★ I was dying for you ★

21 ★ they/them ★ latino ★ queer

[daydreamsareallineed]

Hi! Hello! Welcome to the blog!

This is an 18+ blog. I might not write/draw/create anything here (maybe one day) but I do reblog a ton of 18+ and MDNI blogs and post. That being said, if I find an account with no age or an age that's under 18 interacting with and or following my account, it's an immediate block. This blog is not for you, please go find a minor safe space elsewhere on the app.

[i00que]

000 . PROJECT── BETHELVERSE / WRONG WORLD, RIGHT ADDRESS

← PREV · NEXT→

NOTES : a bartender comes home with nothing left in her but a blister and the memory of seven hours on her feet, and the world ends just outside her front door. a man arrives on her carpet with someone else's face and an alabama drawl, asking for a town that doesn't exist anywhere she can point to. she's pretty sure he's a famous actor.

WARNINGS : alternate universe, no power, reverse isekai, reader-insert (no y/n,) character study, angst, stress, anxiety, multifandom, wilson bethel characters, 'soulmates,' age gaps, reverse-harem, morally grey characters, angst with humour, domestic bliss, identity crisis, emotional damage, forced proximity (technically,) slow burn, jealousy issues, everyone is bad at feelings, set in london.

CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL ── 18+ ONLY.

your feet hurt.

that is the first thing, the thing at the front of everything else, the blister on your left heel that has been making itself known since hour three of a seven hour shift and has now graduated from background noise to the only sound in the room. you get the door open on the second attempt because the lock sticks when it is cold and it is cold, it has been cold for a week in the way london gets cold in november, a damp grey insistence that gets into your coat and stays there, and you get inside and you get the door shut and your shoes are off before you have consciously decided to take them off, just your body making the decision your brain was too tired to make, and the relief of your own floor under your socked feet is embarrassingly complete.

your bag goes somewhere in the region of the sofa. you do not check where exactly. you will find it tomorrow or you will find it when you need it, same as always.

the flat is small in a way you have made peace with. one bedroom, a kitchen that is more of a suggestion, a living room that works if you are not trying to do two things in it at once. you have lived here for three years and it looks like it, not in a bad way exactly but in an honest one, the way a place looks when someone actually inhabits it rather than curates it. there is a throw on the sofa that has not been refolded since tuesday. there are two mugs on the coffee table, one from this morning and one from yesterday morning, because you kept meaning to take them to the kitchen and then kept not doing it. there is a cardigan on the back of the chair that you have been meaning to hang up since last week and a stack of things on the kitchen counter that started as important and have since become scenery.

you drop onto the sofa and it makes the noise it always makes, a long suffering creak from somewhere in its frame, the noise of a piece of furniture that has absorbed a lot of tired people over a lot of years and has feelings about it. the cushions have a particular depression in the left corner that is exactly the shape of you after a long shift and you find it without looking, just lean and settle and let the thing hold you. above you the ceiling is the same ceiling it always is. the light fitting has a hairline crack running from the rose that has been there since you moved in and that you have never reported because reporting things requires energy you have never had left over.

the curtains move.

you always leave the window cracked, the one behind the sofa, because the heating in this building runs hot and the thermostat in your flat has not worked correctly since february and the choice is between cold air from outside or the specific aggressive warmth of a building that does not know when to stop. so the window stays cracked and the curtains do their thing, the thin ones you bought because they were cheap and have regretted because they let in every light on the street, and they move now in the way they always move, a slow lean into the room and then back, like the flat is breathing.

you should shower. you know you should shower, you smell like a bar, like beer and the particular synthetic lemon of the cleaning spray and whatever someone spilled on the counter near you at around nine and that you wiped off your arm without ceremony because that is the job. you should shower and you should find something to eat and you should not just lie here on the sofa with your eyes going soft on the middle distance until you accidentally fall asleep in your work clothes again.

you lie there with your eyes going soft on the middle distance.

the city does its thing outside. a bus somewhere, gearing up. someone's music from a window further down the street, something with bass, felt more than heard. a voice, two voices, conversation or argument, it is not always possible to tell and you have stopped trying. you have lived in this city long enough that the noise of it is not noise anymore, just the texture of the background, the thing that is always there and that you only notice now on the rare nights it stops, which it never fully does.

your heel is still throbbing.

you became a bartender the way people become bartenders, which is to say you needed a job and you were good at it and then enough time passed that it became the thing you did, the thing that structured your weeks. you are good at it in the way you are good at reading a room, at knowing who needs another one and who has had enough and who is sitting at the end of the bar because they want to talk and who is sitting at the end of the bar because they don't. you are good at the efficiency of it, the clean economy of moving behind a bar, everything in reach, everything memorised, your hands doing the work while the rest of you is somewhere else entirely. seven hours of it tonight, a wednesday, busier than a wednesday had any right to be, and the last forty minutes were the kind of slow that is somehow worse than busy because you can see the end and it keeps not arriving.

you got home. that is the achievement. you are horizontal. these are the facts.

somewhere upstairs someone is watching television, the sound coming down through the ceiling as it always does, just audible enough to be aware of and not audible enough to make out. the curtains do their slow lean. the sofa creaks when you shift your weight and then settles. your bag is wherever your bag is.

you close your eyes.

then time comes apart at the seams and the world fucking ends.

it starts in your feet, a vibration so low it has no business being called sound, coming up through the floor, through the holes in your  socks, into your ankles and your shins and the base of your spine before it reaches anywhere you could name. you open your eyes. the ceiling looks the same. the curtains are doing their usual thing. and then the building makes a noise, a long slow groan from somewhere structural, from the place where concrete meets concrete and load bears load, and the groan builds, deepens, becomes something you feel in your back teeth, and you sit up because your body recognises the innate danger of a disaster.

the floor moves. not like a lorry going past outside your shitty flat, not like the central line two streets over, which you feel sometimes at night when everything else is quiet. this is the floor itself becoming temporarily uncertain, a rolling undulation moving through the flat from the kitchen end to the window end like something enormous has turned over beneath the city, beneath the foundations, beneath everything the city is built on. the coffee table skids two inches to the left. the mug, the one from this morning, walks itself off the edge and hits the floor and does not break and somehow you’re more horrified at the wrongness of physics being slightly off then your flat shaking like a leaf. the stack of things on the kitchen counter goes over all at once, a cascade of letters and the book you have been meaning to read and the phone charger and the ceramic pot you keep your pens in, and the pot does break, a clean bright sound completely at odds with everything else that is happening.

then there is the thunder, but it doesnt sound like its coming from outside, or not only from outside, it is everywhere at once, above and below and from inside the walls, the kind of thunder that has no preceding lightning and no logical origin, that arrives fully formed and enormous and rolls on for much longer than thunder is supposed to roll, and under it and through it and woven into it is a sound you have no word for, a tearing, a splitting, the sound of something fundamental coming apart at a joint that was never meant to be found. the windows rattle so hard in their frames that you think they will go, you think the glass will give, and you get off the sofa and your legs are not entirely reliable but they are doing their job and you grab the doorframe into the kitchen because it is the nearest solid thing and you hold on for your fucking life.

outside, the sky is wrong. you can just about see it through the glass, through the curtains that are now pressed flat against the window by some pressure that has nothing to do with wind, and the sky over london is doing something it does not do. it has split. not metaphorically, not like a storm front, not like clouds breaking apart. it has split, a line of absolute white running from one end of what you can see to the other, horizon to horizon, a crack in the dark like something on the other side of the sky has pushed a blade through and the light from whatever is behind it is coming through the gap. it is not lightning because lightning moves, lightning is gone before you have finished seeing it. this tears itself wider as you watch, and the colour of it is wrong for lightning, wrong for anything, a white so complete it casts shadows in the opposite direction from the street lights, your shadow thrown backward into your flat, stretched long across the floor toward the kitchen, and the light from the crack has a quality to it that you can feel on your face, a pressure, a warmth that is not warmth, something with a weight to it.

next, the wind comes from nowhere, from everywhere, from the crack in the sky that should not exist. it hits the building like a hand, flat and total, and the windows give up their rattling and begin to genuinely shake, and the curtains are ripped off the rail, both of them, just gone, and the window you always leave cracked is wrenched open fully and the wind comes through it and into the flat and it is not a london wind, it does not smell like the city, it smells like something vast and clean and utterly without origin, like air from a place that has never had a city in it or over it or anywhere near it; papers go everywhere, the throw from the sofa lifts and is just gone. you press yourself into the doorframe and the building groans again.

and then you have a wet piece of paper flying into your mouth as the rain comes through horizontally from the direction of the crack, hammering the window, hammering the street below, and through the open window it comes into the flat in a sheet, soaking the sofa, soaking the carpet, soaking the wall, and you cannot hear anything now except the rain and the thunder and the ongoing tearing sound of whatever is happening to the sky. you can see it from where you are, the crack still widening, the light still coming through, and the rain is hitting the light and where it hits the light it turns briefly to something that is not quite steam and not quite smoke, a silver dispersal that hangs in the air above the street and then is gone, and the whole city outside is caught in it, every light on the street going, every window lit, and somewhere nearby a car alarm is going and somewhere else something enormous falls, a tree or a section of wall or something you cannot identify, a bass note of impact felt through your feet and up through the doorframe you are gripping.

it lasts for a long time.

but it does not last as long as it seems like it lasts. time is doing something in these minutes, stretching at the edges, as you are holding the doorframe for dear life and the building is groaning and the sky is torn open?! and the rain is coming sideways through your living room window.

you are aware, in the distant way when your body has taken over from your brain entirely, that you are scared, properly scared, in a way you have not been since you were small enough for the dark to be a genuine threat.

and then the crack closes. not gradually. all at once. the light goes, the white absolute light, gone between one second and the next, and the thunder cuts off at the same instant, and the wind drops so completely that the sudden absence of it is its own kind of shock. the rain continues but it is already lessening, already becoming just rain, normal rain, london rain, the kind that has no opinion about anything. the car alarm is still going. something drips from your windowsill onto the soaked carpet. the broken ceramic pot is in three pieces near the kitchen counter. your shadow is gone because the light from the crack is gone and the street lights are doing their ordinary orange thing again, and the sky outside is the same dark sky it always is, low and cloud covered and giving nothing away.

you stand in the doorframe with your hands shaking; you try to make them stop, or just shake less, because the shaking is not useful right no. the flat is soaked on one side and untouched on the other, a line of wet running diagonally from the open window to somewhere past the coffee table, and the coffee table is still two inches to the left of where it lives, and the curtains are simply not there anymore.

you are still breathing, which seems like the relevant point. the building has stopped groaning. the city outside is starting to make noise again, voices somewhere, someone shouting, the sound of the neighbourhood reconvening with itself after something none of them have a word for either. you breathe again and your heart is still going at a rate that is not appropriate for someone standing still in their own kitchen doorway but it is slowing, it is coming down, and you push off the doorframe and you stand on your own and you look at your flat, at the damage and the wet and the broken pot and the two mugs, one on the floor and one still on the coffee table because apparently some things are indestructible.

the television upstairs is silent. every sound that was ambient before is absent. the city is collecting itself, as are you.

and then someone knocks on your front door.

in the seconds it takes you to collect yourself, the knocking had stopped. something drips from the windowsill onto the wet carpet in a steady patient rhythm and the car alarm outside is still going, has been going since before you got to your feet, a thin persistent sound underneath everything else that the night has decided to do. if not to make matters worse, your socked feet are wet from your own carpet.

you huff and walk to the door and swing it open with more force than necessary.

the hallway is the same as it always is and also not, the light fitting overhead doing a long slow swing on its fixture that pushes the shadows back and forth across the carpet in a rhythm that makes the whole corridor feel like something breathing, in and out, and the air has that smell still, the one that came in with the wind during the worst of it, that clean vast wrongness that has no business being four floors up in the middle of the city, the smell of somewhere that has never had streets over it or buildings or eight million people going about their lives. the door at the end of the corridor that is always closed is slightly open. the carpet looks darker than usual. a picture that belongs to your neighbour three doors down is on the floor in the middle of the hallway, glass intact, just off the wall, and you look at it for a second because it is easier to look at than the man.

because there is a man in the middle of your hallway.

not at your door, not collapsed against the wall, not doing any of the things you might have braced for on the way to the door. he is on one knee in the middle of the corridor with his other foot flat on the carpet and his forearms resting easy on his thigh and his head slightly down. he is in jeans that are worn pale at the knee and a flannel shirt in a deep red check with the sleeves pushed to the elbow, the way someone who pushed them up to do something and has not bothered to push them back down wears them, and he has boots on that belong somewhere with actual terrain in it, not in the middle of london. his hair is a dark blond pushed back from his face, probably from running his hands through it recently,  and his jaw has a few days on it, and he is big in the way that registers in a narrow hallway before anything else does, broad across the shoulders, chest and thighs, the kind of person who takes up their full amount of space without appearing to try.

he is looking at the swinging light fitting with the expression of a man who is doing an enormous amount of internal work and has temporarily directed it at the nearest inanimate object to give himself somewhere to put his eyes.

then he looks at you.

and your brain does something that would be funny under literally any other circumstances. it recognises him, or thinks it does, the recognition firing before you can examine it, before you can ask it where it is getting its information from or whether that information is reliable. it is a face recognition, sourceless and certain, the kind that happens when a face has been absorbed into you through a screen at some point without your active participation, filed somewhere in the part of you that stores things you did not consciously choose to keep, and this face in particular has apparently been in there for a while, waiting, because it surfaces now with the confidence of something that has been ready for its moment. the jaw and the eyes and the specific arrangement of features and the way all of it fits together with an ease that looks entirely unconstructed.

wilson bethel. that is what your brain produces, presenting the name with the authority of someone who has done their research, which you have not, you have simply apparently spent enough time in the vicinity of the internet that his face got into you without a formal introduction and has been there ever since.

he is, you note, with the distant observational quality of a person whose higher functions are currently running on reduced power, extremely good looking. not in a way that is working at it, not in a way that is arranged or considered or pointed in any particular direction. just good looking in the baseline way of someone whose face does what it does and has apparently always done it and has long since stopped being surprised by the results. 

the corner of his mouth moves.

it is a small thing, just the beginning of something, but it arrives with the ease of a man for whom this expression is not a performance, it is the shape a grin makes when a man is considering his options and facial expressions.

"hiya ma'am." warm and unhurried, an accent landing in the words that has a whole geography inside it, long vowels from somewhere with front porches and genuine summers and roads that go somewhere worth going, the kind of accent that does not happen in cities, the sound of someone who grew up somewhere specific and has never seen a reason to sand that down for anyone. 

southern and american, not any kind of english or london accent.

you say nothing because you are standing in your doorway in your work clothes with your wet socked feet and your hands that have mostly stopped shaking with no fucking curtains and a soaked carpet and yet, wilson bethel is on one knee in your hallway looking up at you with the beginning of a grin and an accent from the american south and you cannot locate a single word in any of the languages you speak.

he waits and goes back to watching the light fitting swing. 

a moment goes past until you speak, "are you wilson bethel?" you feel almost stupid for asking.

his grin pauses. something behind his eyes does a quick assessment, a rapid and thorough reading of you, of how you asked him, which is the way of someone who is not entirely convinced by their own question but needs it answered anyway. he blinks, once, twice before his grin is full and wide and his eyes squint, "i'm sorry?"

"wilson bethel." you say again, slower, like maybe your accent is slurring the vowels, and you are aware that you sound like a person whose grip on the situation is not what it could be, but the grip on the situation has not been what it could be for the past twenty minutes and you are doing your best. "the actor. you look exactly like him. you have his exact–" you gesture at his face, a gesture that covers the jaw and the eyes and the forearms and the general situation of all of it, a gesture that is meant to be explanatory and is probably just pointing. "you look exactly like him."

he looks at you for a moment, then he looks down at himself, a slow survey of the flannel shirt and the jeans and the serious boots, the full inventory of a man checking whether anything about his current presentation explains what he is being told, and then he looks back up at you and the grin comes back properly this time, wide and genuine and with a quality of being sincerely entertained by something he absolutely did not see coming this evening.

"well i'll be." he says, in the tone of someone receiving genuinely interesting news. "can't say i know the fella. but i'll take it, if he looks anything like me." a pause, the grin doing something at the corners that is doing nothing for your ability to think in straight lines. "does he?"

you stare at him.

"yes," you say, flatly. "that is the point i am making."

"then he must be a handsome man!" he says, with the total and unashamed ease of someone who has never once in his life found confidence difficult, and he says it without the self-congratulatory quality that should make it insufferable, says it lightly, says it like a fact he is noting rather than a thing he is performing, and it is somehow worse that way, but somehow more effective. either way you are too tired for american southern charm.

"who are you?" you repeat.

"wade kinsella," he says. "mechanic. bluebell, alabama." and then, because he is apparently this kind of man, the kind who cannot let a moment just be what it is without finding the angle on it: "formerly of bluebell, alabama, as of about." he glances around at the corridor, at the swinging light and the neighbour's picture on the floor and the open door at the end. "twenty minutes ago, i'd reckon."

"wade kinsella." you repeat.

"yes ma'am."

you look at him. you look at the face that is wilson bethel's face, at the jaw and the eyes and the grin that has not fully left even now, and you think about every person you have ever served behind a bar who gave you a fake name, and you think about the fact that a fake name is actually the least of your concerns right now, and you say: "aren't you married?"

he raises his right hand and then his left, turning them both so the backs face you, a gesture that is almost theatrical in its deliberateness, displaying the full and unambiguous absence of anything on any finger. "no ring on this finger," he says, and his voice is easy but there is something underneath the easy that you catch the edge of and cannot quite name, something that has been somewhere and come back from it. "no ma'am."

you look at his hands. you look at his face. you look at the swinging light and the wet carpet and the neighbour's picture on the floor and the whole impossible situation of your hallway at eleven o'clock at night, and wade kinsella, or wilson bethel, or whoever this man is, is on one knee on your carpet looking up at you with that warm and patient attention, and he is not a threat, you know he is not a threat, you have spent seven years reading people in difficult states and threat is not what this is, but he is a stranger, he is a stranger with an easy grin and no ring on his finger and boots from the wrong country and a name you do not believe, and you are very tired and your feet are cold and the curtains are gone and the world cracked open tonight and let something through and that something is currently on your carpet waiting to see what you are going to do about it.

