#bhc

Saturday, London, 7pm.

You walk into the ballroom, head held high behind your mask, trying not to show how badly you're shaking.

“Fake it till you make it, right,” you mutter to yourself, allowing false confidence to enter your steps as you sweep across the dance floor, looking for the open bar.

Reaching your destination, you order a shot of whiskey and throw it back, letting the liquid courage flow through you and center you.

You can feel eyes on you, you'd dressed to impress in something far sexier than you'd ever normally wear, anonymity lending you the needed courage.

His eyes are still on you. You'd purposely swept past him on your way to the bar, hoping to turn his head.

Your heart beats faster as he approaches, and you take a few steadying breaths. “This is what you wanted,” you remind yourself. “You'll never have another chance like this, and after the other day, it's not like things can get any worse.”

Sunday, LA, 4am.

You curse under your breath as you make your way through the party searching for Dom. 

Your flight is supposed to leave in a little under three hours, and then Dom has to be on stage not long after you land. 

He should have been back to the hotel room hours ago.

"And they say New York is the city that never sleeps,” you mutter to yourself. 4am, Los Angeles time, and the party is still going strong, loud and chaotic, and drunken sounding around you, the all too familiar smell of weed in the air. "Don't any of these people sleep?"

At last, you hear the familiar northern grit of Dom's Doncaster accent across the room, and you begin to head towards it, uncomfortable with the mass of half-naked, drunk, stoned bodies pressing in all around you. You, in your sensible blouse, dress pants, and platform heels, your hair pulled back into a bun. You don't belong here. And neither does Dom; this isn't his usual scene either.

He'd only come because of her, because she asked him, and he almost never refused her. 

You understand his tendency towards people pleasing, an often enough victim of it yourself, but enough is enough. 

You'd been in LA for a week, a break in the schedule to accommodate a pop-up event for a collaborative EP, and she had dragged him to a different party every night.

You finally spot Dom and groan, still a few feet away, but close enough to see that he's completely wasted, some random girl, not his.... girlfriend? Partner? Situationship? They were together and not at the same time. Dom described it as open once, but that doesn't quite sum it up completely.

Bianca Nichols. This was more her scene. Flashy parties with no real reason behind them. Extravagant. Expensive. Vain. It wasn't that you hated her; you just thought Dom could do better. More real. Bianca is a supermodel, tanned, flawless skin, a figure most people would die for, and a fortune people would kill for. They'd met at a photoshoot a couple years ago and just clicked, exchanging numbers that day.

You stop in front of Dom, he hasn't noticed you yet, too busy with the girl sitting on his lap, looking like they're trying to crawl into each other's skin. 

You push down the usual surge of bitter resentment, the sharp flare of irrational jealousy, the sharp stab of pain that pulses through you, your heart hurting, not just for yourself, but for him too. He's better than this.

You push it all down, locking it inside your heart and allowing steel to harden your spine and your voice as you look down at him, your arms crossed. "Really, Dominic?"

The pair break apart, the girl's makeup is smeared, her lips swollen and red, there's a hickey on Dom's neck, and glitter shimmering on his skin.

The girl scrambles to her feet, clutching at the open buttons of her top, and scurries away.

Dom groans and picks up a glass from the table next to him, a couple fingers of amber liquid sloshing around a hunk of ice. "What'd ya haf ta go an' do tha' fer?"

His words are slurred, accent strong, almost to the point of incoherency.

You lean down and pluck the drink from his hand as he brings it to his mouth. "It's four in the fucking morning, Dominic. Our flight leaves in less than three hours, and yet, here you are. Not packed. Drunk off your ass.”

Dom looks up at you, his eyes hazy, seemingly unable to keep you in focus, and waves a dismissive hand, his entire arm waving through the air, recklessly. “Calm yer tits, Y/N. Are ya me fookin’ publicist or me mum?”

“Your publicist. Which is why I can tell you that this isn't a good look. You're drunk off your ass, and you have a performance in less than 24 hours. Say your goodbyes and let's go. Maybe we can slip out before this ends up in the fucking tabloids. Where's Bianca anyway? I thought you were here together." 

You dutifully ignore the pang in your heart. It doesn't matter. Dom's your best friend, you just want him to be happy.

Dom jerks his head over to a shadowy corner where two figures can be seen, heatedly making out.

White-hot rage flashes through you. Your voice like ice, sharp with exasperation and disapproval. “Oh, for fuck's sake. I know you guys have an open relationship, but does she really have to do that right in front of you?"

“It's none of yer fookin’ business, gimme me drink back," Dom grumbles, reaching for his drink, you lift it out of his reach.

"I think you've had enough." A beat. "Why isn't she with you?"

You know it's not actually your business, but you can't help it. It kills you to see him like this. Drunk and alone. Clearly unhappy but unwilling to admit it.

He shrugs. "I don't fookin' know."

“But these are all her friends, and you're just all by yourself over here," you exclaim, rage momentarily taking over your sense of professionalism and your own disappointment in Dom's actions lately.

