Untitled

You're always his girl. Except you aren't.

That’s the bit that drives Paul mad. Not that you're hanging round all the time. Not that you get on with the crew, the tour managers, even bloody Brian. Not that you're quick with a quip or know how John likes his tea or how you always remember the name of whichever poor sod’s driving the van that day.

No, it’s that every time John introduces you, it’s with that same maddening, throwaway affection:

“This is my mate. You’ll love her.”

Not “my bird.” Not “my girl.” Just “my mate.”

As if Paul hasn’t been slowly grinding his molars into chalk for the better part of a year every time you laugh at one of John’s jokes. As if he doesn’t catch your scent when you lean in to whisper some devilish little insult in his ear. As if he didn’t spend a full train ride once just trying to figure out if you'd brushed his knee on purpose.

You're not John’s.

But he hasn’t crossed the line either.

Which is worse.

Because if he had, if John had done the thing that everyone assumes he must’ve done, then Paul could put you out of mind. Swallow it down. Pretend it was some stupid schoolboy crush and not the real, raw thing that knots his chest every time you walk into a room.

But no. Instead, he gets this.

Gets you laughing at John’s side. Gets you falling asleep on his shoulder on long drives. Gets you hopping out of cabs in his old jumpers. Gets the casual, infuriating trust of “Here, watch her for me, would you?” when John needs to nip off to the loo or grab something from the van.

Like you're a bloody teacup.

Like Paul’s not the one biting his tongue bloody every time he’s alone with you.

The first time it happens, he thinks it’s a joke.

“Hey, mate,” John says, one arm slung across your shoulders, “keep an eye on her, yeah? I’ll only be a mo. Don’t let her run off with any Rolling Stones.”

Paul tries to laugh, but it comes out too tight around the edges. He watches as John disappears, swallowed by the hallway, and then turns to find you watching him with that look again... part mischief, part challenge, like you’re waiting to see how long it’ll take him to break.

“Y’need watchin’, then?” he says dryly.

You smirk. “What, worried I’ll get into trouble?”

“Think it’s more likely you are the trouble.”

You grin, one brow cocked. “That why you never leave me alone at parties?”

He blinks.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters.

You lean in. “Oh, come on, Macca. Admit it! You like the company.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Not with the way your voice sounds when you say his name, or the way your leg swings just enough to make his throat go dry.

Five minutes later, John’s back, holding two beers and looking utterly unaware.

It keeps happening.

At first, Paul thinks John must know. Must be winding him up on purpose.

But no. If anything, John’s too oblivious for his own good. Every time he tosses you Paul’s way, it’s without a second thought. Like Paul’s a bloody valet.

“Keep her company, yeah?”

“She’ll eat all the crisps if you don’t watch her.”

“She bites.”

Each time, you roll your eyes. Each time, Paul’s left standing awkwardly beside you, watching you chew your lip or twirl a bottlecap or click your nails together in a rhythm he can’t unhear.

You never comment on it outright. But you know. He’s sure you know. You're too clever not to.

Especially with the way you both talk.

It’s not flirting. Not really.

It’s just... sharp. Fast. Loaded.

“You always this sulky?” you ask one night.

“Only when I’m being babysat,” he shoots back.

You tilt your head. “You’re not my type.”

“Oh, so what is?”

You lean closer, voice like syrup. “Not you, McCartney.”

He watches you walk off with a twist of the hips that has to be deliberate.

John says later, “She said you were broody.”

Paul says, “She’s a hazard.”

━━

One night, backstage, it nearly tips.

They’ve just come offstage, sweaty and high on adrenaline, and you're there in the wings, hair wild from the wind, grinning like you're drunk on the whole bloody circus. John kisses your cheek and runs off to flirt with the local press.

Paul’s left beside you, heart still hammering.

You turn to him.

“You look like you’ve seen God.”

He scoffs. “Just a crowd.”

“You love it.”

“And you don’t?”

You shrug. “I like you in it.”

That throws him.

You step closer. “All sweaty and golden. Think I get why the girls scream.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re takin’ the piss.”

You grin. “A little.”

He stares.

You stare back.

Then John’s voice echoes down the hall: “Where’s my mate? You two snogging back there?”

You spring apart like teenagers.

“Nope!” you call, too bright. “Just bothering Paul.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Paul mutters.

He dreams about it all the time.

━━

It finally cracks in a hotel bar in Glasgow.

John’s off with Brian, talking shop. George and Ringo are somewhere with girls. It’s just Paul and you in a corner booth, low light, empty glasses, the air thick with unspoken things.

You say something about John. A fond little smile. “He’s so soft, really. People don’t see it.”

Paul takes a long sip.

“He doesn’t touch you,” he says.

You look at him.

“What?”

He looks up. His voice is low now, quiet but sharp. “He doesn’t touch you. Not like he would. If you were… his.”

There’s a pause.

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

“Why are you bringing this up?”

Paul leans in, elbows on the table, his voice unraveling.

“Because it’s maddening,” he says. “You’re always there. On his arm. In his shirts. His bloody shadow. But it’s nothing, isn’t it? All of it?”

You don't answer.

He leans in.

“You tell me.”

You meet his gaze. “No. It’s not… not like that.”

He exhales. Hard.

Then: “Good.”

You blink. “Why?”

His mouth twitches. “You wouldn’t last a week with him. He’d forget your birthday.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I’d pretend I did. Then throw you a party with a string quartet.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

He tilts his head. “Still not your type?”

You grin. “Getting warmer.”

He wants to kiss you.

God, he wants to destroy the space between them.

But John comes in with a pint and a grin and a loud “You lot better not be gettin’ married without me!”

And it dies on Paul’s tongue.

━━

Later that night, you knock on his hotel door.

“Can’t sleep,” you say.

He lets you in without a word.

You sit on the bed. Don’t touch.

You talk about the tour. About the screaming girls. About how John seems more tired lately.

Paul listens. Nods. Watches your mouth.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say finally.

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t think you’d be funny.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think you’d be such a pain in my arse.”

You grin. “Bet you’d miss it.”

He leans back on his elbows. “Maybe.”

You lie back beside him. Shoulder to shoulder.

No words.

Just the soft sound of your breathing. The ticking of the wall clock. The weight of everything that hasn’t happened.

Yet.

John never notices.

Or if he does, he never says.

He still tosses you Paul’s way without thinking.

Still calls you “my mate” with that maddening fondness.

Still assumes you're his shadow, not Paul’s secret sun.

And Paul?

Paul keeps his cool.

Mostly.

But when you're alone, when John ducks out, when the hallway clears, when the door clicks shut... something breaks loose in Paul. It’s not sharp, not sudden, but a heavy ache that finally swells into something unbearable.

You're right there, always has been, but now you feel close in a different way. Your perfume clings to the air between the two of you. That little tilt of your head, the way you look at him under your lashes like you know exactly what you're doing. It’s maddening. It’s holy.

He doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you like you're the thing he’s been writing around in his head for a year and never finding the right lyric for.

And you don't move. Just watch him back like you've been waiting.

The moment stretches.

Then, he closes the space.

His hands find your jaw, fingers splayed, reverent. He breathes you in like you're oxygen, like he’s been starving on stage for a month and you're the first full inhale. His forehead presses to yours, lips barely parted.

“You’ve been drivin’ me mad,” he murmurs, voice low, cracking.

"I know."

And then he kisses you.

Not gentle. Not asking. Just, everything.

It’s all heat and frustration and need, the kind of kiss that burns away every inch of distance you've kept too long. His mouth moves like he’s making up for all the times he bit his tongue, all the seconds he let pass between glances and brushing fingers and never quite saying it.

Your hands move to his neck, threading into the curls there, pulling him closer like you're furious with how long it took.

And when you finally break apart, breathless and red-lipped, you say, voice still dazed-

“Took you long enough.”

Paul just rests his forehead against yours again, smiling like he’s found the end of a very long song.

“Aye,” he says, hoarse. “But it’ll be worth it.”

The kettle whistles just as Paul barrels through the door, trailing a gust of cold air, Martha, and approximately half of the Scottish countryside on his boots.

“Don’t you dare-” you start, pointing a wooden spoon in warning.

Too late.

He kicks his boots off mid-step and sends a splash of mud across the kitchen tile.

“Oh, for fuck's sake-!”

“Sorry, love!” Paul’s laughing, holding up both hands, guilty and unrepentant as his socks squelch across the floor. “But the kettle’s going, innit?”

“I’ve got it!” you groan, gesturing to the stovetop with a dramatic roll of your eyes. “Go hose off or something before you paint the whole place brown.”

He gives you a wink and a wet smooch on the cheek “Ta, sweetheart”, and then pads away, leaving a trail of sheep smell and chaos in his wake.

You sigh.

And smile, despite yourself.

The farm in March is what the locals call a wee bit boggy... which, in practical terms, means you haven’t seen your own ankles in weeks thanks to all the mud.

But the crocuses are starting to come up, and the mornings smell like rain and hay and black coffee. And Paul is here, every day, all the time, soft-eyed and scruffy and humming to himself while he checks the hens.

Which makes it all kind of perfect, really.

Even with the mud.

He comes back a while later, smelling like soap and sheep.

“You’re a hazard,” you mumble, swiping at your cheek with the dish towel where he kissed you earlier.

Paul sidles up behind you, looping his arms around your waist. “M’not. I’m lovely.”

“You’re filthy.”

“Mm, not anymore,” he says, and presses a kiss to the side of your neck. “See? All clean now.”

“Paul,” you say, laughing as you squirm away. “You’re soaking wet.”

“And yet you love me.”

“God knows why.”

He kisses you again, quick and cheeky, and then snatches a slice of toast from your plate before you can stop him.

“Hey!”

“You love it,” he sings around a mouthful of bread, already halfway to the back door.

You do the afternoon feedings together. It’s cloudy, and the sheep are in a mood, which means Paul spends half an hour trying to coax one particularly obstinate ewe out of the shed while you attempt to keep the bucket of pellets from getting trampled.

“Come on, pet,” Paul pleads, crouched in the straw with his arms out like he’s about to cradle a toddler. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s just food. You like food!”

The ewe blinks at him and doesn’t move.

You snort. “Talk to her like that again and she’s gonna charge.”

“I’ve got charm!” he insists. “I’m very charismatic with the ladies.”

“Paul, she just shat on your foot.”

━━

Eventually, he gets her to follow him out with a mixture of clapping, singing, and a handful of oats. (“See? Told you she liked me.”)

You shake your head, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

He flashes you that cheeky, boyish grin, brushing hay from his jumper. “Yeah, but you married me anyway.”

He grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers even though you’re both covered in barn grime.

“Till death do us part,” he says solemnly, you cringe at that and then he immediately breaks into giggles when you shove him into a hay bale.

━━

Back inside, it starts to rain.

You’re curled up on the old corduroy sofa in the living room, sipping tea and pretending not to watch Paul noodle around on his acoustic. He’s barefoot now, hair damp from the mist, wearing one of those soft flannels that’s so worn it’s nearly see-through at the elbows.

He’s playing something sweet and wordless, just for the room. You don’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it.

Your heart aches with it a little.

“I like that one,” you say softly.

He looks up, surprised. “You do?”

“Mm. It sounds like home.”

Paul beams, flushed and warm with the compliment, and sets the guitar aside. “Could write some words to it, if you like.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He crawls over to sit beside you, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Would you be my muse?” he asks dramatically. “My darling source of inspiration?”

You laugh. “Only if you clean the mud off the back porch.”

He groans. “Cruel thing.”

But his eyes are shining, and his knee is pressed against yours, and he looks like he’s the happiest man alive.

After dinner (shepherd’s pie, saved only by Paul’s insistence that “charred bits add character”), you both end up on the porch.

The rain has stopped. The sky is still grey, but in that soft, pale way that feels like it might just break into blue if you give it a minute. You’re wearing one of Paul’s cardigans and he’s holding a mug of something strong that smells like smoke and cloves.

There’s a chicken sitting stubbornly on the step next to you. Neither of you acknowledge it.

“You ever think we’d end up here?” you ask quietly.

Paul hums, watching the mist curl around the hills. “Dunno. Suppose I always hoped we might.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “Even with all the mud?”

“Especially with all the mud,” he says, grinning.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just sit there, pressed together, wrapped in the silence of the farm and the smell of wet earth and wood smoke.

Eventually, Paul turns to you.

“Y’know,” he says, voice gentle, “I love you more’n anything, right?”

You look up at him, all freckles and flannel and windblown curls.

“I know,” you say.

And then you kiss him, slow and easy and rain-damp and real.

The whole morning smelled like damp earth and old woodsmoke.

You woke to it, the scent of moss and rain pressing against the cottage windows, a far-off bleat of sheep, the heavy silence of a world not expecting anything of you.

You rolled over in the small bed, covers twisted around your legs, and found him there, sprawled on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, hair a tousled, sun-warm mess.

Still breathing heavy. Still dreaming, probably.

You smiled into the crook of your arm.

The world could end right now, you thought, and you wouldn’t mind.

You finally coaxed him awake with a not-so-subtle elbow to the ribs.

“Oi,” he mumbled, face still hidden. “Assault.”

“Get up. Your empire awaits.”

He cracked one bloodshot eye. Grinned, lazy and devilish. “Empire’s on strike.”

You snorted. “You’re on strike.”

“Too right,” he agreed, voice scratchy with sleep.

But eventually, after much groaning, mock-complaining, and you threatening to eat all the porridge without him, he heaved himself upright.

━━

Breakfast was clumsy.

Paul insisted on making it, which meant half the porridge ended up welded to the bottom of the pot but still tasting pretty good.

