't believe it. Maybe because he knew you wouldn't, either.

At the risk of getting his head bitten off, Steve sighed and sat up straight. "Hungry?" he asked you.

"Nope."

"Thirsty?"

"Nope."

"How about—"

Your Chucks stopped bouncing. "You were on the swim team, right?"

Steve hesitated. This was a good sign, right? Changing topics, showing interest in him?

"Uh, yeah. I was, actually."

You nodded your head real slow. "Makes sense."

"What does?"

You gave him another smile, sickly sweet, yet sharp enough to cut straight through his chest. "Why you ask such stupid questions," you told him. "All that time spent holding your breath must've fucked with your brain."

Double youch.

Forget feeling like an idiot. Steve felt like a kid again, ashamed and embarrassed, learning to forge his parents' signatures so they wouldn't see his report cards or discipline letters and wonder why their little boy was so damned bad at everything.

Not that his parents would've ever been home long enough to sign anything for him anyway.

Nor would they have ever called him their little boy.

Steve pushed to his feet. Refused to look anywhere but at you, equally entranced and terror-stricken by that glare he never stopped dreaming about. Push me all you want, he wanted to tell you, but you'll never push me away.

Steve didn't know why you still hated him. But he knew what it was like to be too afraid to let people close to you — and how disappointing it was when no one cared to put in the effort to try.

"Come on," he said.

You gave him a look. "If you think I'm leaving Will, you're out of your goddamn—"

"We're not leaving." He wasn't as close to Will as he was the other kids, but he'd never leave any of them anywhere. "But we are going to the cafeteria. So come on, get up and get moving, tiger." When you still didn't move, staring at him like he just suggested going out back to swallow a family of porcupines, he added, "Now."

You stood up. No protests, no Fuck you, princess.

Steve hoped he did a good job masking his shock.

"Do you even know where the cafeteria is?"

Nope.

But that hadn't stopped Steve from leading the way, letting his (yep, very much so nonexistent) psychic intuition guide the two of you down several empty white halls, silently hoping to come across a directory.

"It's gotta be around here somewhere," he said. Because yeah, it did have to be somewhere.

You clicked your tongue. "Astute observation, genius."

Steve sighed and kept walking. He didn't know what else to do.

You were several feet behind him, and had been since leaving the waiting room. At first Steve had thought that maybe he'd been walking too fast; Dustin often told him as much, though rather than fall behind like you were, the little asshole would usually just shout out: Hey fartwaffle! My legs are shorter than yours, remember?

A growing knot in his stomach had told Steve that any insult you came up with would've been far less loving than Fartwaffle.

So, in an effort to avoid the much unwanted sequel to Oxygen Deprivation is the Reason for Your Obvious Faults, he'd slowed down so you could catch up.

You'd started walking slower, instead.

Following him around a corner into yet another long, white, empty hallway, you asked him, "Are you even hungry?"

"Starved," he lied.

When Dustin had called saying you and Will needed a ride to the hospital, Steve had actually just finished dinner. A TV dinner on a TV tray, pulled right on up to — you'll never guess it — the TV.

The American dream, he thought miserably, cold mush and bad sitcoms.

For a good minute, there was only the scuff of your shoes dragging over linoleum. Steve imagined you were glaring at the back of his head — maybe thinking about how good his hair looked, but probably not — flipping through potential insults to use against him like they were options in a jukebox.

He was starting to look forward to hearing what you'd pick. Would it be an attack on his brains or his personality? Definitely not his looks. If he was lucky, you might even pick something that would piss you off enough to grab him by the shirt again. He wouldn't mind having you touch him.

In his head, he could hear Dustin making a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff. You need therapy, dude.

But when you finally spoke, it was with nothing more than casual curiosity. "Is the cafeteria even open this late?"

Huh. He hadn't considered that.

"I don't know," he admitted. Then, spinning around to face you, walking backwards with a charming smile on his face: "But hey, bright side! Even if it's not, vending machines are always 24/7, right?"

You didn't look impressed by his optimism. Or his ability to walk backwards without stumbling.

"You do know we've passed about a dozen of those already. Right?"

You were mocking him. And grossly exaggerating the number of vending machines you'd passed.

Steve decided to let both things slide. "None of 'em what I wanted."

You snorted at him. "And what's the princess in the mood for?" you taunted. "A five-star meal and a bottle of chardonnay?"

His smile faltered first. Then he turned around, kept walking, walking, determined not to bite. They just have to get it out of their system, he told himself. It's not about me. They're just worried about Will, and I'm as good a target as any. Except maybe it was about him, at least a little bit. Not just any target, their favorite target...

You kept going. "What, is chardonnay not good enough for you? Too lowbrow?"

He kept walking.

"How about champagne?"

He kept walking.

"Or is that even lower brow?"

He kept walking.

"Maybe you should just ditch Will and I."

He stopped walking.

"Find some place nice," you drawled, "tell 'em to whip you up something fancy, like a Negroni with orange peels imported from—"

He turned to face you. And his expression must've been serious enough, because it got you to stop talking. "I don't drink," he said, a tinge of annoyance slipping through; he hadn't had a drop since babysitting had become more important (and fulfilling) than partying every weekend. "And unless you consider a nuked Swanson meal to be five-stars, the 'princess' isn't eating any better than the peasants, alright?"

"Are you calling me a peasant?"

"No!" But he'd certainly stepped right into that one, hadn't he? "No, because in this scenario—" he motioned a bit too wildly between the two of you, frustration trumping sanity "—you would be the evil witch who lives in the woods and makes stew out of innocent children, convincing alllllll the townsfolk that every nice guy is secretly out for their turnips or something!"

Your brows pinched together. "Wait, what? Why turnips? An why am I making stew? Why not pie, or casserole, or—"

"Because no one likes casserole!"

"I like casserole!"

Steve threw his hands up, laughing, like that was his last straw. "Of course you like casserole. Of course!"

You drew a breath through your nostrils. "Fine," you said, clearly offended. "I'll make pie, then."

"Fine! You're an evil witch who makes pie out of innocent children and I — without any ulterior turnip motives! — wander through the woods with Chef Swanson wondering what in the ever-loving hell I'm supposed to do to make the witch forgive me for—" what, exactly?

He'd already apologized to Jonathan for the camera incident. Had even bought him a new one to smooth things over!

But there was something else. There had to be! Something he'd done that had made you hate him so much that nothing, absolutely nothing he did could ever make you feel anything for him but pure vitriolic loathing.

You were going to hit him.

He was sure of it — more sure than he'd ever been of anything. Your pretty hands were already curled into fists at your sides. And honestly? Fair. Steve was man enough to admit he'd maybe lost his cool a little, calling you a child-eating witch or whatever. If Dustin were here, he'd probably tell him he'd graduated from Fartwaffle to Diarrheamuffin in a second flat — and Steve would have to agree.

So he closed his eyes. Waited, and hoped you hadn't inherited your brother's nasty right hook.

But the hit never came.

He only heard you sigh. "You're such an idiot, Steve Harrington."

The words played on a loop in his head. Not the idiot part, surprisingly, but his name. Steve Harrington. He was pretty sure this was the first time you had ever said his name. And he was absolutely positive that he would remember for the rest of forever how your voice had curled around every consonant, making every letter sound prettier than it was.

He peeked an eye open to find you wearing an expression he couldn't read. "Uh, yeah," he said. "You may've mentioned that before."

Your snort came dangerously close to a laugh. "Clearly not enough." Placing a hand on your hip, you asked him, "Do you really not remember?"

Steve tried to think.

But all he ended up thinking of was those scammy game shows Dustin's mom liked, where whenever a contestant got an answer wrong they'd sound off that huge, embarrassing buzzer.

If the two of you were in some brightly colored studio instead of a dim hospital hallway, Steve was sure the look you were giving him —annoyed, vaguely pitying — would've definitely been the sound guy's cue to hit the buzzer.

You sighed and shook your head. "Forget about it," you said. "Let's just find the—"

"I'm sorry."

Did those words mean anything on their own? Steve didn't think so. They were empty until you gave them meaning, and he had full intent to give them meaning, but his mind was moving so fast and words started spewing up his throat like holding onto them for even another second would kill him.

"For everything, alright? All the stuff with your brother and his camera and—I don't hate Jonathan! And him and Nance are great together, alright, so there's no bad blood or ill will or anything, okay? I'm even sorry for hating on casserole! And for calling you a witch, because you're not a witch, and even if you were you'd probably be some really pretty witch who makes all the other witches wish they could do something about the boils on their noses, alright? So just..." He dragged a hand through his hair, catching a breath. "I'm sorry. Really sorry."

In his head, Dustin's groan of Oh, brother! overlapped with Robin's hiss of Stop talking, dingus! And Steve was sure they were right. He'd blown this, just like he'd blown everything else with you.

But then it happened.

One corner of your mouth curved upwards. Not much. Not enough to count as a real smile, but...close.

And Steve knew. Knew that he would keep talking for the rest of his life, say all the dumbest stuff he could come up with, if it meant you'd keep almost-smiling at him.

He took a half step closer to you.

You didn't back away.

"Tell me," he promised, "and I'll say I'm sorry as many times as you need me to."

Every hour, every minute, every second. He'd apologize until his tongue felt like sandpaper and his throat ached around every syllable. And when his failed, he'd write it out over and over and over again in his best handwriting.

Because you deserved that much.

Because even if you didn't, he would've still wanted to do it for you.

Because he admired you, dammit. How you would do anything to keep Jonathan from being the butt of a joke. How you were always there for Nance and Robin and all your other friends. How you had taken all this Upside Down bullshit on the chin, constantly swallowing fear by the mouthful to keep Will safe.

He even admired how you hated him. Because at least you were consistent.

Steve liked consistency.

You drew a long breath through your nostrils. Wrapped your arms tight around your middle and stared down at your Chucks in a rare display of uncertainty.

Steve prepared himself for the truth. To learn whatever egregious, unforgivable sin he had committed against you.

"It happened in first grade."

Oh, sweet mother of—

"Seriously?" Steve was trying not to laugh. But to find out that mean Little Byers had been nursing a grudge against him since the days of Froot Loops and sappy cups? Oh, that was just too rich. Double chocolate cake with extra icing type rich!

"So you hate me," he clarified, "because of something I did when I was, what, seven?"

"It was a bad thing!" you cried, cheeks already turning red.

He nodded thoughtfully. "For sure, for sure; cause everyone knows seven year olds are evil little devils known for committing emotional warcrimes with crayons and fart jokes."

You scoffed at him. "You know what, if you're just gonna be a dick about it—" you went to turn around.

Steve caught you by the elbow, sputtering, Waitwaitwait!

"No more jokes." He lifted his free hand in a solemn three-finger vow. "Scouts honor."

"Were you even in the Boy Scouts?"

No. "Maybe."

You rolled your eyes at him. "You're lying."

He couldn't help but smile. He loved that you could tell.

"C'mon." He gave your elbow a light squeeze, surprised when you didn't immediately yank it away from him. "Tell me about first grade."

You did.

It had been the year of the Lovebug Boogie Bash. The two of you'd had different teachers, and yours had decided to make her whole class cut out heart-shaped cards from pink construction paper, write their very original poem inside, and give it to whoever they wanted to ask to be their date.

"Worst part," you told him, "is that I was actually sort of excited about it. I spent all morning on that stupid card, and I even liked the stupid poem I wrote."

Steve didn't like how sad you sounded.

He didn't like that even though he had no memory of it, he already knew who you'd asked to the Lovebug Boogie Bash.

You gave him a thin smile. "I gave you the card at lunch. You read it, then got up on the table and recited my poem for the whole school. Apparently you ripped it in half after that, but I don't know if that's true; Jonathan pulled me out into the hall before you'd even finished reading, so."

