#manager!reader

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"Hmm? Of course!"

Those things were not cheap, and seeing the size of the plushies as well, she could see that you ordered the largest ones for each of the players.

"Y/n-chan, you could have asked me or Ego to get you all the samples. Those are expensive."

"I know, but I wanted to support everybody genuinely! It would be cheating if I used my position as manager and get them for free, right?"

'This girl. You already support the boys by being their manager, this is just insanity.'

Anri just sighed, shaking her head. She'll just let you be, after all, this is one of your ways of showing affection to those whom you cared about.

It was hardcore yes, but also not flashy. Because, as far as she knew, you ordered all of them silently, telling nobody but yourself of the act.

Anri smiled, about to approach you only to stop in her steps when you gasped.

"Anri-san! Please becareful!"

You panicked, picking up the Barou plushie that she almost stepped on with her heels.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Y/n-chan."

She chuckled, watching you arrange the plushies on one of your shelves carefully. The animal and anime plushies that once lined them were replaced by the boys', showing unspoken pride from you.

'Oh, they are going to combust once they see this.'

"I know I should feel happy, but why do I feel more jealous than anything."

Chigiri muttered under his breath as Isagi sweatdropped, also agreeing with the redhead as they watched you silently work on your computer with the large Chigiri plushie on your lap, your head mindlessly resting on top of its fluffy head.

"No, I agree. She pays too much attention on plushie us instead of the real us now."

The two gossiped as they sat on your bed. It was not unusual for the players to hang around in your office/room in their spare time, however, it did kind of hurt to watch themselves become the third wheel to their plushie counterparts.

Needless to say, when the players found out that you personally purchased all their plushie, they felt flattered. A bit too flattered, most may add, but again, it made their hearts hammer whenever they see you hug or cuddle their plushie forms.

However, that was also the problem.

Their non-living counterpart is getting more affection than their own, living selves! You would sleep with your plushies squished unto your chest. Whenever you sat down, the plushies are on your lap. You would even sew the toys their own cute little hats and outfits!

And to say that the players were jealous was an understatement!

"I wanna rest on her lap, not that ditzy looking thing."

Chigiri frowned as he watched you work, arms still around the unblinking figure as you typed away.

"You and me both."

"Hmm? Did you guys say something?"

You curioisly spun your chair to face them, head tilting in confusion at their now frozen stances. While typing away earlier, you could hear them speaking but your senses were too focused at the file, so their words were blurry.

Isagi and Chigiri meanwhile, straightened up on their seats before sheepishly shaking their heads, albeit nervous.

Oh, who were the kidding, they shold not be nervous with offending a few pounds of cotton!

But, seeing the love and care you out on the plushies, they knew that any harsh words about it may hurt your feelings. And a hurt Y/n is a huge no no in this place.

So, like the ever simps that they were, they just gave a fake smile and shook their hands off.

"Oh, its just about training Y/n-chan! Yeah..."

'When I get my hands on those things...you bet they're gone.'

The door to your room blasted open, revealing a tired looking Nagi who was ready to jump you with a cuddle.

"Y/n-chaannn, let's nap- oh."

Nagi frowned the moment the door to your room opened, and he found you already napping and in your arms was your Nagi plushie.

Oh, that little gremlin really did take his spot huh?

Nagi is a pacifist, he knows that, everybody knows that. But when it comes to HIS spot beside you being taken away? Oh, he thinks not!

"Y/n-chaaan, your true cuddle partner is here...not this fake."

He tried to pry away the blank-looking plushie away from your arms, however, your grip on it was tough, almost unbreakable.

"Hmp."

The lazy genius pouted deeper, before sighing away and just positioning himself beside the plushie, its blank look resembling that of a mocking face in Nagi's eyes as he flicked the forehead of the toy.

"I officially hate you for stealing my cuddle spot."

Was it childish to hate an inanimate object? Yes. Did he care? No. This was his spot and he has the right to be angry. And angry he was.

With the largest pout, he grabbed the head of the plushie and carefully started to tug it away from your arms. It was pretty hard seeing as your arms and legs wrapped around the damned thing like tentacles.

"Making me...waste energy...you spot stealer..."

The plushie remained its bored facial expression, as if unintentionally mocking the boy's efforts which just pissed the albino striker even more.

"Hng..."

You groaned in your sleep, adjusting your position that held the plushie even tighter in your arms. Now, people may start to call Nagi delusional, but he swore the sewn highlights in the plushie's eyes glimmered in mockery and that did not sit well with him.

Seeing as getting rid of that plushie would be impossible without disturbing you, the striker just sighed before settling on the other side of the bed.

With a little struggle, Nagi finally managed to find a cozy spot behind you, his long arms wrapping around your figure as his face settled on your hair.

"This isn't so bad..."

He was used to being the little spoon, letting your warm arms wrap around him, a notion that always calmed him down. He was not used to being the big spoon, but now, he was not complaining.

You were ever so warm in his hold, and your perfume and shampoo reached his nose calming him down even more into a state of lull.

Thougj, of course before that, he still shot the toy in your arms a glare.

"Hmp...just because I like being the little spoon now...does not mean I don't hate you anymore..."

"Those things look ugly."

"Now now, don't say that unless you wanna hurt Y/n-chan's feelings."

Aiku laughed softly, placing the boxes in his arms on the ground of your floor leaving the ever so grumpy Barou to keep leering at your plushie collection.

From the little shelves above your computer hailed a familiar looking red eyes and sharp hairstyle, but instead of the default Blue Lock jersey it should be donning, instead it had a cute little sweater and pants ensemble on that looked more casual. On the toy's head was also a cute hat that resembled a lion's mane.

You truly treat this things like they were living and breathing people, huh? Yet, you have not even visited the Italian Stratum for two days now.

How utterly rude.

"I miss her too, Barou, but we can't complain. Our games are over, she needs to focus on the two other upcoming games soon."

Aiku shrugged, trying to act as if your absence did not affect him too. He missed the little tutoring sessions you had with him, where youvwould share your strategic tips and other things.

But of course, you were too busy to even eat at times and he cared about you too much to even take over the little time you had for rest.

After dropping off the boxes of whatever new things Ego needed you to sort out, the two then turned to the toys again. Aiku chuckled at the cute little snake hat that you seemed to have sewn and out on his plushie.

Ahh, you were just so endearing. Damn, he misses you even more now.

"The fuck you looking all creepily at the dolls for?"

"Ah, you caught me. I just find it cute is all that she is spending all these things for our cute little dupes, aint it?"