You leaned against the table, watching him stir with intense concentration, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

“You’re decent at this,” you said, very helpfully.

“Shut up, you love it,” he shot back, brandishing the wooden spoon like a weapon.

You did.

God help you, you loved it more than anything.

After breakfast (which somehow tasted amazing despite the catastrophe of its making), Paul tugged on his battered green wellies and declared:

“Let’s go out .”

You blinked at him over your teacup. “Where?”

He shrugged, grabbing a moth-eaten jumper off the back of a chair. “Fields. Hills. Wherever the sheep ain’t.”

“Profound,” you said.

He grinned like a schoolboy, grabbed your hand, and yanked you out the door.

━━

The fields were soggy from last night’s rain, the grass slick and bending under your boots. Somewhere far off, the hills rolled gentle and misty, stitched with stone walls and hedges like a half-forgotten quilt.

Paul splashed through a puddle deliberately, sending water up your pants.

You yelped. “Hey!”

He just laughed, wicked and bright.

“You started it!” you cried, chasing after him.

He didn’t run hard, not really. Just enough to make you work for it, dodging behind scraggly bushes, ducking under low-hanging tree branches.

You caught him near the old stone wall at the edge of the field, crashing into his side, both of you slipping and landing hard on the wet grass.

For a moment, you just lay there, panting and laughing, the cold soaking through your clothes.

Paul turned his head toward you, eyes sparkling.

“Beautiful, innit?” he said.

You looked up at the grey sky, the mist-blurred hills, the shivering trees.

“Yeah,” you said.

He smiled like you’d said something much smarter than you had.

The rest of the day passed in a lovely, muddy blur.

You helped him herd the scraggly sheep (badly).

You picked handfuls of wildflowers (half of which Paul tried to stick behind your ears, missing spectacularly).

You clambered over old stone fences, boots slipping on moss, shouting dares at each other.

At one point, Paul found a rotted tree trunk and proclaimed it “the treasure chest of the Highlands,” digging through the muck with bare hands like a child.

He unearthed… a dead snail shell, three unidentifiable rusty nails, and a cracked marble, cloudy white.

He pressed the marble into your hand with exaggerated ceremony.

“For you, m’lord.” he said, bowing so low he nearly fell over.

You snorted. “Thank you, sir.”

“Only the best for you.”

━━

Late afternoon found you sitting against a crooked fence, sharing an apple he’d swiped from the kitchen, letting the mist settle in your hair.

Paul leaned back, propped on his elbows, face tilted to the sky.

“This is it, y’know,” he said suddenly, voice soft and certain.

You looked at him. “What is?”

He cracked one eye open, found your gaze, smiled slow.

“Life.”

You didn’t answer, because what could you say?

He was right.

It wasn’t screaming crowds or flashing cameras or platinum records.

It was this.

Damp grass and apple juice sticky on your fingers and Paul McCartney smiling at you like you were the last safe thing on earth.

When it started to rain, proper rain, not just mist, you made an attempt at running back inside, laughing.

Paul tripped halfway there and grabbed you for balance, dragging you both down into the mud.

You shrieked. He howled with laughter.

You wrestled half-heartedly, slipping and sliding and ending up breathless, clutching at each other, faces inches apart.

He was grinning. Mud in his hair. A leaf stuck to his jumper.

You kissed him anyway.

That night, after you’d both warmed up, hot tea, dry clothes, two extra logs on the fire, you curled up together on the sagging couch.

Paul strummed an old battered guitar absently, making up nonsense songs about you and the farm and how you couldn’t herd sheep for shit.

You protested weakly, but your heart wasn’t in it.

You tucked your head under his chin, listening to his heartbeat rumble against your ear.

“Happy?” he asked quietly.

You smiled against his chest and nodded.

Paul chuckled, kissed the top of your head.

“Good,” he murmured. “Me too.”

It starts in Paris. Or maybe it started long before that. Some green room in Liverpool, some lazy after-show sprawled across itchy couch cushions and half-empty bottles of flat Coke and gin. But Paris was the place you last remembered being able to breathe around him, and it had been three years since then. Three years since the air didn’t ache.

You’re backstage at the Olympia, the crowd still humming like the echo of bees through velvet curtains. Cigarette smoke curls in your lungs like cotton and vodka curls in your bloodstream like lullaby syrup. You lean against the wall, makeup melted, heels dangling from your fingers by the straps. Your feet pulse with the effort of existing. It’s been a long night. It’s always a long night.

John’s somewhere in the other room. You can hear the tail-end of his laugh cutting through the chatter, low and scraping like a matchstick dragging over a brick wall. You don’t look. You never do.

He doesn’t say much to you tonight. He hasn’t in weeks. You’re friends, good friends, great friends, close enough for the tabloids to speculate, not close enough to admit anything. You’ve spent too long folding your feelings into palatable shapes, origami heartbreaks tucked into stage handbags and jacket pockets. You’re not lovers. But sometimes he looks at you like he remembers things that never even happened.

Sometimes he touches your shoulder in passing and the ghost of it lingers three days later.

"You're off early," George says, fiddling with his guitar case, glancing sideways. Not at your face, at the door behind you.

You smile, a sharp little crescent. "I’ve done my bit. Let the boys take the encore."

George shrugs, clearly unconvinced, but he's not the one who matters.

John walks past you on his way to the hall. His shoulder brushes yours, barely, just enough static to make your skin spark. He smells like sweat and hotel soap and a hint of something else. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him. You both become experts at not noticing things.

You wish he would grab you by the wrist, drag you down some narrow corridor, say something cruel just to get a rise out of you. Instead, he says nothing, and it’s somehow worse. He could love you if it wasn’t inconvenient. You could love him if it wouldn’t destroy you.

Instead, you perform around each other. Two famous ghosts haunting the same tour bus.

━━

Later, you’re curled in the back lounge of the hotel suite. The couch isn’t comfortable, but it's soft, and you’re a little too gone to care. You left your makeup on. You always do. There’s a bruise blooming on your ankle where your strap dug in too tight. Your nail polish is chipped. Your dress is bunched at your thighs. You look like the kind of girl men write songs about.

You wonder if he ever has.

He comes in quietly. No announcement. No knock. No shoes.

You hear the door click, and then the room dips as the other end of the couch sinks under his weight. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. The air is thick with things unsaid.

You feel him watching the side of your face. Or maybe you're imagining it. You do that sometimes. Make-believe affection like a cigarette you can’t stop lighting even though it scorches you down the throat. You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch the curve of his jaw in the lamplight.

“You okay?” he asks.

You smile with your eyes closed. “Not really.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. He never does when you’re honest. It frightens him.

Instead, he taps a cigarette from the pack on the table. Lights it. Offers it to you without looking. You take it. His fingers brush yours. You don’t flinch, don’t sigh. You pretend it’s nothing and let it burn anyway.