"i don't know you." you say, because it is the truest thing available.

"no ma'am," he agrees, easy, without offense. "you don't." he looks at you steadily, the grin gone now, something more straightforward in its place, a man setting something down so his hands are free. "but i don't know you either, and i knocked anyway, because your door was the nearest door and the light was on and–" a pause, something moving briefly across his face that is not the grin and is not the easy charm and is just him, just whatever is underneath all of it when he is not turning anything on. "and i didn't know what else to do."

you stand there for a moment longer, doing the calculation, the same calculation you do at last call when someone is on the wrong side of the line between fine and not fine and you have to decide what to do about it. you look at him, at the face that belongs on a screen and is inexplicably on your corridor carpet, and you make a decision, and you step back from the door and you say "come in then," in the tone of someone who has weighed the options and chosen the least bad one and is not particularly happy about it.

he gets to his feet in one easy movement and follows you in and stops just past the threshold the way he stopped in the corridor, taking the room in first, the wet carpet and the curtainless window and the coffee table two inches from where it lives and the broken ceramic by the kitchen counter, all of it absorbed in a slow unhurried sweep before he looks back at you, and there is something in the looking that is not pity and is not judgement, just acknowledgement, just a man noting what a room has been through and giving it its due.

you turn to face him with your arms crossed and your back to the kitchen doorframe because you want something solid behind you and you want him in front of you where you can see him, and you say: "i need you to understand something."

he looks at you. the grin is absent. he is paying attention in the full and serious way, the way that was underneath the charm the whole time, and you get the sense that this is the more accurate version of him and the charm is the thing he puts on top of it, not to deceive exactly, just because it is how he moves through the world, how he has always moved through the world, and underneath it is this, a man who listens when something is worth listening to.

"i have a phone," you say. "it works. and you are wilson bethel, i don't care what name you give me, and you are famous enough that one phone call from a woman in london saying you turned up uninvited at her flat in the middle of the night would make your life extremely complicated extremely quickly. i don't want to do that. i'm not going to do that unless i have a reason to. but i need you to understand that the reason doesn't have to be a big one. i'm tired and i've had a very long day and the threshold is low tonight."

you say all of this in the even measured tone you use for last orders when someone is arguing about it, the tone that is not unkind but is also not negotiating, the tone that has ended more arguments than it has started, and wade kinsella listens to the whole of it without interrupting, which you note, without expression, as something in his favour.

when you finish he is quiet for a second. he looks at you, doing that assessment again, the quick and thorough reading of a person, and whatever he finds in it appears to satisfy something because he nods, once, slow.

then he holds out his right hand, not to shake, the little finger extended, the rest of his hand loosely closed, and he looks at you with an expression of complete and genuine seriousness.

you look at his hand. you look at his face. you look at the extended little finger.

"are you," you say, "offering me a pinky promise."

"yes ma'am," he says, without a trace of irony.

"you are a grown man."

"i am," he agrees. "and i am giving you my word, which i keep, and i am giving it in the most binding format known to man." a pause. the little finger remains extended. the expression remains serious. "i will not harm you. i will not touch anything that isn't mine. i will not go anywhere in this flat you don't say i can go. you have my word and my pinky on it and in bluebell that is a legally binding contract."

you look at him for a long moment. you look at the little finger. you look at the face that is wilson bethel's face, at the eyes that are doing nothing except being straightforward at you, and you think about your phone on the counter and the distance between you and it and the fact that he has not moved, has not stepped further into the room, has not done anything except stand where you can see him and offer you his little finger with the gravity of a man presenting evidence in court.

you reach out and hook your little finger around his. you let go immediately. you look at him with the blank and level look of a woman who is reserving all judgement indefinitely.

he grins, slow and warm and like he has just been given something he was not entirely sure he was going to get.

"don't," you say.

"i'm not doing anything," he says.

"you're grinning."

"that's just my face," he says.

you turn and go to your bedroom, seeing parts of it knocked over, wet, destroyed or unmoved. it’s too late and too much happened in your shift and at home to deal with the nonsense of the evening. behind you wade kinsella from bluebell alabama stands in your wrecked living room in his serious boots and says nothing, and you can feel the grin from six feet away without turning around.

“make yourself at home, wilson bethel.”

is the last words you say and just as he opens his mouth to speak, you slam the door shut in his face and lock it for good measure.

taglist: @buildinguplikewaves @nghtwngs @diegoshako

@isabellaswayer-blog @inbetween-styx @starlitflora @haal07erlj @dancing-storms @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @blynie247 @j-serp @claraswritings @kunarchist @dolcesaints @starghostty @lovelylightningrod @wondoras @manonwillpower @pearlvirag  @br0ke-b1tch @purpletalia @janyral @stelda @miriamckle @nbhrhn @nervousd

i hope you all enjoy <3

[binicoco]

mark callan 🧸 in all rise s02e09

[binicoco]

mark callan 🧸 in all rise s02e09

[johnnysilverhandssuitcasenuke]

[felixisfruity]

[darkspaceboytoy]

Oh also you do have to read real books. Like you have to read the books. You can’t just read fanfic, those are not books. You can if you just want to write fanfic, but if you want to write books, you kinda gotta read books. No, posts do not count.

[rawme-price]

Now imagine post tbi!soap who's determined to walk his baby sister down the aisle...

When he first woke up after...everything...the doctors told him he'd probably never walk perfectly, but decent recovery was possible. At the time, all soap heard was "the military has no more use for you. Pack your bags, soldier."

Takeout and the eight feet between his couch and the door to his apartment became soaps new world. Did you know you can get alcohol delivered right to your door? All soap has to do is sign. Still getting around in that shitty wheelchair provided by the hospital.

Then he gets the call from you.

You, his baby sister he hasn't seen in years. Who he thought he lost after dad kicked you both out, didn't want an abomination like the pair of you under his roof. You call, and your voice is so much softer than those beginning years, "johnny! I'm getting married!"

You ask him to walk you down the aisle, unaware of his situation. Soap says yes.

He works his ass off, but the progress is slow. His physical therapist says this would have been easier had he started earlier, that most of his muscle mass is gone. Every break between sessions, soap calls for an update from you. Trying to catch up on misspent years. Every "I'm so much happier now, I wish you were here." Makes him feel stronger. Every "he's lovely, johnny. You'll think he's funny. Makes me feel like a proper lady." Has him pushing through the next painful exercise.

And the thing is, soap wants nothing more than to walk you down the aisle properly. He thought he wanted the military, thought he wanted the guns and violence and the feeling of being right. But more than any of that he wants to be there for his sister.

The doctor tells him it won't happen.

Soap flies out to you a month before the wedding. He meets you for the first time in years, your brother of flesh and blood, using a walker.

Soap expects rejection, hate, or at least dissapointment. He tells you this is the best he'll ever get, that the man you want walking you down the isle will be slow and unstable the whole time.

You look soap dead in the eyes, nose scrunched in anger, "you asshole!" You grab his jaw, force him to look at you properly "you did not risk your life for me everyday just so I could reject you! You're walking me, end of fuckin' discussion."

Soap has never known his sister to not get what she wanted.

He walks you down the aisle, walker and all. It's beautiful. The wedding is amazing. You chose good people to surround yourself with, because not one person makes soap feel ashamed that night. All he feels is joy.

The military saw no use for a man like him, but his family laughs at the absurdity of ever letting him go.

[rawme-price]

Dbf!nikolai coming to pick you up from uni when price can't.....

Dbf!nik who comes rolling in on his loud ass motorcycle, that one you swear he's had since you were a kid 'helping' him work on it in the garage. Nikolai smiles at you when he pulls his helmet off, usually slicked back hair a mess. "Ah! How you've grown!"

Dbf!nik who tosses you his large leather jacket, when you try to hop onto the bike. He snarks about your dad killing him if you got a scrape, but you're too focused snuggling into the fabric that smells like him.

Dbf!nik who smiles to himself when your hands wander on the ride back. A bit too low on his torso, then moving to the inside of his thigh over a sharp turn. Curious fingers mere centimeters off from his cock.

Dbf!nik who doesn't fuck you on the side of the road, or in your bed when you get home. He prefers the look full of desire you give him. The special thread that hasn't quite been crossed yet. He likes the anticipation.

Dbf!nik who notices when you don't take his jacket off right away. He enjoys thinking about what you'll do with it once he's gone. He lets you keep it.

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just irish setter hybrid!reader who's never quite good enough...

Sure, you're good. You have to be good to get into the 141, but it seems everything you can do well someone can do better.

You can sniff out targets, instincts born into you, but soap can do it faster. You can run with all your heavy gear on, but gaz can do it without breaking a sweat. Of the dog hybrids on the team, you are easily the worst.

A fact that becomes glaringly obvious with each mission, each training session. Every interaction just proof that you are the weakest link. The runt of the pack.

Your instincts are terrified of being rejected when your pack finally realizes the truth.

So you work. You work like hell to improve yourself.

Staying late after every training, running the sets again and again until your limbs shake. Forcing yourself to go for a run early, before the suns even up. Your legs still hurt from the last week but you can't afford to stop. Not when even price can keep pace with you now, as if you're improving backwards.

You work your endurance too, rucking during the weekends. Hours spent keeping a consistent pace. Even when it's pouring rain and you feel the chill deep in your bones, you work.

Until one morning your spend your lunch in the bathroom tossing up breakfast.

Entire body hot, sweaty, lethargic. Sick.

You can't be sick, you can't afford that weakness. Just the thought of your pack seeing you like this has your ears pinning in shame. The sick little runt. Surely they'll kick you out.

So you toss back a handful of painkillers, throw on gazs hoodie that you never gave back, and go to meet them for Monday sparring.

It goes well. You push through every round, downing water on the sidelines between fights.

Your own desire to prove yourself does you in. You insist on one last spar with ghost, one to redeem yourself from the embarrassing take down last week. Sure, you feel a bit unstable stepping onto the mat but it's nothing. You shift your feet, get into stance—

And the world suddenly tilts.

People shout, your vision blurs. Nothing happens. You passed out in front of your whole team.

You can't hear what they're saying.

[lolavagabonde]

mooneyed 🌙🗡️

[daydreamsareallineed]

Can someone please help me find a series? I can't seem to remember who wrote it- it's a x reader- reader was dating Price, he cheated and everyone on the team, including kate knew about it. Reader ends up deleting and I believe blocking all of them, uploads a song that they put together, and ends up getting signed to a label.

[crashingcryptid]

"Do you wish you were tall?"

Simon looks down at you, his eye narrowing at your completely straight face. "Wot?"

"Like, most men aren't really satisfied with their height. Do you wish you were, like, actually tall?" Your lips quirk slightly, betraying your joke to him no matter how hard you tried.

"Go find something to do before I choose for you." He orders dismissively, watching you scurry away down the hall. Sargeants these days have a lot or nerve. He always knew you were a little cheeky, but this was new.

"Hey Johnny, what would you change about yourself if you could? You know, besides the obvious?" Johnny almost answered you when his jaw snaps shut with a click of his teeth.

"Besides the obvious? Excuse me!?" He gives you a shove in the side when you double over laughing. He was no stranger to rage bait, he just wasn't used to someone giving it back to him.

"Oh, come on, you have to know you're a few inches smaller than Kyle." You tease while making a pinching motion with your fingers. Johnny tucked that away for later, knowing just how much he could make you scream. Your reign of terror never seemed to end; just little comments dropped here and there.

"Do you wish that you were athletic?" You asked Kyle after beating his PR during training.

"Do you wish you were still in your sexual prime?" You had interrogated Price over drinks, much to Nikolais amusement.

"You think I'm not still in it?" Price asks as he leans over the bar table, getting closer to your face. You flush immediately, mouth opening to maybe continue your joke when John presses his whisky glass to your lips. "Shh, shh, shh. Drink up." He insists, forcing the burning liquid into your mouth and down your throat.

"Such a mouthy little brat lately." Simon grumbles as he gently holds your head in place. "Just begging for some attention, huh? Have we been neglecting you?"

It doesn't take long for the boys to toss down their money, making their way out of the bar and back to base with you stuck between them.

"Take it, come on, you can take it just fine." Johnny chuckles as he presses you down into the bed. The other boys had the pleasure of watching your eyes cross, mouth dangling open as you cry out from each thrust. "Kyle just took you, so you should barely feel it, right? Since he's so much bigger?"

Oh, shit... he was still bitter about that?

"Slo - Johnny! Slow do -own!" You sob as he slams into your sweet spot over and over again. John could see you pleading for him to help. Begging dear old dad to rescue you from the absolute pounding you were receiving.

"I can't help you, sweetheart. I'm not in my sexual prime anymore. I'm sure you won't be satisfied with me." He shrugs, thanking Nikolai with a simple nod when he pours him another drink.

"Poor thing is fucked out of their mind." Simon chuckles when Johnny finally lets up, rubbing your lower back soothingly as he takes a moment to talk to you.

"How you feeling, Bonnie? Hmm? Need a break?" He whispers as he brushes hair away from your face, easing you onto your side.

"Water, Johnny..." You couldn't help but whine, snuggling into his chest when he carefully gathered you into his lap.

"Alright, alright... I've got you." He coos as he carefully helps you drink half a bottle of water. "Take is easy on em, would you, lad?" He teases as Simon stands to take you when he sees your ready.

"That anyway to talk to your uncle?" Simon grunts as he gives Johnny a slight corrective slap. "Just cause the little ones in trouble doesn't mean you can't be, too." He warns as he takes you into his arms. You shiver nervously when he pins you up against the wall, legs dangling in the air as the wrapped around his hips.

"You think I'm too short now, love?" He whispers as he lets you slowly sink down onto him. You gasp as your weight settles down on his cock, gravity forcing him deeper than you've ever felt. "Come on, I'm sure the grounds are not too far away. If you stretch your legs, you can reach." He coos with a groan thrusting up into you. "Go ahead and try."

[6eons]

Baby Come Home → Kyle Garrick

childhood bestfriend!Gaz who decided you were his long before you could understand. He’s just waiting for you to come home.

tags/cw: mdni 18+ !! f!afab!reader. weirdo men mention (i’ve rid of their existence dw) teasing. smut, no piv - dry humping. light d/s, i think. praise praise praise.

w/c: 3,2k

a/n: this started off as a wee lil drabble but once i started going, i could not stop. teehee ♡ LISTEN TO: shut up my mom’s calling unedited.

He created a monster, really. monster? Or princess? He’d say princess, might even say his princess in his head… And to his mates on base.

When you were in secondary school, he’d carry your lunch pail to and from the cafeteria. He’d help you brush the grass out of your hair after you’d instigated some sort of roughhousing. Occasionally picked you dandelions and left them at your desk.

Kyle never let you lift a finger, ever. When you were teens, he’d tell you to never settle for anything but the bare minimum.

“This,” he’d lift your book bag with no struggle before brushing his hands against your arms to cough up your notebooks while you were at it, “is bare minimum. You’re not carrying your own books to class love.”

Taking care of you was a compliment to him, a privilege. A sweet thing like you allowing him to take care of you? The honour was all his?? No one else’s? No eyes for anyone but him??

He insisted on being your first kiss. That the teen boys in school would only use it as a tally mark for their ego measuring contests. Maybe even over exaggerated a few truths about some of the locker room talk.

“Yeah, the boys have been seeing who can steal more first kisses.”

“Jesse’s even been drafting up some sort of contest on who can get to second base the quickest, love. I’ve no clue who’s in it, but you should steer clear of that lot.”

‘Truths’ was the keyword. It wasn’t a complete lie if Jesse Walsh was actually trying to see which virgin he could he could deflower before the fall ball. Abd there really was a whiteboard in Tommy Jarvis’ basement where the boys on the footie team could messily smear their points; Kyle didn’t partake.

It was all but perfect, teeth clanking against each other, slobber pooling between your lips. It was his first kiss too.

But Kyle made you feel safe and comfortable, allowing you to take up the space in his arms as you pulled yourself into his lap. He didn’t even touch you until you pulled his hands to your hips. He was so gentle and tender with you. His kiss left you breathless and craving the physical affection even.

Nothing came of it afterwards. Nothing that came with some sort of verbal communication. That didn’t mean he didn’t steal a few kisses from you after that night. Best friends kiss sometimes, it’s fine! he’d tell you. Not that you minded anyway.

In year 11, Kyle bargained your curfew with your parents, because they were close like that, under the guise of ‘post-game snacks’.

“The team usually like to have some sort of outing after each game game. I’ll make sure she comes home on time and fed, sir.” Kyle would tell your father. Your father wouldn’t even bat an eye, clapping kyle over the back with a nod.

“As long as she gets home on time.”

He didn’t tell your father what exactly post-game snacks consisted of. You’d always ended up in the backseat of Kyle’s car in the parking lot of the pizzeria by the school — where the rest of the team were in fact eating. Always in his lap, kissing him like you needed him under your skin. His hands just barely grazing under the skirt of your school uniform, prying your legs apart so you were flush in his lap.

Kyle would return you home a minute early on the dot, to remain in your parents’ good graces (not that he needed to try) he’d walk you to your doorstep - drape you in his jumper if it was chilly. And he would leave you dizzy with your stomach doing somersaults, skirt embedded with wrinkles with how rough he’d bunched the fabric up in his fists.

He was perfect.

So of course, naturally, this would warrant you to look for pieces of him in the men you’d start seeing in your adulthood, when studies had died down enough to allow you a social life. Just the natural swagger that would come with being a gentleman. The organic cadence of when a man truly valued women. oh, did this man set the bar high. Purposeful, surely.

You’ve had to hide your scowl every time a man made some sly comment about expectations he was looking forward to just by holding your door open for you. You’ve had to bite back comments when the men you were out with wouldn’t hold your beverage with care, telling you you shouldn’t have an issue just leaving it at the unattended booth; you did leave it at the booth just to call an uber to swipe you up to take you home for the night.

Dating… wasn’t really for you. Not when you couldn’t find someone exactly like your best friend kyle that wasn’t Kyle. You scolded yourself for thinking the way you did, but he made you this way. Whether he’s aware of it or not slips beyond your imagination.

Oh, but he knows.

It’s not entirely surprising to him when he returns home from deployment that you remain unclaimed. He’s not at all surprised when you tell him all the ways men have disappointed you in one way or another.