Barou's face crumpled into one of annoyance. This bastard must be broken because how is he not annoyed at the fact that these inanimate things that are not even cute get more of your attention?

"Ugh, I can't handle your weirdness anymore, I'm leaving you here."

"Y/n-chan!! No more!"

"H-huh? Bachira-san?"

You sweatdropped at the now gloomy bee who clung unto your legs. You were lucky that you managed to squeeze in a little time to eat your lunch alongside the boys today, only to find yourself now stuck in Bachira's hold.

"What's wrong...? Do you need anything?"

"Yes! You have to get rid of those stupid toys. They aren't even as handsome as us."

"Toys?"

Hiori and Rin, who were forced to try and stop the overdramatic performance of the bee striker were torn between doing what they have to do to save some of their dignity or just pretend Bachira did not exist.

"I'm fucking done with you, you annoying brat."

"I would agree but if we leave him, all our dignity would vanish, including mine."

And with everything that the two athletes could muster, they dragged Bachira's arms from you, letting him drag across the floor as you just watched with dotted eyes, utterly confused.

"Get rid of those plushies, please!"

"W-what...?"

ADDITIONAL TIME:

"Aww poor Yoichi. Turns out your success inadvertently caused your failure too."

"Shut the fuck up, Kaiser."

"And they're fighting again. I ain't separating them this time."

What is the cause of this fight this time, one might ask? Well, a certain German striker could not help but laugh at the misery of the Blue Lock players.

At first, he was a bit annoyed, of course. You bought all of the players' plushie and even dolled them up, meanwhile he, along with the other foreign players who did not have any merchandise under the Blue Lock name, were not included?

But now, he truly did not have regrets anymore!

He cannot help the smirk that appeared on his face as he saw you clean the little darling toys up, meanwhile being albeit too busy to even talk to some of the boys.

Meanwhile, there was only one Kaiser in here. No duplicate, no nothing, just the real him that you approach every once in a while.

Is he inflating this whole thing? Yes. Is he regretting doing it, though? Absolutely not. Because for once, he was actually winning against that dumb Yoichi.

Three hours later you’ve cleaned up the PR nightmare and are banging on Max’s apartment door. He blearily lets you in, shirtless and still looking half drunk, but you don’t hesitate to yank him by his beltloops and drag him to the dining table (after quickly checking out that broad chest of his, though, cause goddamn. You’re just a girl.)

Ow, ow, what the hell, Max groans as he’s shoved into a chair. Please. As if you could do any real damage in your 5 foot frame to the 6 foot driver. Slamming your hands on the table for some dramatic flourish (you’re never beating the theatre kid allegations) you give the Dutchman a piece of your mind, demanding to know what his problem is, does he know how many people you’ve had to bribe this month to stop #SluttyMaxEra trending on twitter?? And yes, you know he broke up with Kelly 10 months ago but can’t he just process this healthily and go to therapy instead of having a hoe phase and hooking up with every third woman in Monaco?

Max looks insulted at this slight to his honor. He retaliates by accusing you of buying into the patriarchy and slut shaming him (-That’s not how that works but pop off king, is your deadpan response), and telling you he’s very much over Kelly, okay, it was an amicable breakup (-Sure, Verstappen, that’s why you’d only played Lana Del Ray for a whole month afterwards, huh?) and well, what’s the issue, he’s a hot and rich guy in Monaco, it’s not his fault women just want him? Would it not be #misogynistic of him to deny women the opportunity to explore their sexuality?! He smirks, pleased with his defence.

You groan, slumping down on a chair and burying your face in your hands, muffling your groan of wholesome cat dad Max comeback whennn. Max rolls his eyes at your theatrics, asking if you’d finally lost the plot.

You try cleaning up the PR messes you’ve been making, Max Emilian, you hiss furiously, remember Ibiza? Santorini? The goddamn yacht party over summer break when he got with the captain and her deputy?! (Even now, thinking of that leaking online gives you heartburn.)

Which yacht, Max says cockily, the one where he got with them one after another or at the same time?

Your jaw drops. You hadn’t even known about the threesome, so you suppose you should be grateful that wasn’t another mess to clean up. But a deeper, insecure part of you can’t help but wonder why the only woman Max doesn’t seem to want is you.

And sometimes you can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to be one of his girls, under his strong body for once instead of on the other side of his hotel wall, having to drown out the very satisfied female moans and headboard bangs with noise cancelling headphones. Like always, you push that thought down quickly.

You, good sir, are for the streets, you announce, standing up and deciding it was time to leave before your delulu, jealous thoughts decided to resurface. Seriously, you mutter under your breath, you didn’t care if his current side quest was to fuck 10 times a week, but could he at least stick to one person for a bit and not make more work for you-

Max’s hand slams the front door back closed as you started to open it. You freeze, turning back to look at him smirking down at you. You hadn’t expected him to follow you down the hallway and you gulp nervously for the safety of your job - you might have taken the roasting a bit too far.

Instead, you get a sly, Oh, so I can do whatever I want, wherever I want, just with one person?

At your awkward nod, because yes, that would significantly ease your workload, he continues, enjoying teasing his uptight, pretty manager - then were you gonna offer yourself up? After all, there’s no PR messes to find out about if it’s you, right?

You blink at Max, completely stunned by the 180 this conversation has taken. Your expression is so adorable that he couldn’t resist a you’re so cute when you’re acting all jealous, you could’ve just asked if you wanted him to fuck you, ya know?

That promptly reminds you you’re dealing with an an absolute manwhore. RIP celibacy era Max, you’ll always be famous.

Um, absolutely fucking not, keep your STDs to yourself, you hiss, flushing head to toe, and furious at the desire in you to give into the devilish proposal. He encourages you to think about it, still smirking, relaxing his grip so you can mercifully flee far away from his intense gaze. Jesus, when did he learn to rizz a girl up like that?!

You don’t take his proposal seriously at all, ignoring his cocky looks at you over meetings all week (also, he’d texted you his clean STD result to assure you he was a #SafeSexKing.) But that weekend, your refusal comes back to haunt you when you’re on a well deserved night out with your girlfriends and your PR manager senses start going off. You narrow your eyes as you spot Max in the dark corner of the nightclub, hands all over a mystery redhead. She’s not going to be a mystery much longer though - if you’d spotted them it was a matter of time before fan’s phones did and then you’d wake up to another goddamn text from your sleep paralysis demon, Henri.

You don’t even have to think about it twice. Saying goodbye to your friends, you’re at Max’s side at a very impressive speed given your 6 inch stilettos and tight sparkly minidress, and once again dragging him off by the beltloops and into an open bathroom.