Shit.

Steve didn't know how long he stood there. Mouth open, still holding your elbow, trying to think of something, anything, to say.

"I—"

"Ms. Byers!"

The air shifted, the hallway suddenly far less intimate as a doctor rounded the corner behind you. You spun to face him. When you didn't immediately bombard the guy with questions about Will, Steve wondered if you were also hung up on how much the guy looked like Orville Redenbacher.

"Good news," announced Dr. Movie Theater Butter. "Your brother is awake and keeping fluids down."

You visibly sagged with relief. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"A simple flu," he answered kindly.

Since you weren't facing him anymore, Steve didn't bother hiding his I told you so grin.

Redenbacher went on, "Now, to err on the side of caution, I would like to give him another IV to stave the effects of dehydration. But afterwards he'll be all ready to go home, so if you would like to head back to the waiting area to get started on his discharge paper—"

"Can I see him?" you asked.

Dr. Movie Theater Butter gave no objections. Having offered to show the two of you to Will's room, Steve followed at a distance until he spotted a directory on the wall, where he then quietly slipped away to find his way back to the waiting room.

Those discharge papers weren't going to fill themselves out.

Will was asleep within seconds of Steve helping him from the wheelchair into the back of his BMW.

You were worried about how exhausted he was, but Dr. Movie Theater Butter had assured you this was normal for the flu. At that, Steve had wanted to tell him about the anomaly that was Dustin Henderson, who — when sick with the same strain, more than likely — had seemed even more hyper than usual.

He relented only because Will was already dozing off, and you were giving him that pursed-lip smile that said Go on, princess, brag on Dustin like you're his little soccer mom.

Steve closed the car door as gently as he could.

When he turned around, he found you looking down at your dirty Chucks, toeing a loose chunk of asphalt.

Moonlight shined over your face. A soft breeze rustled your hair.

It wasn't weird to think you looked beautiful like this.

Steve thought you looked beautiful all the time.

Eventually you muttered, "Thanks."

"For?"

You opened your mouth, then paused, as if a thousand words had rushed to the tip of your tongue and you had no clue how to actually say any of them.

"Everything," you decided. And everything was more than enough.

But Steve decided to feign consideration anyway. "I don't know." He clicked his tongue. "I don't think that's good enough."

Your head shot up, brow furrowed.

He explained, "I'm mad at you. See, you—" he pointed "—had access to all sorts of goodies to prep for the Lovebug Booger Bash—"

"Boogie."

"—but I," he touched a hand to his chest, "was extremely limited. So basically what I'm saying is that if this sucks, blame Tonya, okay?"

Steve wasn't sure he'd ever seen you look so confused. It was cute, though no more than your usual man-eating grimace. "Who the hell is Tonya?" you asked.

"Mean night nurse whose crossword you interrupted. Once I finished Will's discharge papers, I had to ask her for a piece of copy paper. And scissors. And a pen. And a dictionary so I could try to find something that rhymed with 'rose,' but..." He pulled the paper from his back pocket. "Dictionary was a no-go," he warned you, "so have a little grace, yeah?"

It was, unarguably, a very bad card.

The scissors Tonya had given him were so dull that cutting felt like a job for He-Man, making it look less like a heart and more like a brand-new shape no one had ever heard of before. He'd drawn more hearts on the front to try zhuzh it up, and stars that, no matter how hard he tried, kept coming out sort of wonky. It probably didn't help that it was littered with chicken-scrawl patient notes from Tonya — a HIPAA violation, probably.

But on the front in his very best handwriting, he'd written: Picked your nose in the last ten years?

You took the card.

Opened it.

Read it.

Steve tried ignoring the sound of his own heart racing. Tried to wait for you to collect your thoughts, to be the first to speak, to decide on your own how this interaction ought to go.

He failed miserably.

"I know we never found the cafeteria, but if you want me to lift you up on top of the car, you could—"

You started reciting the poem he'd written on the inside. "Roses are red, violets are blue. I know I'm a decade late, but I'd like to pick your boogers too." Your eyes lifted to his, totally unreadable.

Steve chucked while rubbing the back of neck. "Ol' Willy Shakes would probably kill for lines like mine."

"Shakespeare's rolling his grave." You held the card up. "This is awful. Like, finding out Leia is Luke's sister type awful!"

"Who?"

"Return of the Jedi?"

"Return of the Whosawhatsit?

You looked more aghast at that than the card. "You've never seen Star Wars?"

Of course he had; one didn't graduate from the Dustin Henderson School of Babysitting without a minor in George Lucas. But it was more fun to get under your skin, so he shrugged instead of saying that.

You shook your head, reeling, before discarding that argument for another. "And what's with the booger talk? You do know there's a difference between boogie and booger, don't you?"

"Pretty sure they're synonymous."

"No they're not."

He stepped closer, playfully bumping your arm with the back of his hand. "Remember when I asked for grace?"

"Remember when you humiliated me before the Lovebug Boogie Bash?"

"Nope, but the Booger Bash rings a few bells."

You laughed, and Steve wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or having the best night of his entire life. "There's no hope for you," you said, "is there, Harrington?"

He felt his cheeks getting warm. "Probably not," he admitted.

Your fingers absently traced over the card's jagged edges. Steve studied every inch of your face. Admiring it, searching it, wondering what clues Nance looked for to be able to read Jonathan so well.

Did you forgive him? Had he at least a taken a step in the right direction?

You pressed the card against your chest, then glanced through the back window at Will's sleeping form. "We should get going," you said softly.

Steve nodded and opened the car door for you. Forgiveness could wait another night.

He'd wait a million if that's what it took.

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

probably ooc, probably a million errors, but i'm just vibin.

Nam-gyu could taste colours.

He's quite sure that if he jumped off a high enough ledge, he'd fly.

Ever since they entered the gameroom with its low ceiling and labrinth streets, he's been on a bender unlike any other. A bender he's struggling to enjoy in its entirety because something almost akin to a conscience has been niggling away at him ever since he ran into you during Hide and Seek.

He was straddling a corpse, playing in its blood while Myung-gi called for him to hurry up.

You'd run into the same alley. You and your frightened eyes and your red vest clean of blood. He'd been smiling but that's because his face couldn't conjure up any other expression even if he tried.

And he did try.

He tried stepping towards you. Only to show you how to properly hold that knife you carried with such uncertainty.

But you'd already fled.

He knew you didn't have it in you to kill anyone.

That's why he was doing this. He was a good boyfriend.

"I don't get why we can't just kill it" Myung-gi watches with displeased eyes as Nam-gyu drags the living body of a middle aged man through the

He's stalling their movements significantly trying to pull the man whose own legs have no use for him now. Nam-Gyu made sure they weren't working. He made sure the man could not run. But he also made sure the man wasn't dead.

Nam-gyu's still twitchy, from the pills and from all the blood. It could've been so easy to stick another knife inside a hot body- it would've been way more fun. But then he thought of you. Your wide eyed gaze. Your trembling hand around the whimsical dagger.

That's when he stopped himself. That's when he whispered, to the frightened old man in the blue vest, “I'm not gonna be the one to do it,”

He could've killed this man. He could have watched the knife sink right through his blue vest.

He giggles to himself. Thinking about those corpses and their doll-like eyes. Their comatose little bodies. The fear. The peace.

"Thing is," he's speaking without noticing he's speaking. Nam-gyu drags the man through the ground like he's lugging a sack of potatoes. Like they don't have 15 minutes left in the game.

The man is either infuriatingly heavy or Nam-gyu's too high- it's proving to be a Herculean task even with his two hands on the collar of the old man's shirt. Myung-gi doesnt slow down his very serious gait but he cranes his ear back. "I kinda... like," Nam-gyu giggles to himself, still trying to find the space between reason and hallucination, "I kinda fucked things with my girl when I-" he rolls his eyes, "killed that bitch Se-mi," he groans as he pulls the man closer to an already open door. A dead end. "So now I kinda have to make up for that. You're in love too, you get it."

"You dont know what love is," says Myung-gi and before Nam-gyu enters the dead end door he looks at the man, chest rising snd falling from all that heavy lefiting. "Why would you say something so hurtful- and so true?"

"Why are we stopping here-"

"Tonight I'm gonna need her." Nam-gyu says, kicking the metal door further open to reveal you cowering in the corner of a dimly lit room. Dragon flies are painted across the wall and yet you're crouched like a shy little beetle in the corner. Nam-gyu nearly stops himself from cooing.

"I get antsy at night." He says, turning back to Myung-gi who regards you with a pitiful gaze. "Im so sick of jerking off-"

"Stop talking."

"I needed to get her a gift." Nam-gyu gestures wildly at the old man he's lugged across the streets, the man with wild eyes and broken legs.

He drops the man's collar and the blue vest's head hits the ground with a loud thud.

Nam-gyu's already walking towards you in the corner.

"Here, babe, I've brought you a gift-"

You're out of it. Spiraling. Cradling your legs. Trying to tell yourself this was never supposed to be about hurting others. It was only supposed to be about surviving. And now, here you were, face-to-face with the very reason you're in these games anyway.

"What am I supposed to do with him, Nam-gyu."

"Isn't it obvious?" He crouches down in front of you. Over Nam-gyu's shoulder, you notice his accomplice, player 333 looking immeasurably ill.

"Kill him, silly," as soon as Nam-gyu's words drop, Player 333 steps out of the room, murmuring lowly under his breath. Soon its just you, an old man pleading for his life and Nam-gyu.

You're shaking your head when your eyes meet that of the man you're supposed to kill.

Round.

Wide.

His fight or flight activated and going crazy. Someone who's prepared themselves for their own impromptu death.

Nam-gyu, still crouching in front of you, drags your face back to him by the tip of his finger.

He's blood soaked and crazy but familiar. His presence grounds you.

"I'd rather they gun me down-" the words dont leave your mouth before hes clamping your mouth shut with his hand. His mood is like a switch. Gone is his smile.

"Dont do that." He says, "babe, don't do that- I fucking killed that bitch, Se-mi, now you wanna suffer the same fate?"

Your words are muffled through his mouth but your tears spill over his hands "We're all going to hell anywayI-" your mind is flooded with Bible verses. Church sermons. All of them from your childhood. All of them condemning you. They're kickstarting a wave of panic and regret and shame and you're falling. You're drowning.

"Babe," he cradles your face once more, his thumbs drifting over yojr tear streaked cheeks, "Hell? We're already here. This is it, okay? I'm just gonna need you to be a big girl and do this one big thing for me." You look over his shoulder and you see the man's eyes, pleading. He could've tried to crawl to the door. He could've tried. But he's smart enough to know when he's right between the predator's jaws."

"What did you have out there, Princess? Hm?" Nam-gyu's still cradling your face like a baby. His bloodshot eyes are still gazing down at you like you hung the moon. His hands are trembling and he's leaving blood on your cheeks but you listen.

"A junkie boyfriend who left me in crippling debt?" You ask,

"Ok, I deserved that-"

You've avoided Nam-gyu since the lights out massacre. Since he lost himself to this place. And now, here you were, needing reassurance from the worst possible voice of reason. His eyes tracked your movements ever since hide and seek began. It was almost like a mirror of when you two were dating outside the games. The only difference is, he had been the liability then, with the shifty eyes, you'd save him...

This time he promised he'd save you.

"But you forgot something," he leans in closer until his lips graze your ear. For once you're feeling something other than fear. Other than existential doom. When he whispers his next words, gone is all hope for your humanity.

"That asshole who raped you," his voice is gentle, "Made you loose your job? I killed him."

Your brows furrow and you try to pull back but he's smelling your hair now, patting down on your braids like you mean something to him. Like you're a thing he's enjoying playing with.

"You what?"