It’s almost evil, the way he even entertains the idea of you going out to see other guys.

“Come on, give it here.” Kyle sprawls himself out on your couch, urging for you to hand over you phone. He has to bite back the shit-eating grin when he’s met with your lockscreen - you and him at a footie game in Manchester City kits. His face is already programmed into your phone’s facial recognition system and he’s immediately opening up your Bumble app.

You curl up next to him absentmindedly, nuzzling the side of your face on his toned bicep as he sifts through your matches. He smells good, as you remembered him. Sandalwood with a touch of eucalyptus, the scent of your comfort.

“You swiped right on him?” Kyle scoffs in disgust, tilting his head back to look at you in disapproval. He’s offended that this was someone you even considered replacing him with.

“Thought he was cute.” you frown sheepishly.

“Right so, he purposefully has group photos so you can’t tell which one is him.” Kyle deadpans, swiping through the array of photos this man has set up on his profile. “Actually, I don’t even think there are solo photos of him- there isn’t. Which one of these bloke’re you thinking is the cute one then?” he tilts the phone towards you and your silence is enough for him to know he’s proven his point.

“Well what about your friends?” you can’t help but think out loud, knowing it’ll get a kick out of him.

“What about my friends?” your phone is placed face down on the arm of the couch as he turns to give you his full attention. His eyes harden at the doe eyes you’re giving him and his jaw clenches when you have the audacity to bat your eyelashes at him. He dares you to complete that thought.

“What if you set me up with one of them?” Kyle’s eyes trace over your features, almost as if he’s giving you a moment to take back what you’ve just said. The sudden attentiveness to you makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand and your back straighten. He’s looking at you with such intensity, you wonder if the military taught him how to read minds and he’s seeing in tenfold how badly you want him. Kyle allows a gust of air to leave his nostrils, not quite a laugh, but you can tell he’s amused.

“Careful princess.” he breathes out lowly. Your breath hitches against the air you didn’t even realize you were holding onto. His arm had been stretched out across the back of your couch, so it was easy for him to shift his arm slightly so his hand could grip your shoulder.

“What? I’m serious!” you absolutely weren’t. “It’s embarrassing that I can’t even sit through a date without getting hives. These men are horrendous! Surely, your friends are your friends because you find them appealing. What about Soup? He seems like a good lad.”

“Soap,” Kyle corrects you as nervously fumble around with the hem of your skirt. The topic of your dating life made you anxious at times; the fact that no one was good enough for you because of him felt awfully embarrassing. “I don’t know if you’d like him like that, he’s a bit abrasive at times, but unpredictable too.”

“But he respects women?” you quirk an eyebrow up and at that he nods, but there’s a bit of uncertainty that clouds his eyes. The bar is truly in hell.

“‘sides, think he’s got a thing going on with our lieutenant, but you didn’t hear it from me.” Kyle chuckles in attempt to change the subject.

“Well, are they looking for a third?” you relent and this completely wipes the smile from his lips. “You can tell them I’ll be good for them!”

“You trying to take the piss at me?”

Kyle’s plump lips purse together and you don’t have any control of your eyes when they flicker down. Evidently, you don’t seem to have control over any part of your face, especially when your own mouth parts slightly just so you can run your tongue across the bottom of your top teeth.

His eyes mirror yours.

Kyle can’t help but eye the plump of your lips, the sheen glistening even under the dim lights. He knows they’re lightly coated in a gloss he can’t remember the name of, but he can’t help but entertain the idea that they’re shimmering, just begging for attention from him. You hold his gaze for a moment while his mind wanders rapidly over where he’d love to see your lips stain.

He can’t help but feel like a teenager all over again. thinking, dreaming, yearning for your lips to be speaking his language.

“Don’t need t’worry about bein’ a third, princess.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re my one.”

If you wouldn’t come home when you needed to, he’d just have to bring you home like he always did.

His thumb catches onto that damp bottom lip of yours. He swipes his finger and extends his thumb so he can catch a glimpse of the shine on his finger. He hums when he realises it’s different from the one you used to wear.

He would wager that the translucent shade would be much too hard to get out of the collar of his polo. Maybe it would stain his sheets too. And if you pressed your lips to the pillow (yours, not yet at least) that sat beside his, he wouldn’t mind at all either.

Kyle doesn’t pay any attention to the way your breathing stutters under his touch. He used to. He was so attentive to the way your skin would prickle if he’d brush ever so slightly. Or how shy you would get when he got his hands on the plush of your bare thighs, lips bruising against your neck. He knows all of this. He doesn’t need to pay attention.

He does, however, pay attention to the way you react when he reaches over to grab your thigh. You flutter into his touch like his hands were meant to be there. and within seconds, he’s got you pulled over on his lap like it’s deja vu’s business.

With planted hands to his chest, you jut your chin forward to lean in, but he stops you.

“Ah-“ Kyle pets the side of your face and you can’t help but preen under the touch. “Need you to say it.”

The whine you let out is almost embarrassing. A small pout forms at your lips and he’s almost giving in to the very treatment he’s damn near conditioned you to.

But he remembers: he’s good to good princesses. And you haven’t really been on your best behaviour.

“Oh, come on,” he tuts his tongue at you, lips forming a circle as he coos at you. He’s taunting you. “You were so ready t’be good for Simon and Johnny, you don’t wanna be good for me?”

“Yes!” you bleat. Pathetic little thing, just as easy to make fall apart as before.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll be good for you,” you could shrink in his arms if he wasn’t holding you still in his lap.

He didn’t even need to hear the last two words, but you throw it in like it’s a ripest cherry of the bunch on top. Too sweet to him, you were. Kyle muffles a grunt at your admission, thumb swiping at your bottom lips once more. He can’t even believe the sounds that are coming from them — these sweet things he used to kiss on saturday nights?

“And?” he knows you might keel over with shyness into his chest. And he’d let you, having already given him what he needed to hear. Kyle just wants to test out his luck.

“I’m yours.” you say it softly. Gently. Like you’re testing out how it sounds, how it feels rolling off your tongue. How it feels being his.

“You’re mine,” he keens back to you immediately, leaning in to press a needy, warm kiss to your lips. You can’t help but clasp his shirt in your fist, the other cupping the side of his neck like you’re afraid he’ll leave you again.

Oh, he’s not leaving you anytime soon princess, not when you’ve just come home to him.

His hands find their place on the meat of your thighs. They’re fuller than they were back then, not that he has any complaints over it. Kyle doesn’t miss the opportunity to refamiliarise himself with your body.

Soft, plush, just as he remembered. Do you still make this noise when he - a feathery touch to the back of your calf - yes, yes you do.

He breathes in every puff of air that you exhale. He’s trying to get your nervous system acclimated with his. Kyle’s hands are at your knees, tugging them apart as much as he can without hurting you.

You’re flush against him and this time, his hands wander just as they do in his mind. One hand smoothes over the thick of your thighs and curls around the back to roughly grip your ass. A light moan twinkles from your lips and he nips at you in response, your pants only growing louder.

When you buck your hips against his, Kyle bites. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to know you’ll probably have some sort bruising. So you do it again. And you have his assistance, hand gripping your ass as he guides you along him.

Fuck, he can barely feel your soaked panties with the tips of his fingers. Teasing him almost. So close but so far away.

He pulls you particularly harsh, misplacing your angle on bis hips and your clit bumps against the cold of his zipper. A loud moan rubbles from your chest and sends waves straight to his cock, already hard and leaking with pre. His movements staggering as he struggles to hold himself together. He’s a soldier, he shouldn’t lose his cool so quickly — but it was you, and you were there before he was a soldier, so you defied all sense of discipline he’d learned.

You’re a mess of a puddle in his arms. Sweating, panting, whimpering with your forehead pressed to his. Your gloss is all over his chin, eyes hooded as his free hand cups the bottom of your jaw to wipe the saliva gathering. You’re drooling…cute. You’re desperately trying so hard to maintain the eye contact the same way his eyes are locked with yours, but your eyes are fluttering.

Finally, you’re soaked through his jeans. It makes it easier to glide your clothed pussy over his cock.

Kyle scrunches the back of your panties up, so the front tightens and a sharp cry releases from your chest. He lets out the filthiest groan when you draw your hips back far enough to brush against the head of his cock and it makes your heat throb, like you have a second heartbeat. Lifting one of your hands to grip the back of the couch, you slightly lift yourself, bouncing with every tug and push.

“Kyle,” your whine is barely audible, the only evidence that you’ve said anything is the way he sees your mouth move. He only hums in response, partially because he’s not sure if he heard right. “Feels good.” you’re a slurring blubbering mess.

That, he hears.

His hips jerk upwards instinctively and you cry out in pleasure at the additional pressure against your clit. You can feel a storm festering at the pit of your stomach, it’s pitiful the way your cunt clenches around nothing, desperate pulsate around him.

“I know princess, it’d be so easy if I could just… slip inside, mmh?” the huskiness of his voice has your hips stuttering but he holds you still, bumping his hips forward while pulling you down. He can feel your panty-clad pussy trying to tap past the barrier of his jeans, wanting to feel more of him.

But he won’t have you like that quite yet, not like this.

“Fuck, Kyle,” the burn in your stomach bubbles, almost boiling over as you lean over and rest your forehead on his shoulder. His face is still nuzzled at your side and you can feel the heat from his heavy breathing against the shell of your ear.

He’s mumbling words of encouragement, trying to egg you on. Kyle wants you- needs you to come. Needs you to be good for him. Needs you to be his.

“Come on princess, I know you can do it. Be good for me, you can do that, can’t you?” rhetorical, but even in your sex-driven haze are you nodding your head at his words, trying your best to listen to his requests.

“I know baby, haah feels so good, doesn’t it? Hm? You’re so good for me.”

A crescendo of pleasure ripple through you as you straighten your back, lifting yourself from his cock. Kyle will not have that. He’s pulling you back down and he can feel the seam of your cunt against him, throbbing, clenching around the phantom cock that you could only wish was inside of you.

He holds you as you cry out, going limp in his arms. The pretty sounds that come out of your mouth with the pressure of you fluttering against his hips in a rapid frenzy has him coming in his jeans with a guttural moan. He can’t even help that his eyes roll back, humming- buzzing as his heart hammers into his chest.

Kyle doesn’t pay any mind to the mess in his lap, doesn’t care. Not in the moment. His arms wrap around your waist, rubbing you back with a sharp pant and a soft giggle pulls him from from his daze.

He's feels full. That the very reason his heart pumps of blood is for his love for you.

Welcome home princess.

[katabby]

Kyle, in general, is gonna be a softer dom because I said so. When you get into bed with him, he's soothing you into subspace with gentle kisses to your head and casual groping to your body, just the normal objectifying so you can turn off your brain.

He hates it when you've had a long day and can barely spare a glance to him. He sees you overworking yourself and wants nothing more than to shut your computer and coddle you. Genuinely fucking hurts his heart when he has to grip your chin to look at him.

It's the only time he ever has to punish you, and he hates it. He hates spanking you to punish you instead of dwindling you down into subspace. He hates gripping your hips to keep you from squirming off his cock. He stops suddenly when you force your thighs together, hissing at him. He seems confused, and will gently push your knees apart, fucking you slowly before you begin subconsciously pushing you thighs back. He frowns.

"Do you want to stop?"

You're quick to shake your head, whimpering as you gripped his wrists.

"I'm sorry, it just.. doesn't feel as good like that.."

He nods immediately in understanding, manhandling you so both your legs are pushed over one of his shoulders while he rocks back into you.

"Lucky for us, your thighs being shut doesn't stop my dick."

[80sfilmclub]

* ♫ ✩‧₊ PINK LIMOUSINES. — 03.

summary. The lines between you and Jack and Robby are beginning to blur. word count. 15.3k content warnings. fluff, smut (threesome, spitting, unprotected sex because they fuck like rockstars), (slight) infidelity, TMZ and trashy tabloids are used as a plot device here, some slut-shaming, agegap (reader is in her mid 20s, rabbot is in their mid to late 40s) !! notes. this is a long one so brace yourself!

rockstar!au. ┊ popstar!reader. ┊ playlist. ┊ masterlist.

TIKTOK —

The video shakes as though the person filming is rushing to get a better view, peeking through heads of balding men to catch a glimpse. Despite the shoddy footage, there's no mistaking the fuming voice of Jack Abbot. The video pivots away from their attempts of catching you in the throng of paparazzi to Jack, his handsome lined face screwing in anger as he bodily shoves and pushes the other men out of the way. The comments below are a collection of fans angry for your defense and other swooning over Jack's protectiveness.

The internet is buzzing with Jack's latest stint against the paparazzi. While your fans (and a specific subset of your followers that's named themselves JACKSTAR enthusiasts) have taken over swooning of how protective he is, it also launched a new online discourse of how predatory and dangerous the tabloids can be. It brings into light of how privacy is more of a privilege than a right when it comes to celebrities — particularly famous women — and how safety is no longer promised even in public spaces.

One commenter had cried out 'and what if jack wasnt there??? would yall be fine if she was mowed down by all those men???'

#BodyguardJack was trending for a few days, too — something that Robby had a fun time teasing him about during meetings with higher-ups regarding their tour and album. But the trends always comes and goes, something inane always replacing the last with how short the general public's attention span is when it comes to pop culture.

It isn't long until Coachella is a week away and with you as headliner, your fans take over the internet yet again. Outfit ideas and dance challenges to your songs flood the trends alongside theories if you'll be performing your newest single or anything else from your upcoming album. You've traveled out a bit earlier to rehearse with your dancers in the Indio heat, making sure the entire space is planned out accordingly for your entire set.

Jack and Robby head out a few days after you, renting out a massive mansion for the week. While your team had rented out your own place, it's an open secret that you'd be staying with the two men right after the night you perform. Asking Cassie to acquire for you two extra VIP passes with backstage clearance had been an interesting conversation to say the least.

"I already got the VIP packages sent to Trinity and Samira," Cassie says when you nab her right after the final meeting before Coachella. You shake your head, a sheepish smile curling upon your painted lips. When she catches the tell-tale shimmer in your eyes, she braces herself the same way when her son's about to ask her something she might have to say 'no' to. "What is it…?"

"Can you get me two more? With backstage clearance?"

"Two—" Cassie raises a brow and you can see her guessing who it's for. At this point, Jack is an open secret, an unspoken addition to wherever you may go. Robby's a new addition but your manager just nods, merely accepts it and pulls out her phone to send out a few emails. "Consider it done, kid. Now go, I bet you aren't even done packing."

The day before the festival finds you lounging in the wide space layout of the house your team has rented for you and your immediate team (stylists, Cassie, and a couple of personal assistants), trying to keep a relaxed headspace. You're sprawled out on your stomach on the plush couch, facing the floor to ceiling glass walls that overlook the spacious backyard and pool. Even with the AC blasting, you squirm a bit in the warm temperature threatening to seep in.

"We'll be back for more ice," Cassie calls over her shoulder, two PAs in tow as she twirls the keys around a finger. You let out a vague noise of understanding before you continue to scroll, legs kicking casually behind you.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

mona! @enam3l — 3h she has to perform stupid song right??? like why else would she drop it as a single RIGHT before coachella

pearla! @pearlessance — 12h fingers crossed she performs a song on the new album

maria! @mariasont — 1h DID ANYONE SEE THAT ONE ACTOR GUSH ABOUT STAR???

⤷ jackstar enthusiast @.jackscrawler replies: dude you're gonna have to be more specific than that… WHICH ONE ⤷ maria! @.mariasont replies: Nick Barker!!! he's in that new movie that 'stupid song' is featured in

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Your eyes widen at the mention of Nick gushing about you, scrolling deeper in the timeline before the referenced interview finally resurfaces. It's a red carpet interview of Nick's at his movie premiere, The Happy Ending. He's not that much older than you but he's got his big break as a teenager, moving audiences with his range and performance. It's no question that he's Hollywood's current Golden Boy, warm brown eyes and a smile that can stop any heart in its tracks.

While he may not be your type (perhaps younger than the men you're currently going for), you're still heavily flattered as the video plays.

The crowd is enthusiastic, their cheers bleeding through the questions the interviewer had painstakingly prepped beforehand. To Nick's credit, he playfully shushes the crowd before he's leaning his head in to hear the question better.

"Nick, fans have raved about how willing you are to cross boundaries as admirer to admiree, sharing book recommendations and song recommendations like you're 'one of the girlies' as your fanbase would say," the interviewer chuckles with Nick agrees with a bright laugh of his own, nodding in agreement. "How do you feel about Star's fanbase claiming you as their 'mascot' when you had flooded your IG stories playing her music?"

"Oh, I love it," he laughs, leaning up again to full height to showcase his big grin. "We were so stoked that she and her team agreed to write us a song for the movie, she's insanely talented. Not to mention, drop dead gorgeous."

Your cheeks burn hotly, teeth sinking into your lower lip as he feeds your ego. You can't be blamed; you're still a public figure at the end of the day and any publicity (especially good publicity) is welcomed.

The interviewer is pleasantly surprised. "Sounds like you got a crush there, Nick."

Nick starts to step away, politely ushered on by his team, but he throws in one last line before he leaves with a half-smirk. "I think the whole world does."

The video loops and you swipe out of it, a pleased little smile dancing upon your lips. You ride this little ego boost all the way to dinner, sharing a few texts with Jack as he preps to drive out later with Robby.

You're in the midst of cleaning up the chipotle bowls that one of the PAs had bought for the entire team, calling out your good nights as the rest of them disperse. When one of the harried PAs (something Ogilvie?) tries to take over, you wave him away with a little grin.

"I got this, you did a lot already," you smile. He still looks unsure but you continue to clean anyways. It isn't until your phone rings and you answer with a prompt: "Hey, baby—" that Ogilvie gets the hint and makes himself scarce.

You can hear the wind blowing in the background, some faint classic rock bleeding into the call when Jack answers back. "Hey, gorgeous. We're on our way. Not much traffic on the 10, at least."

"That's good. We just had dinner, gonna have an early night in."

Jack hums. "You have morning rehearsals?"

"Yeah, I have one of the longer sets, I wanna be out of the way for the other artists to rehearse when they come in later."

"So considerate," Jack chuckles teasingly but you roll your eyes goodheartedly even if he can't see it. "I'll let you get settled in then. What time will you be getting up? Robby and I can drop by with breakfast."

