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cryinginmyroomsposts · 3 months

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New Year's Day - Kim Mingyu

tags: fluff, friends to lovers, slight angst, lil' bit jealous, college boyfriend Mingyu, non-idol!au

masterlist

Not proofread!

"Tell me why we thought hosting a New Year's party at our apartment would be a good idea!" Your roommate's voice comes booming from the kitchen as you struggle to organise the lights on the wall above the sofa in your shared apartment living room.

"It definitely was not my idea." You bite back, regretting the idea the more by the minute as you clean and plan for the party.

"Haw! The audacity... you invited 15 people." Sam glares at you from the doorway, one hand on her hip and the other holding a ladle in a menacing way.

"I didn't know we would end up having to invite all of them." You admit. Sam sighs and walks towards you. "It's okay babe, I know you only wanted to invite Mingyu. It's not your fault he wanted to bring all 12 of his friends. And that two of them would want to bring their significant others."

"I really am sorry for all the trouble you go through for me Sam. I really appreciate it. Thanks." You both know you mean it. Sam had agreed immediately to the idea of the party seeing as how excited she was to see you and Mingyu get together.

Mingyu had been one of your closest friends in the last two years of university and you have been in love with him since the first semester you had met him. After two very lonely and self-destructive semesters of breaking your own heart, watching him date other girls and staying away from the one person you wanted to be close to, this last fall semester Mingyu had finally shown signs of reciprocating your feelings. Or so Sam felt.

At this point, you were so in your head about the whole thing that you could not differentiate reality from the illusions in your head. Breaking your heart had become a child's play for you and now it took constant encouragement and reiteration from Sam to even try to make moves on Mingyu.

He had been single for a whole semester and his behaviour toward you recently had been way different than before. The whole idea of a New Year's Eve party had been Sam and your idea to get Mingyu to finally realise his emotions (if he had any other than that of friendship for you). While the details had not exactly been worked out, you figured you would at least get to spend time with him in a closed setting.

The initial plan was to invite three of each of your friends and keep it as intimate as possible so that you and Mingyu could spend most of the time together. But when Mingyu had excitedly asked if he could bring along some friends, you had given in thinking it would be two or three but it ended up being thirteen instead. Not your fault that he looked like an absolute puppy when he wanted something.

The party was in an hour and now the two of you were running around trying to set right the drinks, decorations and food. Mingyu had promised to show up earlier and help with the food and setup but he was yet to arrive.

The sound of the doorbell breaks your train of thought and you go to open the door.

Speak of the devil.

"Ya! Why are you so late?" You question before he could greet you. As always Mingyu towers your entire doorway while looking gorgeous. He's wearing a simple black tee and joggers but manages to look like a million bucks.

He giggles and pulls you into one of his famous bear hugs and before he can reply another voice echoes from the stairs leading to your doorway.

"Mingyu ya, help me here please." The voice is soft and high-pitched. Before you can question it, Mingyu turns around and runs downstairs. When he returns, there is a girl in front of him, she is dressed in a modest pink dress, with bouncy curls lining her shoulders and a smile that lightens up her whole face. She is very pretty.

"Oh hi. You must be Y/N, Mingyu talks about you a lot. I'm Maya." She says extending her hand out to you. Her voice is soft and she looks very friendly and you shake her hand with a smile on your face.

"Hi, Maya. Welcome! I hope he has only told good things." You joke lightly and she laughs nodding.

"Yes, yes! I hope it is not a problem for me to join." She says as you lead her in, Mingyu towers over both of you as he walks behind her holding a box full of you're not sure what.

"Absolutely not an issue Maya! Please go have fun."

Once they are in, you close the door and walk straight to the closest restroom. When the locks are secured you open the tap and let out a breath that you didn't know you were holding in. It is not logical for you to jump to conclusions, but the fear still creeps in.

"Y/N, stop being stupid! She's a friend, seems sweet and is probably an amazing friend." You tell yourself through the mirror. But the problem is not her, you wouldn't hate or behave differently with her for a second. the problem is you and your fear that Mingyu has again chosen someone else over you. The problem is he doesn't see you, again, and you get left behind to be the best friend only, again.

The feelings are all too familiar to you after all this time. You are very close to breaking your own heart, hurting yet another piece of you to show up as Mingyu's good friend and support him. You are almost entirely convinced and right as you are about to break down the knock on the bathroom door interrupts you.

"Ya Y/N, you okay?" Mingyu's soft "Y/N-voice" (as Sam calls it) booms through the bathroom doors and stabs your heart like a glass shard. This is why it is so much harder to break your own heart. Because this man is so good and caring and everything you could ever want and yet he would never be yours.

"Y/n?" He calls out again. You wash your face and clear your throat as fast as possible. "Yeah, I'll be out in 5. Go mingle with people." He doesn't reply and you are too preoccupied trying to look party-presentable. This is why you jump when you find him staring right at you when you open the bathroom door.

"Jesus! Why did you scare me like that?" You ask trying to calm your heart rate. Instead of replying to you, he locks the closed room door and faces you while holding your shoulders. "What happened? Who should I hurt?" You chuckle and the worry on his face eases a little bit. His care for you only makes it so much harder to distance yourself and try to move on. This man makes it so hard not to love him.

"I'm fine Mingyu. I just had to use the restroom." You try your best to sound convincing but judging from the look of judgment on his face you can say he didn't buy it. Before he can begin his usual "Let people care about you" rant, Sam calls your name from the other end of the house and you excuse yourself to return to the chaos of the party. The rest of the three hours go by in absolute chaos of 13 grown men and 6 girls trying their best to socialize, vibe, and party in your apartment. You keep your distance from Mingyu and Maya, and find yourself clinging to Seokmin- Mingyu's friend. Seokmin is a very hot guy who is determined to be the party clown and you can't help but laugh every other minute at his antics. Everyone seems to be enjoying it, and several games are played.

"Everyone gather round and settle down. Ten minutes to midnight guys!" The sudden excitement in the air is infectious. You see that Seungcheol and Jihoon have settled on the couch with their girlfriends, Vernon is trying to be subtle about sitting next to Sam's classmate who he has been talking to since the evening began.

Right as you can figure out what to do about your Midnight seat, Sam pulls you into the kitchen.

"Where do u think you are going ?" She has the usual no-bs Sam stance, arms crossed across her chest and sharp eyes that can pierce through you.

"I- I am going to sit before Midnight strikes." You know where this conversation is headed.

"Y/N, why were you going to sit on the stool, alone. At midnight." If Sam's eyes were daggers, you would have bled to death in those few seconds of eye contact. The living room is buzzing with energy and you realize there are only 5 minutes left.

"Sam..." you exhale. She shakes her head in disappointment and walks away. You face the kitchen wall away from the living room and breathe.

Inhale... Exhale... Inhale... Exhale... In- "Hey..."

Mingyu's soft voice breaks your flow and you whip your head to see him standing right next to you. His palm is placed on the kitchen counter next to you and he is practically shielding you from the outside world.

"All okay?" He says, his voice is soft and slow. His eyebrows are furrowed in concern and he is leaning down to your height, face inches apart. His face is dripping with concern and it breaks yet another piece of your heart.

It would've been much simpler if you had only considered him a good friend like he does with you.

Mingyu lifts his eyebrows emphasising his question when you don't reply. You clear your throat and nod in affirmation.

"I'm good Gyu." "You sure?" You let a small smile at his concern, god he was so sweet. "Yes, Gyu. Don't worry. Just needed a small break from all the crowd before the new year."

He nods because he understands that sometimes crowds can overwhelm you.

"Why are you here?" You ask him, turning slightly to face him better. This immediately turns out to be a mistake as you are now trapped in between the kitchen counter and Mingyu's big frame. As the noise outside gets louder he leans further down toward your face and you repeat your question closer to his ear.

Can he hear how fast your heart is beating? Will he ever know how much you like him?

"I came to check on you because you were missing." He states matter-of-factly and you roll your eyes.