“I miss Paris,” you murmur, smoke drifting from your lips.

He hums. Not in agreement, just acknowledgment.

“Everything was simple there,” you lie.

“It wasn’t,” he says, and you love him a little more for it.

There was a moment once. Three years ago. A hallway. A mistake that almost happened but didn’t. Your lip was bleeding and his voice was low and furious, whispering your name like a prayer and a curse all at once. You hadn’t spoken of it since. You both pretended it was part of the act. Like the rest of your lives.

Now, here you are again. Close enough to touch but galaxies apart.

“John,” you say softly, but not his name really, just the idea of him. Just the word you use when your soul feels like it might leak through your ribs if you don’t do something about it.

He shifts. You feel it like a tremor in the furniture.

You don’t turn to look at him.

He doesn’t lean in.

No one moves.

But the air is louder now. Charged. Cracking at the edges like a broken amp.

You blink slowly. You think about all the things you’ll never do with him. The toes he’ll never paint. The beds he’ll never carry you to. The futures that were buried under record deals and Japanese tours and wives and pride.

You want to whisper, “I wish I was your girl.”

But you don’t.

Instead, you stub out the cigarette and stand up on shaky legs.

“Night,” you say, soft, deliberate, without meaning.

You don’t wait for his answer.

You never do.

Outside, the hallway is silent. Your heels echo like drumbeats. You’re still drunk. Your heart is louder than your footsteps. Your longing feels like a scream buried under a velvet curtain.

━━

You don’t remember the last time you felt your legs.

No, actually, you do. It was six songs ago, mid-second encore, when your heel snapped and you kept going anyway, because that’s what you do. You smile, you twirl, you project, you bleed glamor like some fever dream torn out of a glossy Melody Maker centerfold. The roar of the crowd only ever drowns out the sound of your spine screaming when you’re singing loud enough.

Now the makeup's melting again. Your corset’s digging into the soft part under your ribs, the place where breath lives, where regret hibernates. You’re slumped in the stairwell just off stage left, arms wrapped around your knees, a towel too damp to do any good clinging to your shoulders like the world's saddest cape. Your feet are bare and ruined. Your toes are trembling. Your right ankle's an exposed nerve. You're vaguely convinced you left your soul on that stage next to a bottle cap and someone else's setlist.

The world is blurry in that slow, muffled way that comes with exhaustion... not sleepiness, no, you’d give anything to feel that kind of soft-lidded, innocent tired. This is the tired that comes from being stared at like a statue and touched like a fantasy for nights on end. This is the tired that makes you want to peel your skin off and slip into the wallpaper and be nothing, just for five fucking minutes.

Someone whistles.

Low, long, lazy.

And because you already know that voice, because you know the rhythm of that smug bastard’s windpipe like your own bloodstream, you don’t even look up. You just groan and let your head fall back against the brick wall with a thump.

“Well, well,” John says, drawing out the syllables like cigarette smoke, “if it isn’t the shattered glass version of our lady of perpetual sparkle.”

You squint at him from your pit of theatrical decay. “Fuck off.”

He laughs. Bastard. Looks like he’s fresh from the dressing room, still buttoning his shirt. His fringe is damp from the shower and curling against his temples, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks like he just got laid or is about to. Probably both.

You’re too tired to be jealous. Almost.

John lets the door shut behind him with a lazy click, strides toward you like he owns every plank of wood your blood’s soaked into. His eyes slide down your body, cataloging the limp towel, the glitter-crusted knees, the bruised bare feet curled against the tile.

“Hard night?” he says, and it’s not even a question. It’s bait. He crouches, squatting right in front of you, arms on his knees, eyes sharp and shining like he’s waiting for you to snap. “Didn’t look it from where I was sitting.”

You roll your eyes. “You weren’t sitting.”

“No,” he agrees, lips twitching. “Was standin’ right off-stage, watchin’ you nearly eat shit tryin’ to pirouette with one foot in hell.”

“Fuck. Off.”

He grins wider, teeth sharp and too white under these shit lights. “Can’t. Contractually obligated to taunt you at least twice a night.”

You close your eyes and exhale through your nose, trying not to murder him with your mind.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice thin and frayed like lace left in the rain.

“Thought I’d do my good deed for the day. Be a gentleman. Help a lady in distress.”

You crack one eye open and stare at him. “You’re about as helpful as a wasp in a jam jar.”

John leans in. Not much. Just enough to make you nervous. “Still buzzin' though, aren’t I?”

You snort, despite yourself. Your lips twitch. You’re so fucking tired it almost hurts to find him funny.

“I hate you,” you say.

He stands, and for a moment you think he’s leaving. That he’ll fuck off to the bar or to bed or to whatever girl he’s been stringing along on the side. Instead, he turns and crouches again, his back to you now.

And then he says, “Get on.”

You blink.

“What?”

He glances over his shoulder, mouth crooked. “You heard me.”

“John-”

“C’mon. You want me to carry you or not?”

You hesitate. A beat. Then another. And then-

“Fuck it,” you whisper, and you haul yourself onto his back with a grunt that sounds halfway to a sob. His hands immediately slide under your thighs, lifting you like you’re weightless, like your broken feet and battered soul don’t weigh more than his whole bloody band. Your face presses into his shoulder. He smells like cloves and sweat and hotel soap again, and you hate how much you breathe him in like you’re trying to memorize the scent for the apocalypse.

He starts walking. You’re not sure where. You don’t care.

“Do I feel heroic yet?” he mutters, breath hitching a little with the effort.

“You feel like an ass with a hero complex.”

“I’ll take it.”

Silence, then. Except for the creak of the stairs and your pulse in your ears and the slow, steady thump of his heart beneath your cheek.

You close your eyes.

You don’t mean to speak. You really don’t.

But the words fall out, raw and soft and broken at the edges. “I can’t do this much longer.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just adjusts his grip and keeps walking.

Eventually, he says, “Yeah. Me either.”

And somehow, that’s worse than if he’d told you to suck it up.

He kicks open the hotel suite door with one foot and tows you inside like some war bride in a trenchcoat. The lights are low. The bed’s turned down. Room service cart abandoned in the corner. He drops you onto the mattress like you're made of feathers and not bones ground to powder.

You groan. “I’m dying.”

“No you’re not,” he says, already tugging the blanket over you. “You’re just dramatic.”

“Let me die.”

“Can’t. You've got Glasgow in two days.”

“Then I definitely want to die.”

He chuckles, pushing pillows around you like you’re some centerpiece he’s fluffing. He doesn’t touch your hair. Doesn’t linger too long. Doesn’t look at your mouth.

Then he pauses, one knee on the mattress, that familiar tilt to his head, like he's listening to a song only he can hear. His eyes flick down to your feet, and he makes a face like he's just seen a crime scene.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “They’ve done you in, haven’t they?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The soles of your feet are practically humming with pain, hot and swollen and ragged from weeks of stages that never cared how deep they splintered. Your heels, those evil, glittery deathtraps, are somewhere in the stairwell, probably sparking a lawsuit.