"Yeah babe, you think I'd let him rape you and get you fired? I was a shit boyfriend, yes. But I loved you out there, and I love you in he-"

In between his words that resurrected all the ghosts of the outside world, everything that landed you in this hell in the first place, you'd detangled yourself from his limbs. By the time Nam-gyu finished his confession- about the disappearance of your boss right after you lost your job- your knife was already digging clean through the blue players vest, already unwrapping Nam-gyu's little present.

Just one kill and it saved you from yet another game.

You're out of it

Unable to look away.

The world is still.

The knife feels stable, like it's being held between two boulders.

You now know what it feels like to kill someone but before you can really drown in it, you hear his voice boom behind you

“Jesus fuck! That was so hot, did you see its eyes?!” He's pacing on unsteady feet across the room,” biting at his fingernails before crouching down beside you.

“Babe you need to see its eyes when you do it, that's the best part fuck-” you watch with wide eyes as something foreign overtakes Nam-gyu's entire being. You'd only seen him like this one other time. The lights out massacre. When he stabbed that girl over and over.

Now he's trying to open the eyelids of a corpse, as if you weren't sitting there.

“Fuck, he's already gone,” hes slapping at the corpses cheek but yku look down at your blood soaked hands bleeding heavily.

“It's okay,” he says, speaking louder than he needs to, “It's okay, Princess, we'll get another one-” You're about to protest but he's already standing up, dragging you off the floor in the process. His hands are cold and trembling in yours.

His lips are dry and warm as they pepper kisses all over your face.

“Which means-” more and more kisses- and maybe even a lick- “we have ro be really quick yeah?”

“Quick with what-”

He's already pulling his pants down far enough to pull himself out and your eyes widen as you step back. His pupils are blown. Two obsidian orbs, like the death in the room was another pill to him

“Y-You wanna have sex now?” You gesture wildly, “Here?”

He steps closer until he's completely made your personal space, his own. You turn your head away but he's breathing right against your cheek, plastering his body to you, “I need to fuck you,”

“Gyu-” he's twitchy and his words are slurred, and he's grinding against you with the urgency of a desperate man.

“Please-” he pushes your hair away messily, kissing up the side of your neck, “Play with me just for a bit, hm? Look at how pretty you look with all that blood on you-fuck-” he chuckles lowly, bringing your hand down until you're wrapping it around his exposed cock. “I nearly came watching you do it…” he whispers, squeezing your hand around his cock, “C'mon there's no one here…”

“There's a corpse right there-”

“He's not here anymore.” he's stroking himself using your hand. A part of you wishes you'd be more disgusted. A part of you wishes your moral code was still intact. But the body betrays. And right now your cunt is leaking while your boyfriend with his wild eyes jerks himself off with your hand, as if you were an object. “C'mon, please,”

You're not even sure why his asking anymore. His other hand is already mapping out the contours of your hips, already slipping under your shirt to paw at your breasts

You gasp when he pushes himself between your legs humping frantically against you as he pebbles your nipple between his thumb and index.

“Need it so bad, Princess, please,”

Your hand around his cock isn't even moving anymore, his hips are pushing forward in an act that has your mind slipping.

“I could fuck you like this,” he mumbles, “-without actually fucking you…”

You moan out loud, back arching off the wall, “I swear I'd cum,” he says, “That's how bad I want it-”

“Are you… Nam-gyu are you high?” You try to grapple onto reason with both hands because you were sinking fast. Your eyes were heavy lidded and you were jerking him off now on your own accord.

“Mm, and horny, babe I need it. Don't tell me you don't need it-”

“He spits on his hand before making it disappear through the waistband of your sweats-”

“Jesus this pussy-” in your hand, his cock twitches, right when his cold fingers make contact with your cunt, slick with its own arousal.

“Y-You're disgusting-” you try to say. As if your hips weren't rolling against his hand, as if you didn't drag your hand up and down the length of his shaft.

“Only for you-” his eyes roll back, “I'll be whatever you want me to be,” he says before dipping down to whisper. “I'd live inside you if I could-” That alone has your mind descending further and further into this pit of hellfire you're both swimming in.

“That's it,” his hand rubs circles around your clit. Fast, demanding circles that have you wincing, “Your pussy wants me so bad. You want me so bad I’m- fuck-” Its like he’s not talking to you and that alone makes you delirious.

“Gonna let me cum inside?”

Right when you're on the edge of it all, right when your about to cum, it stops. He's pulling your pants down- slotting himself messily between his legs before he brings his hand under your mouth.

“Spit.” He says, “Spit for me baby quickly.”

You do.

And when he uses it to lube up his cock your head hollows itself of all reason. You need him just as badly and soon, you're bucking upwards, guiding his cock in.

Through the slightly open door, your heart screams. Helpless, violent screams, and for a moment you delude yourself into believing you really have died and gone to hell.

But now the head of his cock is slicing right through you. He stabs you with it, slamming himself in until he's fully sheathed inside you. Your hand paws at his back. You wish he was shirtless so you can sink your nails into his back. Bring him closer. Until you've consumed him whole.

“You're pussy's so good- fuck. Between this, and the pills… Don't know which is better, baby-” he's already fucjing you at a quick and desperate pace against the wall. He lifts your leg up by hooking a hand under your thigh, only slotting himself in deeper.

With his other hand, he lifts the knife up. He lets it glint under the fluorescents. He lets you see it

“I could hurt you too.”

There's no rule that says I can't. I could make you all pretty with your eyes all empty. He presses the knife to the side of the neck as he fucks you, his eyes keenly zeroed in on your hot, sweating dark skin against the pointed tip. His cock oozes precum inside you.

“But your eyes are already pretty, yeah? My pretty baby

“Gyu- I'm gonna cum-”

“Fuck-”

He tilts the knife a little too deep, until a single bead of crimson dots your throat. You don't notice but he does.

“Im gonna cum inside you,” he says, fucking you harder against the wall. You nod, and when he dips his head between your neck to lick that bead of your blood, you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“Wanna taste you, your pussy, your skin, your blood- fuck-”

He's shooting his load inside you as he spews his unholy vitriol. It fills and then it spills and you're creaming around him as you slip into your own orgasm. It muddies your head and you cry out clutching at him like you want him completely inside you..

The door opens.

A blue vest, stops and stares at you two with wide eyes, before shuffling out.

Ever since you've started working for him, you've learned to get extremely acquainted with the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sir…” your voice is brittle as you try to make yourself heard in the suffocating internet cafe, “I'm short on delivery today..."

Hardwood. Tile. Linoleum. It's become all too familiar to you. The floor is all you see in his presence.

You never looked Seongje in the eyes unless he addresses you first. He likes that, you suspect.

It's kept you alive this long so you must be doing something right.

"I got assigned a kid to tutor and..." you clear your throat, not daring to make direct eye contact, choosing instead, to keep your eyes trained on the dirty, cold floor.

The internet cafe is the very last place you'd want to be on a Friday evening. You were caught right in between two challenging essay due dates- one for English and one for AP English. Both hung gravley over your head, threatening to set off your sympathetic nervous system and have you fainting from academic stress. Seeing him was the very last thing you needed.

"That tutoring time fucked with my system and-" despite all your achievements, despite the academic prestige and the boundless knowledge… in Seongje's presence you feel insignificant.

A bug he's letting scurry around for no other reason except his enjoyment. You didn't want to get stomped on. You saw what happened to the other kids under his thumb and it kept you up at night. All that blood. All the merciless sadism.

You aren't dumb enough to hope an exception would be made for you.

"I'm sorry,” you conclude, and for a second, you get no response. He plays his game. His friends remain silent.

That's all until he pushes the bridge of his glasses up further against his nose. A calm, quiet sigh leaves his lips.

“Before you started working for me, do you know what you were?" Seongje doesn't take his eyes off the screen. His fingers run deftly over the keys as he speaks to you without ever really acknowledging you, "You were in an alleyway, about to get raped by Eunjang scum."

"Yes, Seongje, I know-"

"And in return for my kindness, what did I ask of you?"

"FUCK- COVER ME BRO!" Your eye snaps up to the source of the loud and sudden burst of energy. Your frightened and pitiful eyes find a boy seated adjacent to Seongje and his goons. He's bent over his screen, clearly not a part of the group. Clearly far too young.

Your heart sinks when you realize Seongje's eyes are trained on the boy too.

"Ya…” Seongje raises his voice a decimal above the cacophony yet it has you flinching. “Too loud,” he says to the boy, “Didn’t anyone teach you shut up when adults are talking?” he asks monotonously to the boy- a child really- still mourning the loss of his avatar on the screen. He doesn't pay Seongje any mind.

Of course he doesn't. He's a kid.

How could he have known?

He came to an internet cafe to play a game with his friends.

It's the boy's innocence that hurts the most.

He doesn't know that the monsters under his bed are very real.

They walk where he walks.

They don't hide.

They move about freely.

Your heart makes like the titanic and sinks.

"Excuse me for a second." Seongje addresses you politely, finally giving you a fleeting glance before pushing himself out of his gamer chair. You see his entire row of friends (if that's what one could even refer to them as) remain unfazed as Seongje rounds the table to stand directly behind the young boy.

He’s bigger, far bigger as he pushes the rims of his glasses up, staring directly at you

"I know you're smart so you're probably aware that your fuck-up won't be tolerated-” he says to you, despite slithering his arm around the boys neck like a boa as he squeezes. Everyone keeps their eyes trained to their computers. Your fist curls at your side. You want to look away but you can't because you're speaking to Seongje. You wouldn't want to aggravate him further by showing him his mindlessly violence bothers you. So you try not to flinch.

You try not to let the casual violence scare you. How nonchalantly he speaks while an elementary school boy flails in his arms, begging to be released from the headlock making his lips turn blue

“You knew there'd be a punishment,” Seongje is still speaking to you. You hold your breathe in solidarity with the boy choking in his arms, “-for fucking up your delivery-” crimson blossoms onto the little boys face but Seongje keeps his eyes on you, appearing unfazed by the boy flailing like an animal in arms, "And yet you came anyway. That's the kinda work ethic, I like-” he smiles, “I like it alot-"

Eventually, after what feels like forever, he lets go of the boy. You finally breathe as well, watching as the kid slumps forward ingesting the air in horrid gasps.

Seongje bends forward, patting the boy on the back.

"No more interrupting when I speak, yeah?" Whether the boy was new to this particular internet cafe, it was unclear, but you hoped to whatever divine being that he wouldn't dare come back.

"So I'll let it slide-" He turns his attention back to you and you watch, still shaken up as Seongje leaves the little boy to make his way back to his side of the table. When he breezes past you he smells like nothing. Like his eyes, everything about him is empty.

"Thank you, Seongje-"

He nods before adding, "After you get on your knees." The goon sitting nearest to you, all the way at the end of the table, his fingers hover over the keys, and just like before, the room is rid of all air.

"Excuse me?”

He pulls out his chair for you, like some mimic of a perfect gentleman he opens his arm, gesturing you in.

"I want you on your knees, under the desk.” His words hang above you all. It has tears threatening to spill. Bile rising.

“What’s with the face? Its not like I’m asking you to suck my dick,”

"Seongje, I need to get home-"

"If you can't do it yourself I'm more than happy to help."

That has your legs moving into action. In your periphery, it feels as though everyone's watching you. A thing in psychology called the imaginary audience. When you're so self-conscious you concoct this idea of being the center of attention… only this time, it's real. You know they're all watching you. You know no one will do anything about it.

"Under the desk you go," he chuckles before sitting down and pushing his chair back in. You back away, creating intense distance between you. Your back hits dirty wires and your knees press hesitantly down onto the grime just to achieve a more comfortable position. Everything you see is his legs, his friends legs and you're suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to cry.