"There are only two more minutes for midnight Gyu. You should be out there, having fun."

"Yeah, you too." He sounds serious and you sigh.

"I will come out but you should go there. Maya will be waiting for you." Your voice croaks the last sentence and the knife in your heart sinks in further.

Mingyu looks confused at your words. "Why would she be waiting for me?"

"30 seconds to the New Year guys!" Someone shouts from the living room and you take another deep breath. Mingyu's eyes haven't left you and you are too nervous to see him for more than a second at a time.

"See less than a minute. Go out there before you miss your midnight kiss." You say in the brightest tone you can muster, hoping he understands you are referring to Maya and his midnight kiss.

"I don't need to be out there for that." He says the words slowly as his face is inches away from yours.

Huh?

Judging by the smirk on Mingyu's face you probably look like a deer caught in headlights at the moment. You're not sure how long you stay frozen like that until someone yells 15 seconds from the living room.

"Wha- what do you mean?" You gulp.

Mingyu moves his face closer, and he lifts one hand from the counter next to you to hold your chin. He angles your face and analyses it.

"Y/N?" Mingyu's voice comes out in a question, one you seem to be understanding.

Your heart is screaming in joy - "HE WANTS YOU TO BE HIS NEW YEAR'S KISS".

Your head is screaming in fear - "HE IS TOYING WITH YOU. RUN."

You gulp again. Mingyu has the softest smile on his face.

"Mingyu, don't play with my heart." Your voice is barely audible but you know Mingyu heard you. The smile on his face illuminates his eyes.

"Would never dream of it." He says in a deep and soft tone.

"5 SECONDS", a voice travels from the living room.

"Is this real, Gyu?" Your heart is beating in your eyes and you are staring deep into his.

He is now holding your face in both of his palms and your back is pressed on the kitchen counter.

"3 SECONDS!"

"As real our beating hearts, Y/N."

You believe him. Your heart believes him. Your brain has shut the fuck up for once.

"2 SECONDS GUYS!"

"So... can I kiss you ?" Mingyu's expression is now clouded with worry and you smile from your heart.

"1 SECOND!"

You nod quickly and right as everyone from the living room is yelling Mingyu's lips come crashing on yours.

It is everything you imagined, and so much more. His lips move against yours slowly. Both of you are smiling into the kiss. Neither of you is in a hurry at that moment, He is savouring you and you are melting into him.

After what feels like an eternity, both of you break apart for the practical purposes of breathing( who invented that huh?!).

Mingyu's face is still close to yours, lips lightly brushing against each other's.

The living room is bursting with energy and all your friends are there but you couldn't care less about anything at this moment.

"Happy New Year." Mingyu sounds content, his eyes are shining with happiness and his smile is incandescent.

"Happy New Year Gyu."

"I'm never starting a new year any other way after this," Mingyu says and you laugh. "Or any day for that matter." He states as he wraps his arms around your waist now.

God, you could get used to this!

"Oh wow, loverboy! Slow down... we still need to talk about things." You remind him because you have always been the one to bring all the anxiety and sense into this relationship.

"Hmm yeah, but a kiss first?" He asks in his signature puppy-Mingyu face. As you're about to lean in you see Sam enter the kitchen from the corner of your vision. She is startled at first and then breaks into the biggest smile as she leaves the two of you alone.

Your smile widens as Mingyu captures your lips once again.

It's been 5 minutes but this is already turning out to be your favourite year ever!

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azsazz · 5 months

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Change Your Ticket (Part 4)

Rugby Star!Cassian x Reader (A Modern AU)

Summary: Dating famous rugby star Cassian Bailey is a dream. What's not one is keeping your secret relationship under wraps. Will you and Cassian be able to keep from the limelight or will your relationship crumble because of it?

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3,361

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

_________________________________________

Something warm rolls into your body and you hum, still half-asleep. The orgasm you’d pulled from yourself while having phone sex with Cassian had put you in a slightly better mood a few days ago. You’d not only been missing him, but had been busy with the freelance projects you were to deliver by the end of the week, and between catching Cassian’s game on the TV and trying to console Mor while she went through yet another fling breakup, you hadn’t allotted as much time to working on them as you’d wanted to. Now it’s Monday, and you have to work. It will be a busy week with you scrambling to finish up loose ends before packaging the final projects and sending them off to their owners.

You’re dreading the week because of it. Cassian is coming back into town and you wanted to have the designs sent off before he returned from his away game against the Sealions for this reason specifically. He’s more of a welcome distraction than anything, but you take pride in your work and delivering project files in a timely manner. You’ll have to schedule your time with him wisely, if you want to see him and finish your jobs this week.

The warmth cocooning you shifts, gently rolling you onto your back. Hands trail their way across your skin and you release a sigh as they slide your thighs apart, brushing over your panty-clothed cunt. It reminds you of the way Cassian touches you when he’s home from days away and needy. It’s certainly a nice dream.

Searing lips press flush to your cheeks, dipping down to trace the line of your throat, tugging at the collar of the oversized shirt you wear, curtesy of Cassian. He’s abandoned so many clothes at your place that you’ve given him his own space in one of your drawers, through you haven’t actually seen him digging around in there for any, preferring a topless look while he’s here.

You stir when his fingers trace the sensitive skin above your panty line, your stomach jolting at the action. Blinking your eyes open, your hands immediately search for the wall of warmth teasing their way down your body.

“Cass?” you slur, voice thick with sleep. Your fingers find the familiar length of his hair, buried beneath the sheets as he continues his ascent on your body south. His hum of approval when you dig your fingers through his tangled locks tells you all you need to know about what happened.

He has a key to your apartment and must have used it when he arrived late last night or very early this morning. You’d gone to sleep alone last night, knowing that Cassian had been on his way home with the team, though you expected him to catch a ride back to his own apartment because it is much closer to the airport than yours.

“You sound so perfect, saying my name like that.” His voice is just as groggy, laced with the tiredness of travel and a flicker of how much he’s missed you.

His wandering fingers hook around the edges of your panties and you suck in a breath, arching your back already. Heat flushes your body and you can feel the wetness between your already eager thighs grow. Cassian presses a kiss to your cunt through the fabric and it sends shiver zipping up your spine as you buck into him, a breathy moan slipping past your lips.

Cassian’s knuckle brushes across your wetness as he grabs a handful of your panties. You’re unsure of if he’s going to slide them to the side or tear them from your body completely, but you don’t care, as long as he licks you from cunt to clit right the fuck now.

His name is a cry on your lips, the air in your chest shuddering with his movement. Any brush of his skin against yours makes you wild for the man, and you rip the blankets off of yourself to get a full view of the man teasing you between spread legs and because the room has become so suddenly hot that you feel as though you may pass out.

“Cass—” you whine, but are cut off by your alarm clock. It blares to life, screeching a tune that actually makes your stomach coil every time you hear it. You scare, hips rocking into Cassian’s knuckles that pulls the rest of the air from your lungs as you scramble to shut the damned alarm off.

It takes your mind to catch up, to really come to terms with why your alarm is going off like this when you have your gorgeous and eager boyfriend still tugging your underwear to the side like the abhorrent noise didn’t ruin his morning like it has yours—

Fuck. It’s fucking Monday. Which means you have to get out of the nice, cozy bed you’re about to get eaten out in and put on your big girl clothes and go to your big girl job that you were so adamant about having when Cassian had told you to just up and leave and that he’d take care of you.

That’s starting to sound a little too tempting right about now.

A nip to the meat of your thigh draws you back to the debacle at hand. Cassian is not letting it affect him like you are. He’s sliding your panties down your legs, following the path his lips are making.

You tug gently on his hair, pulling him to a halt.

“Don’t say it,” he all but begs, refusing to look up at you like you like he’s planning on continuing his ministrations whether you approve or not. And goddamn do you approve, but reality is a bitch, and she’s crowing in your ear to get the fuck up.