Your smile is blinding and even in the emptiness of the living space, you attempt to bite it back. It feels so silly like this, giggling over sweet acts of service like you're still in high school. You're grateful no one can see you like this.

"That'd be perfect, baby, thank you."

"It's nothing. Go get some beauty sleep, sweetheart. Good night."

"Good night."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Although you won't be on stage until 9 PM at the latest, you know that you can't properly prepare by sleeping in. Your work ethic's been praised by many in the industry, constantly pushing yourself to get to the best you can be.

You're up by 8 AM, grateful that there's a small home gym in the airbnb that Cassie had picked out. You burn a bit of cardio, not enough to tire you out but enough to wake you and snap your mindset into a productive work day. Even if this work day culminates to nothing but performing to about one hundred thousand people.

The doorbell rings before the door swings open just as you hop out of the shower, wearing cut off shorts and one of NIGHTCRAWLER's faded merch tees cut up to look like a crop top. It's Joy, the other PA, that opens the door with a blank expression to greet Jack and Robby holding bags of breakfast from the brunch place a few streets away.

"She's inside," Joy says before returning back to her phone. Meanwhile, Ogilvie looks positively starstruck. His fellow PA barely hides her disdain; after months of working with you, he still hasn't seem to shake that he'll also be meeting other celebrities of your caliber.

Jack and Robby share an amused grin as they enter, catching you step down the stairs as you towel dry your hair. "Good morning, princess," Robby greets first with a little grin. Jack sets the food down in the large dining room, passing by his friend to catch you in a hug as you rush to him.

"Morning, sweetheart," Jack hums against your lips when you kiss him without hesitation. Behind you, Ogilvie gapes but Joy sharply nudges him in the ribs. You signed an NDA, dumbass, she mouths to him.

When you get your fill, you turn to Robby and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek before your attention turns to the food. "You guys brought so much food," you laugh before waving over the PAs and your style team that just arrived. "Come eat, everyone. NIGHTCRAWLER brought breakfast."

Cassie passes by, already looking a tad stressed but her expression smooths over with a smile and it tells you it's something to do with her shitty ex-husband. She shakes her head at your questioning look, just nudges you to eat with everyone else.

Despite Jack nearby, you keep your hands to yourself as you eat, allowing him to take you in in a more professional capacity. He's seen you outside of work, glimpses of you writing and producing in the filmed documentaries he's seen of your rise to fame. And while you aren't exactly working, seeing this side of you with your team is eye-opening and his heart beats a little faster for it.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Cassie watches you carefully as you change into something loose and comfortable for rehearsals. The stages are already set up with most audio-visual equipment as well as any other needed hardware or machinery needed for performances. You look 'bummy' as you've often called it between schedules, comforting but not presentable with your undone hair and the oversized glasses sitting on your nose. Soundcheck begins as you run through your setlist for the night, halfheartedly doing the choreo for the more upbeat songs to conserve energy in the heat.

You talk clearly but politely whenever something doesn't happen the way you wish.

"Can we drop the bass a bit for this part?"

"Bring my mic up a little louder, please."

"The space here is too cramped for me and the dancers, can we get a mic stand so I can just belt out the rest?"

Jack and Robby's appearance had been something Cassie was prepping for. While to others and to her pay grade, her responsibilities begin and end with just hustling you over from event to event, interviews and other packed schedules when truly, she's taken more responsibility for you since you had gotten signed. The age gap between you and Cassie isn't large enough to be considered your mother but it is for a protective older sister. While she knows she has no business sticking her nose in who you're dating, she knows it will be if those men start to pull you away from your career.

But as she watches you and Jack (as he also gazes upon you), she wonders exactly why her alarm bells aren't ringing as loudly as it did with Baz. Jack seems to support your career, doesn't hold you back from responsibilities, but Cassie's also starting to wonder where you end and Jack begins in this unnamed relationship.

"Thanks, everyone!"

Your voice concluding the rehearsal snaps her out of her thoughts and she pushes forward, handing you your lemon water. All concerns about Jack is forgotten as she gently nags you on the importance of staying hydrated.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Despite years of being a singer and performing for crowds, the jitters never really go away. The sun has finally set on Indio and you can taste the anticipation in the air as the final act before you finishes up. The raucous applause for them shifts into a chant for your name and you loosen a shaky breath.

You're dressed in something cute and short, flowing with a linen-like material that gives you the appearance of a fairy or something otherworldly. Jack's seen the fittings, seen you bemoan the different meetings because something keeps snagging during choreos or you can't change out of it quick enough for the next song, but he hasn't seen the final result.

The cheers are getting louder now as you hear the faint pre-recorded videos playing on the giant screens counting down the beginning of your performance. Your name is echoed throughout the dessert now, a pounding drum that matches the beat of your heart. When the platform beneath your feet jolts slightly, you take a deep breath and readjust your in-ears before the platform rises.

Lights are the first thing you see, blindingly bright and merciless in the way your eyes takes a second to adjust before you see the massive crowd packing forward to barricade. You hold up your bejeweled mic and greet the crowd before the music kicks in.

Like always, your body adapts before your mind can. The choreography is something you can perform in your sleep, moving on auto-pilot that it isn't a priority for your mind to focus on. Instead, you let yourself loose and sing your heart out to the crowd, feeding off the building energy as you start your setlist with your most popular singles.

It isn't long until you realize you're almost out of breath, your body begging for a single moment as you coast the adrenaline of performing. Fortunately, you know you've got a short break coming up where you can talk to the crowd.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

LIVESTREAMING STAR'S PERF @.starsbabe — 2m SHE'S PERFORMING OBSESSED HOLYYY SHIT

STAR'S BABY BOY @.babystarsss — 1m SHE LOOKS SO GOOD OMFGGGG

pearla! @.pearlessance — 1m JACK AND ROBBY ARE IN VIP !!!!

mona! @.enam3l — 1m I JUST SAW JACK BOPPING HIS HEAD TO 'MY WAY' OMFG HE LOVES OUR PETTY QUEEN

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

The night grows later but the energy doesn't wane for a single moment. Despite the touch-ups between songs, you're glowing beneath the bright lights as you circle the stage to settle behind a piano.

"Thank you for all the love," you speak into the propped up mic, flushed and beaming. The camera zooms into your face while you smile, letting the crowd scream a bit before you continue. "I thought I'd perform my new song for you guys."

The instrumentation kicks in but your piano takes center stage, your sweet voice crooning over the massive wave of cheers and screams. When it gets to the chorus, the crowd in VIP blatantly turns to Jack for his reaction.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

JACKSTAR SUPREMACY @.jackstarsbabe — 1m JACK REACTING TO 'STUPID SONG' ( video attached. )

In the shaky, vertical video, the fan captures Jack and Robby leaning against the barricade in the cordoned off section of VIP, the bright lights glinting against his silver curls. His crows' feet deepens with his smile, head bobbing to the beat as your voice plays in the background: "… You should feel how I feel when somebody says your name, I'm a car speeding down the boulevard without a brake. And I want you more than any stupid song could ever say. I'm a heart made of wax and I'm melting in the sun. I'm a thread on your shirt that is coming undone. I feel right, I feel wrong, I feel totally insane. And I want you more than any stupid song could ever say…"

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

The crowd explodes in raucous applause at the end of 'stupid song' but you don't waste a second moving into your next song. Honeybee. The crowd falls into a quiet hush when the slow instrumental begins, entranced by the delicate verses.

Your eyes fall shut and the camera catches the way your lower lip quivers as you sing. "God, I love the way you look at me." The strings follow suit, your backup singers providing quiet support while your voice echoes throughout the desert in heartbreaking longing.

"Shooting stars, racing cars… everything I own feels like ours."

Lights begin to blossom in dainty pinpricks throughout the crowd, fans turning on their camera flashes to wave in sweet unison as you reach the final chorus. You hit each chord, pressing down on the damper pedal to sustain it, as you sing.

"And it's too hard to describe this, in a way that feels honest, but even when I'm quiet, I love you, baby. I promise. And I hope I never see what your face looks like goin'. A face I swear that I could spend my whole life knowing. Here's to hopin'."

The choir takes over now, sending out the final chorus as you back away from the propped mic to focus on playing the rest of the song on the piano. It ends in a quiet flourish and after a beat of silence, the entire crowd erupts in deafening applause.

A shaky laugh escapes you, not expecting the massive reaction. The camera catches the slight shimmer in your eyes, sparkling with unshed tears which you quickly bat your lashes to keep them from falling.

"Wow," you laugh softly, climbing off the piano bench to walk center stage with the mic. You attach it to the mic stand, looking in utter awe of the amassed crowd. "That was Honeybee, one of the songs on the upcoming EP… I thought I could play a little more extra songs for you guys, what do you think?"

The resounding 'YES' from the crowd elicits another surprised giggle from you. With a nod to your band, you start up your next song, a bit more fast-paced. Although you love choreo and the whole spectacle of it all, there's something freeing being able to sing your heart out without a routine to follow. Like a performance in your bedroom with just an audience of one.

"I'm a zombie in my body, I'm a train off of the track. I feel dirty, I feel rotton, and the colors are all flat."

By the second verse, the crowd is trying to sing along, cheering alongside the rest while the lyrics play on the left and right screens flanking the stage.

"I'm a sad shell of a woman, and I've got maggots for brains. But that's just the thing that happens when my baby goes way!"

On the final chorus, the instrumentals fall away except for the electric guitar, your band hitting the power chords as you sing to the crowd.

"What can I do," you sing out with a bright smile, "but think of you? But think of you."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

STAR @ COACHELLA @.starbitches — 3m NEW SONG ALERT NEW SONG ALERT NEW SONG ALERT

JACKSTAR ENTHUSIAST @.babestarry — 10m hold on….. these lyrics…… girl are U OK?!??! IM A SAD SHELL OF A WOMAN??? WHAT DID JACK DO TO YOU???

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

"We got time for one more song," you announce to the crowd with a little breathless laugh, stepping away from the mic to bend down for the water set by the speakers. You let the crowd cheer a bit longer, whining for more, while you take a sip. Movement from your periphery steals your attention for a single moment and when you glance over, you see Jack and Robby standing beside Cassie. The smile on Jack's face nearly floors you but there's a shine in Robby's eye you can't quite place.

"I know, I know but I wanna end on a good note so I think… I'll do one last song from the new EP before we have to go." You turn your band, positively beaming. "You guys ready?"

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

JACKSTAR ENTHUSIAST @.babestarry — 2m ONE NIGHT I WAS BORED IN BED AND STALKED YOU ON THE INTERNET??? STAR'S JUST LIKE US

STAR @ COACHELLA @.starbitches — 3m IF YOU LET ME STAY THE NIGHT, I MIGHT HAVE TO STAY FOREVERRRRR

STAR'S BABY @.starlubot — 5m THE MOST ALIVE I'VE EVER BEEN, KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

You end the final song with a massive bow, fans cheering endlessly even after you give a last wave and exit to the side. Cassie greets you first as usual, handing you an ice cold bottle of water which you chug gratefully. Behind her stands Jack who you melt into with a breathless laugh, skin buzzing with the remnants of your adrenaline that always comes after a full set.

"You were fucking beautiful out there," he murmurs in your ear, possessive hands settling nicely against your hips. You giggle and let him pepper kisses along your hairline before he gently pulls away to hand you off to Robby, much to your surprise. "I think he might be a bigger fan than I am, sweetheart. Robby's been singing along beside me."

You laugh, thinking Jack to be teasing but the bashful grin upon the frontman's features surprises you. "Really?"

He shrugs. "I like them," he says simply before he lets out a playful 'oof' when you latch onto him for a sudden hug. He laughs and strokes the back of your head when he hugs back. "Alright, I think we're monopolizing you. Your friends are coming."

Dutifully, Jack and Robby step aside just as Trinity tackles you in a hug that nearly knocks you over. Robby's hand is warm against the base of your spine when he offers support, keeping you from tipping over.

"Holy shit!" Trinity gasps as Samira follows for a far more calmer hug. Nicole, a childhood friend of yours that had flown in from New York last minute, swoops in for a hug as well while Trinity continues her string of positive expletives about your performance. "Those last three songs were insane, by the way. Didn't know you were performing those."

You shrug, both arms linked with Samira on your left and Nicole on your right, as a playful smile dances on your lips. "That's what a surprise is, Trin. Your reaction alone is why I kept that hush-hush!"

Nicole laughs and you rest your head onto her shoulder. Long distance friendships are something you despise but getting to see her is always a little sweeter each time. "Trinity's complaints aside," she hums. "You did amazing and I'm so grateful you flew me out to see you. You know Matt offered—"

"Nicole," you interrupt with an exaggerated, scandalized frown. Meanwhile, your team seamlessly enters the fold of you and your friends to remove your in-ear and mic packs, gently dabbing away your sweat. "I invited you out, I'm not gonna make your fiancé pay for your ticket."

She chuckles and nods, presses a sisterly kiss to your temple. "Thanks anyways, babe. Alright, I'll let you get out of that sweaty costume. Is that party still happening?"

Trinity interjects with a sharp grin. "Of course the after party's still happening." She whirls on her heels, points a finger to Jack and Robby who've kept to themselves while you catch up with your friends. "You two are coming, right?"

Jack meets your gaze but doesn't wait for permission, just gives you a half-smirk. "Oh, we'll be there."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

By the time you've changed out of your performance outfit, face clean of makeup before reapplying a thin layer of skin-tint and an excessive amount of glitter packed on your eyelids, the after-party at the airbnb you've been staying at is in full swing. It's Antoine that takes you to the house this time around, having sent Robby and Jack and your friends ahead to join the festivities.

"There she is!" Someone cheers from the stairs once you enter and you bask in the attention. You giggle and laugh alongside the many guests that filter in and out of the backyard as well, a few people already swimming in the lit-up pool while red solo cups are passed around. One is pressed into your hand and when you take a sip, you gag at the bitter taste of beer.

"Don't do that to yourself," Jack chuckles, seemingly appearing out of nowhere as he plucks the cup from your hand. "Come on, Robby's in your kitchen playing bartender. If you're sweet enough, he might make you a drink."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

The view that greets you is something you wish you could've snapped on your phone, immortalizing the moment. Your friends are circled around the island counter, Robby behind the opposite side with a table full of alcohol separating the two. He had pushed the horde of top-shelf liquor bottles aside to make room for himself, the bottle of bombay teetering precariously at the edge. Trinity and Dove are wrapped around each other, arms tangled as they playfully boo at Robby who's attempting some bartender trick he might've seen in a movie while Nicole and Samira occasionally move bottles out of the way with amused laughter.

"There's the guest of honor!" Dove screams excitedly, detangling herself from Trinity's side to tug you into the fold. Everyone looks a touch past tipsy now, where everything has a blur around every movement without getting dizzy and the alcohol doesn't burn going down. Where the touches linger and no one questions it.

When Robby looks at you for a second too long, no one calls him out on it.

Instead, you take the offered shot from Trinity, something radioactive green but terrifyingly sweet going down. You take a few more and soon, you're leaning into Jack's arms to keep from stumbling.

"Let's get some water in you, pretty girl," Jack chuckles but he's got a lazy grin on and something tells you he's only a couple shots behind from where you're at now. You giggle and nod, stepping out of Jack's hold to where you stumble into Robby's. He's firm beneath your hand where you grip his forearm for balance.

The room spins but the party doesn't shift from the kitchen. Instead, Jack manages to wrangle you into one of the bar stools. He stands on your left, Robby on your right, and between both men, they keep you from falling entirely.

"Fuuuck, she's gone. Babe, drink some water," Dove giggles as she slides over another glass of water your way. You try to refuse it but Robby's lifting the glass, bringing it up to your lips. Jack's hand settles at the small of your back, pinning you gently in place so you have no choice but to lift your head up towards Robby, mouth parting obediently.

"Christ," he says under his breath, carefully tipping the glass for you to drink from as your sweet, doe eyes bat your pretty lashes at him. He lowers the glass when your pink-stained lips slowly shut, taking the hint that you've gotten your fill.

"Good girl," Jack hums in your ear and when you break eye contact with Robby to look at him instead, the frontman looses a quiet huff of slight relief. He might do anything to get you to look at him like that again. He takes the glass from Robby to drink the rest, clearing the haze in his head. He'd rather make sure someone is sober enough to watch over you and your friends. But as he takes a cursory glance towards the small group of friends, it looks like Samira and Nicole have taken it upon themselves to make sure Dove and Trinity don't overdo it.

When he looks back down at you, a soft chuckle escapes him; you haven't looked away from him since those two little words. His possessive touch burns when he cradles your jaw, drops his head to kiss your lips in a way that'd be borderline indecent. "Drink more water for me, sweetheart," he murmurs against your lips.

You're so obedient like this, so pliant as you turn back to Robby with an expectant smile. "Want me to help you, princess?" Robby asks quietly, bringing a fresh bottle of water to your lips before you can even say yes. You drink up and the cloudiness that blurred the edges of the evening begins to dissipate, the dizziness ebbing away as the chaotic surroundings sharpen into something less foggy.

It doesn't lessen the heat simmering beneath your skin for both men.

The thought itself is sobering and your cheeks burn, your eyes flitting between Robby and Jack before you force your gaze to turn forward to your friends. Fortunately, they all seem preoccupied; Dove and Trinity are lost in their own world (again), Samira and Nicole are discussing possible wedding venues.

Suddenly, a familiar song blares from the music being played outside on the patio where the party had shifted into something of a pool party. It tears your friends out of their own bubbles and soon multiple hands are tugging you away from Robby and Jack.

"It's our song, it's our song—!" Dove shrieks as she tugs your entire group to the makeshift dance floor by the pool. The sobering thought of wanting Jack and Robby is left on the back burner as you let yourself throw your hands up, dancing along with your friends and singing without a care in the world.

But as the party dwindles down and guests start to filter out, your closest friends (along with Jack and Robby) migrate back to the wrecked living room. It almost looks like a movie set after a eager, red solo cups and streamers strewn about, couch cushions used as pillows as all of you stretch out wherever. Dove is tucked between Trinity's legs, her back against the other girl's chest as Trinity leans against the coffee table. Samira and Nicole are sharing a loveseat, your childhood friend's legs tossed along Samira's lap.