He lets you yank him away, smirking when he sees you lock the door for good measure. Sweetheart, he greets. So good to see you. Finally realised you couldn’t resist me?

You practically climb him like a tree while telling him to shut the fuck up and pay attention at media training day next time, because what kind of PR crisis did he have unfolding out there? And just this once you’ll help him out, you say breathlessly in between deep kisses, but this isn’t a regular thing -

There’s not much more talking from you because he has you moaning up against the wall next, fingers buried inside your tight little pussy as he talks you through an orgasm, and then another when he splits you in half on his cock. (Once again, manwhore, who carries a condom in their jean pockets?!)

Unfortunately for your self control but very fortunately for your sex life, it is not in fact, a “one time thing”. Your trusty rose vibrator is glad for the break as you’d been taking your year long frustrations at your dry spell out on her. Especially when coming home after staying in hotels where you’d had to book out rooms neighbouring Max’s, so no one else overheard the raunchy vocals of different women every night.

Like Max said, with you, there were no more illicit PR messes to find out about in the middle of the night. You’d redirect him everytime he gave you bedroom eyes (At the pre race debrief. Post race debrief. Weekly team plan meeting. Over zoom calls? Seriously?) - gently taking his large hand and guiding him to a much more hidden, PR crisis-friendly area. To your surprise, Max actually sticks to his word and only hooks up with you - admittedly, multiple times a week (Not that you’re complaining. Turns out he was just as good in bed as he was on the track. Except this time he was definitely not finishing first...)

And for a while, everything is going well. There are no more weekly scandals scattered across trashy celeb magazines about Max. Your boss is gushing with praise, so impressed that you’ve finally managed to talk some sense into Redbull’s problem child (ah, if only she knew, but she never would, because the goddamn CIA couldn’t torture this info out of you) and best of all, you haven’t gotten a text from papparazzi rat Henri in weeks!

So of course, Max Verstappen decides that things are getting just a little bit too quiet for his liking, you had to earn your generous PR manager salary, that he paid for, right? His new, numerous tactics to stir the pot had included:

Going to clubs with no private bathrooms so you’d had to sit on his lap in the VIP lounge as he pulled your panties to the side to slide into you, barely hidden under your flimsy dress. You’d held back your moans and prayed the bass was too loud for anyone to hear

Sitting right next to you at every team dinner or business meeting so that he could sneak a large hand up your thigh and tease your pussy for fucking hours, often just as you were about to speak. And when you’re clenching the table so hard your fingers were white, he’s bending under the table to pick up a pen or something but instead left teasing licks and kisses on your aching core. You'd learnt very quickly not to wear a skirt.

Picking you up in his 2 seater Aston Martin instead of the much more appropriate discreet, spacious, 5 seater Audi he owned - so when he was too pent up after a bad practise session to wait till he got home, he'd get you to go down on him right there in the car, sometimes even as he drove, instead of parking in some hidden backstreet. It was so dirty, that he needed you so desperately that he didn't care about being caught by anyone peeking in through the half tinted windows. Because if they did look, they’d find his head thrown back in pleasure as he moans, his fingers tangled in your curls as he moved your drooling, pink lips up and down his wide cock-

Anyways, you get the picture. And he’d escalated this all the way to the paddock, which was insane because there were always multiple cameras trained on the current F1 champion. It’s the one place you two couldn’t sneak off without a very high risk of being caught, as evidenced by the one and only time he'd managed to get under your skin in the garage. He'd had you pinned up against the wall in some narrow side hallway as he whispered how fucking sexy you’d looked today, wearing his hoodie to cover up the hickies you hadn’t realized you’d woken up with and paired with some tiny denim shorts. Having the 6 foot champion huskily groan that he couldn’t focus on his free practise everytime you bent over to pet a passing dog, or when you innocently sucked on the Redbull flavoured lollipops and then the goddamn ice cream from the truck they’d brought in - was quite the power trip, you admit. So you guided his lips from your neck as he tries to add to the growing bruises on your neck and redirected him to your waiting lips instead, steamily making out as his large hands squeezed your thick ass like he’d been thinking about all day-

Max?!?

You instantly pull back from the driver and turned to see a flabbergasted looking GP - Max’s race engineer. His jaw is wide open as he looked at you two with round eyes. You’re fumbling to explain, trying and failing to push Max back - who looks rather annoyed at the intrusion and semi-glares at GP with narrow eyes. You hiss at the younger man to stop being rude and slip underneath his arms, going over to guiltily apologise to GP only to be met with You too?! How did he get you in his bed, you hated how much of a slut he was! Seriously, does he have a magical dick? Now you stare at GP in shock, unsure of how to respond to his question while Max starts laughing behind you. You make him join you as you promise to GP that he will never have to witness this again, because there will be no unprofessional behaviour of any sort on the paddock after "BootyShorts Gate" as you thereafter dub the incident. Regardless, GP still shoots you both wary glances and begins the habit of announcing his arrival and waiting 10 seconds before turning a corner in the garage, earning him many an odd look. Dramatic, really, was this where Max gets it from?

Max, of course, was very displeased with this new “professionalism” rule you'd set down - on the paddock was when he'd get the most tense, the most horny and desperate to have you underneath him, after all - and he made sure you knew it. You deliberately ignored his heated gaze on you as you interviewed him, or his lingering touches when he helped you hold your microphone up to his much taller frame, large hand wrapped around your small ones clutching the mic. Or his recent favourite, which involved standing next to you to help pick out the insta pics post-race (something he'd notoriously always hated to do) - except now, he conveniently happened to be shirtless, his toned abs and broad shoulders on display, running a hand through his sweaty tousled hair.

This last seduction tactic had sent you fleeing to Checo's garage to seek out the other Redbull driver's PR manager and beg on your knees for a client swap, surely, the sponsor benefits are legendary for whoever Max's PR manager is -

Nope. Nuh uh, no way, Checo is the breeziest driver ever to look after. The other manager pauses. Well, except for the occasional political military coup scandal in Mexico. But still, I'd take that any day over El Manwhore.

You wailed at whatever Gods had decided to curse you and took matters into your own hands, furiously plotting up social media campaign idea after idea that were exactly the kind of thing Max hated with a burning passion - hoping it would get him to back off on his tactics and wave a white flag. From viral TikTok challenges, to making him read all his cringe 2008 tweets, and even making him play fuck, marry, kill with the drivers of the grid. You'd admit, that last one had been rather funny to watch, making you chuckle as you scrolled through the comments, liking "Can't believe we got Max Verstappen saying he would fuck Lewis, kill Pierre and marry Charles before GTA 6" and "does Redbull admin know she posted this on main?!"