“I have to go to work,” you sigh, dragging your hand from his disheveled hair to caress his stubbled cheek. He keeps his lips planted to your skin, peppering soft kisses into your skin. When he looks up at you, you wish he almost hadn’t, with the way his hazel eyes are filled with lust of a thousand fires.

“Call in sick,” he answers as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. In a perfect world, perhaps.

You roll your eyes as your mind wanders to Cassian trying to call in sick to get out of practice. Coach Devlin would have his ass and he’d either be benched for the next match or he’d have do practice double to make up for it. The thought of Cassian pouting on the sidelines while the rest of his teammates play makes a smile tug at your lips.

“I can’t,” you groan, letting your head fall back into the pillow. Gods, how can one person be so warm? You want to bask in it like a lion laying out in the sun, let it lull you back to sleep for a few more hours, and then he can make you cum. Or maybe he can make you cum first and then you can let the heavenly orgasm and his comfortable body consume you.

“Quit.”

“Cassian,” you sigh, finally forcing yourself to untangle from him. He pouts up at you, refusing to move, and he’s a lot more solid than you remember. How could you forget he literally creates a fucking wall with his body professionally. He’s like the God of Solid Things. “Please, I really can’t be late.”

Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Cassian removes his hands from your panties and his body from yours, pressing up onto his hands and knees with the grace of wildcat stalking its prey. His thick thighs are pressed against yours, his stiff cock in his shorts butting against your cunt as he meets your gaze. Your cunt clenches and your thighs tremble with the effort it’s using you to keep the spread when all you want to do is wrap them around his taut waist and pull him even closer.

Cassian grins.

“Will we see you tonight? My place? Seven o’clock?” he prods, stealing a kiss.

You can hardly think with him pinning you like this. You’re unable to move any other body part because it’s taking every ounce of focus you have to keep yourself from climbing him like a tree. His cock brushes against your cunt again and you nearly bite through your lip at the motion. Your stomach hurts with how tightly it’s coiled, lust vignetting your vision.

You take a shaky breath but all it does is cause your tightened nipples to brush against his chest. You gasp out, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. “Yes.”

He hums, an approving noise low in his throat. “Good girl.” Cassian rolls off of you, back onto his side of the bed. Air rushes into your lungs, cooling your hot blood.

Fuck me, you think as the words zip down your spine, straight to your cunt. You’re milliseconds from pulling him right back on top of you to finish what he’s started. Your clit is throbbing too much to make sense of anything else besides getting down and dirty with you man, and it takes you more than a minute to gather your bearings and remind yourself that you have to get to work to make money to pay for this place.

His hazel eyes are dark as he watches you scramble from the bed like a frightened deer. His cock strains against the fabric of his briefs and he makes no effort to try and calm his erection down, instead sticking a hand inside and stroking himself from base to tip.

It makes your mouth dry.

“Better get ready for work, sweetheart,” Cassian taunts, stroking himself again. His body shudders with the motion, and you know that sharp look in his eyes means that he’s thinking of all the things he could be doing to you right now. You grab your phone from the nightstand and make you way hastily to the bathroom, avoiding his gaze. “Unless you want a little show to remind you of what you’re coming home to tonight?” His question is said with innocence, but the gestures he’s making beneath his briefs are anything but.

“Gods, Cassian,” you mutter, all but running into the bathroom, shutting yourself in. Leaning back against the door, you pull in a heaving breath, trying to ignore the wetness and want between your legs. You allow yourself five minutes to calm yourself down, but when that doesn’t work due to the low, delicious taunts coming from the other side of the door, you force yourself from your spot, lunging to turn the shower on before stripping down and stepping into the cold, cold water.

“Yes, of course Mr. Stemm, we can absolutely change the shade of green it’s in. Were you thinking more of a forest or a neon green? Celadon, perhaps?” you respond to your client, staring at the logo you’ve designed for him. Admittedly, you’ve been staring at yourself in the tiny box at the corner of your screen for more of the meeting than you should, but you can’t help it, not when you can still feel Cassian’s lips against your neck and his fingers down your pants.

Gods, you catch yourself, straightening in your chair. Hopefully Mr. Stemm doesn’t notice the red creeping across your cheeks and down your neckline. You’d been unable to stop thinking about the boyfriend you left at your apartment. And, apparently, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you either, because Cassian spent almost half of the morning texting you how much he missed you.

Cassian: We miss you already

You: I miss you too. And please stop referring to you and your cock as ‘we.’ It’s weird.

Cassian: What’s weird is that you didn’t want me to fuck you back to sleep this morning.

Gaping, you’d looked around yourself like someone might be reading over your shoulder. Your next nearest coworker, Tarquin, had his head buried deep in his own phone, probably watching ASMR videos. You replied hastily.

You: I would’ve been late  We’ve been through this.

Cassian: How about a quickie during lunch then? I’ve got time.

You: No, you’ve got practice and I’ve got a meeting. Now go!

Cassian: I’m pouting right now, just so you know. Think about me doing all of my stretches, I bet you can get yourself off just by doing that.

You can, and you have. You have an entire folder dedicated to thirst traps made by his fans, and you have to admit, some of them are pretty damn good. Your cheeks burned so hot and your collar tightened around your neck to much that you almost choked.

You: I’m putting my phone on Do Not Disturb, I don’t deserve thisssssss

Cassian: You’re right, sweetheart, you deserve so much more. Maybe even seven, eight, nine inches more.

If your body wasn’t already on fire you might’ve burst into flames at your desk. Like your ass was on fire, you shot off a quick ‘see you for dinner’ and turned your phone to silent. You even took a few calming breaths and wandered over to refill your water bottle before your meeting, having drained yours to the dregs trying to cool the flush of your body and the uncomfortable ache between your legs.

Your fingers itch to grab the phone placed only a few inches from your hand now, but you need to stay focused on your client.

Tamlin Stemm’s laughter rings in your headphones and you have to bite back your smile. He’s a handsome man, not much older than yourself, with blond hair draping long across his shoulders. It looks as if he’s given up trying to tame the golden locks as he runs his fingers through it and it tangles around his digits. His green eyes are piercing even through the screen, and the stubble lining his jaw is not harsh on the eyes either.

He’s been your client for only a couple of months now. Tamlin is opening his own tech company, Manic, and you are the designer tasked with the job to help create his brand from logo conception to creating all of the essentials he’ll need; business cards, stationary, even slideshow templates, and any other projects he may need a hand with.

“I think we both know I don’t know what Celadon is, but I do know that I’ve asked you to call me Tamlin before,” Mr. Stemm—Tamlin gives you that knowing look, the one that you think borders on something a little more friendly than your client should be with you. “Use your best judgement. I trust you.”

You nod, scribbling down the note. Tapping your pen to your paper, you ask, “But everything else looks to your liking? The letters, the brackets making up the ‘M’ in ‘Manic?’” You chew on your lip, roaming the logo again.

You’d stared at so many different typefaces, trying to find the right fit for so long that ‘Manic’ no longer looked like a word, or a word that was spelled correctly, at least. After that it was implementing your sketches, designing a few options for Tamlin to look over and choose from, critiques and rounds of revision, until now, the final stages of his project. You’re proud of the work you’ve done on this logo, and it’s definitely one you’ll be adding to your portfolio.

“It looks better than the drawing I attempted when I thought of it,” Tamlin laughs, and you chuckle along with him. Truly, you’d taken the awful sketch that looked like a four-year-old had drawn it and brought it to life. “You do some amazing work, (Y/N), thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Tamlin,” you respond with a grin. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of creating something your client deems perfect, even more so something that you’re completely proud of yourself. You can’t wait to continue developing his branding essentials.

You talk through a few more points, deadlines for his other projects and next steps. Tamlin lets you know that he’ll be in town in a few weeks for a business meeting and asks if you’re open to taking one of your meetings in person with him.

“Of course, Tamlin,” you agree, “Just let me know when you’re available and we’ll set something up.” With a response he’ll be emailing you soon, you finish up the call, sighing and tugging your headphones out of your ears as you relax back into your seat.