You want to scream at him to let you go. He's hijacked you from your endless pile of homework and yet the very thought of standing up for yourself causes a sea of nausea.

So you sit there in the dark, not knowing when this punishment would conclude. When would he let you go home? That sends you into another spiral. You've heard Seongje could game for 24 hours straight. Maybe more if he was in close vicinity to food and a bathroom. You knew this internet cafe would close eventually, that gives you the smallest sliver of hope and so you do your time.

Never once does he acknowledge you- the girl under his desk. Unbeknownst to Seongje, you catch one of his fellow gang members sneak multiple glances at you under the table. They all do. Like they enjoy seeing you under here. As time passes, and you slip further and further away from the stress, you realize that down here, on the floor, under his desk, the world is small. It's quite comforting actually and that wasn't the trauma talking.

You've always liked small spaces.

It definitely beat dealing with whatever he had going on up there half the time.

Slowly, your body begins to shut down. Your energy plummets from all the stress and all the thoughts. This is the first time you've been forced into a spot for too long doing nothing. No essays. No tutoring.

Due to tendencies from your childhood that you should've gotten rid of, you find yourself curling up against his leg. He stiffens and you snap out of the exhaustion long enough to reel back. Especially when you see his hand reach under the table. Your heart hammers in your chest, not a single word spoken as his hand searches for something. You move a bit closer until his hand catches on your hair. You wince as he drags you closer, pushing your head against his leg as you had done.

He leaves you there. You try to regulate your breathing as you feel him adjust in his seat above you.

You shift as well. Not your head. He clearly wants you there. But your legs are uncomfortable. You try to kneel and it's ridiculous because your head never leaves his leg.

No position seems comfortable enough until he stretches his leg out, right in between yours and you're made to straddle it. Above you, his fingers are still hitting the keys and you try to disassociate from the fact that his leg is pushing against your cunt. You try to sneak a peek at the surface, his glasses are trained on the screen. Not knowing whether it's your exhaustion making a reappearance but you could've sworn you hear the words, "good girl," release from him in a low drawl.

Something in his tone has you shifting over his leg. Your cunt warms against his leg and you fight the urge to buck against him. All you had to do was remember who it is that you're currently touching. That conscious reminder has you once again hellbent on doing your time with concrete resolve.

That resolve breaks.

It shatters when he eases his back against the chair, enough to once again slither his hand down towards you.

He curls his fist into your hair and tugs.

He pushes you down and lifts you up and you mindlessly follow his movements until you realize he's coaxed you into riding his leg.

He lets go of your hair, satisfied when your hips move out of their own accord.

You hate how good it feels to quite literally be beneath him. You look up and you whimper oh so quietly when you see that small smile play on his lips while his eye remains on the screen.

He's given you new instructions now and so you don't dare to stop moving your hips against him. Despite the damp spot forming on the seat of your underwear. You're not sure what it is that allows you to lose yourself so easily. Perhaps it's all the expectations that melt away when you're doing something so pitiful. You're breaking for him and he's letting you. You're not in control of anything and there's freedom in that.

“F-Fuck-” you didnt mean for the words to slip. There are still other people here but you also couldn't help the wave of pleasure that pushed up so suddenly. Your clit is moving against the fabric of his pants just right and your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head.

The second that whimper escapes your mouth, he stiffens again.

You watch as he leans back again, this time his hand isn't reaching out for you. It's to ghost over the bulge forming in his pants. Somehow that spurs you on more.

You grind against him desperately and before he can take his hand away, this time you reach up for him.

You watch him closely. The glare from the screen reflects on his glasses. His jaw, tight.

He controls the game easily with one hand, while you bring the other into your mouth.

You're not sure where this other side of you came from. This vixen who rolls her tongue out and forces his index and ring finger into her warm mouth.

He becomes more and more restless… His breath hitching. Seongje's fingers hit the keys more aggressively, while his right hand forces his fingers further down your throat. His hips buck upwards and you can see the damp spot forming where his cock is straining against his pants. He's about to cum in his pants and you're about to cum on his leg and it's far too much for you.

You know his friends are about. You try to preserve even a sliver of dignity but it all goes out the window.

“Fuck-” he spits out, slamming his fist on the table before abandoning the game. There's a fire in his eyes as he sits back to watch you peer up at him with complete and utter desperation.

“What a fucking slut-” he snarled, cleaely audible enough for not only him but his friends too. It has your mouth snapping open. Your back arches as you try to watch him watching you cum on his leg.

You've never held his attention for this long and it sends you off the edge.

“S-Seongje-” you barely squeak out as your cunt spasms against his leg. You rut uncontrollably, spurred on by the name That fell from your lips as if your body needed a reminder of just who it was making you cum. Your tormentor.

It has you seeing stars.

For all of 11 seconds.

Until it comes crashing down on you. Your pitiful act has you reeling. Mind spinning.

“Are you coming?” One of your dormmates sticks a head back into your room. They’re going to Hogsmeade, or something like that, to meet the new Beauxbatons transfer. 

You emerge from your trance, shaking your head. “No, I’m going to the library. I’ll catch you later, though.” 

You receive a nod and the sound of footsteps running down the hallway, which cues you to pack up your books and head out to study, where you’re planning on meeting Remus. 

The library is one of your favorite places to be. It’s dark but not dank. It’s cozy. Especially when you spot the boy at your table, snug in one of his signature knitted jumpers. You can see his eyes lifting from the parchment spread in front of him to watch you approach. 

“Morning,” he says with his signature quietness–low and firm. Steady. 

“It’s mid-afternoon,” you respond as a grin crosses your face subconsciously. “You feeling alright?”

“Aren’t I always?” He gives you a lopsided smile, taking your head shake as a response. He’s avoiding your question–the full moon’s coming in a few days–but you’re not one to push. That’s why he opened up to you in the first place. “You going to Hogsmeade later?” 

You shrug. “Maybe. My roommates went ahead, though.” 

“Prongs and I are heading over later–actually, the whole lot will, if you fancy checking it out.” He raises his eyebrows, and you consider it. You like hanging out with James and Sirius; they always make you feel welcome, having been adopted into their group via Remus and being in Lily’s circle. 

“Sure, not like I have anything better to do. This is a bore itself.” You gesture jokingly to him and pause to let him pretend to be offended, acting out the dramatics he’s clearly inherited from Sirius. Luckily, he only bemoans your lack of enthusiasm to hang out for a few moments before returning to his studies. Head over paper, neck craned. “Your posture is terrible, Remus.” 

He pouts, still hunched into himself. “Let me live.” 

“Okay, you’re the one who’s going to have back problems when you’re thirty,” you shrug, patting his arm with a hollow affection and pulling back to work on your essay. “But, suit yourself. I let you live and you let me work.” 

He leans over your seat, a deluge of ink and chocolate and smudges of cigarette smoke that tickles you in the best way and leaves you the slightest bit dizzy, to deliver a quick pinch to your earlobe. You think he mutters something like you started it, but with a petty slap to his shoulder, he shuts up and gets back to his essay. 

You’re not sure if it’s hours or minutes that slip between the two of you, but at some point, Remus stands, looking over the table. A quick glance through the cloud-kissed windows tells you it’s still afternoon. Probably. It’s a little too gray outside to tell.

“Ready to go? Think the boys are heading there now,” he yawns, arms stretching above his head. The edge of his wool sweater pulls up, a sliver of his sweetly tanned skin peeking out. 

You stand right after, gathering your things into a bag. “Mhm, let’s go.” 

When the cold nips at your cheeks outside, makes shivers run down your skin, you shudder, running in place to warm up. Remus laughs. 

“That’s rude,” you say with a scrunch in your nose. “I’m freezing my arse off and all you’re doing is laughing at me.” 

He suppresses himself into a broad, open smile. “If I had a hat, I’d give it to you.”

You shrug. “It’s the thought that counts, I suppose.” 

“Yes, it is,” he says solemnly. Somehow, some time, his arm wraps around your shoulder. “To keep you warm.” 

You hum as you enter Three Broomsticks, catching sight of the Marauders immediately. They’re sitting with your roommates, actually, and someone unfamiliar–the new girl, it must be. Your spine straightens of its own accord, shoulders roll back. Remus notices, dropping his arm from you as the new girl catches sight of you. 

There you two stand, shoulder to shoulder, pressed awkwardly together like soldiers. 

“Hi!” She stands, a wave of ink falling over her back in silk curls. She’s gorgeous. “I’m Romy, Romy Roche. From Beauxbatons.” 

You nod, offering her a quiet smile and introducing yourself. Remus does the same before the two of you slide into the booth, you next to Romy, him across. He gives you a sly grin behind his hand, like a secret between the two of you. You’re not sure what he’s smiling at, yet you can’t help but give one back.

Romy turns towards you, doe eyes big and chocolate and shiny. She asks you something that you respond to dutifully, turned towards her. You steal a long glance at Remus to watch his eyes crinkle, soften, then drift off of you to speak to Sirius. You lean your elbow onto the table, latching onto a conversation between Romy and Lily, chiming in when awarded space. 

As the afternoon shimmers to a sweeping dusk, everyone stands, shuffles back to the castle in one big lump. Your roommate comes to sweep her arm into yours, you walking on the outside. She leans into you, mouth almost on your ear. 

“I think Romy’s into Lupin,” she says at a volume probably too loud to be comfortable given both of said people are currently two steps behind you. 

“Remus?” You ask. “She wants Remus?” 

For some reason, those words sour on your tongue, bite at the roof of your mouth. 

She nods enthusiastically as you approach the Great Hall, the richness of Hogwarts dinner steeping into your bodies. 

“Hm,” you say in response, pulling towards your house’s table. You don’t know what this feeling is–something that’s curdling in your chest. Whatever it is, it’s ugly. Romy and Remus. They do sound nice together. You swallow back the bile that climbs up your throat.

It should probably be illegal to wake up as early as your roommates do on a Sunday morning. 

It should definitely be illegal to make as much noise as they do so early on the aforementioned Sunday morning. 

With a groan, you lurch yourself awake before you can help it. You’re at war with yourself, but you can’t sleep with all the pattering around and attempts at whispering–Merlin help them, they’re trying. You think. 

When they see you, one lets out a guilty giggle. “Sorry. Breakfast is over soon, you ready?” 

The groan that escapes you is involuntary, you swear. You force your body upwards and moving, half-awake as you stumble out the door and into the hall. There’s the Marauders, Romy, your friends. Remus. Your eyelids perk open a little more. Romy’s definitely staring at him, they’re sitting next to each other. Maybe she really does like him. 

You slip into a seat beside James Potter. 

“Morning,” Remus says from across the table. His hair is mussed, sleep ringing his under eyes. He smiles at you. It’s lopsided, tilting his cheekbones. 

“Good morning,” Romy echoes, offering a head tilt. A soft warmness flows from her, washing her in a sweet golden. 

“Good morning,” you return with as much of a smile you can muster with drowsiness oozing through your system. 

Remus looks across at you, tosses a sweet your way. “I bought this for you yesterday, at the shops. You better eat it and enjoy. It cost nearly double what it should have.” 

You can’t help the squeal that scratches at your throat. “Thank you, Rem, this is perfect.” 

He reaches into his bag and slides another one towards you. “I’m glad.”

Romy looks at him with a kind curiosity, tapping on his forearm to ask him something that you can’t hear. Your shoulders slouch involuntarily. 

“Are you okay?” The boy asks as breakfast ends. “You’ve been quiet today.” 

“I’m always quiet,” you counter. “Ask anyone.” 

“Not usually.” He raises an eyebrow. “And quiet is different from completely mute.” 

“I’m just tired.” You yawn, accentuating your point. “Catch you later?” 

He nods in response, turning to his friends when they grab onto his elbow. You stand as well, ready to walk out when a body appears by your side. You startle, not realizing anyone had walked up. 