“Well, I am now since you scared…uh…” he gestures vaguely in the direction the girl ran off in.

“Really, Dominic? You didn't even know her fucking name? You're better than that."

“Fuck off," he grunts, then mutters half to himself, "yer such a fookin’ buzzkill sometimes. Ya know, ya should really try to relax, get laid, it might help.”

Pain. White hot. Searing pain. His words cut deep into your heart. A physical blow, like you've been punched in the gut.

You fight back tears, grasping for the rage, for the disappointment, for your common sense, for your professionalism, anything to drown out the pain.

“Fuck you, Dominic. You're drunk and clearly not thinking clearly. Come on, we're leaving.”

You reach for him, grabbing his arm to pull him up.

“No,” he shoves you away, harder than he intends, you stumble backwards. Hit another body. You both go down. Glass shatters. Drinks spill all over you, soaking you.

You push yourself to your feet, palms stinging from where they've been cut by broken glass, drinks dripping from your hair and clothes, blouse sticking to your skin, stained red from a glass of wine, the material now see-through, exposing you.

Tears run freely down your face, smearing your simple makeup worse than it already is. 

You stammer over an apology to the waitress you'd run into and stumble away, ignoring Dom's call of, "Y/N, wait!”

You'd returned to the hotel room in tears, stripped out of your ruined clothes, and sat under the scalding water, trying to burn away the embarrassment, the pain, everything. Eventually, the water began to feel cold. You turned it further down, letting the ice replace the fire, you didn't want to feel anything; you wanted to be numb.

You sat in that shower until you ran out of tears to cry, until your heart felt like a ball of ice in your chest, and then your alarm went off; time to go. 

You stepped out of the shower and made yourself look presentable, any trace of your tears or the sleepless night hidden under makeup. Under professionalism. You still had a job to do.

Dom didn't look at you when he got on the plane. You didn't mean to look at him, but you caught a glimpse, the movement attracting your attention more than anything. Shades down over his eyes. Skin a few shades paler than usual. Bundled up in a black hoodie and matching sweatpants, the hood pulled up, hiding his features. He'd slumped in his seat, dropping his bag like it weighed a ton, and curled up against the window.

You worked on your laptop, your phone resting besides it, ready to do damage control if needed, but so far, thankfully, nothing.

The flight was long, the silence stifling, but you kept to your work, kept to yourself.

Dom slept for most of the flight, which was just as well, and when the plane finally touched down hours later, you were off the plane before he was even on his feet.

The rest of the team had opted to fly commercial, taking advantage of the week off to spend on their own, which thankfully means Adam, your boss, Dom's manager, is there to pick you both up.

You slide into the front seat and continue working.

Dom slumps into the backseat a few moments later, remaining silent, still hungover, exactly what you were worried about.

You push aside the petty thought that crosses your mind and pull up Dom's schedule, starting a conversation with Adam as he pulls away. “So, soundcheck is an hour from now. How far away are we?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Good. Then Dom goes on a few hours later, and the current set is coming in around an hour and a half. He'll have about an hour of wiggle room in case he goes over and to visit with the BHC, then it's on the bus to the next city, which is tomorrow night. Rinse and repeat. There's a radio interview tomorrow, but provided we leave on time tonight, we should arrive with plenty of time to spare before that. There's shows the next two nights, which look pretty much the same. We fly back out Thursday after the show, and then there's the charity masquerade ball in London on Saturday night.”

“Masquerade ball?”

“Yeah. It's a charity event. Donate and get the chance to be chosen to dance with your favorite celebrities. I thought I'd be good for his image. I spoke with you and Tommas about it, but it's been months.”

“No, no. I remember now,” he glances at Dom through the rear-view mirror. “It's a good idea. The Rockstar with a heart of gold.”

You bite down a snarky comment as the car falls silent except for the keys on your computer.

The next few days had been an exercise in avoidance.

You and Dom only spoke when absolutely unavoidable.

You had opted to have daily meetings with Adam instead, usually with the rest of the team present, sometimes just the three of you. 

When you did have to speak to each other, you kept yourself cold, clinical, your voice clipped and to the point, no extra words. 

The team moved around the pair of you as if walking on eggshells, the tension in the air thick and electric.

You stayed firm, not giving in the few times he attempted to get you alone or lighten the mood. 

He knew he fucked up, he was just too stubborn to admit it. And until he did, you weren't interested in anything he had to say.

That last night, or morning rather, in LA sat between the pair of you, the proverbial elephant in the room (besides the one on Dom's ass, of course), the topic untouched by either of you.

Thankfully, Dom had managed to escape without any incriminating photos getting out, a miracle in itself with how many photos Bianca and her friends had posted, photos you'd been forced to slog through in the name of the job.

Dom had made the mistake of approaching you once while you'd been doing just that, on the tour bus after soundcheck, the first show. 