Before you even have a chance to reach for your phone, Tarquin’s rolling over on his chair and peppering you with questions. “Gods, you are so lucky to be on that project. Not only is it big, but he’s incredibly good looking too,” he swoons, staring at your screen as if Tamlin’s mossy green eyes are burned into the display.

“Tarq, you weren’t staring at him over my shoulder again, were you?” You groan. Your coworker has the tendency to make as many excuses as he can to turn in his chair and peer over his shoulder at your screen when you take a call with the tech wizard. “You’re going to scare him away someday.”

Tarquin tuts, rolling his eyes. “I am not going to scare him away. If anything, it’s going to be love at first sight.”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. It’s hard to take Tarquin seriously sometimes when he’s pining after a new person each week. More often than not it’s people he’s never met, a person in line in front of him at the coffee shop or someone sitting across from him on the train.

You should really introduce him to Mor. They’d really hit it off.

“If you say so,” you tease, turning back to type up your notes before your next meeting.

Tarquin leans in close, a ridiculous smile on his face that instantly makes you brace yourself for his next words. “Unless of course, you want him for yourself?”

You nearly choke, fingers slipping against your keys. Tarquin doesn’t know that you have a six-foot five rugby player with thighs the size of tree trunks tucked up in your bed right now. If only Tarquin could see Cassian now. His jaw would hit the floor.

Stifling your amusement at the thought of Tarquin gushing over your boyfriend, you quickly gather your things, sliding your phone into your back pocket, and standing from your desk.

“Come on, Tarq. Let’s go grab a coffee before the eleven o’clock meeting.”

Your eleven o’clock meeting runs long and you hardly have time to take a lunch because you’re scrambling to keep up with your work for the day. You have another meeting at three with a potential new client, a skin care line that is looking for packaging to be designed in exactly the style you love. You’ve been fantasizing about contracting this client and you hope your pitch is good enough.

Four thirty rolls in by the time you’ve exited the call with the potential clients, feeling better than ever because they agreed that you’d do the packaging for this line, and if all goes well, they’ll look into becoming full-time clients of Reynar Advertising. You’re nearly bouncing off the walls with excitement and Tarquin asks you to get drinks after work to celebrate but you politely decline. You can’t wait to go home and tell the news to Cassian.

The last half hour trickles by slowly, and when you finally have time to shut your phone off of Do Not Disturb while you’re walking to the elevators, your phone immediately starts buzzing with an incoming call.

“Hey, Mor,” you greet, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. You wanted Cassian to be the first to know about the client you’ve just signed, but Mor is here now, and you’re just too damned exhilarated to keep it to yourself. “Guess what?” you ask, jamming your finger into the ground level button as you step into the elevator.

“You’re dating Cassian Bailey?” she screeches and everything slows to a halt.

“What?”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Change Your Ticket Taglist: @justasillylittlegoofyguy @starsinyourseyes @jdeclerc @indiedash @kennedy-brooke @tothestarsandwhateverend @azsteris @obsessivereaderchick @aalxrose

#cassian #cassian x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #rugby!cassian #change your ticket #rugby!cassian au #acotar au

261 notes · View notes

bettyfrommars · 2 months

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Ring of Fire

a biker Steve au

Part 1 || I went down, and the flames went higher

18+ONLY || afab!Reader, eventual smut, alcohol consumption, allusions to dirty deeds, smoking, allusions to sex with someone other than reader (not cheating), allusions to violence/fighting, bloody knuckles, eventual breaking & entering, biker!Eddie, biker!Hopper, reader and Steve are in their early 30's. Please read warning for each part.

masterlist playlist

Summary || You haven't set eyes on Steve Harrington since the 8th grade, but you have no problem recognizing him almost 20 years later when he steps back into your life. A lot has changed in Hawkeye, the town you grew up in, but a lot has stayed the same.

word count: 5k

A/N || This is my version of Hawkins, a town called Hawkeye, and it is a desert town surrounded by tumbleweeds, agriculture, and junkyards. Even though Steve is a biker and a mechanic, I try to maintain his "essence". I plan for this to be a shorter series, like 3 or 4 parts, but those are always famous last words from this lyin', cheatin' mouth. This is a niche fic, and for the ten people who will appreciate it, I love you.

The bell on the door dinged to let you know you had a customer, but you didn’t look up right away, you were too busy trying to figure out why your till was a few bucks short for the day. Donna would not be happy. Heavy foot falls made it to the counter and then the person in question cleared his throat.

“Ten on pump 2 and a pack of reds, please,” the voice was deep and scratchy, like he was recovering from a sore throat.

You closed the cash register and glanced up for the first time.

The sight made you inhale a sharp breath and hold it. The man had on a thick motorcycle jacket zipped up halfway over a white tee, atop blue jeans that were a dark denim wash, faded over time, with a tattered hole in one knee. There were tattoos scattered over his flesh, peeking from his collar, and down his hands. Letters on his knuckles spelled something that you couldn't quite make out, and he had a luscious mop of maple syrup hair on his head that looked like it had once been gelled into place but lost the fight hours ago. He raked a big hand through it slowly, pausing halfway through the movement, and tucked his chin to pin you with an anticipatory stare.

The last person you every expected to see again was Steve Harrington.

He pushed his wayfarer sunglasses up to reveal hazel eyes that were just as sad as they were electric. Swiping the tip of his tongue over his top lip, he repeated himself. “Pump 2?”

You gave a flustered wave of your hand. “Yes, of course,” turning to pull a soft pack from the wall behind you. “Matches?”

He shook his head, and then, “just a sec,” before sauntering over to the aisle on the other side of the potato chips.

Tossing a back of Magnum condoms on the counter next to his smokes, he dug his wallet out of his back pocket and said a polite, “those too, please.” The wallet was as worn as his jeans and connected by a chain to one of his belt loops.

The cash register made loud click-clack noises as you punched in the numbers and gave him the total. You weren’t expecting to see the wad of bills that fanned, but then he handed you what you needed.

“You new here?” He asked as you passed him his change, rolling a piece of bright green gum from the inside of his cheek to start chewing it again.

You stumbled over the question. “New to this store or Hawkeye?”

A smirk lifted up one side of his mouth. “Both, I guess?”

He was well aware that you were new to the corner gas n’ sip because he’d been a regular customer for years, and he definitely would have remembered you.

Definitely.

Yet, something about you felt very familiar.

“I grew up here,” your delivery was dry.

Steve tilted his head back to assess you down the bridge of his nose and frowned like he didn’t believe you. You noticed that his hands were rough and stained with evidence that he did some vocation of hard labor for a living.

You decided to humor him with a clue. “I left Hawkeye right before my freshman year. My hair was different back then, and my mom drove a big, white Buick LeSabre—-”

With an unblinking stare, he blurted your name, repeating it a few times in disbelief as the memory seized him.

There you were, the one who’d haunted his middle school dreams. The first notable crush he ever had, standing a few feet in front of him

“Shitttt,” he continued, scooping his purchases up in one hand, huffing out a breath. He searched your face, and you watched the light in his eyes intensify. “You were a year older than me, right? I remember you were always so bossy on the playground.”

You sealed your lips over a chuckle. “Well, someone had to keep you and Eddie from dismantling the playground equipment to sell to the salvage yard.”

Steve chomped down on his lip in a smile, his hip finding the edge of the counter, trying to get closer to you. “Copper,” he corrected with a one-eyed squint. “We wanted to dismantle the lampposts. Copper wiring could earn a pretty penny back then.”

“You’re still good with your hands I see,” gesturing to his calloused digits, the moons of his cuticles stained from motor oil, knuckles slashed with white scarring.

He flexed his right hand into a fist and then opened it again, deliberate and slow, watching you as he did so. “I do alright.”