It’s Romy, who shifts her hair away from you, allowing you a whiff of her coconut perfume. She smiles at you. You smile back. 

“Can I walk with you to the dormitories?” She requests, words softened by her accent. 

“Of course,” you find yourself saying, letting her lead you to your common room. 

“So, I must ask,” she says only two feet outside of the hall. “You and Remus Lupin are dating, no?” 

“What?” You step away from her, jaw loosened in shock. You and Remus? Dating? No way. 

“I thought he was cute at first,” she continues, taking your silence as permission. “But I didn’t want to take your boyfriend.” 

“No, we’re not–we’re just friends.” Heat is scratching the inside of your cheeks, burning. 

“Oh, but you are so cute together. You definitely like each other, no?” Her expression is pure enthusiasm. Your heart’s fluttering now, thrashing in your ribcage. 

You don’t like Remus. You can’t. That’s not how things work. No. No. 

“No, I–” you stutter out, blinking rapidly. “I don’t like him like that. No.” 

She tilts her head at you. Bobs her head up and down. Nodding, you realize. She’s nodding. You nod back, once, then turn away. 

“Okay,” she says, turning back to your common room. 

You barely remember saying goodbye to her, it all begins to smudge. You’re in the common room, then your bedroom. You don’t like Remus. You can’t. You know what happens when you like people. Your palms clam. Your whole body clams, condensing you into the pearl of an unbreakable shell. Your shoulders shudder. Convulse. 

Maybe–maybe, you’re tired. You’re imagining things. He’s a friend. A good friend. That’s it. You don’t like him. You won’t like him. 

Then again, you’ve never allowed yourself to think about him that way. In some sort of self preservation, you’ve pushed that image away. Do you like him? 

Cold clings to your skin and a waterfall of images shuffles through your mind. Him staring up at you with those pretty, pretty eyes. His knit sweaters. His whispers past midnight, hushed in the library, just the two of you huddled in a corner. Him waiting for you to tie your shoes, use the restroom, tidy up after class, even when his friends had long since left. His lopsided grin. 

Shit. You don’t like him. 

You’re in love with him.

–

Before you know it, you’re pacing around your dorm. What the hell do you do now? Your heart freezes when you think about facing him tomorrow. Why did you have to figure this out? Couldn’t you just live in ignorance for the rest of your life? Your head drops down. You love Remus. 

You don’t sleep that night. Instead, your eyes drift to your bedside, where photos of you and your friends lay. There’s one of you and your roommates, you and your family, and you and Remus. His arm is over your shoulder, his thumb massaging your arm. You’re turned towards him all bright and shiny, mid-sentence. How could you not have seen this coming? Of course you were in love. It had been in front of you forever. Fuck. 

Morning rolls around into a heavy thing, something you try to push aside. All night, you’ve tossed in between your sheets, trying to avoid this, avoid him. 

You pull the blanket over your head when your roommates call you to breakfast, mumbling an excuse. You only force yourself up to head to Potions, slipping into the classroom last minute to avoid Remus and his stare. 

You fail, miserably. Though you’ve slipped into a seat near the front, where you can’t see him, he can see you, and you feel the hug of his stare through the whole hour, heating the back of your head. The thought of speaking to him raises bile in your throat, so as soon as class is over, you shove your things into your bag and dart towards the door. You vaguely hear him calling your name, you think, but you don’t dwell on it. You don’t dare to. 

You can’t imagine what you’d ever say to him, now. How you could ever face him after knowing these feelings. And so unfortunately, you have many more classes with him. You manage to sidle out of Transfiguration without him noticing, and intend to escape to the library for lunch, but before you can, Lily’s looped her arm through yours and guided you to the great hall. Fuck. 

You try to search for an escape, but she’s practically dragging you with her, chattering on about something she’d read recently. 

And then, oh shit, she’s sat you with the Gryffindors, with the Marauders, and there’s Remus sliding across and oh shit, your palms are sweaty and your mind’s stopped working and you’re breathing quick and not enough. 

“Y/N,” he says with a scary kindness, the kind that makes your heart race and ache against your ribs, begging to be let out. “Are you okay? You came late to Potions and you’ve been acting all funny since then.”

You dart your eyes away from his face, hands pulled onto your lap to fiddle with themselves. “Oh, yeah, I’m–I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.” 

A glance up tells you that he doesn’t buy it. His eyes narrow. He can tell you’re curling into yourself. 

His hand reaches under the table, finds yours. He gives you a friendly pat on the knee, or so you tell yourself. “You can talk to me. Always.” 

Blush burns your cheeks and your eyes slide to where his hand is still on yours, warming you up. You try your best to nod. Or to squeak out something. You used to be so good at this. You used to tease him, joke around. Now all you can do is stare at your plate and pray you don’t burst into flames.

His gaze is hot on you, and you shift in your seat, muscles suddenly tense. He releases your hand from his hold, and you burst upwards, mumbling something to Lily about needing to go finish a Charms project and escaping from the Great Hall. 

You’ve made it five steps before a warm hand wraps around your wrist, grabbing a shriek from your throat. They pull you into a Potions classroom so quickly that you can’t look up to see who it is nor fight back–either way, you’re too stunned to react. 

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You’d recognize that voice anywhere, velvet tenderness and crackling with love. 

“Remus?” You ask quietly. 

“You don’t have a Charms project,” he says without answering you. He knows you know, that you would know with your eyes closed and ears closed off. You know him blind, turned upside down and inside out. 

When you look up at him, the intensity in his eyes makes you shrink back. “You heard me?” 

“What’s wrong?” He ignores you without ignoring you. The twitch of his hand at your side tells you everything. “You’ve been weird all day. It’s scaring me.” 

His grip loosens. 

You look down, watching his fingers loosely encircling your wrist, dancing across your skin. Still, his touch leaves bruises, ones you’ll never be able to see, printing themselves shamelessly onto your heart, your soul. 

When he speaks again, his voice drops to an intimacy you’d only ever dreamed of. “It’s like you don’t know me, like I’m a stranger.” 

No, that’s something much worse. Hurt. 

“What did I do?” He’s pleading now, his other hand coming to rub at your wrist. “I’ll fix it. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

A tear slides from your eye, tracing down your face. His thumb rises to your cheek, wipes it into your skin. 

“I don’t want to see you upset. I care about you, dove.” He scares you with his understanding, sometimes. Never have you seen a man so kind. “I care about you. Sometimes, I think it’s too much. I could drown in you and still want more. I’m greedy for you, for your attention.” 

Your lips part. Still stunned into silence. You won’t–no, can’t–say anything. “I–” 

“What’s wrong, baby?” His thumb wanders to the plush of your lip, pushes in. “Tell me something. Anything, please.” 

“I’m scared, Remus.” You say finally, voice a papery whisper. “I think I like you. I think I love you.” 

He doesn’t say anything to you, not at first. He freezes, eyes sweeping across your face like headlights. Just for a moment, you clam again. You shouldn’t have said that. He cares about you, but just as a friend. You should’ve stayed silent. 

You’re embarrassed now, and you move to step backwards, away from him and this suffocating room away from his stare and his eyes those melting eyes boring into you, oh, Merlin. But he anticipates it, anticipates you. 

One hand falls to cup the back of your head. You lean into it involuntarily, let him smooth out your hair and pull you back. 

“That’s not what I thought you were going to say,” he pushes a breath from his mouth. 

“I’m sorry.” Your face is flaming again. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Me neither,” he says, making you stop. The pause that lingers between the two of you is heavy. 

Then, a belly chuckle, which makes you squirm with warmth, letting his laugh settle over your skin. It’s collected just as much as it’s trembling with relief. “I thought you would say something much worse. I’m scared that I more than love you. There’s not a word for it yet, but I love you so much that I will will it into existence.”

You shudder. Remus, Remus, Remus. 

He says your name like a chant, smooth and thunderous at once. A command and a lullaby. You’ve been put on pause, putty to every motion he makes. The twitch of his finger by his side. His eyelids flutter as they shutter. Your stomach clenches. 

“May I?” He asks so tenderly, so softly that something in your body roils, relaxes so completely that you almost let yourself cry. 

You nod. He’s so close that your noses bump. Your lips part in anticipation, in waiting. 

Three seconds pass. Four. And you can’t say when he erases the space between you or when he became yours or when you melted together and your arms closed around his neck because it’s so natural. You and him just are. His lips, sweet and soft, on yours. His thumb petting your cheekbone. His eyelashes fluttering, faces so close that you can feel them on your skin. Your heart buzzes at his sweetness and the feeling that tickles your insides, this feeling that you want him to hold on to you until time dissolves. When all else fails, you know your love will thrive, that it will do nothing but expand. 

masterlist

He’s always late coming home- sure you know the club promoting gig he’s got has weird hours but even on the days you know he’s off, he’s not retuning until 3am. He’s also always high, on what, you could never figure it out it changes week by week it seemed. Sometimes he’d smell like a walking ounce of weed when he’s stumbling through the door, other nights his pupils are just blown and he’s jittery.

Admittedly, neither of you planned to have a child. It was a surprise that had you floored. Nam-gyu was the last person you ever thought of who would be a parent, and when it happened, you were sure he was going to leave you when you told him the news. But he didn’t. That had to mean something.

You took care of your daughter, only you. He would show up whenever he pleased to your shared apartment- even though he hardly ever stayed the night he was still on the lease- to drop off his share of rent money (it was never enough), grocery money (maybe $10 if you were lucky), or the occasional thing you had to beg him to pick up the store. He would bitch and complain about how you always bothered him at the worst times, how he has to do everything for you; That’s hardly the case, but he likes to tell you it is.

To say the least, he was garbage, a deadbeat, no good for you. But, there was some days when you would come out of the shower and see him looking over the crib cooing at your daughter- playing with her with a goofy smile on his face. Those moments make all the bad times fade to the background.

Only to be pulled back to the foreground when he stands quickly, stepping away from the crib. He grabs his jacket, turns around, and walks out the bedroom door- shoulder brushing against yours as he pushes past you- muttering a “don’t wait up tonight”.

You know the drill you never do.

Tonight was no different, you had stayed up late dealing with the baby. She was about 4 months at this point so you got into a decent routine even if it did nothing for your sleep schedule. You say sprawled out on the couch, legs up on the cushion and your baby in your arms. Your shirt was up over your shoulder, your baby drinking away happily at the milk that your breast gave. You couldn’t help the way your head nodded every so often as your eyes fought to stay open. At least she wasn’t crying, you thought. You looked down at her with a soft smile, fingers brushing over her cheek gently.

The sound of a car pulling into your driveway makes your head snap up. You rubbed your tired eyes with one hand, groaning, you knew that sound and that meant he was home. Looking to the clock on the TV stand, it blares a vibrant red hue that makes your eyes strain to see the time. 2:57 am.

You groan to yourself, preparing for the drugged out man that was about to stumble through the door. And when he does he’s wearing the usual pissed off scowl he has- like coming home to you and your child was the bane of his existence. You’ve had enough.

He was going to open his mouth to spew some bullshit excuse for being home late, one he’s used thousands of times before, but you stop him by raising your hand. You’re clenching your jaw, eyes wide and threatening as you hiss out a low “Don’t even fucking start.” You adjust the infant in your arms who was starting to slow down on breastfeeding and begin to grow tired.

Nam-gyu scoffs, his scowl deepening, his mouth flops open once again to speak. You cut him off once more- sitting up off the couch and returning his glare with one of your own. “I said…” You seethed through clenched teeth, “Don’t fucking start.” You growl lowly, taking a step towards him, infant still latched onto one of your breasts. “She’s about to fall asleep. I will put her to bed. And then, only fucking then, can you grace me with whatever lousy excuse you have tonight..”