Meanwhile, you're sat on Jack's lap on the couch while Robby's got his head on your lap. Everyone's still a little buzzed, talking about nothing and everything in between.

"That's our uber," Nicole hums as she gently pats Samira. "Come on, my lovelies. You guys can stay at my hotel suite."

You huff, kicking a foot out to poke your friend's thigh. "You guys can stay here, this place is huge—"

"No, absolutely not." Nicole chuckles and there's a glimmer in her eyes you can't quite place. Her gaze shifts to both men before shaking her head. "Matt booked me a giant suite here and it'd go to waste if it's just me in there."

It's a flimsy excuse but you can't find it in you to fight her on it. You walk them out anyways, Jack and Robby trailing behind you as you help everyone into the massive UberX. You notice the way Dove and Trinity are holding hands and you will your brain to commit it to memory, something to interrogate your best friend with the next day.

The silence of the house when the three of you return to it is thick with tension that's been brimming since they pinned you between them at that kitchen bar stool. It's spilling over now, heady with electricity that's got nowhere to go. Your fingers twitch by your hips as Robby locks the door behind him, Jack trailing behind you like a shadow. You wait with bated breath when his chest brushes against your back, his stomach settling nicely into the slightest curve of the bottom of your spine.

"You want something, don't you, sweetheart?"

You allow a hum to sound from your lips, acting coy not to tease them but out of self preservation in case what you think is about to happen isn't. It just riles up Robby though, shaking his head as he rubs the back of his neck as you've seen him done before.

Jack refuses to drag this out any longer than it has been and tugs you by your hips, closing any distance between your back and his front as he hooks his chin over your shoulder. His hand drags up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, to gently grip your jaw so you have no room to look at anything but Robby.

The older man is tense in front of you, dark eyes drinking you in the same way he helped hold that glass of water from you earlier except — there isn't anything guarding the delicious sheen of arousal in his gaze. As if Jack's given permission that he had no right to give in the first place.

"Look at him, baby. I've seen the way you look at him…" Jack croons in your ear and the stab of guilt in your gut dissipates with need when your replied whimper earns you a warm chuckle from your lover. He turns his head to kiss your temple. "It's alright, baby. You're not the first person in this room to want him."

Surprise lights you up and when you try to turn your head to look at him. "What—"

"What, you think the old rumors about me and Robby are all horseshit? It was the nineties, sweetheart. We'd be the odd ones out if we were the only bandmates that never fucked," Jack laughs and you melt in his arms. All notion of infidelity leave your mind as you turn your gaze back to Robby whose got a wry grin on his lips. "So go on— be honest with yourself. You want him, don't you? Ever since he got you that pretty bracelet."

Jack walks you forward, passing you to Robby whose warm hands feel like sin when they glide beneath the sides of your top, settling onto your bare skin. "Jack," Robby mutters but even his walls are crumbling when he's face with you, soft and pliant, doe-eyed and still so eager to please.

"It's alright, sweetheart," Jack murmurs, pinning you between them as he glides his lips along the curve of your neck. "I know you're still mine, hm? Don't worry, Robby and I are good at sharing."

Now that leaves a trail of fire every time Jack's lips passes against your feverish skin, a kernel of doubt sitting at the base of your heart. Who else have they shared?

Robby doesn't hesitate to tug your chin up for his mouth to cover yours, erasing any lingering thoughts as his scruffy beard tickles your skin. The sudden kiss has you gasping and the older musician doesn't hesitate, his tongue passing through yours for a sweet taste that has him groaning. This snaps you into the present, pushing up against your toes to wrap your arms loosely around Robby's broad shoulders to kiss him back just as hungrily.

Jack's resounding chuckle behind you is permission enough to let Robby pull you up and into his arms, your legs hooking around the taller man's waist as he devours you. When the heat behind you disappears, you break the kiss with a little whine, looking over your shoulder to see your lover settle into the loveseat with a heady gaze that has you dripping.

"Keep going, sweetheart," he murmurs, legs spread so tantalizingly that a part of you also wants to sit in the space between to take whatever he gives you.

You suddenly gasp when Robby's hand slithers up the dress you're wearing, squealing when the sound of fabric tearing fills the room. Your inner thighs clench when Robby removes the dainty scrap of fabric from between your legs to toss over to Jack who catches it with ease. "Mikey—!" You protest with a sweet giggle.

"Gotta give him something sweet if I get to have you to myself for a bit longer," Robby mutters as he reaches up to drag your face back to his, just in time for you to catch a glimpse of Jack stroking his length with your panties before you're kissing Robby again.

He walks you over to the couch across Jack, sets you on his lap to face your lover. Robby has no shame in manhandling you in the position he wants as he brings your legs to bracket his knees, spreading them to force your thighs apart. His calloused hands glide up your smooth thighs, fingertips skimming along the inside before he's dragging your dress up to expose your dripping cunt.

"Fuck," Jack hisses and you look up through your lashes to see him pick up the pace, the baby pink underwear tangled with his fingers as he jerks off his cock at the sight of you.

"Liking the view, Abbot?" Robby teases as he hauls you a bit higher, pressing hungry, open-mouthed kisses along your neck while the pads of his fingers run up and down your dripping folds. When he spreads your pussy lips apart with his index and middle finger, Jack nearly cums. It's almost obscene, really, how fucking wet you are and Robby's fingers haven't even entered you yet.

You're writhing and moaning, humping Robby's hand for any kind of friction until the man finally gives in. "Keep your eyes on your boyfriend for me, princess," Robby murmurs in your ear, fucking you nice and slow with his index and middle finger. His jaw tenses. "Fuck, you're tight— how're you gonna get me to fit, hm?" He laughs meanly in your ear when he feels your wall clench around him. When he picks up the pace, embarrassment settles in at how loud his fingers sound slamming into you, squelching and dripping until your toes are curling and you're cumming without warning.

"Mm, Jack—!"

Robby nips at your jugular, harsh and quick. "That's not nice, screaming another man's name while I got my fingers in you," he tsks and an apology spills out of you but he removes his fingers, grips your jaw to pull you in for a searing kiss. He swallows down your 'sorry's, uncaring of the whimpers that escape next when he smears your own release along your neck and jaw. "S'alright, baby, I think I've got an idea on how you can make it up to me."

"H-How?" And don't you look perfect like this, Robby thinks to himself. Your lashes glitter with unshed tears, lips swollen from how hard you've bitten down on them as if it could hold back the way Jack spills from your mouth. Your eyes are fixed on him, eager to please.

Jack answers for Robby. "Ride him, sweetheart. Show him how good you are bouncing on an old man's cock."

Your cheeks burn in hot humiliation but your cunt throbs in anticipation.

"Oh," Jack shakes his head in faux disappointment. "Don't worry, baby. Daddy won't be mad if you cum on Robby's cock. He just can't finish in you, yeah? That's mine."

Robby's chuckle is warm against your shoulder as his hands grip your waist, prompting you to lift yourself just high enough for him to align his cock against your waiting cunt. Just the tip is enough to make your breath hitch, prodding your entrance as you begin to lower yourself. "Mm, fuckfuckfuck—" You whine as you take all of Robby. He's not as long but he's girthier than Jack, something your body is begging time to adjust to.

"You can take it," Jack murmurs and your eyes fly open to watch how your lover's eyes are fixed on your cunt swallowing up his best friend's cock. "Come on, sweetheart. Think you can give me a good show?"

You nod before anything else, bracing yourself against Robby as you begin to rock your hips back and forth. The slight pain from the stretch dissipates into pleasure, elevating each time you rise and fall on Robby's length. It's not long until you lose yourself to it, head thrown back against the older musician's shoulder as he possessively splays his hand out on your stomach, guiding your hips as you chase your pleasure. Robby and Jack continue to talk you through it, an addictive monologue as your mind goes fuzzy. You become lost in your desire, barely noticing the way Robby brings your arm around his head, his own dropping down to lave open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, down your chest before his lips latch onto your tit.

"Mikey…!" You cry out but he doesn't budge, his tongue flicking against your pert nub while you feel him suck. He grunts against your tit, his beard scratching along your sensitive skin before he catches the nipple between his teeth.

Eventually, that familiar taut knot in your core tightens, Jack catching onto the micro-expressions he's memorized when he knows you're close. "Go ahead, baby, give Robby your first orgasm," he croons. You notice his hand gripping the base of his cock, edging away his own climax as he watches the way you fall apart almost instantaneously.

"Christ," Robby hisses in your ear as he staves off his climax too, fingertips digging deep into your hips as he feels your walls convulse around his cock. In the cloud of your orgasm, you barely notice Jack stand, Robby carefully sliding out of you. The sudden loss makes you whimper as you're brought up to your feet. It feels like you're a step behind both men, pleasantly surprised as Jack pulls you in for a deep kiss. You melt into it and just as you're kissing back, he's breaking away for Robby to take over.

While Jack kisses like he's thirsty for your kiss, Robby kisses you like he's starving. His mouth devours yours, distracting you in the way your lover undresses you until you're standing nude between them. Their hands all over you, two mouths latched on either side of your neck, and you're unsure where Jack ends and Robby begins.

"You want her mouth?" Jack murmurs and it's like you're just a toy between them, a playmate that'll take whatever they give because if you had to be honest with yourself—you'd let them do whatever they wish.

"Fuck, yes." Robby mutters as he pulls away from your skin to lift your face to him by a pinch to your chin. His thumb drags your lower lip, down your mouth parting. "Look at you, so fuckin' pretty for us. Open wider for me, princess."

Your jaw drops, an instinctive, obedient action that elicits a pleased laugh from your other side. Jack, perhaps?

Robby looks at you — or rather, your mouth — a second more before he's spitting, the action taking you off guard that it's utter instinct that has you swallowing his saliva. When you open your mouth again, as if to ask for more, you're rewarded with a low moan and another heady kiss. Soon another set of lips join and all three of you are kissing, wet and sloppy and messy that has you dripping between your thighs.

Your hands are wandering as much as theirs, too, curious touch seeking out both of their bulges that draw out twin moans from both men. You break the kiss first, peeking down to slide your hands down their pants while the two of them devour each other.

A couple seconds pass, Robby and Jack swapping spit while you watch, entranced in a way that you can't look away even if you wanted to. You pump their lengths lazily once and that draws them back to you, matching gazes of lust packed with a look of desire that has you whimpering.

"Think I wanna share her mouth with you," Robby mutters as he traces the corner of your mouth, barking out a laugh when your lips patch onto his thumb to suck desperately.

"Yes, please—" you beg around his thumb, your gaze casting between them both.

"Another time," Jack grunts as he shifts you onto the low reclining armchair. You sit on your knees. "Right now, I need your cunt and Robby wants your mouth. Hands and knees for me, sweetheart."

A thrill shoots down your spine and you nearly scramble to get into position, resting your hands against the back of the reclined armchair and sticking your ass out. Jack settles behind you, his hands dancing along your ass, and Robby stands in front, stroking his cock lazily as he draws his precum along your cheek and chin.

Robby doesn't hesitate to feed his cock into your waiting mouth once Jack gives him a nod from above you, Your eyelashes flutter, jaw aching slightly as you take all you can before one of your hands rise up to stroke the length your mouth can't reach. Behind you, Jack's tip glides along your dripping folds, eliciting a muffled whine from you before he's pushing in.

"Thought Robby loosened you for me, baby," Jack mutters meanly, bullying his cock into your waiting cunt until both men are completely sheathed within you. "S'like she's just sucking me in—"

"I'd fuck her mouth every day if I were you, shit—" Robby curses above you and the view nearly makes you lightheaded, his slight protruding stomach, the happy trail leading down to where you've got your mouth wrapped around his cock, the scruffy beard and dark eyes fixed on your glassy ones. "That's it, baby, choke on it."

Ever one to please, you bob your head, pulling back your mouth to swirl your tongue around his tip while Jack begins to move behind you. The drag of his cock against your walls has your eyes rolling back and the curse that falls from Robby's lips is something you barely register. At this point, your mouth is open, loose and pliant for Robby to fuck while Jack punches out sweet, staccato moans from behind you.

"Mm— ngh…!" You gag around Robby's cock, drool and precum smearing along your chin as your lover's hand fixes around your hips like you're a toy he's pulling up and down his length. You've gone mindless like this, drifting higher and higher with ecstasy as the room's filled with your broken moans and both men's breathy grunts of your name.

"Fuck, I'm close," Robby mutters as he gathers your hair in one grip, holding it up and out of the way so he can watch the way his cock plunges in and out of your kiss-swollen lips. You're ruined between them both, makeup running and mascara a dark smear with a touch of glitter that shimmers when the light catches your blotchy face just right. Your lipstick is nonexistent but Robby likes to think it's your makeup that's smeared along the length of his cock.

Jack grunts behind, his pace stuttering just enough for his cock to slam into the spot you need him most. "She is, too."

Taking pity for you, Robby pulls his length out, lets his heavy tip rest on your cheek and lips as you catch your breath with a wet gag. You don't stop there, though, moaning around his ruddy head as you let your tongue loll out to glide along the underside of his cock. With a sharp thrust from Jack, you shriek in sweet euphoria.

"God, yesyesyes, there—! Fuck, daddy, don't stop—!" You scream and Jack bullies his tip right where you beg for it, catapulting you over the edge just as Robby shoves his cock back into your waiting mouth.

Your hands nearly give as Robby's cock slides back out of your mouth, smearing his cum along your cheek and neck as he coaxes out his orgasm to your face lost in desperate ecstasy. Jack finishes seconds later and a blissful smile curls along your lips when he shoves his spend deep inside your walls.

Eventually, it all becomes too much and your upper body stumbles, your hands sliding out from beneath to lay out ass up, face down on the reclined armchair. Someone chuckles lowly, something soft and endearing as you rub your cheek against the leather upholstery that you're sprawled on.

A stubbly kiss lands on your spine and you lean into it with a soft hum. "Holy shit," you breathe out in contentment, offering a quiet whimper when you feel Jack slowly pull out, a mix of both of your releases spilling out of you.

"I'll get something to clean her off," someone says. Robby, maybe? You're too content from where you're at, unwilling to move unless someone does it for you. Jack knows this better than anyone because your boneless body is carefully shifted, rolled onto your back where feather-light kisses are peppered along your hairline.

"Can you get up for me, sweetheart? You're about to fall asleep in that armchair and you're gonna regret it in the morning," Jack murmurs against your hair. Footsteps steal your attention and you peek towards the source to see Robby approach, holding a couple damp washcloths.

He sits onto the armrest right as Jack helps you sit up. His large hand cradles your jaw, tilts your head up so he can wipe his own cum off your face with a feather-light touch. He doesn't meet your eyes, focused on clearing up your face.

"Hi," you say, voice wrecked and raw but no less tender.

Robby's eyes meet yours and he lets out a low chuckle. "Hi there, pretty girl. Think you're up for a shower or do you want to head straight to bed?"

Between your legs, Jack gently pries your knees apart to clean you up there too, hushing you gently when you wince at the rough drag against the sensitive skin there.

"Bed," you decide and Robby nods, sets aside the cloths before he's lifting you up to bring you the guest bedroom just a few paces away. He's tucking you in as Jack sits at the foot of the bed, removing his leg, but as he walks off, you tug at his hand. "Mikey, where are you going?"

Robby pauses, juts a thumb over his shoulder but your little pout keeps him fixed to where he stands.

"Will you stay? The bed's big for all three of us."

"I—" Robby looks over to Jack who's already joining you beneath the covers, pulling you closer to make room on the other side of your body. Jack shrugs, glances back down at you.

"Think you can say 'no' to her?" Jack mouths to him. A beat passes and Robby lets out a quick sigh, something fond passing over his eyes before he's sliding into the other side of the bed. You're in the middle, happily bracketed by both men.

You're the first to fall asleep and after a silent conversation is had above your head, Jack and Robby follow.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Morning comes with a dull soreness between your thighs and a tightness in your jaw.

"Mmm…" you groan as you try to roll over only to hit a warm chest. The movement kickstarts a domino effect: Jack tugs you in closer to his chest as the both of you lay face to face on your sides, meanwhile Robby's heavy arm that had been laying upon yours and Jack's hips lifts off.

You whine at the removal.

"I'm just getting coffee, darlin'. Stay put before Jack goes looking for you too."

You blink with bleary eyes, feel a soft pressure against your temple before the bed lifts slightly when Robby exits the cuddle pile you dragged both men into. You watch his retreating form exit the bedroom, wearing what looked like his boxers along with Jack's shirt.

When sleep refuses to return, you sigh and kick away the blankets tangled around your legs to reach around Jack who snores into your chest. "Babe—" you giggle when his lips drag along your boob, a playful lick and bite to your nipple.

"Good morning," he hums against the valley of your breasts before your fingers snag onto the shirt you've seen folded in the mess of blankets behind Jack (blanket hog, you huff playfully to yourself). You pull it on, realizing it may be Robby's and steal a kiss from your lover's playful pout when you had covered your tits in front of him. "Hey—"

"Absolutely not, Robby already did a number on my boobs and I really don't want my makeup artist questioning the location of the hickeys you two left on me."

Jack huffs as he sits up against the headboard, lifting an arm for you to settle into. "Are you filming something soon?"

You nod, glancing up in time to see Robby approach with two steaming mugs of coffee. Jack takes one and when you take the other, you frown when Robby's left empty-handed. "Where's yours?"

Robby shakes his head. "Kitchen wasn't stocked with enough coffee for more than two mugs."

A frown mars your lips and you take a sip before handing your mug over. "We can share." You don't give him any room for argument. Instead, you scoot over and give him space to rest against the headboard beside you. "As I was saying, yes— filming for my music video starts in about a week and I'm tired of my makeup artists wiggling their eyebrows at me!"

An amused laugh escapes Jack as he sets his coffee down. The pleased look in his eyes counteracts any kind of apology he may have for you, looking far too happy with himself when his gaze drags down your covered frame for the marks he and Robby had left on you. "That's a shame, you look good with both of our marks, sweetheart,"

You hide your smile against the rim of your mug. "S'not like this is gonna be a common thing, right?"

Jack's arm around you shifts. "What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know, I just— I haven't done anything like that before. Being shared," you admit as you hold the mug upon your lap, the heat from the coffee bleeding through the blankets. Your age has never been a problem when it comes to Jack but in the face of both men, during the morning after a threesome … you're in new territory and coming off as clingy and immature hangs over your head.