He was leaning over the counter at that point, elbow resting next to the cash register, hip jutting out behind him, holding his mouth as if he were about to say something—-

“...and then, do you know what Ned said to me? Nothing, that’s what. Three days and I barely get two words out of him. Before you go, there are two crates that need to be put away in the back—-”

56 year old Donna, your boss, approached the front desk from the back room, buzzing with conversation. She stopped short when she saw Steve there, and tucked some silver, permed hair behind her ear.

“Oh, hey Steven,” she greeted.

“Donna,” he gave a twitch of a smile, standing to full height again, slipping his wallet into his back pocket. “I was just catching up with an old friend.”

Donna had on bright pink lipstick and heart-shaped, baby blue clip-on earrings. “You know Steve?”

“You could say that,” you stared at him as you said it. “I’ve tried to put it behind me.“

Steve ran his tongue over the ridge of his teeth at that, and you could see that the left incisor was gold.

Donna crowded in behind you, trying to get to the styrofoam container with her food inside that was on a stool just below the rack of caffeine pills. It was leftover burger and fries from the diner across the street and the smell had been making your mouth water.

“How’s Eddie?” Donna asked, and it was obvious she was talking to Steve. “Haven’t seen him drop by here in a while.”

Steve pulled his sunglasses out of his nest of hair and slid them back down to his nose before giving you one final look. You backed up against the cigarette display to watch him go.

“He’s been busy,” Steve gnawed his gum, addressing your boss. “Business at the garage has picked up since the only other mechanic in town split. I work there part time when I’m not—” he swallowed back whatever he was initially about to say. “---when I’m not doing other things.”

Donna shoved the corner of her sesame seed bun burger in her mouth, chewed it and kept talking. “I saw Robin yesterday. Her and Ratchet back together?”

In the past few days of your employment, you were learning that Donna was a pillar of gossip in the community, and she wasn’t afraid to ask the tough questions.

Steve scratched the stubble on his chin, possibly contemplating how much he should share. “I think they have an understanding,” he chimed diplomatically, stealing another glance in your direction.

“Say hi to Wayne for me,” Donna added as Steve pushed his way out the mostly glass door. He waved over his shoulder in response, nodding that he would.

You shimmied further along behind the counter, pretending to organize the pens, so that you could follow where Steve was going, see what he was driving.

To your surprise, he pumped gas into a hulking, coal black motorcycle with ape-hanger handlebars and blue ghost flames on the tank. You were staring with your mouth slightly agape when Donna’s voice broke your concentration.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, cheek of food again. “That boy is adorable, but he’s bad news.”

“Why?” The question was out of your mouth before you were cognitively aware of it.

She thumbed ketchup from the corner of her mouth. “You ever heard of the Coffin Kings?”

Your gaze flicked to the side, catching Steve as he kicked a leg over to straddle the bike. “I don’t think—it doesn’t ring a bell.”

You were lying; of course you’d heard of the Coffin Kings. How could you forget the horde of long-haired bikers who cruised through town when you were a kid, a few of them stopping by to pick Eddie and Steve up from school on occasion. Eddie’s uncle Wayne was one of the original members, and most of the teachers kept their manners around the boys for that reason alone. Sure, Steve got detention for carving his initials into one of the school desks, but little did you know that it was only because he knew you would be in there too.

Steve revved the bike to life until it was growling, idling in place with his back to you while he strapped his bare bones helmet on.

“How do you know him?” Donna asked, not afraid to be pushy.

“Well, I—” you thought about the specifics of that question. “I don’t know him at all anymore, really. We were just kids. It’s been a long time.”

“You want my advice?” Donna wiped her mouth with a tissue from a nearby Kleenex box.

You didn’t, but you knew you couldn’t stop her from giving it to you.

“If you’re looking for a bad boy type, his friend Eddie is a much better catch. Runs his own business, works hard, stays out of trouble. Steve? Well, let’s say Stevie is just—-”

You turned to her as Steve hit the main road and shot into the distance. “He’s what?”

You waited while she rolled her lips together, wetting them thoughtfully, turning her gaze to the ceiling.

“He’s a nice kid, but he’s trouble,” she sighed. “He’s not the type you’d want to get serious with, if you know what I mean.”

Coincidentally, you did know what that meant. You were a bit of a connoisseur when it came to trouble; not only could you sniff it out, but it flocked to you like seagulls on a parking lot french fry.

But what Donna didn’t know was that you were no angel.

You scoffed at her suggestion. “I’m not looking for a relationship any time soon. I plan to stay single for a while.”

Donna dumped the rest of her dinner in the trash under the cash register. “In that case, you and Steve have more in common than I thought.”

—-----

Steve had the rest of the evening off, he should’ve gone straight home to have a beer in his boxers in front of the TV and try to pass out early. He’d been slinging wrenches at Munson’s Garage that day, a double shift to help Eddie out, and his hand was throbbing so hard he had to take it off the throttle and shake it out.

But also, who was he kidding? He hadn’t slept more than a few hours that whole week. He needed a distraction, he needed people, he needed to forget his gut-wrenching loneliness for a while.

He revved the throttle, shooting himself faster along the empty highway, passing nothing but flat alfalfa fields and the odd farmhouse every mile or so. The low, desert hills rolled like sleeping giants on the horizon as dusk descended.

The Blue Light Tavern was housed in a brick building built in the 40’s, located between the truck stop and the Rosebud Motel, about a mile or so from the center of town. The only way anyone passing by would even know it was a tavern was due to the neon Pabst and Jameson signs in the two tiny front windows. There were already two motorcycles out front when Steve pulled up, and he found a spot at the end.

The bartender that night was Angie, and she greeted him by name when he strolled in. He asked for a beer, picked some songs on the jukebox, and started a game of pool with a fellow MC member, cigarettes bobbing from their lips as they played.

That's when you walked in.

He took a drink from his pint glass, pausing it there, watching you scan the room before making your way quietly to one of the stools at the far end of the bar, on the corner, closest to the door, as if you might have to make a run for it. You were in the same clothes you’d had on at the gas n’ sip, but now you wore a zip-up black hoodie, hugging it around your ribs as if you were cold.

The guy Steve was playing pool with was known as Big Jim around Hawkeye. Head of hair slicked back with generous sideburns down to his jaw, and a white scar making a thin indentation from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He wore a long sleeve red and black flannel under his Coffin Kings kutte with the name Hopper patched on one side.

Hopper said something to Steve and he appeared to ignore him, but finally blinked a few times. “What did you say?”

Hopper held his pool cue across his lap as he sat on one of the tall swivel chairs against the wall, long legs braced wide. “It’s your move, Romeo,” he drawled, plucking his smoke from the ashtray to take a drag. .

Steve suddenly got very confused, frowning when he turned to his friend. How could Hop know he was interested in you?

Hop gestured to the green felt under the Budweiser chandelier with his chin, exhaling, framing his lips to make an “O” with the smoke. “Your turn, pipsqueak.”

“Right,” Steve huffed, shaking his head as he pushed off the wall.

—--------

You waited outside, staring up at the Pabst neon that was missing the “b”, trying to work up the nerve to go in. The Blue Light Tavern had been around so long, you remembered it from the rare occasions when your dad met up with his buddies, back when it was called The Hideaway. Before the accident, back when you were a kid and considered Hawkeye your home.

You were officially a resident once more, but you weren’t sure if you’d feel at home anywhere ever. You weren’t sure if you’d ever feel safe again. You weren’t sure you’d ever feel again.

When you finally opened the door, smoke billowed out, and the low-lit, grimey ambiance felt like a familiar friend. You weren’t in the mood to drink, necessarily, you just didn’t want to sit at your apartment alone. There weren’t many public places open in Hawkeye after 9, so you’d just been walking around aimlessly for the past hour. Your tiny rental above the Gas n’ Sip was empty but for a mattress, two kitchen chairs, and five or six boxes you still needed to unpack. It all felt too dismal and overwhelming to tackle after your first full day at your new job.

“What’ll it be darlin’?” The brunette bartender asked, using a white rag to wipe down the bar in front of you. There was ice melting in a tumbler, a few used toothpicks, and a sticky ring on the woodgrain. She scooped it all out of the way and then stared at you with a hand on her ample hips.