“Move up,” he says, voice softer now. Less teasing.

You blink at him. “What?”

He jerks his chin. “Go on. Scooch. I’m not fixin’ you like this.”

Your body protests as you shift backward on the bed, sinking into the pillow mountain with a hiss between your teeth. He moves like he’s done this before. He grabs a clean towel from the armchair and disappears into the bathroom for a moment. You hear water running, the clink of something against porcelain.

When he comes back, he’s rolled up his sleeves.

“Right,” he mutters, setting down the bowl. “Let’s see what those bloody shoes’ve done to you.”

You start to protest, out of habit, pride, humiliation. But you’re too tired, and he’s already lifted one foot gently into his lap like it's made of glass. You wince.

He whistles low through his teeth. “Hell of a bruise, that one.”

“They match the ones on my ego,” you mumble.

He smirks, glancing up. “Lucky me. I’ve always fancied a bit of symmetry.”

The water’s warm when he dips the towel and presses it to your arch, and your whole body jerks at the contrast. His hands are careful, cradling you like something precious, but it’s the way he doesn't look at you while he does it that undoes you. Like this is routine. Like you’re not special. Like this is just something he does.

"Y’know," he says, voice drifting somewhere between tired and too awake, "'S not very rock 'n’ roll, sittin’ here patchin’ up a princess’s feet."

You snort, throat dry. “You’re hardly Mick bloody Jagger yourself right now.”

He grins without looking up. “Oi. I’ll have you know I’m devastatingly sexy at all times.”

You let your head loll to the side. Watch him work. His fingers move slowly, dabbing at the raw places, thumb brushing just above your ankle where the strap left its red ghost behind. He doesn’t rush. He never has when it's like this. When it's quiet. When it's real.

“You’ve got the feet of a gremlin.” he said, more to himself than you

“And you’ve got the face of someone who fell down a staircase made of sarcasm.” you mutter, blinking at the ceiling.

He laughs, and the sound is stupidly warm. “You're right.”

He switches to the other foot, quieter now. His fingers press, gentle, firm. There’s something so intimate about it, him, kneeling there, sleeves rolled, sweat-damp curls falling in his eyes, hands on your battered skin like you’re some half-melted wax figure he's still trying to put back together.

You don’t say anything about it. Neither does he.

He finishes your feet, all wrapped up, sets them down like he’s tucking in a child, and then turns to your knees.

“Gimme your leg.”

You hesitate, your dress’s ridden up, your thighs bare, knees raw and glitter-streaked and a little bloody where the stage bit into you. You tug the hem instinctively.

He raises a brow. “I’ve seen worse, love.”

You mumble something, but your voice is softer than it should be. You let him take your leg, watch his thumb brush a flake of silver from the top of your thigh like it offends him. He cleans the bruises, the scrapes, the faint red outline where your skin was pinched by sequins and fishnets and too many hours of pretending you were made of magic.

He doesn’t say anything smart this time.

He just… looks.

Then he leans in, and you freeze, just a fraction, just inside your bones. But he doesn’t kiss your knee, or your thigh, or your foot, or any of the places you’ve imagined. No. He leans up, up, bends forward and presses his lips to your head, warm and quiet and maddening in its restraint.

“G’night, superstar,” he whispers against your skin.

You keep your eyes closed. You don’t move. You don't say a word. You memorize the sound of him standing, the weight leaving the mattress, the click of the lamp turning off.

And then the door opens.

And then it shuts.

And then the room is quiet again.

But everything in you is louder than ever.

You think about your little day off tomorrow, and then begin dreading the day after that.

━━

The next day, your feet are still bandaged.

Bandaged. Like you’ve come home from a war you keep volunteering for. The white gauze is too clean, too bright against the mess of your skin. This temporary lie of healing, when you both know it’s only going to get worse. You’ll slip those glittering murder heels on again tomorrow, paint your lips like armor, curl your hair until it screams, and step onto another stage for another crowd that doesn’t know how much of you bleeds with every chord.

You stare at them now. Your feet. Ridiculous little traitors. Useless symbols of everything you sacrifice to keep glowing. They ache like heartbreak.

You’re in your hotel suite alone. Room service tray cold by the window. The view of Vienna glittering like a Christmas card no one bothered to sign. You're halfway under the covers, knees up, pillows wrapped around your ribs like insulation against the world. You’ve got a phone in your hand you’re not dialing. You’ve got his number memorized like lyrics.

Your body’s clean, finally. Showered until the glitter went down the drain like sins. You still feel dirty.

Late night’s always the same: too quiet, too sharp. Everything slows down until the ache gets loud. Every wound thinks it has something to say. Your skin doesn’t feel like yours. Your eyes are burning from lack of sleep and your fingers twitch like they want to touch someone they’re not allowed to.

And you know exactly who.

You swear you won’t. You say it out loud. “I won’t.”

The room stares at you like it doesn’t believe you. Neither do you.

The phone’s in your hand.

The receiver’s up.

The buttons glow from the nightstand.

You’ve waited hours now, half-daring yourself not to call, half-hoping he’d just show up anyway. But it’s late. He’s probably stoned. Probably tangled in someone prettier, easier, less exhausted.

You hate how much that thought bruises.

You don’t remember dialing.

He answers on the third ring.

“’Lo?”

Your heart stumbles. “Hi.”

A pause. Not silence. His breath is always a little loud on the line. You imagine he’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other holding the receiver to his ear like it's boring him. He’s probably shirtless. You try not to imagine that.

“You alright?” he asks. Voice lower than usual. That late-night gravel that happens when he hasn’t had his second whisky or first cigarette.

You stare at the wall. “No.”

Another pause. Then, a faint shuffle, like he’s sitting up.

“Want me to come over?”

You don’t answer. But the silence does. And he hangs up without another word.

━━

Ten minutes later, there’s a knock. Not a loud one. Not dramatic. Not the way anyone else would knock if they wanted to be let in. It’s the knock of someone who’s already been given permission a hundred times without ever asking once.

You open the door.

He’s barefoot. Shirt untucked. Eyes shadowed with something that isn’t tired.

He looks at your bandaged feet, then your face.

“You look like shite,” he says softly.

You step aside.

He walks in.

You don’t speak for a while.

He leans on the wall by the window. You curl back into the bed. The space between you is the size of the Atlantic. You pretend not to notice the way he watches your every movement. Like you’re a song he’s trying to learn the chords to without a melody.

You say, “What’s the point of fixing me if I’m just gonna fall apart again?”

He laughs once. It’s a short sound. “Aren’t we all?”

You look at him. “Is that why you keep showing up?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Maybe I like the sound of breaking glass.”

“Maybe you like feeling needed.”

He lifts a brow. “You think you don’t need me?”

The question should piss you off.

But it doesn’t.