But despite your best efforts, it didn't seem to deter Max. If anything, he'd begrudgingly do the task and end up laughing excitedly at you - who was holding the camera - about some joke or the other and make your stupid heart flutter. You knew you definitely should not be catching feelings for your client - who'd made it very clear his interest in you was only physical. But no one needed to know that sometimes you’d log into your fake account to like the "Who got max giggling and kickin his feet and shii?" comments.

Meanwhile, Max had caught wind of your desperation for an escape attempt with Checo’s manager and had upped the ante. He slyly mentioning to Christian Horner than you were doing such a great job as his PR manager, could he pretty please have you promoted to his general manager for his non racing publicity too?

And that's how you found yourself at a Dior Sauvage photoshoot, despite your adamant protests to Horner. You were putting your Masters of Business Adminstration, first class honours, to fantastic use by babysitting a 26 year old child who liked fast cars that went vroom vroom. The only redeeming factor is that you can leave the unflattering Redbull shirt at home since this wasn't for F1 publicity and instead wear a nice outfit for once. Still, you thought it was odd that Max had so easily accepted this campaign, as he wasn't normally one to enjoy doing PR.

A few minutes later you've figured out exactly why your favourite manwhore had agreed to this campaign, because he's grinning at you while posed shirtless, toned abs and broad shoulders all on display as some pretty, busty model is draped over him. The photographer is making this even more painful for you by dragging out the shoot, making Max and the model reposition herself multiple times. You roll your eyes at the scene, because obviously they're two very attractive people who will look good together no matter what, did the photographer really need to be so extra? You stalk off at some point to make yourself a hot chocolate in the hopes it'll sooth the flames of jealousy that are threatening to consume you right now. Max approaches you when a break is called, running a teasing hand along your waist from the back and whispering you looked so fucking hot in this tight maxi dress, making you nervously look around to see if anyone noticed. Luckily, all the staff appeared busy and didn’t look in the dim corner you'd settled into to do paperwork. You hiss at him to keep your hands to yourself, Verstappen making him grin and inform you that's not what you’d said last night, in fact, you were practically begging for him to do the exact opposite-

You're glaring up at him, seriously contemplating if it’s worth breaking your contract clause to "act in the client's best interests" and mauling him with your laptop when the photographer comes up to you both with narrowed eyes. You guiltily step back, thinking he overhead Max's suggestive comments, but instead he just looks back and forth between you two contemplatively. Then, just as you were about to ask him what the issue was, he announces that you'd be replacing the model as the female for the shoot. No questions asked! he announces as you try to protest and snaps his fingers at the makeup and wardrobe artists to demand they sort you out (he gestures rather dramatically to your whole figure when he says this, making you scowl).

So that's how you find yourself dressed in a silky gold minidress with a sultry eye look, pressed up against Max's broad chest and trying not to focus on the intimate position you two are in. Max, however, has no such qualms about the position, using it to tease you further. You've been looking extra tense lately, sweetheart, he breathes, those devilish lips brushing past your ear. I know a great way to make you relax? You growl at him to shut the fuck up because oh my god, did he know how many cameras are pointed at you both right now? Besides, you mutter under your breath, it seemed like he was very interested in relaxing with that blonde model earlier.

Fighting to keep the smug look of his face, Max whispers back that there was No need to be jealous, schatje, you were the only one getting access to his magical dick. So caught up in the game you two are playing, you don't even register the photographer excitedly snapping up pictures, proclaiming that he knew it, the chemistry between these two is unbelievable!

Afterwards, as you're walking off the photoshoot, feeling all hot and bothered from Max's hands running across your exposed skin, shamelessly looking you up and down, the blonde Dutchman catches up to you. He teases you that you were going to get wrinkles at 25 if you didn't stop scowling all the time. I'm older than you, you scoff back, by a whole 6 months, in fact, so maybe you should actually listen to me for once instead of pissing me off? No problem, Max agrees, after all, he's always had a thing for MILFs. You can't help snort at his retort and then start laughing when he tries to maintain an innocent look. At least you were away from the cameras in case someone heard this, you mused.

Unfortunately, you both don't notice MonacoDaily's ratbag paparrazo, Henri, hiding in nearby shrubbery with his camera. It had been far too long without a Verstappen news scandal, he thought with a satisfied smirk as he clicked away.

And later than night, after you'd eaten the chicken stir fry he'd cooked and rewatched Cars 2 (a surpassingly more regular occurrence, these days, to unwind with him at the end of the day instead of immediately being mauled the second you stepped foot in his apartment) you made sure he followed your orders for once. Sitting him back, telling him just how bad he'd been today with all his teasing (-well, it worked, didn't it, sweetheart?) you showed him just how good you were at playing the game, too. And soon, he was breathlessly moaning underneath you as you rode him for the first time, gripping his cock like you were going to milk every last drop, teasing him with just enough pace to get him worked up but not enough to send him over the edge. And you only let him cum inside you when he begged you sweetly, making you go fuzzy at the sight of the infamous Redbull playboy being so desperate for you, and only you.

Afterwards, once you've shampooed each other's hair in the shower while gossiping about how catty that makeup artist had been, really, to imply that your pretty curls had been the problem and not her shitty styling? and Max has got you spooned against him, warm in an old hoodie of his, pressing a goodnight kiss to your forehead, you can't control the warmth blossoming in your chest any longer. And as a content sleep takes a hold of you, you can't help but wonder if Max's affections went beyond physical attraction, just like yours’ were now doing.

It turned out the opportunity to find out this answer would come the very next day, when the ding of your phone wakes you up in the early hours of the morning. It’s a very specific sound that you've set for a certain ratbag - and you get war flashbacks, hearing it now after so long. Scrambling off the bed, ignoring Max's muffled groans as you shove his heavy arm of you, you unlock your phone and gasp in horror as your suspicions are confirmed. Henri has arisen from the ashes and this time it's to deliver his sauciest scandal yet. Because a picture tells a 1000 words, sure, but he has the two of you on a goddamn video, flirting and giggling at each other as you exited the studio yesterday. There's no chance of you talking your way out of this one, as Max's large palm wanders to give your thick ass a firm squeeze as he guides you into his passenger seat. Goddamn, you knew you shouldn't have worn that tempting skims maxi dress - Max was an ass (and tits) man who couldn't be trusted to control himself in public. BTW already sold this 🥸 Henri texts. Just a courtesy FYI cuz I brought a boat with the bag from this one ✌️

You contemplate if it would be better to disappear off the face of the planet, or get plastic surgery to become unrecognisable as you chug your morning Redbull while moodily looking over the Monaco sunrise. Max joins you after a few minutes, looking extremely cute as he rubs the sleep out of his baby blue eyes and asks you what's wrong, schatje.