You were flustered and said the first thing that came to mind. “Can you make a gin and tonic?”

“I think I can handle that,” she winked, moving out of the way to grab a glass. You could hear the billiard balls clacking together over the music of Bringin' on the Heartache by Def Leppard , but there was a jukebox and a length of partition in the way, so you couldn’t see who was at the table. Including you, there were only a handful of customers that night; one surly man with a long gray beard at the bar, a couple at a table looking up at the mounted Zenith TV on the wall playing a muted episode of the Twilight Zone, and another two were throwing darts at a well worn target.

Angie placed a white cocktail napkin before setting your drink down. “Someone bought you this,” she had tiny veins of red around the cracks of her bare lips, as if she’d been wearing lipstick earlier.

“Someone?” Disbelief came first, and then it made you paranoid. The last thing you wanted was to get hit on by—-

“It was him,” Angie gestured down the end of the bar to where Steve caught your eye and bucked his chin at you.

The universe really did have a sense of humor.

—-----

A few minutes later, once he finished his game and let Hopper win just to move things along, he sauntered over to put his booted foot up on the bottom rung of the stool next to you. His white tee had a V-neck, exposing a tuft of chest hair. “Are you following me?”

You swished your drink with a red stir stick, and then sucked it clean. “I won’t let this freebie go to my head, Harrington. I bet you buy drinks for all the new women in town.”

He gripped a fresh cigarette between pursed lips and lit the end, looking up at you from under his furrowed, James Dean brow. “Yeah, but you’re not new.”

“Shhh it’s a secret,” you snipped two fingers in the air like a pair of scissors and he grinned at that, offering his pack of reds for you to take one. One of his ears was pierced, and a small silver hoop curved there.

“Since when do you smoke?”

“I don’t,” you answered flatly, leaning over so that he could light the end for you with his plastic blue Bic, inhaling so that your cheeks hollowed.

“You want to read my palm again?”

“Again?” You exhaled smoke to the side.

Steve straddled the stool and got comfortable with his elbows on the bar. “You read my palm once when we were kids,” he straightened his arm, locking his elbow, so that his palm was open in front of you. “I think you said my love life would be troubled, but I’d live a long life. And then you made some crack about how I’d let the right one get away.”

You huffed a laugh and chomped onto your bottom lip to keep from smiling too big, staring at his strong fingers as they wiggled in front of you, veins popping strong in his forearm.

“I can’t believe you remember that.” Tilting your head to the side, you took another sip of your drink, cringing a little at the strength of the alcohol; it was a glass of gin with a splash of tonic. But maybe Angie’s heavy hand was a blessing that night.

The gold in his tooth flashed like lightning in a storm. “I remember everything,” his voice was soft and deep, and you had to look away before he turned you into a brainless, lovesick zombie from his vampiric-strength powers of persuasion.

Clearing your throat, you squirmed a bit under the weight of his stare. “My palmistry days are behind me. I’m out of practice.”

He slid his hand back, but slowly, hoping you might want to touch it or grab it or—-

“But I am curious—”

Fingers flexed flat again as an invitation.

“---what does it say on your knuckles?”

“Oh these?” He made two fists and twisted them to read it himself as if he wasn’t sure, and then put both palms flat and slid them back in your direction, fingers splayed.

Murmuring aloud as you spelled it out, you realized that the right knuckles spelled LOVE and the left ones said PAIN in thick, capital lettering.

“My turn,” he pulled back his shoulders, taking another drag, squinting, before resting his cigarette butt back in the ashtray.

“Your turn for what?”

“Questions. What is that key around your neck for?”

You slapped a hand over the metal piece dangling from a chain, not realizing it had escaped the confines of your shirt collar, fingering it thoughtfully as you thought about what type of story you should make up.

You could tell him the truth, but you weren’t sure you were emotionally equipped to answer any further questions. You made a fist around the key and started massaging it with your thumb, when another hulking biker with a thick mustache cupped a meaty hand onto Steve’s shoulder.

“Bones just paged, we gotta meet them at the junkyard on ,” the big man shifted his kind, blue eyes to you, blinking with a nod of his head to acknowledge your presence, and offer his silent apologies all at once.

Steve stood without argument, clearly duty bound, but his attention remained on you. He motioned Hopper ahead, and then he idled there, internally stumbling over his words.

“Any chance you’ll be here again tomorrow night?” He flicked the spark on his lighter a few times as he spoke out of nervous habit.

You tucked the metal key into your shirt. “I work the late shift at the gas station tomorrow.”

His mood seemed to lift slightly at knowing where you would be.

“Taz,” Hopper hummed from the door where he braced it open with his broad back, offering a blast of fresh air to the nicotine saturated walls. Taz was Steve’s nickname in the club, but that was just one more thing you had yet to learn about him. He adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, gave your bicep a tender squeeze as he went by, and leaned down to whisper, “it’s good to see you,” at the shell of your ear, giving you goosebumps.

Once he was gone, the tavern suddenly felt emptier, the sound of George Thorogood singing about drinking alone pounding much louder as you stared down at the glass in your hand.

You finished your drink and then you made the trek back home, hugging yourself against the crisp night breeze, wondering how you would occupy your time for the next couple hours before you found sleep.

—------

The roar of their two engines cut through the dry June night like a knife, affording no illumination but their headlights and the moon. Steve had replaced his leather jacket with his own MC leather that said TAZ on the front from one of his saddlebags, bare flesh of his arms exposed to show the scattering of tattoos there as he gripped the handlebars. Both riders wore clear safety glasses to protect their eyes from the wind and the kamikazee bugs.

Snipes Junkyard loomed menacingly in the expanse of desert, shrouded in cobalt night. Heaps of twisted metal wreckage, smashed cars all piled on top of each other, and a high fence made of corrugated metal with curls of razor wire along the top ridge.

There was a group of bikes parked out front when they arrived and two of the Coffin Kings Prospects, Riot and Krebs, guarded the gate to the place.

Both new arrivals put their helmets on the end of their handlebars and tucked their safety glasses into their front pocket as they approached.

“What are we walking into?” Hopper asked, and Riot was already shaking his head in answer.

“The underground tunnels were breached,” he said, tucking a strand of curly black hair behind his ear. “Crater isn’t happy.”

Crater was a Hawkeye native who got his nickname because of the chicken pock scars that covered his cheeks and jaw. He was also President of one of the other MC’s in town called the Skull Crushers.

When tensions were high among the gangs, there was always a good chance someone would pull a gun or start punching, so Steve and Hopper shared a weary look, bracing themselves before entering.

—------

Just as you were about to step up onto your block, you caught sight of someone coming out of the mini mart that you lived above. A side door led up a flight of narrow stairs, and the top room was all yours; it was the size of a tin can, but it was shelter and you were grateful.

Through the soft glow of the front window, you saw Donna’s husband Ned behind the counter with his half-moon reading spectacles on and a novel open in front of him. Which reminded you to make sure you brought some material to entertain you on your shift the next night.

Somewhere not too far off in the distance, a group of coyotes yipped their excited whines.

The person who’d just come out paused on the sidewalk to light a smoke, and you sank around the corner of the building to watch the guy in the jeans, leather, and thick boots stroll over to put some gas in the tank of his Harley. Bulkier than the one Steve rode, this one was glossy obsidian with chrome pipes and a sissy bar in back, as if he usually had a rider with him. His hair was unruly, long and dark, and once you caught a glimpse of his profile from the dim beam above the pumps, you knew right away that it was Eddie Munson.

You thought about getting his attention to say hello, but then realized that your social battery was tapped for the day. The cigarette dangled from his mouth when he took off, and you waited until he was down the street before darting to the stairs of your apartment.

—-----

A few hours later, Steve’s left hand with the PAIN held a black payphone receiver to his ear while the other hand rolled the numbers on the rotary dial. His knuckles were freshly spit and bleeding, since one of the Skull Crushers had come at him during a misunderstanding at the meet earlier, and he was forced to lay the guy out. He felt wired, like rest had somehow become his enemy, something he ran from as it tracked him ruthlessly.