"Hey," Robby cuts through your thoughts, gently taking the mug from your hand to tip your chin up. "There's no wrong or right answer to what I'm about to ask you but— did you like it?"

"What?"

"Last night," Robby murmurs, patient as ever. "Did you like having Jack and I last night?"

You nod without hesitating. "I did— did you?"

"Of course," he chuckles, almost incredulously at the insecurity shadowing your gaze. "You did so good for both of us, angel. Took us so well."

Jack nods and takes your hand to bring up to his lips, kissing your knuckles. "We both loved it, sweetheart. I already know Robby's answer but we gotta ask: do you want to do something like that again?"

"I…" Your head swivels, trying to look at both men to gauge their reaction. "Like a regular thing?"

Robby shakes his head, still wearing that fond smile you're growing to love so much. "Not necessarily. Maybe if your schedules allow it or we're all in the mood for it, sure. Call me your unofficial third."

You stare at him slight shock before you turn to Jack. "I'm obviously okay with this but are you?"

"Of course. We've done this before."

That doesn't quite sit right in your stomach but you keep your mouth shut, realizing you don't quite have a leg to stand on. So you hum, buying time as you take the mug back from Robby for another sip to hide the slight hurt. After pulling yourself together, you give both men a nod.

"Sure, I'm okay with this."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

You actually aren't quite sure if you are but without the resounding 'no' in your head (it's more of a big question mark), you realize it isn't something to hyperfixate on.

So you take advantage of the handful of free days you have between leaving Indio and filming for your music video in Los Angeles, hitting up little boutiques that dot Santa Monica Boulevard or secondhand bookstores a few miles away from the city. Jack would've loved to tag along but he had signed a contract with Dior, becoming the face of a new men's cologne that he's set to start promoting soon.

(It's divine, the new cologne; you had ridden him for nearly hours when he had came by a couple days ago.)

While you're more than capable of going alone, Robby's taken it upon himself to drive you around. After getting half-baked answers as to why, you've given up on asking and just enjoy his presence. It had been a wonderful surprise to find out you both share similar tastes in books, kickstarting a little book club of two after he had trailed after you in The Last Bookstore, dutifully holding a pile of your chosen picks.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

DEUXMOI—

Sent via form submission, anonymous. Subject: 'STAR' DATING ROBBY?

Message: After seeing both guitarists of NIGHTCRAWLER at Coachella singing along to her music, did something change for her to be spending more time with Robby instead of Jack?

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Sent via form submission, anonymous. Subject: Star swaps boyfriends.

Message: Saw Star and Robby around Santa Monica the past couple of weeks just shopping with no Jack in sight. Are they sharing her or did she swap one for an older model?

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

US WEEKLY — TROUBLE IN PARADISE?

JUST DAYS AFTER HER COACHELLA PERFORMANCE, SOURCES HAVE SPOTTED STAR AND ROBBY WITHOUT JACK AROUND LOS ANGELES. BUT WHILE THEY LOOK COZY AS EVER, MANY FANS CLAIM THAT JACK AND STAR ARE STILL TOGETHER AFTER OVERHEARING CONVERSATIONS BETWEEN ROBBY AND STAR. WHAT'S THE TRUTH?

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

You're back to work mode as Cassie and your driver, Antoine, brings you to a soundstage at Warner Brothers to film your music video.

It's a three day schedule and the first day had been shorter than originally planned after a few mishaps with the set designs. Parker Ellis, the director for your music video, had been a dream to work with. Although she isn't the first director you've worked with since your ex-boyfriend, Baz, she's the polar opposite of him. Any hiccup had always gotten him spiraling, taking it out on any poor subordinate in his vicinity. With Parker, she'd merely shrugged and worked out a new storyboard schedule out with the producers to see what you could film in the meantime.

By day two, you're back on schedule. You're fitted in one of the outfits that you'll mainly be in for the majority of the music video and you're wandering part of the set as you wait for the camera to reset, lost in your thoughts.

There's a new cameraderie that's grown between you and Robby, something you've noticed while pointedly ignoring the articles being published about you and him. Before Coachella, he'd been someone you didn't quite know how to get close to, a canyon between your heart and his. Robby had been delegated as your lover's best friend. The threesome had somehow been an unorthodox way of breaking the ice. Since then, Robby had somehow turned into—

"Mikey!" You screech in surprise, bursting into giggles. You had seen them both enter the soundstage but before you could even get a word in, you're suddenly over Robby's shoulder, pounding away at his back with your fists. Jack watches in quiet amusement and a thrill shoots you when you catch a trace of a smirk on his lips. "My wings, they're going to fall!"

Robby takes pity on the outfit your team as poured you into: white and simple — virginal, almost — and draped artfully to highlight your frame in the most flattering light. Your makeup is bare and delicate with a touch of white shimmer in your inner corners. Paired with a set of fluffy white wings, you look like an angel sent from above.

Jack's heart thunders dangerously as you step away from Robby to approach him. His hands find your waist as he places a delicate kiss on your glossy lips, careful to not ruin your makeup. "You look breathtaking, angel."

"That's the point," a new voice interrupts. The three of you turn to see Parker approach, absentmindedly swirling a cup of coffee. "Jack and Robby, pleasure to meet you."

"This is Parker Ellis." You introduce her with a bright smile. "She's the director for my music video."

The two men shake her hand, exchanging pleasantries. "Mind if we stick around?" Jack asks, his hand settling around your waist.

"By all means," Parker says, gestures to the spare seats behind her. "We're shooting indoors for the rest of the day."

They both nod and watch Parker retreat to the camera where a few producers are discussing the storyboard for the storyline created. Being left alone, Robby swoops down to kiss your cheek before Jack does the same to the other.

"How's it going so far, sweetheart?" Jack murmurs, his gaze wandering around the set. There's a metropolis set up in one corner of the soundstage, another is a two-story facade of a mansion with a gorgeous ornate balcony.

You lean into his embrace, enjoying his warmth. "It's been alright, so far. We haven't filmed much but we're waiting for Mateo."

"Mateo? Who's Mateo—"

"I'm here!" A voice sounds from the other end of the studio and the way you perk up has Jack and Robby shift uneasily. "So sorry I'm late, there was traffic at Culver—"

"There's always traffic there," you laugh as you escape Jack's side to go greet the new guy. Both men watch you be pulled into his arms, your smile bright and sweet. "Guys, this is Mateo Diaz, my love interest for the music video. Mateo, this is Jack and Robby."

Mateo's a handsome young actor that's been taking Hollywood by storm, dark curly hair with a neat beard and a smile that had all the young women he passed by swooning.

He's also around your age.

"Hi, I grew up listening to NIGHTCRAWLER, my dad's a huge fan!"

Jack fights back a grimace, shakes his hand nice and firm. "Nice to meet you, Matthew."

Mateo's smile never falters. "It's Mateo."

"Right."

Before you can even dwell on the odd interaction, you're being called to set and Mateo's being ushered into hair and makeup. Jack and Robby are called away to craft services in the meantime, set designers and assistants resetting the scenes for you and your main lead.

Realization kicks in when one of the PAs roll in a giant aquarium, Robby turning to his friend to ask if he recognizes the reference to Baz Luhrman's Romeo + Juliet (he remembered how much you adored DiCaprio in it, recalled how you made Jack watch it over and over again on the projector on your rooftop). But Jack's eyes are on you, standing across the room with Mateo reappearing in costume. The knight costume fits him perfectly, dark curls pushed back by your delicate hand with a bright laugh.

"You're gonna scare away the PAs," Robby mutters under his breath to Jack.

"Don't know what you're talking about." But Jack tears his gaze away from you to tug his phone out, thumbing through emails and social media posts. Majority of it is you, a perfect mirror image of his mind lately. You occupy his waking thoughts, his every moment. He can hear Robby chuckle, see the way the people around steal glances before the lights dim and Parker calls out 'action!'

Your voice echoes out from the large speakers, the first verse of 'stupid song' playing out as you reenact the scene from the movie with Mateo. Although Jack had been adamant on not watching any scene with your male lead, you're enchanting. The shy smiles, the delicate touches and the laughter that plays on top of the sweet instrumentals… Jack can picture himself in Mateo's shoes.

"Cut!"

Drawn out of his thoughts, you pull away from Mateo where you're both supposed to mime a kiss. The camera resets, pulling back just as the lights flicker back on. Your team rushes in to blot your skin, reapply makeup and rearrange a few pieces of your hair.

Filming continues on and Robby excuses himself in between takes, making sure to pull you aside for a proper goodbye. When he kisses your forehead, Jack rubs his chest. That dull thud of frustration that had bloomed with Mateo is nonexistent when the smile you give Robby is a touch sweeter than the rest.

"We're on the last scene," you tell him a few takes later, changed into a long-sleeved burgundy dress. Jack recognizes it to be a rendition or remaking of Olivia Hussey's Juliet outfit from the 1968 version of Romeo and Juliet. He's still lounging in a spare director's chair, knees parted for you to stand between. "Will you stay to take me home? I know Robby had some recording to do."

"Of course," he murmurs, fingertips catching on the sleeve of your dress to lift your hand up. He places a kiss to your exposed wrist. "You're breathtaking, sweetheart. The perfect Juliet."

You flush prettily. "Thanks, Jack… I'm ready to finish this up, though. I'm getting sick of my own song."

He laughs and nods in understanding, enjoying this pocket of intimacy with you despite the busy set. "Like you said, you're almost done. How about we catch some rooftop pizza tonight?"

"That'd be perfect," you sigh dreamily. "Mateo invited me out for drinks at Barney's but I—"

"Barney's? That's…" Jack catches himself. "Why won't you go?"

Your smile shifts a bit, confusion filtering through. "What do you mean? I'd rather have pizza."

"Sweetheart, you don't have to pity your old man. You wanna hang out with kids your age, go ahead. Don't let me stop you."

Your touch grows cold and you step away. "What the hell are you talking about? I want to spend tonight with you, why are you making this weird, Jack?"

His tongue feels heavy, his mind is static and the only thing that he does understand is the frustration building in his gut. But he takes a deep breath and shakes his head, his arm reaching out to tug you back into his chest. "That's not what I mean, baby. I just—" He lets out another quiet sigh. "Never mind. Vitto's pizza, you and me. Alright?"

You hold your guarded expression a second too long but you drop it eventually, nodding and kissing him deeply, lipstick be damned. "Rooftop pizza. It's a date."

"It's a date."

You return back to the final scene, mimicking the church where Romeo and Juliet meet their fatal end. The song had skipped the bridge but Jack figures that part may have been filmed already. Instead, the music starts up at the final chorus. You lip sing as you're laid out on the ivory pillows with Mateo lying prone beside you. The final chords ring out and your eyes shut, the camera panning to Mateo's wrist where it ends on a final zoom in to the heart pendant with your initial engraved sewn into the fabric of his sleeve.

Jack recognizes the reference immediately. A lyric from your debut album: 'let him wear my heart on his sleeve if he's my one true love'. It had been a fantastical album, a whimsical concept that had been executed perfectly that had been aligned with your musical style.

He wonders if you'd let him wear a pendant like that on his sleeve.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Your schedules are starting to ramp up with the upcoming release of your EP. Little by little, your team is dropping teasers and graphic posts to increase the surrounding hype and anticipation of it all. Worldwide, pop-up stores emerge in the major metropolitan cities to sell limited stock of your merch.

All in all, no one can move (online and offline) without seeing your name.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

PINK LIMOUSINES COMING! @.starsbabey — 2h guys should i get tickets for nightcrawler's tour??

JACKSTAR ENTHUSIAST @.jackstarsthird — 4h i'll buy star's ep for everyone who likes this tweet if i'm right and she comes out as the opener for their tour

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

While you continue your preparations, Robby takes it upon himself to smooth out any hiccups that's beginning to arise with the upcoming release of their album and their tour to give Jack room to work on the ambassadorship he'd been offered through Dior.

He hadn't been too sure on what entails with an ambassadorship but the liaisons and partners he's met with the fashion house had been highly accommodating, making sure to schedule appearances at shows or galas where it fits between his musical priorities. But the downside that follows means that rooftop pizza dates are becoming rarer and rarer, phone calls and texts are few and far in between.

So maybe the lack of 'you' is the cause of his annoyance and frustration that clings to his every waking moment, the paparazzi shots of you all around Los Angeles with your friends killing his mood every time he checks his texts to see no new messages from you.

He's too old to be playing games but something about you always dials everything he feels to eleven, his mind cloudy with nothing but you until he finds himself lost in his thoughts. So maybe he forces himself to write lyrics when you finally text back, force you to wait the same amount of time he did for just a modicum of your attention.

At the end of the day, he's gritting his teeth as he keeps himself from checking his texts with nothing to show for it. Exhaustion and emotional fatigue has him snapping at you a couple days later, when both of you find a spare hour to call.

"Sorry," he sighs through the phone, rubbing his temple as he lays back on his couch while music plays from his turntable. Even the comforting warbling of Ella Fitzgerald hasn't soothed his raw nerves and poor you had taken the brunt of his shitty mood. "Fuck, I'm sorry, sweetheart. Had a long day."

A quiet huff can be heard from your end, a bit of loud conversation mingling in the background of wherever you are. Jack ignores another stab of annoyance."Must be. You forgot you said you were coming with me to Trinity's dinner at Nobu."

"Shit." He rubs his face with his hand, leans over and starts to rise. "I'm coming, baby, I'm sorry—"

"Jack, it's fine." And that's what did it, really. Your quiet acceptance, the fight leaving your tone so quickly it didn't really settle in properly. He sits back down, the guilt too hard to swallow. "We're both busy. I got used to having you around so often… Maybe we can do Vitto's soon? I have a free day in a couple days."

He's nodding before he can even get the words out. "Yes— yes, that's perfect, angel. I'll even go for the gelato you love so much."

"You hate the gelato," you laugh softly.

"Yeah, but you don't." Something rests easy in his chest now as he lets out a little sigh. "Enjoy your dinner with Trinity, baby. I promise I'll make it up to you."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

One of the people in charge for arranging meetings fucked up. Royally. Usually, Jack is more laid back; Robby's the one up in arms at scheduling mishaps like this. But the consequence of an overbooked meeting and recording session had resulted in a thirteen hour work day in the building, pingponging between the conference rooms and the recording booths.

While things usually get settled and smoothed out by end of day, the meeting culminated into more unresolved issues that bled over into another work day. The rooftop pizza with you had been cancelled and there had been an edge to your voice he didn't have the mental bandwidth to unravel and understand.

The bed was cold when he fell asleep in it, colder still when he realized you hadn't reached out since then.

He doesn't see you for another few days; you had been invited to a few movie premieres Nick Barker's starring in. The familiar flicker of jealousy erupts, momentarily tamed to realize that it's the movie 'stupid song' is featured in, only to burst into a near-catastrophic wildfire when he sees live updates of you taking photos with Mateo on the carpet.

The jealousy moves him to call up Robby who sounds just as annoyed.

"I know," his friend says in greeting. "I see it. It's fine, she isn't his date." Jack grunts and a beat passes. "Why weren't you with her?"

"Got busy," Jack grouses.

An incredulous laugh filters through the phone. "If she was mine, she would take priority, Abbot. Don't get too comfortable now."

The line goes dead before Jack can get another word in.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Jack sees you a couple days later on a Friday night at some hotshot producer's party in North Hollywood. The brutalist modern style home is open with security dotting the entrances. With the party in full swing, he maneuvers through the drunk occupants to find you sitting on the armrest of a chair that Robby's sitting on. His hand is sitting on your thigh, your arm loose around his shoulders while you absentmindedly play with his beard. The two of you are chatting it up with a long-retired producer.

He waits for the jealousy to kick in, seeing you so closely entwined with another man. But it just feels like coming home to two of his favorite people.

Jack shakes away the confusion and approaches, ducking down to kiss your cheek. "Sorry I'm late," he murmurs and you startle. At the sight of him, you beam and throw yourself into his arms for a kiss he hasn't realized he's been craving.

He smiles against your mouth, his hands gripping your waist tight. "I missed you too, sweetheart." Before he can say another word, you take his hand and lead him out to the side of the house where there aren't much lingering. When they see the both of you enter the tiny opening (probably meant to house the trash cans), the people give you the space.

Jack doesn't waste a second to pin you against the concrete walls, devouring your mouth in a way that's reminiscent of how Robby had kissed you all those days ago. "Jack—" you giggle and after he's gotten his fill, he reluctantly pulls away to dig out a pack of Marlboro reds. Half empty.

You raise a brow in surprise but you hold no judgment. Instead, you take his lighter and spark up a flame, lifting it to the end of his cigarette that he's got between his teeth. His eyes never leave yours even when you lean away, his lips closing around it to take a drag. The two of you stand in comfortable silence. When you reach out for it, he raises a brow and hands it to you.

"Long week," you shrug as you exhale away from him. He chuckles and nods in agreement. "I did miss you, Jack."

"I did, too. Feels like I haven't seen you in years."

He watches you stare at him and it feels like he's missing something when your face falls. "Yeah. Been too long." When he doesn't reply, something shutters in your gaze.

"You haven't tried seeing me."

"What? What are you talking about, angel—"

You shake your head, steal the cigarette from his hand. "No, you haven't tried seeing me. I know we're both busy, I'm not stupid, but you haven't even reached out once."

"Angel, that's not fair—"

"Did you know Robby had been checking up on me?" Jack stills at the sudden mention of his friend. "He was surprised that you didn't offer to pick me up or drive me here to this party."

The end of the cigarette tip burns orange as you take another long drag. "I'm sorry. You know I am. It's just this ambassadorship and the tour, it's a lot—"

"Jack, what is this?" You gesture to the space between you and him, the cigarette tucked between your index and middle knuckles. "Seriously— I don't know if you want a girlfriend or someone to keep your bed warm. If you just wanted a fuckin' PR stunt, just say so. I can draw up a contract right now—"

"Sweetheart, hold on a sec—" Jack nearly trips over himself to get to you, broad hands cradling your cheek to meet your eyes. His heart splinters at the sight of unshed tears. "Baby, come on. You know that's not true, that's not— you're more than that. I know I've been distant but I swear to god, you're all I want. Yeah?" His thumb swipes away tear. "You're the only one for me."