Because the answer’s crawling all over your skin like a fever. Because your chest feels like it’s about to cave in under the weight of all the things you haven’t said. Because you’re so fucking tired of pretending that every glance, every almost-touch, every smartass insult isn’t just the echo of a scream.

You slide the blanket off your shoulders. Sit up. Let your legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Your bandaged feet look like little ghosts. You should be embarrassed. You should feel small. Instead, you say,

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

The words fall into the hush between you like a stone in still water, and everything stills. The air goes tight. A heartbeat ago, the room was just space and walls and silence. Now it’s thick. Like it’s watching, holding its breath.

He stares.

Really stares. Not blank. Not surprised. Caught. You see it, something arrested in his eyes, like the moment between blinking and crying, like he was somewhere else entirely and you just called him home. His mouth parts slightly, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t move. Not even to fidget.

And then; he breaks.

Not all at once. Not like glass shattering, but like the soft sound of old wood groaning under pressure. Something subtle giving way. His chest rises with a deeper breath. His lashes lower, slow. And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

His hand comes up, slow, reverent. Fingers hover near your jaw. He doesn’t touch. Not yet.

“You look at me like you already know what it’d do to me,” he whispers. “Like you’d ruin me. And I think you would.”

That strikes something deeper in the room. An invisible chord. You feel it in your throat, in your gut, in the ache that pools behind your ribs like heat waiting for flame. He’s still not touching you. His hand is right there, breath-close. His fingers twitch like the restraint is costing him something.

You swallow hard.

“Then let me.”

The silence that follows crackles. His eyes flick down to your mouth. His brow pulls tight, soft lines carving themselves with the tension of too many things unsaid. He shifts, subtle, forward.

That does it.

He leans in, halting like the movement might undo him. His forehead brushes yours. Just barely. A breath lands on your cheek, shaky. His lips hover so close you feel the shape of them, the tremble.

One breath.

Two.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not slow.

It’s everything he’s been holding back, pouring into you like fire, like music, like confession. His hand cups your cheek, thumb at your temple. Your lips part, and he kisses you deeper, like it hurts, like it heals, like it’s the only thing he’s wanted since the first time he saw you on stage wearing that color and pretending you didn’t need anyone.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting a hundred lifetimes.

He breaks off, panting. Forehead still resting on yours.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck."

You grip his shirt.

He kisses you again, and it’s the kind of kiss you can’t walk away from.

The kind that makes you forget you were ever broken.

Your body is wrecked, tender and aching, bones humming, skin threaded with fatigue and the ghost of sequins and spotlight. Your feet are still wrapped in white, useless beneath you, and your thighs scream each time you shift, skin kissed raw from friction and hours of forced posture. You feel bruised all the way through, knees, your ribs, the delicate pull of your waist where the corset you wore yesterday cinched and cinched until your lungs gave up complaining.

You are a ruin. A beautiful one. And John looks at you like he wants to crawl inside the wreckage and never come out.

He’s still close. Still pressed against your lips like he’s testing the water before diving in. You feel the shape of his breath, warm and unsteady, his hands hovering, one just beneath your jaw, the other curled around the edge of the mattress like he’s bracing himself against the pull of gravity. Or of you.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice cracking low in the back of his throat. Not smug now. Not teasing. Just that raw honesty he only offers after midnight.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. I mean, no. But yeah.”

He smiles, faint and crooked. His forehead nudges yours. “That’s a very you answer.”

“You’re a very you question.”

That earns a laugh. He shifts again, his thigh brushing yours, and both of you feel the tremble that jolts through you when it happens. Your legs open, not wide, not offering, but letting him in. Letting him closer.

He doesn’t push. Not yet. Just lets his fingers slide over your neck, feather-light, until they settle on the edge of your collarbone. The touch alone makes you arch slightly, ribs protesting, your spine curling like a note being held too long.

“You sure you’re alright?” he says again, quieter this time. “You’re all banged up.”

Your eyes meet his. And for a second, it’s almost unbearable, the way he’s looking at you. Like he sees every fracture and wants to kiss them one by one.

“I don’t want to feel pain tonight,” you say. “But I want to feel something.”

His hand trails down, following the swell of your shoulder to your arm, down to where your wrist lies against the blanket. He doesn’t answer with words.

He lifts your hand slowly and presses his mouth to your palm.

Not a kiss, an ache. His lips linger like he’s trying to memorize the lines in your skin with his mouth, trying to absorb something from you that he hasn’t earned, like devotion, or safety, or the right to stay. His breath is warm, drawn out. He holds your hand there against his lips, eyes closing for a beat too long, as if he might say something. He doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales and turns his face, brushing his mouth across the side of your wrist next. His lips are a little softer now, a little wetter, heat blooming along your veins in a way that makes your knees tense under the blanket. Still, he doesn’t go faster. He’s deliberate. Like he knows you’re sore. Like he’s sore too.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. His thumb skims over your knuckles. Then down the side of your arm. His hand meets your shoulder and settles there, warm and solid. His fingers slide into your robe’s collar, slow, gentle, just enough to dip beneath the fabric. Finally, he started undressing you.

But not like a man undressing a lover. Not like some sweaty tangle of impatient hands. No, he treats you like a sculpture coming out of its wrappings. Like something delicate and breakable and wanted. His hands slide beneath the robe and ease it down your arms, one inch at a time, until it puddles at your waist in a heap of soft fabric and static warmth. The shift in air against your skin makes you shiver, and he pauses.

He looks.

Not hungrily. Not like a man getting what he wants.

But like a man who doesn’t believe it.

His eyes roam, your chest, the faint marks left by the corset like cracked porcelain around your ribs, the flush that rises in your throat as your breath shallows. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t move yet.

He just whispers, “Bloody hell.”

Like you’re a sunrise he wasn’t ready for.

Then his hand slides back in, cradles your waist. His thumb finds one of the corset lines, presses there, barely grazing the tender skin.

“You let this thing dig into you like this?”

You nod, slowly.

“Why?”

You blink at him. “Because I have to look good.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker up to yours.

“You don’t,” he says, quiet but with that sharp edge of truth he never lets out unless it’s late and he’s raw. “You’re already fuckin’ perfect.”

He leans down then, not to kiss your lips, not yet, but to press his mouth to one of the bruises on your ribs. A soft kiss. Lingering. He moves to the next. And the next. Each one slower, warmer, lips dragging across your skin like they’re rewriting what hurt.

He kisses your chest, your collarbone, your shoulder, nudging the robe further and further down with the scrape of his lips, until the fabric gives up and slides away entirely. He pulls back to look again, like he has to.

Like his sanity depends on remembering this later.

Like he’s never going to forgive himself if he forgets the way your ribs rise and fall in uneven rhythm, the soft glisten along your hipbone, the imprint of your corset etched like guilt into your skin. His eyes crawl over you like a starving man cataloging his last meal. But he doesn’t make you feel like food, he makes you feel like fire.