A woman who went by the name Lorelei picked up on the second ring.

“It’s me,” he coughed and tasted that familiar copper tang. “It’s Steve. Are you busy?”

It was almost 4 in the morning, but Steve had been a regular customer for a few months and, also, she didn’t mind his company. He wasn’t like her other customers; he didn’t want the typical things from her.

His hand haphazardly bandaged with a red handkerchief; he hugged it to his chest when he knocked at the door of room 8 at the Rosebud Motel. When it opened, Lorelei stood there with a silk, periwinkle kimono wrapped snug around her curves, and motioned him in. There were two lamps on in the room, both of their shades were draped with floral scarves, and a candle burned on the nightstand, smelling of essential oils, bergamot and lavender. She didn’t live at the Rosebud, but she did stay a few nights in a row there when she was working.

Steve's relationship history thus far had been a blur of endless disconnect, a series of hit and runs that left his heart empty and his eyes vacant. It was easy for a guy in a motorcycle club to get laid; their parties were always crawling with eager pussy. But after a certain age, that wasn’t what he craved anymore. He often worried that the parental dynamic he’d witnessed growing up, or lack thereof, had fucked him up to the point that he would never be able to have a normal relationship with a girl he liked.

A while ago he’d given up on love, figured that he was broken. But he still had urges, and making them transactional helped him to disengage further.

“What are you in the mood for?” Lorelei hooked a finger into his belt loop and pulled him closer, searching his face. “Same as last time, hmm?”

Steve lowered his head, internal exhaustion making him dizzy. He held her arm, thumbing the delicate material of her robe. “Not tonight,” he swallowed thickly. “Just the stuff that…comes after.”

Nodding that she understood, she cupped his chin so he would look at her. “Will three hours be enough?” One look at him told her what he needed was 24 at the least, but three was all she had to give.

Over the years, Steve had come to realize that his insomnia was somehow cured when he could sleep next to someone. To roll over and have them there, to hold them. Alone, his mind raced, and nightmares plagued the inside of his eyelids. With Lorelei, they mostly slept side by side, and the weight and familiarity of her was somehow enough to calm his nervous system down to a reasonable level.

“Come,” she sat him on the edge of the bed and knelt to unlace his boots. He wrestled to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, ready to pluck some bills out, but she put her hand up to stop him.

“After, okay? I trust you,” she whispered, tugging off the first boot by the heel, rubbing the ball of his foot a little before moving to the next shoe.

Steve’s head bobbed on his neck, and then he rolled it back to center, eyes heavy.

He always refused to undress fully, and Lorelei suspected it had something to do with how vulnerable it made him feel, but she never asked questions. He scooted up to find the pillow with his head, and by the time she crawled in next to him and put her hand on his thigh, he was out.

-------

Thank you to my darling readers who love biker Steve!

#Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington series #Steve Harrington fic #Stranger Things fic #biker!steve #biker!steve harrington #Ring of Fire

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lesliesknopes · 21 days

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Can’t stop thinking about a professional basketball player Eddie AU where he meets Buck and Buck has no idea he’s famous because basketball isn’t his thing

#buddie #911 abc

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loserdiaz · 1 year

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seven-ish sentence sunday

soo i wanted to start today's sss bc i'm so proud of this edit and i know some people like famous buck and army eddie au so... here's more for it!

Eddie can't help to smile down at his phone. These past few months with Buck have been— amazing, incredible, a comfort for him in the middle of a literal warzone.

Eddie spends the rest of the day checking social media and checking his messages with Buck, anxious to know if he's won or not.

Also maybe, he goes back to stare at that picture the blonde sent him. Just a little bit.

And if he brushes a finger through his screen as if it's Buck's face, then that's between him and God.

tagging (no pressure): @cowboy-buddie @monsterrae1 @buddierights @alyxmastershipper @fatedbuddie @prettyboybuckley @rogerzsteven @comaboybuck @swiftiebuckleys @hippolotamus @shortsighted-owl @messyhairdiaz @spaceprincessem @spotsandsocks @elvensorceress @the-likesofus @bigfootsmom @lesbianmaygrant @lovebuck @loveyourownsmiilee @bekkachaos @ebdaydreamer @honestlydarkprincess @souschefdiaz @sunshineravi and anyone else who wants to do it!!

#seven sentence sunday #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buck x eddie #buddie fic #famous buck au #911 fic #911 wip #my wips #my writing

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buddie-fic-recs-this-way · 3 months

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I am in the biggest sports player/not sports player hole rn from all the hockey romances and taylor and travis so I need BUDDIE

Anything!! one of them is a famous sports player and the other is not idc what the others occupation is, or which is the sports player just something!!! I read one where Buck was a famous hockey player and Eddie was a bar tender so anything like that

Would love to read anything like that <3

anon...YES. i am right there with you! i am such a slut for this trope, even though i know nothing about most sports 😂 i have gone through my bookmarks, as well as some of my own fics to compile a little list for you, but if anyone has anymore, feel free to add!

steppin' into fate— r_holland @onward--upward (hockey au that i will never shut up about or stop recommending...it basically started my love for sports aus!)

battle born—allisonRW96 @homerforsure (more hockey)

traded—Princessfbi @princessfbi (hockey again)

hardest hit from a feathers kiss—Princessfbi @princessfbi (hockey/ballet)

what if you're someone i just want around....—ReallySmartLadyMarieCurie (boxing)

break my heart (or bring it back to life)—MonsterRae1 @monsterrae1 (football/singer)

maybe one day i'll fly next to you—spinningincircles @tripleaxeldiaz (skating)

dance, for all that we've been through—catchingpapermoons (ballet)

kiss me before it's over (if only for a moment)—Bob_loblaws_lawblog @buddierights (baseball)

coastlines—browney3dgirl6 (surfing)

let me lose myself—browney3dgirl6 (dancing)

straight out of left field—browney3dgirl6 (baseball)

#buddie #buddie fic #evan ‘buck’ buckley #eddie diaz #911 #fic rec #sports au #anyone have any suggestions?#feel free to add on

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thot-of-khonshu · 3 months

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All Access, Chapter 2

All Access Masterlist | Ko-Fi | A03 Link

Pairing: 70s rockstar! frankie morales x f! reader

Rating: 18+ (explicit, minors do not interact)

Word Count: 7.4K

Summary: You're officially on the road with Triple Frontier and you try to adapt to a boys club. After Benny makes a misogynistic comment, you lean into the arms of Frankie and things quickly get hot and heavy.

Content: 70s au, drug use, heavy partying, triple frontier as rockstars, vietnam war discussion, misogyny, explicit smut, fingering, p in v sex

Thank you all so much for the love on this and for everyone's continuous help in any beta reading/reblogs. @pedropascal-whore and @nostalxgic thank you so so so much for your continued help!

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There's a giant doin' cartwheels, a statue wearin' high heels

Look at all the happy creatures dancin' on the lawn

Dinosaur Victrola, listenin' to Buck Owens

Doot, doot, doo, lookin' out my back door

Benny was currently orchestrating a sing-along with everyone on the bus, the radio blasting CCR as you drove past green pastures. Benny loved sing-alongs.

They all loved sing-alongs. That was the first thing you’d noticed when you boarded the tour bus with the guys.

Your roommate had dropped you off, surveying the scene like a mom watching her kid on the first day of school. She asked if you were sure you wanted to do this. So many people had asked this question over the last week, why the hell would you ever say no?

You knew deep down that they had a point. The music industry was a beast with teeth, and being the lone woman on a bus full of rock stars wasn't exactly a walk in the park. You didn't have a lot of experience with men, let alone with famous ones, but there was something about the opportunity to tell their story–their real story–that compelled you. You had a feeling in your gut that this was the path for you, the path to your future.