Your tone is one that throws him off, sure he knew he was not a great boyfriend or father, you had every right to be pissed. Normally, you weren’t this confrontational- normally you would sit there sulking when he would come in the door, an adorable pout on your face that he knew wasn’t a cute expression but one of genuine upset and disappointment. He would brush you off telling you he was hungry and wanted you to cook him something.

You finish getting off the couch, it’s an awkward movement as you’re trying not to jostle the baby that had fallen asleep in your arms. Nam-gyu watches, the room is spinning and he’s trying to act like he’s sober because he doesn’t want to get into that argument again tonight- he is far too blitzed to have a coherent argument where he can manipulate it in his favor.

He watches intently, his eyes tracing over your body. You were wearing a large t-shirt and some shorts, nothing new there….but you were fuller. He felt his mouth go dry as you turn and walk down the hallway to the nursery. Your hips were wider and he swore your ass was bigger. The soft, plush flesh of your hips dug into the waistband of the shorts you wore, some of the flesh above the waist band spilling over the slightest bit- perfect to dig his hands into.

You turn into the room, disappearing, presumably putting the baby down in the crib. When you’re no longer in his sight, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It’s been a long while since you two had been intimate, the already rough relationship was not helped by a newborn, and he was pent up. As shitty as he was, not helping with the baby, not being home, partying and doing drugs- he never cheated. He can’t remember the last time you two had fucked, probably when he got you pregnant, but fuck- seeing your curves, how much fuller you were- he realized how much he missed it. How much he missed fucking you.

You return out the room you put your daughter in, thankful she was a decent sleeper because she was sleeping perfectly in the nursery as soon as you placed her down. He catches you fixing your shirt, getting a glimpse of your tits before the fabric falls back over the swollen flesh. You return back in front of him, standing in the entryway where he was still frozen. “It is two…no, three in the fucking morning.” You hiss out in a hushed voice.

“I got caught up at work.” He scoffs trying to walk past you and head to your shared bedroom. “Bullshit!” You laugh sardonically, “You were out partying with Thanos again weren’t you??” You accuse, taking a step closer to him.

You were partially right, he was out partying- but he was also working. With Thanos rap career taking off and Thanos needing VIP privileges at Club Pentagon, if he was there he was getting paid extra. Sure he did more than his fair share of drugs and came home plastered hours after he stopped working and getting paid- but he was still making money! “I was with Thanos but I wasn’t partying. I get paid double when he’s booked.” Nam-gyu growls lowly, lying through his teeth.

“Fucking hell!” You catch yourself raising your voice and quickly lower it to not wake your baby. “..do you think I’m fucking stupid?!” You’re seething out in a tone laced with venom. “You were fumbling with the damn keys, your words are slurred and your fucking pupils are blown!!” You gawk, he really had the audacity to try you?!

He seemed taken aback, surprised you could even see his eyes and how his pupils were dilated heavily in the low light of the living room. He had to remind himself, you were once like him, partying and down for whatever- that’s how you two met, he did coke off your thighs- you could tell the signs a mile away.

He envied you for that, quitting all the drugs you once did with him a year or so before you even got pregnant. You were stronger than him in that sense, had more willpower than him. You never got sucked back into the scene, even when your child was born you kept stead fast in your ways and weren’t tempted. It was like you thought you were better than him, and you were, but that just pissed him off more.

“God forbid I try and have some fun.” He says as he glares down at you. You go to speak, fuming at this point, “That’s not what-“ you almost want to scream, your words cut off when you see him roll his eyes, “roll your fucking eyes at me again and I will rip them out of your fucking skull.”

Your voice drops, you’re speaking through your teeth and getting up in his face. It would be threatening, he knows you would be the one to do it- but all he can think about is how thick your thighs look against the shorts you wore. He remembers those shorts, they used to fit looser, but now they dig into the plush flesh so deliciously has his mind is going blank. But the way you’re in his face- scolding him like some child, finger waving inches from his nose- is pissing him the fuck off.

His hand darts up in a quick motion that you have no way of intercepting. His hand wraps around your wrist, ringed fingers digging into your skin. “All you do is fucking run your mouth.” Nam-Gyu growls, he knows you have every right to yell at him, to be pissed, but he wouldn’t tell you that. Your eyebrows furrow, even more than they already were. Jaw clenched and chest heaving, you’re staring up at him oh so defiantly even if he was much larger than you.

“And all you know how to do is be a fucking deadbeat.” You counter, getting closer to his face by standing on your tippy toes. “You get to go out and party, probably rail some whores, while I have to stay here with your child and take care of her by myself.” You add. It’s an abrupt shift, he becomes even angrier, pulling you forward into him by your wrist he still holds.

To say he’s enraged would put it lightly- was he a deadbeat? Yes. But, he still tries to give you what he can, club pentagon only paid so much and he had a drug habit he didn’t care to address. Did he stay out and party and leave you at home to take care of the baby? Absolutely, he can’t argue with you on that one. But he never cheated. As fucked up as he was, as shitty as a father and boyfriend he was- one thing he would never do was cheat on you. To him that’s a type of low he always told himself he would never reach.

You fall into him, a gasp coming out of your lips when you meet his chest. When he feels your tits press against him, the enlarged flesh squishing against him- you watch as his eyes flutter shut, he bites his lip and breathes out a large breath, like he’s trying to ground himself.

He is.

He drops your wrist from his grip, hands coming to rest on your hips in a vice like grasp, caging you into him. “Watch your fucking mouth.” He seethes, eyes fluttering back open to glare down at you. “Say whatever the fuck else you want…I have never cheated.” He growls lowly, fingers tightening even harder around your plush hips. He wanted to continue to be mad at you, but the way his finger sunk into your flesh made the blood rush to his cock.

“You’re out late all the time and I can’t even remember the last time you touched me…” You say lowly, all your senses focus on the hold he has on your hips. His hands are cold, the rings on his fingers dig into the flesh and bite at your skin. He’s holding you in place like he’s sure you’re going to run away. “So excuse me for thinking you’re cheating. You also dont exactly hang around the best crowd.” You reason even further, now trying to fight against him and pull away.

He grimaces, he doesn’t even know how it’s possible that you manage to piss him off even further than normal. “You have my location. I’m always at work.” He scoffs dismissively. He wasn’t wrong but when he’s at work, he’s hardly working- he’s taking drugs, drinking, and doing god knows what else- you’ve seen the pictures he’s in the background posted on Thanos timeline.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” You seethe, trying to yank your hand out of his grasp yet again. It’s a futile attempt. “Okay! So you’re at work!? Where’s the fucking rent, huh?!” You say, voice raising, he’s a day late. He looks at you like you’re crazy and reaches into his back pocket and tosses a wad of cash over onto the coffee table- all while keeping you trapped in his grip. “Still late-“ your works are instantly cut off, “Wrong.” He mocks, reaching back into his pants pocket to pull out his phone and show you the date on his phone.

He was right. But it wasn’t your fault, your days had mixed together because you get no sleep with the baby and your child’s father comes home at 3am every day! God forbid you mix up your days. He also was no stranger to paying you late. You normally wouldn’t care about the mix up, maybe even own up to it- but today it just adds validity to his manipulative argument. “You’re still home at 3 in the fucking morning, you reek of booze and your pupils are blown!” You growl, not even caring that the day was wrong. You simply don’t care anymore. “And you’re doing all of this while I’m home taking care of our child!”

You’re leaning into him, getting up in his face with knitted eyebrows and barred teeth. He’s far too fucked up to deal with this, with you- because he knows you’re right. He never wants to face his issues, he never has wanted to, and every day you attempt to make him confront how shitty he was little by little, most of the times without even knowing it. You had always been too good for him, he knew that. He was lucky that you stayed and gave him a thousand chances instead of walking out on him. Maybe tomorrow he would address it and make a change for once in his life. But, right now, his head is pounding, the room is spinning and your hissing growl of a tone is only making his headache worsen.

His grip on your hips tightens, and he lowers his face so very closer to yours. His eyes are dark, angry, but there’s an odd glint of hunger in them that you haven’t seen in ages, it makes your body heat up in ways that due to not having felt it in so long, if now feels foreign. “You seriously don’t know when to stop fucking talking.” He growls lowly, like an animal about to feast on its caught prey. When he speaks his lips nearly brush against yours, the feather light contact tickles and sends electricity straight to your lower stomach. His voice has a hiss to it, like a viper, it should scare you but it doesn’t; it makes you hotter.

You two stand like that for a moment, the only sound you could hear was the sounds of your breath mixing with his. Every time the both of you heaved an angry breath, the hot air would mix between the two of you. Neither of you broke the other’s gaze, trying to win the silent stare off that started.

Nam-gyu breaks first, his eyes dropping to your chest, watching the rise and fall of your enlarged breasts from under the shirt- his resolve is out the window. He’s on your lips in an instant. You’re letting out a muffled sound of protest into his mouth, fighting against him and trying to pull away. But with the grip he still has on your wrist and the frantic movement of his lips keeps you still. You find yourself melting into it- you missed his kisses. Missed him.

As much as you want to pull back and continue to fight with him-you can’t. You relax into him, lips moving with his- almost rivaling his eagerness. When he feels you give in, his hands drop to your waist, nails biting into your plush flesh over the fabric of your shirt. You’re panting helplessly into his mouth, so desperate for the attention you’ve been deprived of for months. He’s pushing you backwards, guiding you further into the living room.

In a mess of lips and spit, you’re falling back first onto the couch and he’s following you, coming to straddle your thighs- hovering over you. His hands are back on you in an instant, running up your thighs and squeezing. His lips are back on yours, it’s a messy kiss that reminds you of how you two were when you first met. It’s sloppy, full of spit, and oh so Devine. You’re arching up into his touch, his cold hands running up your sides and then back down to your shorts. He wastes no time in gripping the waistband and tugging the fabric down your hips.

He’s pulling your shorts off you hastily and you help kick them off, whining into the kiss. Your lips don’t part once, he’s sucking your tongue into his mouth expertly, he knows exactly what to do to get your mind to go blank. He’s rough, hands gripping and kneading at your flesh like he can’t get enough.

He pulls away from the kiss to lift your shirt over your head. He wastes no time in pulling the fabric over your head and tossing it to an unknown corner of the living room. When the cool air hits your bare skin you’re overtly aware of your bare form. You two haven’t been intimate since you got pregnant. Your body has changed in ways that admittedly you weren’t fond of. A wave of self conscious that rolls through you when you see Nam-Gyu above you, eyes flitting down your naked from like he’s trying to memorize you.

It makes you want to cover yourself- so you do. Your arms fall over yourself to cover your breasts and stomach, shielding yourself from his gaze. His brows furrow and a growl resounds from his throat. You cant even fight him when he grabs your wrists and pulls your arms away from your body, pinning them to the couch. “Don’t you dare fucking hide from me.” His voice is low, almost threatening, and does nothing to help the wetness that grows between your legs.

“Yeah…that’s it, ma.” He rasps, nodding his head slowly, eyes trained on your body. His hands let go of your wrists, you know better than to move your arms back over your body- he would get up and leave you hot and bothered if you disobeyed- he lets out an accepting hum when you keep your arms by your sides.

“Mmm…beautiful fuckin tits…” he coos in a low, gravely tone, his hands reaching up to grasp at the doughy mounds of flesh. He’s kneading your breasts, you can feel the way his cock is straining against his pants, twitching and growing against your thigh with each movement of his hands. “So swollen now, huh?” He says as he leans down, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples.

You’re so sensitive, it’s almost like an electric jolt that runs up your spine. He hums into your skin when he feels your body shake against him. The breast that isn’t being attacked by his mouth is being kneaded in his hand. He’s pinching your nipple, rolling it between his fingers to bring the bud to a stiff peak. You’re helpless underneath him and his mouth is relentless. He can’t get enough of your enlarged tits, he’s switching his mouth to the breast that once was in his hand- wanting to give the same amount of attention to both of the picturesque tits before him.