And then, just like that, the hesitation snaps.

Gone.

He surges forward with a sound, half groan, half growl, and your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, sheets tangling beneath you. His mouth finds yours again like gravity, like punishment, like need too long delayed. There’s nothing patient about him now. This isn’t reverent. This is desperate.

His hand’s already between your legs, pressing hard through the thin slip you’re still wearing. Your hips jolt. You gasp. Your thighs ache but the want burns right through it, white-hot and impossible to ignore. Your whole body tightens under him like a bowstring.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters against your mouth. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper, grinding into his palm. He lets out a broken, disbelieving laugh and yanks your slip up, baring you, his hands everywhere, thumb brushing your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch.

“Three years,” he says, voice rough now, breath hot on your neck. “You don’t know how many nights I thought about this.”

“Then do it,” you pant. “Don’t talk.”

That does something to him. He groans like he’s angry, at himself, at the whole world for not giving him this sooner. His hands slide under your thighs and pull you down toward him. The shock of it wrings a whimper out of you, and he watches your face like he needs it.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” he says. “Don’t close your eyes, not yet.”

He tugs his pants and boxers down in one frantic motion, cock flushed and heavy, already hard. He catches your eyes flicker down and huffs a laugh, smug but stunned.

He lines himself up and grips under your thighs again, lifting you just enough to tilt your hips, your bandaged feet dangling useless over his forearms.

The stretch when he sinks into you knocks your breath straight out of your lungs.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes. Just a high, trembling gasp and the full-body burn of being opened like this, deep, too deep, too much and somehow not enough. Your thighs shake immediately, already weak from the night, and he notices.

“Oh, you poor fuckin’ thing,” he groans, barely holding back as he pushes in, inch by inch. “Still sore, huh? But you’re takin’ it so well, Jesus, listen to you.”

Because you’re whimpering now. You can’t help it. His cock is dragging through every nerve you’ve ever buried under lipstick and stilettos. Your hips try to buck but they’re too tired, your arms grasp the sheets but you’ve got no leverage. You’re just full and trembling and trying not to beg him to ruin you.

He pulls out just enough to make you cry out, then slams back in harder this time, your whole body jerks with the motion, a sob caught in your throat.

“That’s it,” he hisses through his teeth, “fuck, you feel unreal. Like you’re made for this.”

He leans forward, pressing your knees toward your chest so he can grind even deeper, and you cry, really cry, because now he’s dragging over that spot again and again, each stroke wet and obscene, his hips snapping fast and filthy.

The bed creaks, the air breaks, and it’s pure sex now, raw and urgent. His sweat is dripping onto your stomach, and still he doesn’t stop. His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, teeth grazing like he wants to mark every inch he’s fucked. Your hand flails for something, anchor, relief, pain, who knows.

But your thighs, god, they’re failing. You’re panting hard now, sobbing into your shoulder, legs twitching with the strain. You didn’t realize how spent you were until now. You were ready in your head, but your body’s still too raw, too used up. Something, not an orgasm, is building sharp and fast in your belly, but your legs are going, you can feel it, and when they start to give out he feels it too.

And then, suddenly he’s gone.

He pulls out so fast you whimper at the loss, wet and ruined, your whole body still rolling toward climax and denied.

“What?” your voice cracks.

But he’s already flipping you over, manhandling you gently onto your front like you weigh nothing. His hands slip under your hips, dragging a pillow beneath your stomach, arching you up so your ass is raised, your back curved, your face buried in linen.

“I’ve got you,” he says, breathless.

And then his voice shifts.

“Wait-where is it?”

You lift your head, dazed. “Wha?”

And then you see it. Your scarf. Still on the floor. Silly, feathery, totally inappropriate.

He grabs it.

And before you can even think, he’s looping it around your wrists, in front of you, and knotting it tight. Soft but firm. Gentle but sure.

You breathe out, startled, and he leans down to kiss your cheek, murmuring against your ear:

“Somethin’ to keep your hands out the way. And maybe... somethin’ to bite on, yeah?”

You moan, confused, fucked-out, grateful. You don’t even care why he’s doing it. You’re too far gone to argue. You just let him push your bound wrists up against the pillow and nestle you down again.

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies, and slams back in.

Your moan is buried in fabric, the scarf absorbing every gasped-out moan as he drives into you from behind, your hips locked in place, his fingers digging into your ass as he pounds you harder than before. The angle is cruel, perfect, his cock hitting something now that makes your vision go white, and the way you’re tied means you can’t squirm, can’t run, can’t do anything but take it.

He’s groaning behind you, loud, guttural. “You feel so fuckin’ tight like this, fuck, tied up like a present.”

You whimper into the pillow, legs spread uselessly, one of your wrapped feet twitching with every thrust. Your body’s burning. Everything hurts, but it’s so good, too good, and the ache is just more fuel. You’re soaking wet, throbbing, twitching around him, your orgasm close and cruel and insistent.

He leans over you, presses his mouth to your ear.

But he doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

Just breathes, hot, heavy, rhythmic. The air between you thickens, skin on fire where his chest brushes your back, where his fingers settle on your hips again, slowly gliding down until his thumbs press at the soft crease where your thighs meet your ass. You squirm beneath him, helpless, hands bound with your own scarf, face half-buried in a pillow that smells like clean linen and sweat and sex.

“Look at you,” he murmurs finally, voice cracked and reverent. “Fuckin’ spread out like I dreamt you, soft and fucked and beggin’ without sayin’ a word.”

You make a sound that isn’t a moan, isn’t a sob, something between shame and need and overwhelmed worship. And he eats it up. Presses a slow kiss to the shell of your ear, then your neck, then your spine, tracing a path down between your shoulder blades, then lower.

And lower still.

Until he’s kneeling behind you, cock flushed and slick and aching, but he ignores it.

Instead, he palms you, spreads you gently, and lets out a rough breath.

“Can’t believe I waited three years for this view.”

You're so heated, you hadn't even realized he pulled out. Then, without warning, his tongue is on you.

You jerk, bound hands tightening in front of you, your thighs twitching, and he groans at the reaction, dives deeper, tongue hot and insistent as it drags from your pussy to your ass, long slow licks that make your back arch and your mouth open uselessly against the sheets. He’s devouring you, feasting like it’s his last meal. His nose presses against your heat while his tongue slips into places no one’s dared, wet and slow and filthy.

“Oh my God, John,” you gasp, face burning, body shaking with the stimulation, the wrongness of it, the rightness of it, how nasty and tender it feels to be on your knees, sore and wrapped in fake fur, while he worships you like this.

He groans again, one hand sliding up your thigh, tracing the bruises he didn’t cause but clearly wants to soothe. His mouth moves down again, tongue flicking at your clit now, teasing, tasting, lips sucking just enough to make your legs twitch, to make you cry out.

He pulls back just long enough to mutter, “Didn’t think I’d get this close and not taste you proper, did you?”