Taking a deep sigh (like you said, #DramaKid), you break the news. I’m going to hold your hand while I say this (- that’s really not necessary, Max interrupts) - but you know celibacy exists, right? As does having sex in a private location without the risk of being arrested for public indecency?

True, Max agrees, but what was the fun in that? Besides, you were just too hot to resist. Ignoring the butterflies at his cheesy flirting, you hold up the incriminating video on your phone as proof that it was not all fun and games, as Henri had already sold this to multiple news outlets this morning, you inform glumly. Max is strangely silent, looking intently at the video and even replaying it a few times, his eyes crinkling as a soft smile appears on his face when he hears the sound of you two laughing. Then - in a truly unbelievable redemption arc plotline from the Monaco playboy - he asks if it would be so terrible, to have this made public, to let the world know that you were together?

Well, I - you stumble over your words, - I dunno, I thought you liked that? Keeping it secret cause you just wanted a convenient hook up?

Max is silent again. Then, looking uncharacteristically nervous, he says that's not what he wants, not really, not anymore - not since he'd fallen in love with you, somewhere along the 3 months of the friends with benefits/PR manager and her problematic client situationship you’d had. And like at the very start, you don’t even need to think about it twice. This time when you shyly smile and kiss him, you make sure he can feel your love through it and know that you wanted more, too.

So you walk into work that morning, holding hands in open defiance, ready for the world to see. You’re rather confused when no one seems to be paying much attention, instead frantically trying to get the set up ready for the pre race testing. Maybe you two had not been as indiscreet as you thought and people already suspected? Or maybe you both had a penchant for drama and thought you were the main characters when you clearly were not?

You look at each other, shrug, and you give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him you’ll see him for lunch at the kebab shop on the corner, before he wanders off to the garage. Maybe Henri had a change of heart and decided not to exploit innocents for fame and money, you ponder hopefully. Maybe there truly was good in the world, after all.

And then you hear your name being called and turn to see your boss standing behind you menacingly, hands on hips. Care to explain why #MaxLovesMILFS is trending right now?

Somewhere along the Monaco waterfront, a paparazzi rat skulking in the bushes sneezes.

—————————————————————————

Once you grow comfortable with the team, and vice versa, the two of you bicker like siblings.

Kai is who you gravitate to the most, he's so calm and quiet, you two grew closer faster because of this.

Yaku and Kuroo were both lowkey jealous; they both work on being doting upperclassmen in their own ways and now their manager is anxious around them? Heartbroken.

The first years think you hung the stars.

Lev is always trying to impress you with his moves, which more than often results in him missing a spike or getting hit in the face with what was supposed to be a receive.

Most of his failed attempts end with Yaku scolding him and you are torn between allowing him to shape his team and stepping in to play peacemaker.

Shibayama is the first team member to confide in you regarding any anxiety they had while playing; he compares himself to Yaku so much that it broke your heart, you two talked and you made him see he had made the team for a reason, and he left feeling much better.

Teshiro is more awkward or shy when approaching you, he may have been a first-year when you met him, but he knew the team hadn't had a manager in a long time. He was worried they might scare you off, specifically one of the... second years... But you stuck around! He liked to be around you, even if neither of you talked all the time, your presence was enjoyable. He also tended to be one of the only members (he and Kai) that didn't get scolded or yelled at.

Inuoka reminds you of a puppy, regardless of being on the team of "cats". He was actually the first member of the team to fully approach you, more than a simple introduction. He was so excited that you were their manager, it definitely helped you feel a lot more comfortable. Did you process everything he said to you? No. Was it endearing as hell? Yes.

If Kenma isn't sitting with Kuroo on bus rides he's sitting with you, you enjoy watching him playing his games, that or he enjoys the peace whenever you nap on the bus. Once he even let you play a game on his switch. Once.

Yamamoto is really excited to show you off at any and all practice matches they have. You're so supportive of them all that it makes him really emotional, and you've learned to just pat his head and walk away. You once showed up to an away game with your nails painted in your team colors and you watched that man genuinely weep.

Fukanaga loves to make you laugh whenever the team's quiet or having a more serious meeting. He learned your humor so fast it's dangerous. You can never be upset around him, he reads you like an open book, and whatever worry follows you around is quickly destroyed by him and his shining personality.

Like I said; you and Kuroo have a sibling like relationship once you're comfortable with the team. He leans his arm against your head like a headrest, you make fun of his attempts of sounding cool. The team finds it hilarious, and other than Yaku and Kenma, you're one of the few people he's terrified to piss off.

Kai is the upperclassman you look up to the most, he's calm and collected, smart and nice. He's everything you strive to be as a student and an upperclassman. He helps you study, he helped you learn about volleyball and all the info that comes with that when you first joined, he made sure to include you in any and all group hangouts when you were new.

Kai supremacy.

Yaku and you have, not to sound like I'm stuck in the 2020 fandom, but "parenting" personalities together. Yaku yells at Lev, you follow behind by telling Lev you two care about him and just want to see him get better! Yaku may worry when a teammate gets minorly injured, but you fret, despite knowing minor injuries occur in this sport. The time where you're on the same page exactly is whenever you take the opportunity to bully Kuroo.

He hates it.

I have to say: years ago when I first got into Haikyuu I made an OC for it, and she was Nekoma's manager. This entire thing is self-indulgent. If I was any good at art I'd have so many comic series with her. Sad.

“But you don’t have to!” she protests. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t even a scout.”

She rolls her eyes. “Same difference. It’s the principle of the matter.”

You groan, tipping your head back onto the pillows of your sofa. “Why can’t you be the manager?”

“I’ve got practice same time as theirs,” Lily says with a scowl, as if the very thought makes her want to hit something (and you hope that whatever it ends up being, it isn’t you).

Ah, right. You had forgotten about that.

Lily Evans had been figure skating as long as you’d known her. Granted, that isn’t very long in the grand scheme of both your lives, but the two of you are going on three years now so you figure you know her pretty damn well. Even if you didn’t, the trophies and medals in her room would’ve told you that she had been skating long before meeting you.

“So then why do you want me to be their manager?” you ask again, still not entirely sure what her ploy is.