He pulls off your nipple with an obscene ‘pop’, the sound only adding to the overwhelming feeling you’re experiencing. All this attention after going months without it, it felt surreal. You knew you should push him off and scold him, kick him out, but it feels so good- you just can’t bring yourself to push him away- it feels too fucking good.

“Mmm,” he hums against your skin, you can feel him begin to grind the forming erection in his pants into your leg as he continues his relentless onslaught of bites and kisses, leaving blue and purple patches that blossom across your skin in his wake. His hands are moving across your body, groping at the doughy flesh like a cat kneading a fluffy pillow. “Gotten so curvy, pretty thing….” He mumbles, biting down particularly hard right under your breast. “Such a good mama…” his lips tickle your skin when he speaks.

You can hear how his words are slurred, his hands are jittery, he’s definitely on something and you know you should stop this and not let him swoon you like every other time he’s stumbled in the door fucked up late at night. He’s doing this to soothe your anger, to get you off his case. At least that’s what you thought.

That wasn’t his motive, although that reasoning could apply- he was really doing it to get your guard to lower. You accused him of cheating, scolded him like a child in his own home, you were gonna feel his anger. And he was strategic, manipulative even, you should be aware of it you’ve been with him long enough…but for some reason you’re not. He looks down at you and he sees you softened, you’re panting under him, pupils dilated like his now, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like you’re trying to ground yourself.

He makes an insanely quick, rough, combination of movements- shifting one of his legs between your legs, pressing up into your cunt, and one of his hands darts down to grip your neck right under your chin, awkwardly forcing your face upwards to meet his gaze more directly. “….but you don’t know when to shut the fuck up.” He has a sadistic, mocking grin twisted across his lips.

You let out a pathetic, surprised squeak that falls into a moan. The rough fabric of his pants pressing into your throbbing pussy has your eyes crossing and fluttering shut. You reach a hand up to grip at his wrist, opening your eyes to glare up at him with some measly attempt of a scowl, trying not to let him win so easily, trying to not give him the satisfaction of your docility.

“Yeahhh…” he mocks, a wide grin on his face, his hand that grips your neck and jaw wiggles your head around to further his mocking, like he’s rubbing something in, “keep that smartass scowl on your face. So fuckin’ sexy when you’re angry.” He hisses, his free hand comes down and roughly slaps your breast, his eyes watch the flesh recoil and ripple under the impact, and when you arch into the touch and let out a pretty whimper his hand is groping at the plump flesh harshly. Of course your defiant scowl has faltered.

He lets out a low laugh and trails his hand down your stomach, his grip on your neck tightening ever so slightly, “see…can’t even keep it up…ya ain’t mad…” he coos in an annoying, sardonic tone. His hand releases your breast and runs down your stomach, nails dragging into your skin just the slightest bit. His hand grips at the flesh of your stomach- like he’s admiring it, basking in the feeling of your softness in his hand. “No~ you’re not mad…” he continues, hand running over your pubic bone, thumb catching the top of your pussy, just above your clit- pulling up the slightest bit.

His view of your cunt is shrouded by your thighs clenching around his leg that is between them. You’re heaving against his touch squirming your hips into his hand, silently begging for more. “Not mad at all…just needy. Need me to play with your pussy, hm?” He says in a low growl, his thumb inching the slightest bit closer to your clit- still not where you needed it most. You’re ashamed of the little resolve you have left, you’re still trying to twist your face into an angry scowl while writhing under his hand. It’s like your hips have a mind of their own, desperately rolling into his touch even though the rest of your body is telling you to stop this and have some resilience to his ways….but you simply can’t stop.

“You’re acting all mad like ya hate me…...” He says, leaning down closer to you, his hand that was still pinning you to the couch by your neck squeezing more. He shifts his knee, pressing it deeper into your cunt. You let out a wanton sigh in response, your eyes screwing shut as your hips grind mindlessly into his leg. His other hand moves off your pubic bone and runs up your leg. When he gets to your knee he’s shoving your legs apart and parting your other leg open with his knee that was grinding up into your cunt.

It’s such a fast motion that you have no option to fight him. Your glistening pussy is now on full display for him to see. It’s shameful, your folds stick together with your own syrupy arousal, thick streams of wetness seep out of your entrance and begin to drip on the leather couch under you. Nam-gyu’s eyes are captivated by your cunt, he’s biting his lip and breathing heavy like a lion about to eat a bountiful feast of meat- animalistic, primal. “Ohoo~” he says with a mocking tilt of his head, “yeah, you can act mad all you want…but, she’s not mad at me.” He says, his fingers sliding inwards and down your spread leg, pulling your folds to the side to see you fully.

“Ohhhhh….” He drawls out, licking his lips at the sight. His hand on your neck loosens its grip and trails down your body to mirror his other hand, spreading you completely. You’re on full display, there’s no hiding the effect he had on you, there’s no denying that your anger has long since been overrun by lust and need, and he’s staring so hard- it’s so embarrassing. He can see how your cunt clenches around nothing, quivering as if to further show your bashfulness. “Already fucking soaked, what a slut. Barely even have to touch you and your needy pussy’s already crying f’me.”

Your eyebrows turn upwards, you’re biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to keep your noises suppressed. With your lips pulled apart by his thumbs, your puffy clit is on full display. Nam-gyu is cursing to himself, pulling away one hand to hastily undo the button of his pants and unzip the zipper. He’s pushing his boxers and his pants down his thigh to free his aching cock from its confines. He’s thick, veiny, and has a mean upward curve that no matter how hard you try, you can never forget how good it makes your pussy feel.

He pumps his dick a few times, groaning at the sensation. He stops to return his hand back to your inner thigh, thumb brushing up and down in quick motions over your clit. Your hips are immediately canting upwards off the couch, a gasp is pulled from your throat and your nails bite into the couch- threatening to tear the fabric. He would normally bask in that reaction, relish in it, thumb your clit over and over until you’re singing like a song bird for him. But, that was normally; it wasn’t now.

“You better keep your hips still, brat. This isn’t a reward for you.” He barks, looking up at you with dark, narrowed eyes. “I’m jus’ takin whats mine, ‘s not for you.” He scolds, you know he’s still set on punishing you. And for some reason, you let him. You’re looking down at him desperately and panting, eyebrows furrowed together in concentration as you try so hard to keep your hips still so you can get the attention you so desperately need. It’s a downright sinful, completely and utterly desperate expression, your flushed cheeks just the most perfect accessory.

His scowl turns into a wicked grin when he sees the last bit of resilience you have crumble completely and you turn into a pathetic heap on the couch. “Mhmm…” he nods slowly, “S’ what I thought. Just a lil needy thing ain’t ya?” You whine at his words. He’s speaking in a mean, sardonic tone that makes your mine spin. You don’t even think about it, but you find yourself nodding, letting out a muffled ‘mhm’ in hopes of getting on his good side.

He seems to accept your meek response because he’s settling down onto the couch, lowering his face until it’s level with your cunt. You’re gripping the couch and biting your lip until it’s bleeding, trying to keep your hips still. His breath fans over your folds causing a soft mewl to fall from your lips. Your head falls back onto the armrest of the couch as he licks a wide strip up the entirety of your cunt.

He’s groaning into your pussy when he gets his first taste of you. It’s been too long since he’s been buried tongue deep in your sweet cunt, he doesn’t know how he’s gone without it for so long. He doesn’t ease you into it, he doesn’t slowly coax soft whines from your throat- no, he’s delving in and eating you like a man starved. His tongue is vicious, licking through your folds, teasing your entrance, only to trace back up and twirl in mind-numbing figure eights against your clit.

“O-oh my god…” you breathlessly moan, thighs closing around his head. His eyes roll back and flutter closed when he feels the soft, thick flesh of your thighs tighten against his head. He wraps his arms around your thighs, dragging you up and down his flat tongue, slurping down every drop of arousal that seeps from your pussy. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking it into his mouth. The sensation makes you jump and moan out a broken call of his name, your hips grinding down on his tongue in a pathetic attempt to seek even more pleasure.

When he feels your hips cant upwards, chasing his tongue he’s growling into your pussy. Hands splaying across your lower stomach to push your hips down- a warning. “Keep fuckin’ still.” He hisses, his words vibrating against your clit. Nam-gyu makes a show of eating your cunt. He’s messy, making obscene slurping sounds as he coaxes more and more sticky arousal from your spasming walls. This wasn’t for you, this was for him. He was going to enjoy the heavenly flavor of your cunt his way. You want to grind against his tongue, become impossibly closer to him and sink his tongue deep within your walls- you know if you do, you’ll be going against his orders. He’s deliberately making this a challenge for you. He wants you to disobey him. Wants you to give him even more of a reason to fuck you into complete submission.

When you feel his tongue begin to prod its way into your entrance, you’re keening and bringing a hand up to cover your mouth. You muffle your wrecked moans as he tongue fucks you. It’s such a devine feeling for him, your cunt clenching around his tongue, the flavor of you covering his tastebuds, thick thighs clenching around his head, pussy wetting his chin, and nose breathing in your scent as he grinds it into your clit. All of it reminds him of why even after all the horrible shit he’s put you through, he’s never cheated and he always returns home to you. He wants to savor it, draw it out. Maybe you’ve learned your lesson and he can be nice- give you both what you want.

But he can’t, because you’re sobbing out muffled pleas from behind the hand that covers your mouth and jerking your hips up, swiveling them down on his tongue to try and drive him even deeper into your walls. You don’t even mean to do it but when you realize you were going against his orders it’s too late.

His dark eyes peer up at you through thick lashes, you can feel the sadistic grin that twists across his lips against your sopping folds, you know you fucked up. You pull your hand away from your mouth, “N-no, no, ‘m s-sorry. Can’t help it! Y-you’re not making it easy!” You’re pleading with him as he’s pulling away from your cunt. “P-please! I n-need it.” You try to beg more, trying to get back on his good side and get his tongue back against your clit but he doesn’t accept your offer

Nam-Gyu sits back up on his knees, his hands moving up to your waist and squeezing, “I gave you more than enough chances…” he coos, eerily sweet, “was eating your sweet cunt good, wasn’t I?” He scoffs with a raise of his eyebrow. You nod frantically, your hands reaching down to cover his, running up his arms, trying to sweeten him up, “Mhm! S-so good! ‘S why I couldn’t keep still!” You praise, batting your eyelashes up at him.

You think for a split second that you managed to win him back over, a relief washes over you when you think you’re going to be granted the salvation of his tongue on your throbbing pussy once again. But his grin widens and his hand slide down, grasping at your hips with a primal grip.

“Well, since you want to act like a bitch in heat…” he says, the low timbre of his voice sends shivers violently jolting through your whole body. You’re suddenly picked up off the couch by your hips and flipped over. You inwardly scold yourself at how you almost instantly fall into a position on all fours with your back deeply arched. You hear him scoff at your eagerness, “…then you’re gonna be fucked like a bitch in heat.”

When his sentence finishes you can feel him drag the bulbous tip of his cock between your folds, mixing your arousal and his pre-cum into a stick mess that coats your pussy. You let out a shaky breath, you can feel your heartbeat in your throat. Pushing your hips back, you whine, trying to sink him into your heat. But you weren’t the one in charge here…he was.

He was going to make sure you felt every, single inch of his cock sink into your tight cunt. And he was going to savor you desperately trying to fuck yourself back onto his cock like you have no other thought on your mind other than to be fucked.