You try to lift your head, to glare, to say anything, but he’s already ducked back in, mouth working you open, tongue moving in circles while two fingers slide up and tease your entrance. He doesn’t push them in, yet. Just circles, light pressure, until you’re pleading, incoherent, hips grinding weakly against his face, scarf burning against your wrists.

Then, finally, his fingers push inside, slow and careful. Your back bows, and he growls into your cunt like your reaction just cracked his fucking brain.

“So wet for me,” he says. “Jesus. Squeeze me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pant into the pillow, hair sticking to your cheek, every nerve lit up, skin too much, and not enough. You’re nearly sobbing, voice shaking.

“Please.”

He chuckles, tongue flattening against your clit as his fingers start moving, curling inside you, dragging over that spot with maddening precision.

“Please what, love?”

“Fuck, do it again.”

He pulls away, fingers still working you, mouth now moving to your thigh, biting lightly, then licking the sting.

He grins like a devil as he pulls his fingers free, watches the way your pussy clenches around nothing, weeping and ready, and then he climbs over you again, dragging the head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slick.

And then he sinks into you, once again.

This time, he doesn’t go fast. Not rough.

Not yet.

He fucks you deep, slow, grinding strokes, one hand pinning your hip, the other sliding up your back and he presses down against you.

“Feel that?” he whispers, grinding in so deep you think he’s in your throat. “That’s me, all of me. No one else ever had this, did they?”

You can’t even answer. You whine, long, high, desperate, and he slams in again, harder now. Then again. His pace picks up, the headboard thumping against the wall, your bound hands arching as he uses you, still careful, still focused, but finally giving in to the way he’s starved for this. For you.

He leans down, tongue dragging over your neck, voice low and dangerous.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

You can’t speak. You’re gone.

He thrusts again, hard, sharp, angle brutal.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you cry out. “I’m yours-fuck, John, please-”

Your orgasm builds faster than you expect, hips meeting his in frantic thrusts, body writhing, sobbing his name into the sheets.

He pounds into you until your legs shake, until you’re crying into your scarf, until your body goes liquid. And then you're coming as he snarls something filthy under his breath, and suddenly he pulls out again, no.

You groan, shaking, overstimulated and abandoned, ass still arched up, cunt twitching and emptying out. But before you can sob, he flips you, rolls you onto your back, scarf still binding your wrists. He kneels between your thighs, his cock flushed and slick and furious where it stands up against his stomach, and he looks down at you like he could die happy right now.

“I’m not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He slides his fingers through your folds again, watching you shudder beneath him. Then he grabs his cock, gives it two quick, desperate strokes, eyes locked on your tits heaving with every gasp.

“Wanna see it,” he groans. “Wanna see what you look like when I mark you.”

Your breath catches.

He strokes faster.

“Where do you want it, love?”

You blink up at him, sweaty, used, feral.

“Everywhere.”

He growls, actually growls.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He braces one hand beside your head, jerks himself faster, rough now, wrist working furiously, his other hand still wrapped tight around your scarf-bound wrists, holding you in place.

“I’ve wanted this for years. Wanted to see you laid out like this, lookin’ up at me like you’d die for it.”

You nod, frantic. “I would.”

That’s it.

He leans forward just as he starts to lose it, hot ropes of cum painting your stomach, your tits, your neck, his hips stuttering, his mouth open, groaning your name like a hymn and a curse.

He looks down at you.

At the vision he’s only ever seen in flickering fantasy, in dreams he never dared admit he had, and now you’re here.

Still tied up, wrists in the middle of your chest in that ridiculous scarf, your body sunk into the ruined bedding like you’ve been dropped from heaven and caught mid-fall. Your chest rising and falling fast, nipples stiff in the aftermath, his release gleaming across your skin in obscene, glorious streaks, throat slick and glistening, lines of it caught just under your collarbone, pooling lightly beneath the swell of your breasts. One streak trails down the soft slope of your ribs toward your bellybutton, shining in the low lamp light like he meant to mark you, like he couldn’t help himself.

Your thighs are still trembling, one twitching helplessly, the bruises from earlier glaring red and violet against the softness of your skin. They crawl from the edges of your hips down to your knees, angry and tender, reminders of everything you went through to be here. Your feet are wrapped still, ankles helpless, bandages softening the edge of your vulnerability but not hiding it.

He looks at your face, and something changes in him.

Because there’s cum on your jaw, just beside your mouth, catching the corner like a ruined kiss. Your lips are parted, gasping still, hair sticking to your cheek, sweat beading at your temples. Your lashes flutter, and your eyes, fuck, your eyes, look up at him with something close to disbelief.

Like you can’t believe he’s still here.

And John, naked, breathless, still pulsing between his thighs from the force of what he just gave you, looks down at you and feels this sick, aching punch of tenderness swell in his chest, so big it almost crushes him.

He collapses over you, panting into your neck, his body shaking, his hand still tangled in the scarf.

He unties the scarf with trembling fingers. And then he cradles you. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t speak.

Just pulls you into his arms and holds you like something sacred.

And as you lie there, breathless and half-broken, you finally say it.

“I wish I was your girl.”

John’s arms tighten.

“You are.”

noahschnapp Wait I need to set an alarm for midnight

user YESSSSS

sadiesink_ was my performance in stranger things good enough to be casted in one of these things?

⤿ yourusername idk i've got a long waiting list

⤿ finnwolfhardofficial Ok Miss 'I'm top of the music charts'

⤿ gatenmatarazzo Fame changed her...

⤿ yourusername stop deuxmoi will think ur being serious

user why is the stranger things cast here😭😭😭

djotime Did you put a meme of your own album on the last slide

⤿ yourusername literally go away

⤿ user they're flirting btw

⤿ user what stage of insanity is this

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yourusername and i can bring you loooveeeee !!! opalite is all yours (not joe. joe is mine) (😝😝😝)

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user still recovering

noahschnapp Keeping this a secret was so hard

⤿ yourusername i FORCED u to shut up with the threat that i'd cut ur scenes

⤿ finnwolfhardofficial Can you cut my scenes why was I the villain of the music video?

⤿ yourusername L

⤿ finnwolfhardofficial ?

user THEY'RE DATING

user second slide is SO real

djotime Wow! Good song! Do you know who sings this?

⤿ yourusername ooohh! idk heard she wants u though x

⤿ djotime I'll ping her a message then! (Love you)

⤿ yourusername (love you too)

user this is so peak

sadiesink_ hard launching through a music video (that i'm in ???) is so cool

⤿ yourusername ur so cool

calebmclaughlin Thanks for putting me in the most obnoxious neon work out outfit

⤿ yourusername i'll never let u escape the 80s outfits😁😁

user i'm obsessed with them

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yourusername hubby

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djotime First

djotime I love you Mrs Keery

⤿ yourusername i'm blushing

⤿ yourusername i love you mr keery