You'd snapped at him. Been quite rude if you're being honest with yourself. He'd looked like a kicked puppy, the image enhanced by how miserable he looked at that point, deeply hungover. But he hadn't apologized. Instead, anger had hardened his green eyes to chips of jade, and his response had been just as rude. The words bitten off.

You'd been interrupted before a real argument could break out. He hadn't tried talking to you again until the second-to-last city…. It hadn't been pretty.

You'd both screamed some pretty hurtful things. You hadn't meant half of it. You were just frustrated and hurt and disappointed, and after three days in cramped quarters and air so thick with tension it hurt to breathe, something had to give, and it finally did.

The rest of the team found you in the middle of it, drawn in by all the yelling.

Dom had been in the middle of daring you to quit, saying you couldn't be objective anymore.

“Fine! If that's what you really want!” You'd seen Adam and Tommas come in the door behind Dom. “Then I fucking quit!”

You'd ripped off your tour pass, the placards you all wore around your necks, identifying you as part of the team, and slapped it into his chest as you walked past, slamming the door behind you. 

Adam and Tommas had followed you out right after, yelling at you to stop, to think this through. 

They'd told you to fly back to London early, they'd pay, told you to take the weekend, think things over. You'd almost turned it down, still fired up and hurting, hurting so bad you wanted to curl into a ball and cry right there on the floor, but you couldn't, you wouldn't give him or anyone else the satisfaction. But you hadn't. Instead, you'd agreed, and Tommas had helped you gather your stuff and driven you to the airport while Adam made sure the show went on as planned.

That was Wednesday night. You'd stumbled into your empty flat in the early hours of Wednesday morning, having flown 16 hours west in a state of numb shock, taken one step away from the door, and collapsed.

The tears finally coming, unrelenting, you wanted to rip your heart out of your chest, thinking it would hurt less, less than the devastating reality of everything that had happened.

The brutal truth you'd kept at bay, buried deep inside you, finally undeniable: you love him. You're in love with him. And now he's gone. No longer yours in any capacity. Not your client. Not your best friend. No longer a part of his team. And he's the one who told you to leave. 

You'd lay on the floor of your apartment for hours, your tears eventually running dry, but you hadn't the energy, the will to move. You didn't sleep either. 

The light in your flat had brightened and then begun to dim again as Wednesday slipped past. 

Then Thursday.

When Friday finally dawned, you forced yourself to move, to make an attempt at being human again. Your phone had been dead since before your plane landed, you plugged it in and left it powered off on your nightstand. You stripped out of your clothes and showered, once again turning the water as hot as it could go, only leaving when it began to run cold. You'd slipped into your softest, coziest pajamas and sat heavily on the edge of your bed, fatigue washing over you, your stomach protesting at the lack of food.

You'd forced down a frozen mini pizza, one of the only edible things in your flat, and returned to your bed, passing out almost instantly.

You awoke in the early hours of Saturday morning. The sleep and food had done you good. The situation sitting before you seemed clearer now. 

With nothing left to lose you could confess to Dom how you felt about him, tell him the truth rather than spending the rest of your life wondering, either he felt the same or he didn't, if he didn't you'd quit officially Monday morning, the right way. If he felt the same, well, you didn't know what that meant for the future, but you had to find out. You knew you couldn't go back to the way things had been, not after everything that had happened, not after you'd finally admitted the truth to yourself.

With that thought in mind, you'd reached out to the planners of the masquerade ball and gotten yourself in.

Around the ballroom, people are pairing up, seeking out partners for the opening dance.

Your heart feels like it's going to climb out of your chest as Dom finally stops in front of you and gives you a slight bow.

“I hope I'm not being too forward, but I couldn't help but notice you across the room. May I have this dance?" Dom offers his hand

You consider it and then nod, placing your hand in his and allowing him to lead you out to the dance floor, where couples are lining up across from each other. 

This dance, one attendees of the ball were instructed to learn, was one of the main selling points of the night, where the celebrity guests, hidden behind their own masks, black to your silver, each ask someone of their choosing to be their partner for this dance.

It's a dance not about touch, but about the near touch, symbolic of the tension and connection that can be built even across space, much like people form with their favorite celebrities.

The music starts, and both aisles of dancers step together, bowing to each other before stepping back in line.

You step together again and lift your right hand. Dom mirrors it, your palms just barely not touching, eyes locked as you slowly circle in time with the music, in the opposite direction, returning to your original spots and then swapping, lifting your left hand and circling slowly to the right.

Your bodies are inches apart, practically shoulder to shoulder as you circle and then part, eyes never leaving each other's.

Dom's face is mostly obscured by his mask, hiding his plump lips and upturned nose, definite giveaways of his identity, but you know him well enough to know his lips are slightly parted, his full concentration on you, his emotions easy to read in his eyes: wonder, desire, awe.

You lift both palms now, your faces even closer together as you circle. You can smell him, a unique blend of whiskey and cigarette smoke, dark rose, and something you've never been able to name that just fits him. 