The hurt that's been cresting in your chest breaks and you let out a quiet sob, pushing forward to hide your face into his neck. "I thought you didn't want me anymore."

"No, baby. Never, hm? You're my everything—"

His phone ringing is loud enough to cut through the moment, the shrill tone driving what feels like a nail through his frontal lobe. "Fuck," he hisses. You pull away and it feels like you're slipping through his fingers.

"It's fine," you sniffle. You take another drag of your stolen cigarette. "You should answer it."

He sighs and pins you back against the side of the house with a warm hand on your hip. His other hand digs out his phone and answers it. While he talks to the Dior representatives on the line, he watches you. Sees the way your eyes shift in and out of focus before you fight back another sniffle. You still aren't okay and this phone call is keeping him hostage. He's nodding and offering empty noises to the rep but he's dragged to attention when he hears the demand.

"What— tonight?! You want me to fly out tonight?" He drops your hip to drag his hand through silver curls. His head falls to rest his forehead against yours, taps the speaker button and holds the phone between both of you. A man with a thick french accent sounds horribly stressed, begging for Jack to fly a day early to get fittings done for the show he's attending. With a little smile, you nod and he sighs in defeat. "I'll be there."

The call ends and he draws you in for another kiss, tinged with desperation and guilt. "Get Robby to drive you home, alright?" When you nod, he knows this conversation isn't even close to a resolution. "When I get back on Monday, I'm going straight to your place. Alright? No bullshit. Even if you're busy for the day, I'll be waiting for you. I promise, angel."

You melt and he sees that you believe him. For now. "Alright. Have a safe flight, baby."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Robby had planned on a lazy Sunday evening. The endless meetings Jack had been stuck in the past few days had resulted in a nice, slow weekend for him. It'd been odd enough, seeing his closest friend plastered all over the front pages without your name tacked onto it. But it's nice; Jack looks good in Dior, schmoozing with other big names at the front row seats for fashion shows he must've hated. Back in Los Angeles, your music video for 'stupid song' had dropped and posters for your upcoming EP paints the streets of Santa Monica Boulevard.

The call back of the heart pendant to an old song of yours had been trending so wildly that your team had put out a charm bracelet for the reference on your merch shop: a simple silver chain with a silver locket pendant.

He settles into his bed with a finger tucked between the pages of a book he's been reading, ready to unwind, when his phone rings on his bedside. He doesn't check the caller ID when he answers. "Hello?"

"Mikey?"

Robby sits up. No one calls him that but you. "Angel? What's going on?"

Music blares on the line and he can hear you jostle the phone, as if you're tucking it between your ear and shoulder. The music dies down and he assumes you stepped outside of a party or club you were attending. "Hi— sorry, I know it's late. But my head is killing me and I wanna go home early."

He's already walking out, sliding into shoes. "It's fine, sweetheart, I'm glad you called me. You drunk?"

"No," you say and he believes it. "I was tipsy earlier but it made my headache worse… Will you come soon?"

"I will, angel, don't worry. Be there in fifteen. Can you wait inside for me?"

"S'too loud," you huff. "It's okay, Frankie's out here with me. He's keeping me company."

A lick of jealousy climbs up the base of his neck as he grabs his keys, throws himself into his Porsche. "Stay on the phone for me, sweetheart."

"Mkay." You chirp and a soft chuckle spills from Robby, unbidden. Someone speaks to you and while he doesn't hear exactly what he says, he hears your reply: "No, Jack's in France. Robby's picking me up."

The fifteen minutes is spent with you happily chattering about your day, how you had spent most of the party situated next to your favorite baseball player (whoso happens to be 'Frankie') before the headache started to kick in. Eventually, his car rolls up to a tiny little dive bar that's spilling with people out onto the sidewalk. You're sitting on a tiny planter, your dress doing very little to cover your frame, while sitting besides a young man that Robby recognizes immediately.

"Frank Langdon, shortstop—" Robby chuckles as he offers the baseball player with a nod after he helps you into the spare carhartt jacket he's brought for you. He zips it up, gently nudges your chin with a playful tap. "Thanks for keeping my girl company."

Frank nods, his baby blues piercing yours with an easy grin. "Not a problem. Tell Jack I said hi, yeah. Good night, kid." He ruffles your hair before entering the party once more.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

When Robby drives you home, it feels like he's on autopilot. He doesn't know what to do with you, ever since he's gotten a taste. Even before, when he had gotten you that bracelet that you're still wearing, he's tried to hold you at arm's length. He thought it was to appease Jack's jealousy, holding that unnecessary boundary, but the evening he spent with both of you erased that immediately. He wonders if his brain had known first before anything that you've made a home in his chest, that he'd open the doors of his heart to you rather than take a sledgehammer to the walls.

He follows you to your door when he brings you home, nods absently when you request him to stay, when you offer him a glass of water. His eyes trail along your figure, still in that heartbreakingly gorgeous dress. Time passes as he sits on your couch, waiting for you to return out of the shower.

"Thanks again for picking me up." He hears your voice before he sees you and when he looks up, his heart stops.

You look like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch. Irresistible, golden, sitting high on a shelf that only Jack could reach. The thought of his friend burns like firewood in his chest but the immediate guilt that follows extinguishes it before it can spread. He loves Jack, loves him more than he could bring himself to admit. A man that knows his soul as well as his own and yet — the resentment burns like sweet liquor in his throat when his eyes land on you.

He's seen you in your best, soft skin gleaming with a body poured in a dress that does more for his heart than he'd allow himself to dwell, hair and makeup artfully done without a flaw to be seen (or picked apart by vultures with cameras). But tonight, you're comfortable in an old collegiate shirt — all frayed edges and wool-worn hems, skin clean and untouched. Bare and vulnerable and soft to the touch and he's never ached for anything more than to draw you in his arms.

"You're more than I could ever deserve." The words spill out of him before he can wrap it into a joke, something packaged into a playful jab because who was he to demand something—anything—from you?

You startle in surprise as he stands to his feet. "Mikey…"

"You know, you're the only one that's called me that before." He admits quietly, his long strides bringing him closer and closer to you until his palm can rest along your jaw. "I don't know what you did to me but ever since that night, I can't stop thinking about you."

He can't stop now, can't pull back the words that fell from his lips as he gently guides your chin up. His long nose brushes along yours. Drinks up the way your breath hitches, your eyes fluttering shut.

He should stop. Drop your cheek. Walk out the door.

But it's like he's a car speeding down Mulholland drive, like he's watching from the outside.

"Mikey, I think—"

He never did know what you thought because he's kissing you, his lips chastely pressed against yours for a couple beats. Reality rushes in soon after, guilt growing like a parasite in his heart, and as he tries to lean away, he feels the subtlest pressure against his mouth.

You're kissing back.

A low groan rumbles in his chest as he cradles your face for a deeper kiss, tilting his head to better slot your lips together. The world falls away and he could die happy like this—

Until he feels your hands on his chest, giving a push. He breaks away immediately and tries not to close the distance again. Your hands still hover in mid-air, lips forming words you can't speak.

"I— I think you should go," you whisper. Robby nods, steals a glance of you returning to your bedroom, before walking away.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Jack figures something is wrong when you're the one who picks him up at LAX the next morning. The Tom Bradley terminal is chaos and he had barely given you enough of a heads up to go to the PS VIP runway, picking him up there instead rather than the main pickup locations.

"Hey, sweetheart. Missed you." He leans in for a kiss which you reciprocate, albeit distractedly. Your smile is shaky as you pull onto the imperial highway, speeding down before traffic catches you.

"How was Paris?"

The car ride is uneventful and if Jack doesn't let himself dwell, he figures nothing is wrong but he knows you now. He's catalogued every little detail. Knows that the furrow between your brow means something has been weighing on your mind.

But he doesn't push and just lets himself fall into old routines with you, answering your questions and regaling you with his time at the fashion show. It isn't until you've pulled into your private driveway, unlocked the house to allow him in, that he finally asks you.

"What's going on?"

"I kissed Robby," you blurt out. Your eyes are wide, distraught with what looked like guilt as your hands shake by your sides. "Or— he kissed me but I kissed back and— fuck, Jack I'm so so sorry—"

"Hey, hey, hey— shh…" His hands swoop down to take yours, gently squeezing before his touch glides up your arms to hold your face. "Sweetheart, breathe for me."

Your shoulders rise and fall, your sweet gaze looking like a baby bunny cornered. "You're not… mad?"

"No, baby." He says instinctively, his need to comfort you taking over anything else— but he realizes he means it. That stab of jealousy that never really goes away when you're with anyone but him doesn't come. The little monster of envy lays dormant in his chest. "No, I'm not mad. Is this why you've been so antsy?"

You nod and he can feel your muscles relax, loosening from their tense position as you allow him to hug you tightly. "I asked him to pick me up last night from a party… he brought me home and then he kissed me," you say quietly against the collar of his shirt.

"Sweetheart, he had his cock in you just a few weeks ago, I'm not getting jealous over a kiss," he chuckles but the way you tighten your arms around him finally clears things up. "Baby, look at me."

It takes a second but you finally lift your head, a pout sitting upon your lips.

"I am a jealous man, there's no doubt about it, but I meant it when I say Robby and I are good at sharing," he murmurs. "I trust him with you. He's my best friend, but you? You're my girl, angel."

The guilt finally dissipates and the distance between you and Jack disappear when you pull him in for a kiss. He growls against your lips, lifts you in his arms to carry you to bed. He fucks you slow and deep— no. He makes love to you right then and there, promises and silent vows spilling from kiss-bitten lips. His touch is everywhere and you feel shrouded in it, cocooned in his attentive desire even when sleep follows after you come down from the climax.

In the quiet of your bedroom, Jack glances over to your sleeping frame. He drinks in the line of your exposed spine, the way your body rises and falls in slumber, before his attention returns back to his phone.

Unfinished lyrics stare up at him.

Chasing things that I can't replace Wishing every face that I see was like you Tell me if I'm slipping away Might not see the reason to stay but I do

Your tears falling hard on my shoulder Don't leave, I don't wanna start over

He sends it to Robby.

[Robby] I think I have a melody for this. [Robby] She told you? [Jack] I can't lose her, man. [Robby] You won't. After I kissed her, she told me you were the first person she was going to tell. She's scared of losing you too.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

TMZ — JACKSTAR REUNITED

OUT ON THE STREETS OF HOLLYWOOD, OUR FAVORITE COUPLE WAS SEEN AFTER JACK'S DEBUT AT THE DIOR FASHION SHOW IN PARIS.

Fans gush about their willingness to interact with everyone they bump into but one major detail that Star's fans can't stop talking about is the new accessory that Jack has been sporting.

[IMAGE ATTACHED: A zoom in of Jack's grey sleeve, the hand blurry from the movement caught mid-frame. On the seam, a gold pendant is sewn into the fabric. A gold heart pendant with your initial engraved.]

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

thank you so much for reading! as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated but comments are highly cherished!

pink limousines taglist: @redolently @yiiiikesmish @vinecstasy @ap1390 @crazycat-ladys-blog @xoxo--ryleigh @satellitesslt @deathreverse @live-love-be-unique @stoptheinnocence @raeofsunshine13 @gracerockysavestarz @vicky066 @madprincessinabox @bludickaaa @peaches-roses-sins @strangegirl26sff @isavulpix @possiblyafangirl @tiredvampireandcrying @hotdocsandcowboys @acornacreacure @delicatedragonflower @ptolemaea444 @maciclove @deathreverse @unsaidjaelinrose @flow33didontsmoke @kneelforloki @rabbotseatcarrots @4ria790 @leolionsthings @pearlessance @sofianotvergara @angelryex @lillianarosethorns @kbakery @archxve @yemandarin @pickles-the-jackalope @shivispunk @crazycat-ladys-blog @ana-stasssiaaa @arianmock13-blog @rufles2 @laughsandlivia @dumbbandpoetic @proudlyvastlake @plsdrabbot @ezmina98 @gnghtchicago

[lilacmurdock]

Chapter 1 - El Viento

series masterlist I next chapter

matt murdock x fem reader

chapter summary: you and your daughter follow the wind to Hell’s Kitchen.

series warnings: 18+ for smut, some canon-typical violence, magical abilities, miscommunication, reader has a daughter

word count: 5k

• spanish guide •

Once upon a time, on an island in New York where the buildings stood uncomfortably close together, there was a neighborhood filled with peculiar people and small, ordinary miracles. It was crowded and noisy and occasionally troublesome, but there was something comforting about it all the same.

Hell’s Kitchen had always been that way.

The butcher knew the baker. The baker knew the bartender. The bartender knew the cop who lived three floors above the florist and the florist knew exactly which nights the old woman across the street would leave her windows open. People knew which children belonged to which families, which restaurants gave an extra helping to anyone who looked hungry, and which shopkeepers would let you run a tab when the week had been unkind. They knew when someone’s marriage was failing before the couple themselves even did.

It was not a quiet neighborhood and there were always sirens somewhere in the distance. Delivery trucks rumbled down the streets before sunrise. Music drifted from open windows, arguments spilled onto fire escapes, and somewhere, at nearly any hour, someone was shouting for someone else. Still, the Kitchen had its routines.

There was Nelson’s Meats, where the morning deliveries arrived before most of the neighborhood had poured its first cup of coffee. And there was the law office above it, where three attorneys spent their days arguing over things that had very little to do with meat and rather more to do with people. There was Franklin Nelson, who loved everybody and believed everybody ought to know it. There was Karen Page, the attorney-to-be and investigator who somehow always knew when something strange was afoot. And there was Matthew Murdock, who lately preferred not to know anyone at all. Besides his two best friends of course.

He had spent years learning the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen. The bells of Clinton Church and the subway trains deep beneath the pavement. He knew the neighborhood by heart and could identify the footsteps of countless people within it, without ever being able to see their faces. Which was why, when the wind changed one autumn morning, he noticed.

It came down the street, warm and strange, carrying with it the scent of something unfamiliar and sweet. By noon, there was a moving truck parked beside Nelson’s. By evening, the windows of the empty storefront next door were covered in brown paper.

No one knew who had chosen this particular shop or where they'd appeared from. But in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone, it was only a matter of time before someone found out.

You had lived in enough places to know that every city had its own sound. Some were quiet in the mornings and only came alive after dark. Some hummed constantly, a low, distant thrum that you eventually stopped noticing. Hell’s Kitchen seemed determined to make itself heard. It was loud, but not unpleasantly so. You stood on the sidewalk with one hand on your hip, while your daughter sat on the curb beside you, watching the moving men carry the last of your boxes through the front door.

“Are we actually staying here?”

You looked down at your daughter. There was hope in the question, and that was the part that made you hesitate. You’d never been very good at making promises about staying. “That’s the plan.” She narrowed her eyes. “The real plan?”

You laughed softly. “Yes baby, the real plan.”

She seemed satisfied with that for now. You looked up at the building. The brick was old, the windows needed washing, and the storefront downstairs had been empty long enough for the glass to gather a rather disgusting layer of grime. But it was yours now, and the little apartment above it was yours, too. One narrow staircase. a tiny kitchen, and two bedrooms. If you were being optimistic, it was just enough room for the life you had promised your daughter you were going to build.

It was more than you’d had in some places, but less than you’d had in others. But the two of you had learned a long time ago not to ask more a place when you didn't know how long it intended to keep you. You simply unpacked. After all, your family had never been particularly good at staying.

The women before you had followed the wind for generations. It began with a dream. Every woman in your family began having it when she came of age. The same dream and always the same words.

Cuando cambia el viento, cambia el camino. When the wind changes, the path changes.

Your mother had dreamed it and your grandmother had dreamed it. Eventually, so had you. The meaning had never been questioned, and when the wind changed, you moved.

There was always a reason afterward. A better opportunity. A suddenly terrible landlord or a town that stopped feeling right. A marriage that ended-you were especially grateful for that escape. A business that was doomed to fail or a new beginning that seemed to be waiting somewhere else. The women in your family had always been very good at beginnings. You were less certain about endings. But now you had Estrella to consider.

You glanced toward the storefront. Her nose was pressed against the glass. “Can I see?”

“You’ve been looking at it for twenty minutes.”

“I want to see better, pleaaaase ma?"

You smiled and crossed the sidewalk to the front door. The little bell above it gave a tired jingle as you pushed it open. "Come on."

Dust, old wood, stale air, and the faintest trace of whatever business had occupied the space before you flooded your nose. You stepped inside anyway. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, catching particles of dust in the air and turning them gold. She wandered ahead of you. “This is it?” she said as she turned in a slow circle, “Where will the chocolate de mesa and the cocoa powder go? And the trufas?”

You pointed toward the long checkout counter along the right side wall. “That's where we'll display the finished chocolates." She followed your finger as you then pointed toward the little corner, where you’d already decided the copper pots would go. “There will be our prep station." Her face brightened. "And I get to help now right? You said I'm old enough."

You laughed. “Estrella.”

“What?”

“We haven’t even cleaned yet.”

She considered this. “Can we clean fast?” You looked around the empty shop. At the dusty shelves, bare counters, and mountain of boxes stacked against the walls. The old floor that would need a heavy scrubbing until your back protested. Then you looked at your daughter.

She was already imagining it, you could see it in her face. People coming in from the street. Chocolate displayed beneath glass. Warm drinks steaming in little cups. Her sitting behind the counter after school, doing her homework while you worked. A place that belonged to both of you.

Maybe that was why you smiled and spoke your next words. “Yeah,” you said, rolling up your sleeves. “We can definitely clean fast mija.”

The next three days were filled with a plethora of dust bunnies and lavender soap. And the occasional argument over where a particular box was supposed to go.

By the second morning, you had learned that the floor in the shop creaked loudly whenever you stepped on the third plank from the counter. By the third, your daughter had learned exactly which floorboards complained and delighted in demonstrating them for you.

~Creaak~

Your head whipped around and she froze. You stared at her and she smiled apologetically. “Sorry mamá." You narrowed your eyes.

~Creaaak~

“Estrella.” She just dissolved into giggles and ran. You sighed, but you were smiling too.

The shop slowly began to look less like an abandoned storefront and more like something you could actually imagine people walking into. The shelves were polished and oiled until the wood regained some of its color. The windows were washed. The counters were wiped down. Boxes disappeared one by one, their contents finding places in the various cupboards and drawers. Your copper pots found their home near the back. The tempering slab was set up beside them.