“Well for one, we could be at the rink at the same time-”

“The real reason,” you push, a frown tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to lie to me, Lils.”

She shifts uncomfortably. “That is a real reason.”

“Yes, but not the reason.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and reluctantly nods, brows creased.

“If you’d just tell me the truth I’d be much likelier to at least pretend to think about it before rejecting you,” you joke lightly, and you grin when Lily’s lips twitch upward.

The redhead fidgets for a moment before sighing, looking up at you. Her face looks almost…pink.

“There’s… this player,” she starts nervously, though you’re jumping to your feet before she has a chance to continue.

“I knew it!” you shout, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “You just want me to play middle-man to your romantic conquest!”

“Some might call it being a wingman,” Lily responds dryly.

You gape, then throw your hands in the air. “You’re deceiving me! You wicked siren woman, you’re trying to guilt me into this!”

“No I’m not!” She’s pouting now, and that’s how you know you’ll end up giving in. You won’t go down without a fight, though.

“Oh yes you are,” you hiss, eyes narrowing. “And what’s in it for me, huh? Why should I take all this extra time to babysit grown men who hit each other?”

“Because you love me?” she supplies, batting her eyelashes so aggressively you’re convinced one is going to come flying off.

You drop back onto the sofa, burying your head in your hands. “Yeah,” you say defeatedly, and you can picture Lily’s enthused grin.

“And we’re best friends?” she asks, voice teasing.

“We are,” you confirm reluctantly, voice muffled by your hands. “Though you might want to be careful after this.” The tone of your voice is clear: I’ll do it, but you owe me.

She squeals, and you nearly choke when her arms wrap around your side in a bruising hug. “Thank you! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“You have to pay for my hand warmers,” you grumble, though you’re not actually mad.

Maybe this won’t be terrible a little voice inside your head muses. Besides, it can’t be that hard.

The words aren't clear enough to make out, so you push yourself away from the desk and leave the office, then out of the hallway into the main daycare area.

It doesn't take more than a breath of time to realize who is making all the noise--a parent. They're standing near the front of the daycare, but not where they're supposed to be.

The check-out desk was located in the small room overlooking the daycare's main play area, separated by plexiglass and rope netting. Not only was it supposed to be an easier way to get kids comfortable in being away from their parents (they literally arrive in the daycare by way of a slide into a ball pit), but it also served as a form of security--nobody could enter the daycare without proper credentials, and there was always someone posted up there to greet anyone coming to drop off or pick up their child.

But this one? Somehow, this one came through an employee-only entrance. That audacity alone would make your blood boil, but the fact that you recognized the woman only made it worse.

Her shrill screaming filled the room with venom while she clutched her son against her hip, as if trying to shield him from the poor daycare attendant animatronic who was, as best as he could, diffuse the situation.

It doesn't take long to get an idea of what she's going off about either--the woman is not particularly quiet about it.

"When I leave my son here, I expect that he will be safe!" she hisses, brushing her son's hair as if trying to soothe the child. "And what do I find when I come to pick him up? That he's been manhandled and tossed around like a toy--you're lucky he didn't break a bone!"

The young boy doesn't look injured, and if anything he seems more scared of his mother.

Travis, you recall his name--a rather quiet boy, didn't always like to play with other kids. His mother, Sarah, worked in one of the back offices as a programmer. Her hours were always odd, so his father tended to be the one to drop the boy off. Now you understand why.

The thing was, Travis really liked playing with Sun. Since he was shy, the daytime bot often took it upon himself to try and encourage the boy to take part in craftime or storytime--he'd recently been able to get him to play in the ball pit with the other kids his age.

"This kind of behavior is completely inexcusable," she finally seethes, a look of one-note rage in her eyes that seemed to burn the longer she looks at the animatronic. "I will make sure to put in a complaint about this--"

"I-I am sorry that you think your son was h-harmed, Miss Martin. I assure you that h-he was just playing with the other kids." Sun lifts his hands up in a passive way, trying desperately to keep her from screaming more. People were starting to stare at the unfolding scene, and it was quickly coming undone at the seams. "I am incapable of doing anything that w-would put any little superstars in danger!"

Sarah's eyes gleam with poison as she seems to catch her claws on a hook. "Oh, so you're saying you're defecting from your programing?"

"N-no! Not at all! My programming is clean as a whistle, I have it debugged at r-regular intervals!"

"I work in the programming department," she says, voice going quiet. "With the glamrock series code. Directly down the hall from the man who makes decisions about every machine in this facility. All it would take is for me to walk right down to his office and let him know that the daycare is turning into a severe liability for the company." You are already hurrying over, not missing the way Sunny's fists start to clench tight, tight enough for his joints to squeal under the pressure as he restrains himself. He's trying so hard to keep his professionalism under the abuse--and Sarah seems to know exactly what to say.

"Your model is old. Your code is old. It's a shoddy piece of work that should be scrapped and redone, I've been telling them that for months now. They'd be better of scrapping you so we can finally have room for another glamrock and-"

You waste no time in immediately stepping directly into the line of fire, forcing yourself into the space between Sun and Sarah who has, until that moment, been encroaching closer and closer into his personal space. Was she trying to set him off? To see how far he would take the abuse before saying something wrong?

Probably. You wouldn't put it past a cruel woman like her at this point.

"What seems to be the problem here?" you say, fake smile wide and tone forcibly friendly. "I sure heard you all the way from my office!"

"Oh no dear, don't worry, it's nothing you need to concern yourself about," the woman says, waving her hand at you as if expecting her words to be like an order. "Though you can be a dear and go fetch the manager?"

You don't move, but clench your jaw tight and force the words through your teeth, "I happen to be the manager of the daycare, so if there is an issue or complaint, then I need to know about it! So please," the fake smile drops and you stare at her hard. "What is the problem here?"

Sarah's expression twitches with annoyance, but she tries to immediately save face by gesturing to her son and acting as if she was the one getting yelled at.

"Well, I didn't want to make a big deal of it, but my son has been injured because of your animatronic!"

You glance over at Travis. The poor kid is no older than eight, and he's trying to stare down at his shoes, his face flushed red with embarrassment and shame.

"Hey, little buddy," you kneel down to be closer to eye-level with him. "Did something happen to get you hurt?"

He shakes his head before his mother can try to interject. When you try to ask him another question she finally puts a hand between his gaze and yours, breaking it and forcing you to look back at her.

"That thing is running on severely old, broken code," she says, tone low and voice slow, as if trying to communicate an unspoken threat. "It's only a matter of time before something happens. Before someone gets hurt. I don't understand why they haven't just decommissioned the abhorrent thing. Doesn't even look as cute as the glamrocks."