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, hard, eyes boring into yours, beginning to darken as the tension builds.

The music swells as you return to your original positions, but only for a beat as you both step forward, hands on each other's shoulder blades, your palms finally connecting, and at that moment, it feels like sparks actually fly.

From there, the dance flows into a more traditional waltz. You're perfectly in sync, every step, every turn, neither of you leading or following, just feeling.

His palm is warm comfort on your bare shoulder, fingertips calloused from his guitar.

As the song ends, you separate and bow to each other again.

He takes your hand and brushes his lips across your knuckles, lifting his mask just high enough to do so before sliding it back down as he straightens, eyes never leaving you. "You're a lovely dancer. You move like you can feel the music in your bones. In your soul."

You can feel your cheeks flush under your own mask, but you force your voice to come out strong and steady when you reply. "You're not so bad yourself. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure." He's still holding your hand, his thumb tracing absentminded circles on the back, seemingly unwilling or unable to let go yet.

He's felt it too. That undeniable spark between you, it draws him in like a magnet.

The next song starts, something slow and sensual, the bass thrumming low, seductive.

You squeeze his hand as you step back, as if to pull him with you, deeper into the crowd that now fills the dance floor. He goes with you willingly, easily.

You squeeze his hand again, dipping your head briefly before pulling away, turning and slipping into the crowd, losing yourself in the middle, your body jostled by others on all sides. 

You can feel his eyes on you, but you ignore it, closing your eyes and swaying to the music, not giving a single fuck who is watching.

Someone taps your shoulder, "Hey, there."

You glance over your shoulder, expecting to find Dom, but meet a different pair of green eyes, a few shades darker than Dom's, but no less beautiful.

He's tall too, you have to look up to see his eyes, the only part of his tanned face covered by the mask, the rest partially obscured by dark stubble.

"Can I dance with you?" He asks, voice rich and smooth, clearly an American.

You nod, eyes shining, there's no spark here like there was with Dom, but he's tall and broad-shouldered, handsome, he'll do just fine.

His hands, big and warm, land on your hips, moving you closer to him, moving with you, against you as you both move with the music.

The song changes, something with a fun, fast beat that immediately washes over the crowd, bodies adjusting, beginning to bounce and spin.

The masked stranger spins you in his arms, making you laugh as he takes your hands in his and begins to spin with you, pulling an arm towards him, while pushing the other towards you, alternating as you spin in dizzying circles.

You catch glimpses of Dom across the room at the bar cart, a drink in his hand, eyes on you.

The next spin around and he's gone, you give yourself a mental shake and continue to dance, laughing, feeling lighter than you have in days. Weeks? Months?

Then the stranger releases your hands, and you go stumbling away, mid-spin.

Strong hands land on your arms, halting your spin, catching you before you can fall.

You glance up, breathless, meeting hard green eyes: Dom.

Your lips form his name, a second from giving yourself away, but then your brain starts functioning again, "D-It's you."

"It's me." The northern grit is back in his voice, no longer masked, his emotions overriding his desire for anonymity.

Around you, the party swirls and bounces, alive and full of energy, but nothing can compare to the static charge in the air between you and Dom, your bodies still amongst the chaos.

"Just what the fuck do you think yer doing?" His grip is tight on your upper arms, bruising.

You swallow. This is a new side of Dom, one you've not seen before. If you're being completely honest, it's as scary as it is arousing. His words bitten off, accent harsh, voice low, his eyes dark, nearly black, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

You force your voice to come out steady as you respond, lifting your chin and letting steel flow down your spine. "I'm dancing. This is a ball. It's what you do."

He swallows hard and spins you around, pressing your back against the hard planes of his chest, his lips near your ear, still keeping his death grip on you, his hands wrapped around your wrists like vices. "You don't know what yer doin' to me? Dancin' with me like that and then leavin'? Like it meant nothin'? Like ya didn't feel it too? This... spark?"

Dom shifts your bodies, pulling you back against him, pushing his hips forward, and your breath catches, feeling his arousal pressing against you. 

You allow a satisfied grin to curl your lips as you press back into him, slowly beginning to grind your hips back on his, feeling him stiffen, hearing his breath catch now as you return the favor. 

"Oh, you play fookin' dirty," Dom groans, his hands finally releasing your wrists, skimming slowly up your thighs, coming to rest on your hips, holding you in place, grinding his erection up against your ass. "Fookin' hell. What are ya doin' to me?"

You lean your head back against his shoulder, your eyes sliding closed, your hands covering his on your hips as you grind into each other to the beat.

The song ends, replaced by a slower ballad, Dom's thumbs continue to stroke your hipbones even as your bodies come to a stop. "Do ya want to get out of here for a while?"

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words, the way you danced together pooling low in your stomach, a wet heat between your thighs. You can't help the shake in your voice as you breathe out, "yes."

Dom twitches against you, and you can hear the grin in his voice as he takes your hand and begins to lead you across the dance floor. "C'mon then. I know a place."