Glass display cases arrived two days later, and Estrella insisted on helping you clean every single one. You let her. She was always careful. “Do you think people will come?” she asked while cleaning the last one.

You looked up from the stack of paper bags you were sorting. “People always come for chocolate.” She giggled at that. “Do you think the neighbors like chocolate?” You smiled. “I guess we’re about to find out, I'm thinking we'll open this weekend.” She squealed at that and started wiping the glass faster, while you stood and started tearing down the brown paper covering up the windows.

That afternoon you began experimenting. You didn't need to, you knew exactly what you wanted to sell. But there was something about a new place that made you want to understand it through food. So you made chocolate.

Dark chocolate truffles with cinnamon.

Cacao nib bark.

Small bonbons filled with dulce de leche.

And eventually, chocolate de metate. You ground the grainy mixture slowly until the cacao, cinnamon, and panela became a smooth paste. You formed the discs and set them aside on a sheet to harden. With the turning leaves it was inevitable that people would want something warm to drink, like hot chocolate. The shop finally began to smell familiar and homey.

Roasted cacao.

Cinnamon.

Vanilla.

Caramel.

A little chile de árbol.

The scent slipped beneath the door and onto the sidewalk. You had a feeling it wouldn't take long for people to notice.

The first customer came early the next morning, although technically you weren't open yet.

You noticed him because he stood outside the window for nearly five minutes before finally working up the courage to open the door. The little bell above it chimed, and you looked up from where you were arranging the chocolates behind the glass.

He was an older man, perhaps in his eighties, with a neatly pressed coat and a wool cap tucked beneath one arm. He paused just inside the doorway as though he had forgotten why he’d come in. His eyes moved slowly over the shop. He gazed at the polished wooden shelves, the copper pots, the rows of chocolates nestled into their little paper cups, and then finally landed on you. “Hello,” you said warmly. “Hello.” His voice was soft.

You smiled. “Welcome in, take your time and let me know if you'd like any suggestions." That seemed to help. His shoulders loosened a little, and he stepped farther inside. “It’s lovely,” he said.

“Thank you. We’re still getting everything together and we'll be officially open tomorrow.”

“Well, it looks finished to me.”

You laughed. “That’s because you’re being very kind.” He smiled at that, though he still seemed a little nervous. You had seen that particular sort of shyness before. People sometimes felt silly walking into a confectionery shop alone, especially when they didn’t know what they wanted. There was an expectation that they ought to know something about chocolate beyond I like it or I don’t like it, and you had never understood why. Chocolate was supposed to make people happy, not make them feel like they were on trial.

“I've kind of been waiting for you to open," he admitted quietly with a chuckle. “I’ve walked past several times.”

“Ohh yes, no wonder you looked familiar.”

That made him blush. You leaned your elbows lightly against the counter. “So what can I tempt you with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He glanced toward the display. “I’m not very adventurous.”

“That’s all right, most people don't think they are either. They just don’t like admitting it.”

That earned another quiet laugh. You started pointing things out, because giving him something to focus on seemed easier than leaving him standing there feeling watched. “We have dark chocolate with sea salt, milk chocolate with caramel, cinnamon truffles, a few filled bonbons, and those are ones made with dulce de leche.” You gestured toward the neat row of little chocolates. “The ones with the gold tops are orange.”

His gaze lingered there. Only for a second. But something in you tugged gently in that direction. “Actually,” you said, reaching beneath the glass. “I highly recommend you try this one.” You selected one of the orange chocolates.

He looked surprised. “That one? Why?”

You paused, not really having an answer. You’d been doing this for years, the little hunches, and the way you sometimes reached for something before you’d consciously decided why. You had always been pretty good at reading people once you got to chatting with them. “I just have a feeling you’ll like it.”

He smiled shyly, reaching out. “All right.” You placed the chocolate in his palm. He held it carefully before taking a small bite. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he stopped and his easy smile disappeared. His expression had suddenly gone somewhere far away. You waited as he swallowed. “That’s…” He looked down at the remaining piece in his fingers. “That’s orange peel." You smiled. “It is.”

“My wife used to make an orange cake.” There was something so tender in the way he said wife that you didn’t interrupt. “Every Christmas,” he continued. “She’d make it. Never bought one because she always insisted that the ones from the bakery weren’t right. And she would put an ungodly amount of orange zest in it, but it was the perfect balance of bitterness and sweet.... just like her."

You laughed softly. “She sounds particular.”

“Oh, she was.” His smile returned, but his eyes had grown damp. You reached for a napkin and offered it without making a fuss. He accepted it with a quiet thanks.

“She passed?” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” He looked down again. “It’s been… quite a few years now.” You didn’t tell him that you were sorry again. Wouldn't give him the usual empty condolences people offered when they didn’t know what else to say. Instead, you smiled. “Would she have approved of the orange in this?" He looked at you for a long moment. “I think she would have.”

From somewhere behind you came the faint scrape of a chair. You glanced toward the back of the shop. Estrella had been sitting at one of the little tables you’d put in the corner, coloring quietly. She had been quiet for several minutes now, which should have been your first clue that she was listening. The old man noticed her too. “Oh, hello. Is that your daughter?”

“Yes! Baby this is…” You paused, realizing you hadn’t actually asked his name. He smiled. “Stan.”

“Stan,” you repeated. “And this is my daughter, Estrella.”

She smiled politely. “Hello.”

“Hello, sweetheart.”

She studied him carefully. You recognized that look. Estrella tilted her head, then she looked at the chocolate in his hand. “You’re happy.” He blinked, seemingly taken aback by her observation. You closed your eyes for half a second, about to scold her. When you opened them you saw Stan looking between the two of you. Then, to your surprise, he smiled. “I suppose I am.”

She nodded as though that settled the matter. “You were sad before.” Ay, Dios mío. You gave her a look. “Estrella.”

“But he was mamá."

The old man’s smile softened. “She’s right.” He looked toward your daughter for another moment before turning back to you. “I haven’t spoken about my wife this much in a long time, I... I try not to think about her this much." You leaned against the counter. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Remembering."

“No.” He looked down at the little orange chocolate again. “I don’t suppose it is.”

He bought a small box. Twelve orange chocolates. When you handed them over, he hesitated, glancing toward your daughter briefly with an oddly contemplative look. “Do you think you could put a few of the cinnamon ones in there too?” Estrella tilted her head. She did that sometimes when she was feeling something you couldn’t. You just smiled. "Of course.”

By the time he stepped back onto the sidewalk, he was smiling. You watched him through the window as he tucked the little box carefully beneath his arm. Estrella came to stand beside you. “He’s gonna call his daughter." You looked down at her. “Is he?”

“Yes, soon.”

You glanced back through the glass. He had stopped halfway down the block and was standing with one hand in his coat pocket, staring at the box. Then he reached for his phone. You smiled. “How did you know that?”

Estrella shrugged. “He misses her too.”

You looked at your daughter for a moment. Then back at the man standing alone on the sidewalk. You didn’t know what to say to that. Always so perceptive, your little star was. So you simply reached down and smoothed her hair.

“Come on, mi estrella. Hay mucho que hacer.” There's a lot to do.

By late morning, the shop was still not quite finished, but close enough that you could stand outside and look at it without seeing all the work that remained.

You’d put the little chalkboard sign beside the door, written the day’s selection in neat white lettering, and arranged several boxes of chocolates in the front window. A small vase of flowers sat on the counter inside, something you’d picked up from the little market down the street because the storefront had just felt too bare without them. You were still fussing with the display outside when you heard the familiar sounds of the neighborhood settling into its afternoon rhythm.

A delivery truck groaned somewhere down the block. Someone shouted from an open window. A car horn answered another from the intersection and you smiled to yourself. You liked it here already. Maybe that was dangerous. You’d learned not to become too attached to places before.

But there was something comforting about this particular stretch of Hell’s Kitchen. People passed one another without hurrying quite so much as they did in other parts of the city. A woman walking a terrier had already stopped twice that morning to admire the chocolates through the window. The man from the laundromat across the street had introduced himself. Someone at the bakery had sent over two pastries with a note welcoming you to the neighborhood. You straightened the little chalkboard and stepped back to admire your work. “There,” you murmured.

“Looks good.”

You turned. The woman with the terrier was passing again. Wow, she walks a lot. “Thank you.” You were still smiling once she'd gone when you heard footsteps approaching from behind you again. You glanced up and promptly forgot what you had been doing.

The man walking toward you was very handsome.

That was your first thought. Your second was that he looked like he was in a terribly foul mood. He was dressed in a dark suit, his hair neatly combed, a leather briefcase in one hand, and a cane in the other. He moved with an almost irritating sort of confidence that suggested he knew exactly where he was going despite never looking in your direction. Or any direction for that matter, if the dark glasses were any indication. There was something almost severe about him. You stepped slightly aside to give him room. Then, because you were you, you smiled. “Good morning.”

He slowed. Barely. His head turned toward you, just enough that you realized he had heard you, though his expression didn’t change. Up close, you could see more of him. The sharp line of his jaw beneath the short stubble, the bruising on his cheekbone-geez, that looked really bad-and the little crease between his brows that suggested he had been frowning long before he’d come within ten feet of you. His red-tinted glasses hid his eyes completely, but somehow that only made his expression seem more intense.

“Morning,” he replied, the word completely flat. You smiled anyway and said, “You having a busy day?” That earned you an actual pause just past you. His head tilted a fraction over his shoulder toward you. “Something like that.” He didn’t elaborate. You weren’t sure why you had expected him to. “Well,” you said, still trying to be pleasant, “I hope it gets better-”

His mouth tightened. “I’m late.” And then he kept walking. You stood there blinking.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Didn’t offer so much as a sorry for brushing you off. The only acknowledgment you got was the steady tap of his cane against the pavement as he continued down the sidewalk, completely unaffected by the fact that he’d just managed to make you regret possessing basic social skills.

You watched him with a baffled smile cross the few feet between your shop and the one next door. And then he walked directly inside. You frowned and looked at the butcher shop's sign above. Nelson's Meats. “Okay” you scoffed, turning back toward your flowers. “Vete a comprar tu carne, cabrón.” Go buy your meat, asshole.

You picked up the little vase you’d been fussing with and moved it half an inch to the left. Then another half inch to the right, frowning at it. You were still thinking about him, which annoyed you more than the interaction itself. There was no reason for it. He was attractive, yes. But handsome men weren't exempt from being dicks. You had learned that one the hard way, your parting gift from that experience coming in the form of your beautiful daughter.

There was something about the way he’d spoken to you that had rubbed you particularly wrong. Not just because he had been in a hurry, you understood being in a hurry. It was the tone. That clipped interruption, as though the fact that he had somewhere to be meant the rest of the world had ceased to exist. You shook your head. Whatever. You were not going to waste another thought on a rude man who apparently bought his cuts of meat in the middle of the day, dressed in his Sunday Best.

You were shaken out of your thoughts as a customer wandered past the window and approached the open door. You smiled automatically. “Good morning!” They replied with a warm "Hello!"

Much better. You were going to like the people of Hell’s Kitchen. Just perhaps not that one.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant blur. By the time the sun had begun to sink lower between the buildings, you had sold more chocolate than you’d expected to sell before your official opening. Not enough to empty the cases, thankfully, but enough that you were beginning to think perhaps you’d been worrying for nothing.

People had come in curious. Some had asked what made your chocolate different. Others had simply said that it all looked good and trusted you to tell them what to get. You liked those customers best. There was something lovely about watching someone take that first bite and waiting to see how their expression changed.

You smiled at the thought as you began straightening the display cases. There was something satisfying about seeing little gaps where chocolates had been. Proof that people had come in. Proof that they'd liked something enough to take it home

Estrella had spent most of the afternoon coloring at the little table in the corner. Every so often, she’d come behind the counter to help you put chocolates into little boxes, taking the job very seriously.

By early evening, you were beginning to think about closing. The last of the day’s sunlight stretched across the floorboards in long golden stripes. You were wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up as a man walked in first. He was broad shouldered, and dressed in a suit that looked as though it had seen considerably more use than it deserved. His tie was undone and slightly crooked, his sandy blonde hair a little mussed, and he had the sort of face that immediately put you at ease. A woman followed him. She was blonde, elegant without looking like she was trying to be, and had a quiet sort of attentiveness about her. Her eyes moved around the shop, taking in the shelves and displays before settling on you.

"Hi!" you greeted.

"Hi," the man said brightly. "Sorry. Are you still open?"

"Technically. I haven't closed up yet so you're safe."

"Excellent. Because we've been smelling chocolate all day and it's becoming a serious workplace distraction." The woman beside him laughed and you smiled. "Well, then I'm glad to be of service." He stepped closer to the counter. "We're your neighbors."

"Oh!" You looked past them toward the door. "Across the street?"

He laughed. "No, next door."

You blinked, confused, and he pointed toward the ceiling. "We're the law firm upstairs." Your eyebrows lifted. "There's a law firm upstairs?"

"Yep."

You looked toward the wall as though you might somehow see it through the plaster and brick. "I thought it was all part of the butcher shop."

"It is," he said, grinning when you stared at him with an increasingly bewildered expression. "Long story."

You laughed. "Well, I'm glad to finally meet you."

"Foggy." He offered his hand and you shook it, offering your own name. "Nice to meet you, Foggy." The woman smiled and extended her hand next. “Karen.”

“It’s lovely to meet you.”

Foggy looked around again. "We've been so stoked watching you set everything up the last few days. What do you recommend?" There was something immediately easy about them. You liked that. Foggy seemed to operate under the assumption that he’d be welcome everywhere he’d ever go, while Karen had this soft, quieter sort of confidence that made you feel as though you’d known her longer than just two minutes. You gestured toward the displays. “It depends, any preferences?”

“Chocolate.”

You laughed, still smiling as you reached for a small assortment box you’d prepared that morning. “Then I think you need to browse this.” You placed it on the counter and opened the lid. There were six chocolates inside.

A cinnamon truffle.

A salted dark chocolate bonbon.

Dulce de leche filled.

Orange zest.

A little chile infused dark chocolate.

And one milk chocolate filled with a cinnamon infused whiskey ganache.

Foggy stared at them. You pointed at the orange one. “This one is nice if you like something bright, and this one’s warmer," you said, gesturing to the cinnamon. You pointed toward the dark chocolate with chile. “That’s a little more adventurous.”

Foggy immediately reached for it, stopped when Karen caught his wrist. “No."

He looked offended. “Why not?”

“Because you have said many times that you’re a simple man, and that does not look simple.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m boring.”

You laughed again. “You can absolutely be adventurous, it's not that spicy I promise.” He gestured enthusiastically at you. “YES- thank you! I like you.” Foggy took the chile chocolate and Karen chose the liquor filled. You watched them both take their first bites. His eyebrows rose right as Karen hummed. “Oh, that’s good. This-" Foggy pointed at the chocolate, holding up the little half eaten piece “This is being stocked in the office. You’re gonna make a fortune off us.”

Karen rolled her eyes at him as you moved to put away the partially eaten assortment box. “Actually, I was making something for the neighbors nearby. I thought it might be nice.” You reached beneath the counter and brought out two boxes tied with twine. They weren’t elaborate. Just larger assortments you’d put together that morning, each containing a few of the chocolates you’d made and a card. You handed one to Foggy and then Karen accepted the second one. “This is really sweet," she said.

A small voice came from the corner. "Ma." You looked over and Estrella had abandoned her coloring. She was watching the two strangers with quiet interest. "Come say hello," you replied. She slid out of her chair and came over.

Foggy smiled. “Oh- is this your daughter?” You nodded. “Estrella.” She came closer, peeking around your side. “This is Foggy and Karen they’re our neighbors.”

Foggy crouched slightly so that he was closer to her height. “Hi, nice to meet you!” She stared, studying him. “Hi.” He smiled, his expression wavering slightly when he spoke again. “So, uh… Es-”

Her little brow furrowed. “Estrella.”

“Right. Es…tre-ya.”

She nodded. “That’s better.”

Karen covered an amused smile right as Foggy looked at you helplessly. “It’s a beautiful name. I’m just going to need a little practice.”

“Most people do," you offered consolingly.

Estrella thought about this and piped up, “You can call me Stella.” You glanced down at her. “Oh? So we like nicknames now?" She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Foggy brightened. “Stella. Perfect.” Estrella beamed back at him and, come on, you couldn’t help smiling too. There was something almost ridiculously sweet about watching your daughter decide, within thirty seconds, that someone was acceptable. Estrella had gone very still beside you and you glanced over. You knew that look.

Foggy stood to full height again. “Well, Stella, I think we’re gonna have to come back.” She nodded seriously. “Tomorrow?” Foggy looked at you. “See? She’s already bringing in the business.”

You chuckled and leaned against the counter. Foggy tucked the little box beneath his arm. “Guess we’ll see you guys tomorrow.” Karen gave you a small wave as they headed toward the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The bell chimed as they stepped outside. You watched them disappear down the sidewalk, Foggy already saying something animatedly while Karen laughed beside him. Estrella slipped her hand into yours. “You like them. Your heart was warm and happy I could feel it.” You looked down at her and huffed.

“Yeah, guess I do.”

notes: first of all, do you guys SEE these gorgeous dividers?! the biggest, fattest thank you and kiss to Elinor @peterftpercy for surprising me with them 🥹♥️

i hope you all enjoyed this chapter even tho we didn't get a whole lotta Matty in it just yet. if it isn't obvious i'm having way too much fun with this 😛 storybook vibes, food focused scenes, and Matt being an asshole. it's like a dog hearing it's favorite words. let me know what you guys think

general taglist: @sharksausages @ifyoulovemeletmebinge @alldayeverytae @patronsaintofthirst @ash-tuhn

series taglist: @peterftpercy @aquarius-girlll @akahlisworld @hellskitchenswhore @chefellaa @uselessnewt @papichulomacy @girlwhatever101 @hellilovedit @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @thehumantorchh @thychuvaluswife @alexhailmary

[alexisneverokay]

im being so deadly serious when I say there is zero non romantic or non sexual explanation for looking at your thirty years younger subordinate this way. so serious. this is how you look at someone you're fucking, or want to fuck.