Oh. So she's chosen death?

No. Breathe. Slowly. Remember how things work. Remember to play it smart. She wants you to get angry, needs to get a response out of you just so she can use it to cry to upper management.

Be smart about this. Be smart and unyielding. It takes every ounce of restraint not to deck the woman in the nose right there--but you at least have an upper hand.

"Who is your direct manager?"

"Huh?"

You stare at her expectantly, letting the silence fill the room before finally clarifying and repeating yourself. "Who. Is. Your. Direct. Manager?"

"I-I don't know how that's relevant to the current problem we're trying to solve."

"Well," you finally say, pulling out your company-assigned mini pad and scrolling through the employee database. "I need to get into contact with them about your behavior. Obviously you've forgotten several very important policies and I want to make sure you're educated on them as need be."

"Wh-what policies?" Sarah demands. "I haven't broken anything--that thing is what we're talking about right now."

You shake your head, proud of the even tone to your voice even though you want nothing more than to scream and yell at her in kind.

"First, you enter the daycare using an unapproved door-"

"I am an employee for the company-!"

"-and even employees are not allowed to use that door. It is for daycare attendants and handlers only. It is an active security measure to ensure the safety of little superstars like your son, whom you obviously seem to care for the safety of, right?"

She is silent, sputtering, taken aback by your confidence or simple knowledge of how to play the system correctly.

"Second, I have you on record actively harassing a coworker. Not only are you specifically not using his preferred pronouns, you are also belittling and demeaning him and his ability to do his job correctly. A job which I will remind you is difficult and stressful and comes with a wide variety of nuance."

You take the opportunity to step forward. Not too far, just a little idle step. Enough to take control and apply pressure to the situation.

"I'm sorry that you can't seem to understand the subtlety of how kids tend to play around Travis' age, and I'm sorry that you don't seem to care about the fact that he has been making very good progress in getting to know the other kids--specifically because of Sun's hard work with him."

Another small, calculated step. Sarah retreats from how she's looming forward, and you can see the tension in her jaw.

"Harassing a coworker? I haven't said anything to-"

"Sun? You mean one of my employees? The very one I heard you screaming at?" You shrug, managing to seem coldly nonchalant with surprising ease--maybe it's the adrenaline coursing through your veins. Between the heat of your words, you feel one of Sun's hand gently grabbing the back of your shirt. Not tugging, just holding on. "I mean, if you like we can go into my office and I can pull the cameras--if I misunderstood something then surely we can go over the recording and find out where I'm not getting that right."

That's the final push. Sarah knows she can't win the argument or force you to back down from a legitimate, honest-to-god threat. Despite being in a different department, technically you are still above her; you already know her manager. Marcus was a pretty easy-going guy that had a lot of sympathy for the animatronics, so it wouldn't take much for him to write her up from your word alone.

"I... well, maybe I just misunderstood," the woman finally says, her smile cold and not reaching her eyes. "No need to make this a big deal or anything! I will make sure to use the right door next time, my mistake."

Your mouth moves faster than your brain can stop them--it's edging on the line of being appropriate for someone of your position, but you need to make sure this woman understands that you are willing to hold your ground.

"Please do, because if I hear of something like this happening again? I will ban you outright from the daycare facility."

Her eyes widen and she opens her mouth as if to say something, but she's already lost. You have the authority to decline service to anyone, and at least with this situation you were grateful to have that power.

Sarah hurries out of the room without another word. You feel bad for Travis--the kid really didn't deserve to be in the middle of all that--but he offers some assurance by turning around to try and wave before the two of them disappear beyond the door.

You barely get a chance to let out a held breath before a pair of hurried footsteps approach you.

"Is everything okay?" one of the attendants ask. She's normally so soft spoken, but you can hear the genuine concern leaking through the words. "I knew as soon as I saw Sarah things would be bad--she always tries to find something to yell about when she picks Travis up."

"Yeah," the other worker echoes, then turns to speak to Sun. "I am so sorry you ended up with her, Sunny. If I knew she had used the door down here I would have immediately left the intake room."

The two of them started to crowd around you and Sun a bit more than you liked. Jesus, how was Sun even doing?

"We're okay, it's fine just-" another sigh spills from your lips, exhaustion taking the space where adrenaline had kept you so still and composed. "You two go make sure the other kids are okay? That was a lot of screaming for them to hear."

With only a little more consoling they finally move away to check on the few kids still waiting to get picked up. It leaves you and Sun alone at least, a vague amount of privacy.

You turn around, not sure what to expect from the animatronic--but it's a surprise all the same to find him staring at you with wide, as if unbelieving eyes. There's a sense of tension hidden somewhere in his expression, but its overshadowed by something else. Something hard to read.

"... Are you okay, Sunny?" you finally ask in a soft, gentle voice. He looks down, peering at the multicolored carpet silently. All it takes is the soft touch of your hand gently touching the side of his faceplate to make him twitch, listening but still not looking at you. "Don't you worry about anything, okay? She's just a cruel nobody who likes making other people feel bad. I will make sure she's not allowed anywhere beyond the intake room and make a recommendation that Travis' dad be the only one who can pick him up."

He is still silent, but you're relieved to see his body loosen. All that tension, all that heartache and anger, almost all gone in an instant.

"Sunny...?"

After a moment, the animatronic finally tilts his face into your touch. Before you can ask or say anything else, however, he sweeps you into his arms in a tight hug. So tight in fact that he begins to spin you around in a circle, stopping only when he's done sputtering.

"You didn't have to do all that for little ol' me! Someone so busybusy like you shouldn't need to deal with parents at all--you're so silly, starlight!"

Despite the fact that his words try to sound casual, you saw every sign in the book that Sun had barely been taking the woman's verbal abuse. You can't imagine what would have happened if you hadn't shown up--would he have snapped? Would she have threatened something worse?

"Oh goodness please put me down Sunny-" you lean into his arms as the room slowly stops spinning around you. Then, when you collect yourself, you offer him a warm and genuine smile. "Sunshine, you are one of my employees, and nobody deserves to be talked down to like that at all. It's not fair for her to treat you like that-" you catch a look of worry somewhere in his eyes, and so you quickly add, "-and I will never let you be decommissioned. There isn't anything wrong with you, so don't let her empty threats put a rain cloud over you."

It's only in that moment that you realize how tightly his hands are grasping at your uniform.

"... you... promise?"

He's more scared of that then he ever lets on.