"Is this a fucking storage closet?"

"Does it matter, love?" Dom asks, voice rough. He closes the door behind you, leaving you both in darkness.

"No."

Then his hands are on you, pushing you back against the door, his body flush against yours, "if we do this, love, I can't... ya can't see who I am."

You tilt your chin up, allowing a defiant glint to enter your eyes as you reach out and palm him through his pants. "I don't need to see you to fuck you."

Dom groans, grinding his length against your palm. You reach for him with your other hand, tugging the zipper on his pants down, the sound loud in the dark.

You use both hands to drag his pants down, pulling his briefs down with them, freeing his cock before rising and reaching down to grasp him.

You wrap your fingers around him, feeling the thick, silky length, the heat of him, the wetness at the head, proof of his arousal, of his desire, for you.

Dom chokes and fumbles in the dark for a moment, locating his phone and turning on the flashlight, making you blink in the sudden light. “Fuck, love. Yer just goin’ right in then?”

“I know what I want,” you say simply, lightly stroking him. 

“And what's that, love?” His voice is husky, rasp thick and syrupy, his eyes fluttering as he fights to focus on your words.

You let your mouth drop open and stick your tongue out, saliva dripping, your eyes locked on his cock. 

Dom stumbles back, shock momentarily overtaking the hunger in his eyes, his fingers slipping, dropping the phone, the light going dark for a second before he picks it back up, eyes wide.

You sink to your knees and stare up at him, your mouth open, tongue out, grateful for the tight, low-cut of your sleeveless gown, giving him a wonderful view of your tits shoved up as they are.

“Fuck,” the word falls from his lips, sounding like a prayer, sin, and salvation wrapped up in one. “Ya want it, baby? Ya want this cock in yer mouth? In yer fookin’ throat? Without even known’ me name or seein’ me face?”

You nod vigorously, daunted by his size, but unwilling to let it show. 

Dom grabs your hair and slowly pushes his cock into your mouth, inch by inch. You close your eyes and try to relax your throat, focusing on breathing, on swallowing, enjoying the salty taste of him on your tongue; he tastes as good as you always imagined he would.

He begins to move, using his grip on your hair and the wall to keep you steady as he fucks your face. You gag and choke, but keep your eyes fixed on him, showing him how much you want this, how determined you are to take everything he's willing to give you.

“Fuck,” Dom pants, “yer takin’ me so fookin’ good. Yer a dirty fookin’ slut, aren't ya?”

He pushes your head against the door and shoves himself in deeper, groaning at the sensation of your throat fluttering around him, not giving you the chance to answer as he fucks your throat.

He pulls out, panting, head tipped back, eyes closed, a hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, trying to calm down some.

You cough, gasping for a moment as you get your breath back, lips wet and swollen, “I'm not just a slut, I'm your slut, Dom.”

Dom freezes, his attention snapping to your face instantly, eyes widening with shock.

You stand, slowly, and reach for his mask, intending to push it back and reveal him to you, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, your body thumping against the door.

He reaches and pushes your mask up instead, even as you struggle, twisting your head and your wrists. But your name is on his lips before it's even off. “Y/N….I fookin’ knew it.”

You stop struggling, shock pulsing through you, face bared to him.

Dom pushes his own mask up and off his head, his eyes never leaving yours. “It's you.”

“It's me.”

He drops your wrists and backs away, his back hitting the shelves of supplies. “I don't, I don't understand. What the fuck are you doing here?”

You swallow, your heart about to burst out of your chest. This is it, this is the moment. “I just had to see you. One last time. To tell you the truth…”

Dom's eyes bore into yours, his expression unreadable.

You close your eyes and exhale, unwilling to see his reaction, “I love you, Dom. I'm in love with you.”

Silence. Awful, heartbreaking silence.

It stretches on and on and on until you can't bear it anymore. 

You force open your eyes, prepared to see rejection, disbelief, anger, pity.

But you get none of that. Instead, his gaze is fragile, haunted almost, and so unbearably soft. “Y-you love me? You're in love with me?”

You nod.

“H-how long have you?”

“I don't know.” It's the truth. Ever since the realization hit you, you've been trying to answer that question. And you can't. Some part of you has always loved him; that love just changed and evolved little by little over time.

Silence hangs between you again. You can feel your heart begin to break, cracks appearing in your walls. 

The inner strength you'd found begins to collapse, your shoulders curling in, your head bowing as you turn to go. 

But then his hand catches your wrist, and you're being pulled into his firm chest, his lips meeting yours. 

It's everything and nothing like you imagined it at the same time. He's gentle, holding you against him with a palm gently resting on the small of your back, his lips soft and sweet against yours.

You break apart when the need for air becomes too much, silent tears streaming down your face, but he doesn't let you go far, his palm remaining on your back, keeping you close. 