“Already makin’ such a mess on my cock. You were so mouthy earlier…” he begins to slowly sink into your cunt only to pull all the way back, “…so bold, all up in my face…” he pushes back in to the tight ring of your pussy ever so slightly, “…so feisty.” And with that, his cockhead finally slips into your cunt. It makes a sickening, wet sucking sound as your pussy greedily sucks him in. “Now look at you.”

A moan is ripped from your throat, the extensive period of time that you have gone without fucked and the devilishly slow entrance of just his tip into your sopping walls already has your toes curling. A moan is ripped from your lips as you drop your chest fully onto the couch, your back arched sinfully deep for him, pressing him deeper into you.

“‘S just the tip and you’re already creamin’ around me like a slut…” He muses, leaning forward a bit to grab both of your arms and cross them behind your back. Both your wrists are restrained by one of his hands. You gasp as your pulled upwards, your face pulled off the leather of the couch. “Heh…. I’m gonna break ya sweetheart…”

His hips become flush with yours in a split second, his cock is balls deep within your cunt. The sudden intrusion has you letting out a silent sob. Instantly, you’re so very full. Nam-gyu is stretching you around him, molding your pussy to the shape of him, removing the thought of leaving him from your mind completely. How could you when he filled you up oh so perfectly.

He stays balls deep inside you for a moment, bringing his hips to a slow grind. “Yeahhh….that’s it… ya feel how deep I am?” He asks, his voice rough and breathy, “Only I can give this pussy what she needs…” he growls, pulling his cock all the way out and then immediately slamming right back in. You’re crying out, eyes crossing and your vision goes hazy. “I’m the only one who can cum in your greedy cunt….” He says, repeating the same motion. When he’s back to being balls deep inside you, he’s leaving over your back and bringing his lips ring next to your ear, “you carried my child.”

He’s emphasizing the word “my” by rolling his hips against your ass, grinding the tip of his cock against your cervix. You hated it, but he was right, the moment you carried and gave birth to his child- you were his. From the moment you two met- you were his.

You’re moaning helplessly, gasping an incoherent mix of his name and curses, you’re becoming boneless in his grasp. It feels so fucking good. He gives you no time to adjust before he’s sitting back up and pumping his cock in and out of your tight cunt. The thrusts are vicious, mean even, his thick girth is stretching you impossibly wide and your pussy welcomes him openly, greedily sucking him in.

“Mhm…there you go…she missed me didn’t she?” Nam-gyu rasps, using his grip on your wrists to drag you back to meet every single one of his hard thrusts. His eyes are focused downwards, he’s entranced by the ripple of your ass everytime it comes back to meet his hips. You’re much thicker, curvier, softer than before. Pregnancy had changed your body in ways that sparked a primal hunger inside of him.

You helplessly sob out, the overwhelming pleasure completely taking over your body. Your hips are pushing back to meet his thrusts, trying to sink his cock impossibly deeper into your tight heat. He laughs from above you, realizing your desperation for more. “Greedy fuckin’ thing…” he growls, it’s a dark, gravely tone that sends goosebumps down your arms, “what, ‘s not enough for you?” He chides like you’re giving him a challenge, you can hear the sadistic grin that is spread across his lips.

You’re gasping, shaking your head frantically “n-no ‘s e-enough! ‘S so good!” You try to plead with him by praising his efforts, fearing the impending overstimulation that is about to be thrown on you. He’s drawing his hips back until just the tip of his cock is inside you, he’s humming like he’s thinking to himself. “Hmm…” he lets out, just trusting his cockhead inside your sopping pussy, “you can still talk…so I don’t think it’s enough.” You can hear the mocking pout in his voice, teasing you further.

Nam-gyu lets go of your wrists he was holding behind your back, hands finding their spot on your hips, squeezing the doughy flush in his fists. He’s pile driving his hips flush against your ass in one thrust, sinking balls deep into your gushing cunt. Instantly, he’s stretching you deliciously, pushing into your spasming walls until the tip of his cock is flush against your cervix. A wrecked sob rips through your throat and you’re falling forward onto the leather couch.

He leaves you no time to gather yourself, his hips draw back until just the tip is inside you and then thrusting balls deep inside your warm cunt in rapid, devious strokes. As much as you wish it wasn’t true, he knows your body like the back of his own hand, he knows every little thing that makes you tick, he knows just how to make you cream around his cock- and he wants to make you a mess. He’s driving his thrust upwards at a mean angle, making sure every thrust is hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. All you can do is moan out pathetic babbles of his name and praises.

“Yeahhhh, that’s it…” he coos mockingly, his hips slamming into you at a brutal pace, “‘s all you needed huh? A good fucking to calm you down.” His tone is hushed, his hands are leaving a bruising grip on your hips. He can’t keep his eyes off the way your ass jiggles with every thrust, the way his cock disappears between the soft flesh and reappears covered in your syrupy arousal.

Admittedly, he was right, you did need this. It had been months since you two fucked and the way his cock was stretching you out, hammering against the deepest spot within you, had your body so overwhelmed. Your hand is clasped helplessly over your mouth, muffling the moans that spill from your lips. His grip on the globes of your ass is nearly painful, using it as leverage to pull you back onto him.

“Missed this fucking pussy..” he growls from behind you, “reminds me of why I got you fucking pregnant…” he rambles on, “gripping me so tight, s’impossible to pull out.”

His words make your eyes roll into the back of your head. Every thrust of his hips bullies his cock up against your cervix in a way that has you gasping for air. You’re sobbing incoherently against your hand, every drag of his thick cock reminded you of how you even got to this point in the relationship- the dick was insanely good.

He releases one of your hips to slap your ass, it’s a resounding smack that stings and has the flesh recoiling under the contact, “fucking hell….” He muses, one of his hands coming up and brushing his hair back out of his face, his eyes never straying from the view of your ass slamming against his hips. “Fuck yourself back against me..c’mon, wanna see it.” He rasps out.

He slows his thrusts, nearly stopping completely. Chasing a high you haven’t felt in ages, your body complies. You immediately begin thrusting back, impaling yourself on his thick cock. It’s a delicious, devine stretch that has you biting the palm of your hand. You repeat the motion, speeding up with every wet slap of your hips against his. “Good fuckin’ girl.” Nam-Gyu is praising.

You can feel yourself getting closer to the delicious release of your orgasm, it’s quick, embarrassingly so, but you’re stretched so full and every time you sink him balls deep into your tight heat- a mind numbing wave of pleasure is sent up your spine. It’s an addictive feeling that you keep chasing desperately without even realizing it. You’re speeding up the backwards thrust of your hips, every time you meet his thighs with your ass a wet ‘clap’ resounds through the room.

“O-h fuck, that’s it… j-just like that. D-don’t you dare fucking stop.” Nam-gyu hisses out, a hand coming to thread itself in your hair and form a fist. He cranks your head back, a silent scream falls from your lips as you keep up the motion of your hips, sinking your cunt down onto him. You couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. “Look at that fucking ass…” He muses, praising the body you were worried he didn’t even like.

He’s leaning forward a bit, his head hooking over your shoulder so his lips were right by your ear. His new position causes the movement of your hips to still, he picks up the slack by rolling his hips into a slow grind. “Gonna cum so f-fucking deep in your cunt.” He growls into your ear. You can hear that he has his teeth clenched, he’s speaking through his teeth like you and your pussy would be the death of him. “O-ohhhhhh, you like that… can feel you squeezing me..y-you want me to cum inside?” He pants, the hand in your hair turns your head to the side so he can leave harsh bites along the column of your neck as he grinds his cock impossibly deeper into you.

“C’mon answer me.. wan’ me to cum in you? Get you pregnant again…” He mocks, “…keep ya like this.” He growls lowly, his hand releasing your hair to grip at the fat of your hips and lower stomach, he’s even punctuating his words with a devious roll of his hips that grinds his cock into your g-spot. A wanton whine falls from your lips. Your back arches even more, deepening into a sinful curve that has Nam-Gyu spinning.

You should say no, call him some name and tell him to go fuck himself. “Nnghh… f-fuck y-yes!” You cry out in a hushed plea, you can’t help it. You need it. trying to thrust back onto his cock. You can feel how wet you were, making a mess of the backs of your thighs and the couch below you. “I-inside please!” You sob, eyebrows knitted together in a pleasured expression. You need so badly to once again experience the feeling of his thick cum filling you.

With both hands holding your hips he’s drawing your body back violently, impaling you on his girth. Every thrust is echoed by a lewd, sticky, ‘schlick’ sound that only proves how much of an influence he has on you. His cock has a mean curve that reaches so deep within you it has you seeing stars. The warmth of your orgasm beginning to blossom over your body and tingle deep within your cunt.

Every time he draws back his hips he’s dragging his cock out of your sopping walls until just the tip rests in your fluttering entrance then driving his hips forward to sink balls deep into you. You know you’re about to cum, embarrassingly fast. Moan after moan falls from your lips as your eyes cross and roll back in pure bliss. “T-that’s it, make a mess on my cock f’me.” Nam-gyu growls through clenched teeth, one hand reaching around to rub quick circles on your clit. The feather light touches that glide across your throbbing bundle of nerves is enough to send you over the edge.

“Ohmygodholyfuck.” You babble out incoherently, fingers digging into the fabric of the couch as you fall head first into a violent orgasm. Your pussy flutters around his cock, squeezing him like a vice. “Mhmm…f-fuck yeah that’s it…” He hisses, his thrusts becoming sloppy, his other hand on your hips drops under you to grab at your swollen tits in frantic motions, the feeling of the doughy flesh in his hands jiggling with each of his thrusts is all it takes to drive him over the edge.

He’s working you through your orgasm with skilled fingers, your body shaking against his as he cums deep inside your cunt. You can feel it, it’s so much. It fills you even more than his cock already did, coating your gummy walls in its milky white color.

He thrusts lazily a few more times, making sure he properly fucks his cum into your spasming cunt. Your body is shaking and jolting violently against the couch, you can hear the obscene, wet, ‘plap’ of the mixture of your cum and his falling out of your cunt and hitting the sofa below you. The room is filled with alternating heavy breaths and the smell of sex. He slides his hands up and down your sides before resting back on your hips and slowly grinding his cock into you. He can barely bring himself to pull out, the warmth of your cunt is literally sucking him in. He can hear your overstimulated whines of protest with each slow roll of his hips and it drives him wild.

Eventually, he too gets overstimulated- your cunt is simply too good, his personal drug he’s addicted to, his own vice (but he’s never tell you that)- he’s pulling out his softening cock with a hiss, sitting back on his heels to watch his cum slowly seep out of your pussy that still is gaped with the shape of his cock. He groans, eyes rolling back into his skull as he tries to imprint the visual in his brain.

He collapses back onto the couch, one hand on your hip to make you follow suit, gently landing back first on his chest. You try to catch your breath, limply turning yourself over to fall back onto him. When you tuck yourself into his side his arm drapes over your waist. He places a kiss on the top of your head that’s so quick and gentle that you almost can’t feel it. You nuzzle his head onto his chest, you can hear the rapid thrum of his heartbeat. You can’t form words. All you can do is let out a shaky sigh. It’s quiet in the room, only sound you can hear is your heaving breaths that eventually fall into sync with each other.

“You have got to change.” You say, the edge in your voice just emphasizes that you’re hanging on by the thinnest thread possible. You want this to work out- you do- you love him and you adore your child. You want to be a regular family.

“I know.” He says, his voice breathless. His arm tightens around the curve of your waist, pulling you into him like you might suddenly get up and run away-because you might- he can tell with your voice it’s different this time, you’re serious. And he wants to change, he does…he just doesn’t know if he has it in him.

I hope you guys enjoyed this one 😙😙😙 I really appreciate all of y’all’s support it means so much!! I’m working through the requests I have and whipping up some noice fics! Yall have fantastic minds 😩 all the requests are so scrumptious