"I promise," you say with complete confidence. "Nobody will ever hurt you on my watch, Sun. You and Moon both. They'll have to go through my stubborn ass first--and I actually memorized most of the employee handbook anyway."

"Starlight!" he says, sounding shocked.

"Wh-what?"

"Language."

You chuckle, the sound rumbling through your chest as you bring a hand over your face. You'll have to touch base with Sun again once the other kids and employees have left for the night, but at least he's doing better.

With the loud noise of yanking his curtains, Steve was brought back to the real world. From his sleep.

He simply rolled over, covering his face with pillows, not even caring a single bit that the sunshine burned his bare skin after someone popped the window open.

"Get the fuck up, you need to be there in the studio in fifteen, that's five minutes to dress and ten minutes en route." Someone conveniently pulled his covers off too, throwing his pillow, the one he was pressing to his ears, to the other side of the bed, having him exposed in the crisp April air. “Jesus, you reek of beer.” “Someone” muttered.

Steve made some noises in an attempt to cover his eyes with his arm, but that “someone” shook his body.

“Wake up, Steve!”

“But it’s earlyyy-” He whined, reluctantly squeezing an eye open, scrunching his face together for that effort, “what time is it?”

“Seven forty-five.” You checked your watch, “forty-six. I suggest you get up right this moment and still have four minutes to get dressed. And I'm hauling your ass out in four minutes, whether you have your pants on or not.”

His eyes snapped open. Those particularly cute sapphire eyes widened in panic.

Oh no.

OH NO!

NOT YOU!

The reality kicked in. You, his manager, his agent, his second-hand woman, whatever he calls you, were here to wake him up.

NONONONONONO.

He had been assigned to you for three years, and he knew what would happen if you don’t get what you wanted.

Or worse, when he was the cause.

“Three minutes and fifty seconds.” You reminded him, opening his wardrobe and starting to pick outfits for him.

OHNO!!!

“YES MA’AM!”

He scrambled out of bed in a blink of an eye, dashing to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and splashing water on his face. He didn’t care about his nudity, or his modesty, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, as you had seen numerous times before.

When he was out of his bathroom, you had already selected his outfit today: black T-shirt and jeans. They were lying on his unmade bed. You, on the other hand, took the chance to open all the windows of his apartment to clear out the smell of beer and … well, a grown man’s sweat overnight.

You handed him a bottle of bubbly water under your arm – it always helped with his headache after a night’s lack of sleep, plus the alcohol – and cursed in your brain because the cool bottle left a small patch of water between your elbow and your waist on your beige suit jacket. You had a meeting at nine, which meant you hope it wouldn’t stain.

He was jumping on the bedroom floor, trying to get his leg through the jeans, after gulping down almost half a bottle.

And a long burp came out.

Which nearly had him fallen off balance.

That’s what you get when you mix a bottle of bubbly with a jumping man-child. It’s like shaking the coke bottle after putting in a whole tube of mentos.

Scratch that “man” comment. He’s such a child sometimes.

At exactly one minute and six seconds to the countdown, he finally made himself presentable. His blonde hair still unkept, sure, but nothing a baseball cap wouldn’t solve.

You didn’t want some paparazzi waiting in front of his apartment building and catching his messy hair on camera. Again.

Though you doubt they still had any interest in him.

You headed out of his apartment after him, not forgetting to take his keys - which he conveniently forgot on the coffee table, buried under sheets of music, again - for him, before shutting the door.

“Ohhhh burger!” Steve picked up a packed bag from his seat, having a large, satisfactory bite before putting on a pouty face for you, who sat next to him, “it hath biffles.” He said while munching reluctantly, as the car started to drive onto the main road to the studio.

“That’s my breakfast. I like pickles, thank you very much.” You pointed it out, “yours is with Maggie, she bought you something to eat on her way to the studio. And don’t talk while you’re eating, you could’ve choked.”

Maggie, the assistant you hired for Steve two years ago, could manage almost everything.

Except waking Steve up.

That’s why with an early booking for the album recording, you showed up to hassle his ass instead of the more early-riser Maggie.

“I don’t like pickles,” Steve whined. Yet he took another bite, pushing the pickle slices out of his mouth to spit in the wrapping paper when he thought you were not looking.

“Then don’t take my breakfast?!” You roll your eyes, “make your own.”

“… I’ve slept over…”

“Just eat.”

“Yes whaam... ma’am.”

Still talking with food in his mouth.

Now you’ll go to your nine o’clock meeting with an empty stomach, thanks to Steve.

“Your 2 pm shooting got canceled. There has been a mix-up at the site, we’re going there tomorrow at 8 to finish the last couple of shots for your new album.” You pulled up his schedule, talking to him, hoping he’ll remember the rest of his day, “you have four hours in the studio. I’m not asking you to finish recording all those songs but I’m gonna have your top three demos to present to my boss, and that’s the bottom line for today. No out-of-the-blue insta stories, unless approved by Maggie or me, but you can take selfies, or ask Maggie to take a couple of pictures, just in case we might need them later, understood?”

He nods frantically, with two chicken nuggets stuffing his mouth full.

“The afternoon, go hang out with your buddies, or go to the gym, or play video games, I don’t care. No twitter. No Instagram. Maggie will be there with you to make sure you don’t say anything on twitter. If you want to twitter about politics, ask Maggie for a spare account.” You cleared your throat, “there’s a live session arranged on Youtube at seven pm, go talk to your fans, sing some songs from your previous albums – no disclosing your new album!” You stared at him to make your point clear, “more importantly, don’t answer the questions you don’t like. If the fans asked about your family, I don’t give a shit, don’t answer that. Don’t answer any bizarre questions, they might be some sneaky reporters behind those accounts trying to get a comment or something. Maggie will tell you about the details, but that’s all for today.”

The car pulled up in front of the studio. You got out of the car, holding your hand onto the car door because you were going to be late.

“Are you not going to be with me during the live session?” He got out of the car too, pursed his lips into a small pout, the pink plump lips complimenting his blue eyes, having you take a deep breath.

“I’ll try. I have a meeting at 6.30, and I probably couldn’t make it.”

“Please? Pretty please?” He whined, “you know I’ll behave better when you are around.”

You laughed, handing him his water bottle, “behave, Steve. I’m going to be late.”

“Not the slightest chance?”

“You’re going to be late too!”

“Maybe a goodbye kiss?” He asked hopefully.

“I’m going to kick your ass if Maggie doesn’t see you in thirty seconds.”

Steve made a face, acting like he was actually scared of you.

“Twenty-nine.” You started texting Maggie, who was waiting in the studio already.