Shock pulses through you as you realize he's crying too, tears running down his cheeks even as he reaches up with a thumb to wipe away yours, his touch soft and hesitant. “I'm so fookin’ sorry, Y/N. I've been so fookin’ stupid. I didn't mean none of it. I jus’ got stuck in me head, ya know? I was…” he pauses, swallows, his breath hitching on a sob, “I was afraid. So fookin’ afraid of bein’ alone. Of lettin’ everybody down, provin’ everyone who said I couldn't do this right.”

You reach up and cradle his face in your palms, stroking his tear-stained cheeks with your thumbs, softly shushing him. “I know, baby. I know. You don't have to explain to me.”

“It's not fookin’ okay,” his voice is anguished. “I hurt ya. I pushed ya. I was mean and dismissive when ya just wanted what's best for me. And you were right too. I was fookin’ miserable that first gig.”

You don't deny it. His face crumples, choking sobs taking over as he tries to pull away from you. You deny him, holding firm, your heart aching to see him like this.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me,” you lift his face so he's looking into your eyes. “Did you mean it? Did you mean to hurt me?”

Panic flashes in his eyes. “Of course not!”

“Then stop. I know, okay? I've been where you are. I know about the fear. The loneliness. The pain. I know what it’s like to feel like nobody will ever love you again if you fuck a relationship up, no matter how shitty it is. You forget how similar we are sometimes. Okay? I've been where you are, and I forgive you.”

You stand on tiptoe to wrap your arms around the back of his neck and pull him into a hug. His arms wrap tightly around you, his face buried in your neck, his tears slowly subsiding as you cling to each other.

You eventually settle back to your heels, your arms slipping around his waist instead, before he finally pulls away slightly, just enough to look at you. “I love ya too, Y/N. But I can't risk losin’ you. If we tried and it didn't work out, I just can't. I'm so fookin’ sorry.”

You hesitate, the truth desperate to come out, the words battering against the cage of your teeth: You already have. You already have. You already have.

But you resist.

Dom senses your hesitation, sees it in the bow of your head, unable to look him in the eyes, unwilling to let him see.

He gently turns your face back to his, “It's ok, love, be honest with me.”

“You already have,” you whisper, then rush on before he can stop you, everything you've been bottling up finally spilling out of you. “I’m sorry, but I can't keep doing this. I know that you're with Bianca, and I've tried to respect that, but I just can't anymore. She's not good for you, and I can't keep watching it happen. I can't keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Dom blows out a breath, and you brace yourself, waiting for him to start yelling, accusing, to push you away, but he doesn't.

He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, it's clear every word is chosen with deliberate care. “Yer me fookin’ rock, Y/N. And I'm willin’ to try bein’ more with ya… I think I could be in love with ya too, one day. Ya just gotta promise me that if it doesn't work out, that I won't lose ya. I can't risk that. And I know that ain't fair of me ta ask, but I'm askin’ anyways.”

The avoidance of the topic of Bianca is obvious and a deliberate choice on his part, a choice you can respect for now, selfish though it may be on your part.

You consider his words for a moment. But in the end, there is really no decision to make. “We can try,” you whisper, trusting him with your heart. “We can try.”

Dom lifts your chin then and kisses you again, sealing the deal. His kiss is more firm, less hesitant this time, his fingers winding into your hair, pulling you against him.

You go willingly, wanting. The emotionally charged resolution having only temporarily tempered your physical desire for him. 

You swipe your tongue across his lips, asking to deepen the kiss, groaning when they part to allow you in, your hands roaming his body, determined to map every inch of it. 

You break the kiss this time and drop to your knees in front of him, looking up at him, sin in your eyes. “Now….where were we?”

Dom's eyes go wide, “We don't have ta, love. I-I'm not expectin’.”

You smirk at him, confidence, fueled by arousal, making you bold. “I finally got the chance to get this perfect fucking cock in my mouth, what makes you think I'm stopping now?”

Dom's eyes darken, lust beginning to overtake his hesitancy and shock, his cock swiftly hardening again.

You reach out and stroke him a few times, helping, mesmerised by the silky feeling, enjoying the thick, firm weight in your palm.

Dom groans, and when you wrap your lips around him, his head falls back, a hand finding your hair.

You begin to bob your head again, up and down his length, lips stretched wide, taking more and more of him into your throat.

Dom's fingers curl in your hair, helping you, his hips beginning to thrust involuntarily forward. “Ah. Fuck. Love. Yer too fookin’ good at this. I'm not gonna be able to fookin’ last.”

You hum around him, not interested in him lasting, enjoying the salty tang of him on your tongue, wanting to taste his release.

You grasp him in your hand, stroking him gently as you pull away far enough to lap at his head, running your tongue through the sensitive slit.

Then you take a deep breath and take all of him in at once, your nose pressed into the dark, wiry hairs at his base.

“Fuck!” Dom's hips jerk forward, smothering you for a second, his grip on your hair holding you in place as his cock pulses in your throat, his cum spilling into you.

Dom stumbles back, breathing heavily, his expression dazed as you gasp and cough for air, satisfaction radiating from every pore of your being.

Dom surges forward, lifting you to your feet and pushing you back against the door for a searing kiss.

You're both panting and breathless when he pulls away, his mouth open, still in shock. “Yer fookin’ insane, love, in the best fookin’ way.”

He steps back and begins to stuff his cock back in his trousers. “C'mon, love. Fix yerself up the best ya can and let's go.”

You pull a makeup wipe from out of the small bag on your wrist and wipe your smeared makeup off. “Where are we going?”

“My place or yers. I don't care. I jus’ know that our first time ain't gonna be in no damn supply closet.”

He grabs your hand and tugs you out of the closet, down the halls of the venue, and outside, the crisp, rain-scented London air hitting your skin, refreshing and revitalizing.

“Did ya drive here?”

“No, Uber.”

“We can take my car, then. Wait here.”

He dashes off, pulling up several minutes later in his car.

Dom hops out, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to open the passenger door for you, making you giggle.

He closes the door behind you and slides back into the passenger seat, turning to look at you. “My place or yers?”

“Mine's closer,” you say, slightly shocked at the rapid turn of events.

“Yer place it is then,” he starts driving, his hand resting on the center console.

After a few minutes, you reach over and tentatively move his hand to your thigh, smiling shyly at him. 

Dom glances at you, a smirk curling his lips. “Alright, love, I see ya.”

His hand stays there the rest of the drive. 

Your hands are in Dom's hair, your lips meeting his in a deep kiss, your legs wrapped around his waist, his fingers digging into your ass as you make your way to your bed.

His body is hot beneath yours, and you relish in the skin-on-skin contact. You'd both lost most of your clothes already, pieces littering the floor of your flat as you'd both stripped out of your finery, your masks, one black, one silver, abandoned in the supply closet.

Dom reaches your bed, the back of his thighs hitting the edge as he sits down, pulling you more firmly into his lap, grinding his hard cock, still confined by his underwear, into your core through your panties. You groan into the kiss, your head falling back.

Dom's lips move along the side of your jaw and down the side of your neck. You fight not to wriggle in his lap, biting your lip to stifle a moan.

Dom pauses in his assault of your skin, pressing open-mouth kisses to your throat between kisses. “Don't hold back, baby. Don't ya fookin’ dare hold back. You've wanted this; enjoy it. I wanna fookin’ hear ya, or I'm gonna stop.”

His grip shifts to your hips, moving them, grinding you against him, his lips continuing to assault the sensitive flesh of your neck and collarbone.

You allow a tentative moan and begin to move your hips, rolling your core more firmly against his cock, a louder moan escaping your lips. “Ohhh. God. Dommmm. Yes. Fuck.”

“There we go, love. That's it. That's fookin’ it,” Dom groans, nipping at your throat. “Lemme hear ya.”

Dom moves his attention to your breasts, his lips closing around a nipple and sucking, making you cry out, a hand flying to his hair. “Fuck! Yes. Ah. God.”

You wrench his head away from your breast, kissing him deeply, pleading between kisses, “fuck me. Please, please, Dom. Please, I need you in me. I need it so fucking bad. Please.”

You're clinging to him now, grinding down on his cock, shamelessly, chasing your release, your body trembling, your face buried in his shoulder.

Dom's hips are moving in time with yours, his lips on your neck, on your shoulders. “That's it, love, that's it. Come fer me, baby. I've got ya.”

Your hips begin to falter, your rhythm failing, your body curling in on itself, but Dom's rhythm holds strong, his cock continuing to grind into your core, his grip on your hips keeping you moving even as you fall apart, cumming in your panties, cumming on his lap, on your bed, on his cock, cumming held in his arms. 

Dom holds you through it, his lips on your skin, his fingers on your hips, grounding you, anchors in the storm of your pleasure.

And then it's over, and you're sagging into his chest, his arms wrapping around you as you gasp for air, spent.

Dom tightens his grip on you and then stands, turning and laying you down on the bed beneath him, his lips finding yours, his cock, a hard, insistent press against your core, his hips rocking into yours. 

“Yer beautiful when ya cum,” Dom murmurs when he lifts his head, looking down at you so softly, so tenderly, it steals your breath for a moment. “I'm gonna treat ya so good, baby, do this right with ya.”

Then the moment passes, and he's shifting to kneel between your thighs, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your soaked panties, looking at you, waiting for you to nod shyly before he's dragging them down, his eyes following, locked on the skin he reveals, a soft gasp puffing out from his lips.

He leans down and presses his lips to you in a wet kiss, his eyes fluttering shut with a groan before he's dragging his tongue along your slit. “Ya taste so fookin’ sweet, baby. Jus’ like I knew ya would.”

His lips lock around your clit, and your back arches off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Oh! Fuck!”

You can feel his lips curl into a grin against you as he continues to suck on the sensitive nub, making you squirm and gasp and curse, not holding back any of the sounds he pulls out of you.

Dom pushes a finger inside of you, pumping it slowly as he gently laps at your clit with long, flat strokes of his tongue. Occasionally kissing it as well, hot and wet and with just the hint of suction.

Then he adds a second finger, then a third, leaving you worked up and desperate for more, the gentle stimulation after the intensity of moments before driving you crazy with lust and desire, practically fucking yourself on his fingers, begging for more. 

Dom finally gives in, lifting his head from you, eyes dark with lust, withdrawing his fingers, making you whimper from the loss.

He slips off the bed, resting a hand reassuringly on your thigh, and then slips his briefs off, freeing his cock, before getting back on the bed, kneeling between your spread thighs. 

Dom places a hand on either side of you and lightly thrusts against you, running his cock through your folds, making you both moan.

He leans down and kisses you, swallowing your moans as he begins to push inside you ever so slowly, allowing you to adjust to his size.

He's gentle with you, careful not to hurt you; it's sweet and warms your heart, but you've waited too long for this to want gentle. 

You bite down on his lip as you reach up, digging your nails into his shoulders, making him gasp against your mouth, his hips jerking forward.

You arch your back and wrap your legs around his thighs, pulling him all the way into you, relishing the hot, silky slide, drawing a groan from him. “Fuckk, baby, what are ya doin’?”

“You're sweet,” you say, clenching around him, urging him on. “But I want you to fuck me.”

Dom lifts his head from yours, staring down at you, his eyes widening with shock, blown nearly black with lust. “Yeah, baby?”

You clench around him again, making him shudder. “I said, I want you to fuck me. Fuck me like the animal you are on stage. Fuck me like it means nothing. Make me your fucking slut.”

You can practically see his restraints snap, and then he's moving, rocking back onto his heels, lifting your feet over his shoulders, holding on tight, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls almost all the way out and slams back into you: hard.

“Fuck!” Your back arches, a raw cry of ecstasy escaping your lips, and then it's all you can do to hold on as he pounds into you, mercilessly, and so, so deep you can practically feel him in your throat.

“Is this what ya wanted? Hmm?” He demands, his voice a low, rasping growl. “I asked ya a fookin’ question.”

“Yes! Fuck! Yes!” You cry out, half delirious from the mix of pleasure and pain coursing through your system. 

You can feel his balls slap your ass with every powerful thrust, the sound loud and obscene, punctuated by your cries. The hot, perfect slide of him in and out, pounding so deep into you, the grind of his hips into yours for a breathtaking moment before he's pulling away again.

“Yeah. That's it, baby. Yer takin’ me cock so well, like ya were fookin’ made fer it. Are you a cock slut, hmm? Is that it?” Dom growls, accent thick, his voice tight as he continues to pound into you.

“Only for you. Only for you,” you manage, gasping, finding it hard to focus on his words when his cock is doing such wonderful things inside you, clenching tighter around him. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good. Fuck me harder, please, Dom, please.”

Dom cusses rather colorfully at that, the combination of your filthy begging and your pussy squeezing his cock close to tipping him over the edge. 

Dom shoves your legs off his shoulders, pushing them forward, over your head, bending you in half, holding your ankles in one hand as he leans in to fuck you harder. 

“Oh! Oh, God! Dom! Yes! Yes!” You cry out, barely aware of what you're saying anymore; it feels so fucking good, he's so fucking deep.

Dom's fingers trace the column of your throat, and you nod, breathless, hoping he's thinking what you are: he is. 

He wraps his hand around your throat and begins to apply ever-tighter pressure, choking you, his fingers finding the two spots that make everything go fuzzy with ease.

Immediately, the sensations become that much more intense. You can feel each beat of your heart beneath his fingertips, your lips slightly part to let in more air, your breaths wheezing out around his hand, the world going fuzzy at the edges as he holds you there, at the edge of consciousness, all the while he continues to pound into you, each slam of his hips making your body slide on the sheets, controlled by the press of his hand on your throat.

You're faintly aware of Dom's breath, hot in your face, smelling of you, panting with exertion, his hair tickling your nose, sweat sprinkling down on you, filth streaming from between his lips.

At this point, he's not just fucking you, he's claiming you, and at the same time, he's giving himself to you, every piece that he can, merging two into one. 

You're floating in the haze of pleasure-pain, on the edge of oblivion, so full of Dom you can hardly stand it. But it's that thought, so primal and feral, that triggers your undoing.

Your body convulses around him, your walls squeezing his cock, unwilling to let him go as wave after wave of pleasure floods your system, your heart literally skipping a beat. 

And then it's over, and you can breathe again. Dom's hand has slipped off your throat, his body trembling against yours, his cock pulsing inside you as he cums too, buried so deep inside you, you're not sure where he ends, and you begin.

When you've both recovered enough to move, Dom pulls out of you and rolls to the side, pulling you into his arms and curling around you, still breathing heavily, his breath hot against the back of your neck, his face pressed against your skin.

You're not sure if you'll be everything, but at least, for now, for tonight, you're something.