The guys had also welcomed you with open arms, between the maelstrom of stale cigarette smoke and the musky scent of leather jackets and guitar cases they had given you your own space in the form of a bunk bed.

In the brief time you’ve been on the bus with them, you’ve been able to take out your journal and pen, and jot down observations and thoughts. Every so often, your gaze drifted over to the boys, studying their mannerisms, and the way they interacted with each other.

Santiago was the charmer, flirting with anyone and everyone, including you. His confidence was palpable, but you had a feeling there was more to him than just his cockiness.

Benny was the jokester, always cracking a smile or a bad pun, lightening the mood when it got tense. His playful nature was endearing, and you couldn't help but feel drawn to his warm personality.

Will was the stoic one, never letting his emotions show. You sensed a deeper layer of pain beneath his gruff exterior, and you were determined to uncover what it was.

Frankie, with his soulful eyes and kind smile, was a mystery. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you, a bond that you couldn't explain. You wanted to know more about him, but you knew he was a man of few words.

With your observations jotted down in your journal, you leaned back in your seat, listening to the low rumble of the bus and watching the landscape pass by.

"Mind if I sit here?" Santiago's voice cut through your thoughts, his voice smooth and inviting.

"Of course," you replied, flashing him a quick smile as you shuffled your belongings to make room. He slid into the seat beside you, his presence immediately commanding, like a spotlight finding its mark on a dimly lit stage.

"Getting some good material for your story?" he asked, nodding towards your journal.

"Always," you said with a small smile, feeling the weight of the assignment on your shoulders. "Got to capture the essence while it's fresh."

Santiago chuckled, a low and raspy sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Well, you're in the right place. This tour is gonna be a wild ride."

"If it's like the other night at the Chateau, I can't even imagine."

He grinned, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Oh, sweetheart, that was just the beginning. You ain't seen nothing yet."

"Fillmore West," you murmured the venue you were on your way to, sketching out the bare bones of the article in your head. The name alone carried weight, history—a legacy of acts that had stood where Triple Frontier would soon take the stage.

"Big shoes to fill," you whispered, more to the passing trees than to anyone on the bus.

"Biggest," Santiago agreed. "But we'll fill 'em."

"Confident," you noted, unable to suppress a smile.

"Realistic," he countered, a spark of humor lighting up his features for a fleeting moment.

"Well, you've certainly got the attitude," you teased.

Santiago shrugged before leaning back in his seat, his long legs sprawled out before him. "I'd prefer to call it passion."

You cocked an eyebrow, "Is that so?"

"Sure," he said, his gaze meeting yours. "When you love something–when it's your whole fucking life–you gotta give it your all, you know? You gotta go balls to the wall, all in. Anything less isn't worth it."

"Interesting," you said, intrigued by his perspective. "So what about the fans, then? Is it the same for them?"

Santiago thought for a moment, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery. "Yeah, I guess so. They're as invested as we are: they show up, scream their lungs out, and buy our records. They're part of the machine, just like us."

"The machine, huh? Do you think it's fair to say that the music industry is a machine? That everyone is just a cog in the wheel, working to keep it running?"

Santiago shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "Fuck no. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. If you want to survive, you gotta be willing to fight for what you believe in. You gotta be hungry, and you gotta be ruthless."

"Ruthless, huh? And that's how you got where you are now?"

"It's how I've survived this long."

You nodded, processing his words.

Santiago leaned in to whisper to you, tapping a rhythm against his thigh. "Speaking of passion, Frankie couldn't stop talking about how passionate you were about your work. ‘Said it was refreshing to see someone so dedicated."

Your heart stumbled over a beat, the mention of Frankie sending a curious warmth radiating through your chest. You turned to Santiago, trying to gauge the sincerity in his words. "He said that?"

"Yep." Santiago gave a nonchalant shrug, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Frankie doesn't give out compliments easily. You must've made quite the impression."

An unfamiliar fluttering sensation took residence in your stomach, a mixture of nerves and something elusively akin to excitement. You tucked the feeling away, instead focusing on the story unfolding before you. "Well, impressions are part of the job, aren't they?"

"Sure, but not everyone leaves a lasting one." He watched you for a moment, a knowing look etched onto his face.

"Let's hope I can live up to it then," you quipped, eager to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

"Something tells me you will," Santiago replied. Picking up on your nervousness, he changed the topic. "Just remember, this is a two-way street. We're giving you a glimpse behind the curtain, so you gotta share a bit of yourself, too."

You considered his words, surprised at his openness. "Fair enough. I'll do my best."

He sauntered back to his bandmates, leaving you with a notebook full of scribbles and a mind swirling with possibilities.

Frankie thought you were special.

The idea sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cool breeze sneaking in through the cracks of the bus.

--------------------------------------

The clang of silverware and the chatter of patrons swirled around as you and the band stepped into a modest roadside cafe, the scent of fresh coffee and griddle pancakes saturating the air.

You grabbed a menu, your eyes scanning over the array of sandwiches and salads. "What's good here?" You asked, more to yourself than anyone else.

"Try the turkey club," Frankie suggested, his voice unexpectedly close. "It's pretty solid."

"Thanks," you said, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks at the sudden attention. Your eyes met for an instant—his brown gaze steady, a quiet intensity within their depths that seemed to see right through you. You quickly looked down at the laminated menu, pretending to be engrossed in the sandwich section.

"Ever tried writing about food?" he asked, his tone light, teasing almost.

“Can't say I have," you replied, smiling despite the awkward fluttering in your chest. "My editor would probably have a heart attack if I pitched him a piece on the culinary prowess of roadside diners."

"Shame," Frankie said, chuckling softly. "You might be onto something."

"Maybe in another life," you mused, still avoiding his gaze. You could sense his amusement, and it was oddly comforting. You risked a glance at him, finding his smile genuine, devoid of the usual rock star pretense.

"Turkey club it is then," you declared, setting the menu aside just as Tom approached the two of you before getting sat down by a host. He gestured to you.

"Hey, can I grab you for a sec?" Tom's voice carried the weight of unspoken urgency.

"Sorry to pull you away," Tom began, leading you towards a corner of the café, away from the buzz of lunchtime chatter. His brow was furrowed, the lines etched deeply. "About that conversation you overheard the other night—it wasn't what it seemed."

"Okay," you said as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your senses heightened to the undercurrent of seriousness in his demeanor, "but managing another band? That's pretty significant, Tom."

"Look," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture you'd come to recognize as Tom grappling with the complexities of his role. "I am fully committed to Triple Frontier–those are my brothers–but this industry... It's relentless. You've got to keep your options open, ‘doesn't mean I'm abandoning ship."

"I get it," you said, not sure if you truly did but were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Just trying to stay ahead of the curve, right?"

"Exactly." Tom's lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. "I appreciate your understanding. Now, go enjoy your lunch. And don't forget to try that turkey club."

"Will do," you replied, your mind already spinning.

-------------------------

You had barely finished your first bite of the turkey club when the guys started telling you stories about Vietnam.

"I swear, these fucking rats would've been the death of me," Benny said, shaking his head. "We're talking like the size of a cat or a small dog. Some of 'em were big enough to carry a baby in their mouth."

"That's heavy," you said, fascinated. "So what would you do when you saw them?"

"I'd either try to kick it or shoot at it, sometimes both."

"You didn't do shit," Frankie interjected. "Remember the time that big rat came scurrying across the tent and you jumped up on a crate, screaming like a little girl?"

Benny glared at Frankie, his eyes narrowed. "Fuck you, Morales. I was not scared, just wasn’t in the mood to deal with some mangy rat."

"That was the only thing that scared you the entire time we were over there, hermano." Santiago added.

"You're both full of shit," Benny said, rolling his eyes.

"Are they?" Will asked, "Because I remember when mom asked us to help clean up the garage and a mouse was hiding behind one of the boxes. You screamed like a banshee and ran out of the house, ‘wouldn't go back in until dad caught it."

"Fuck you, too," Benny shot back.

"Language," Santiago said, smirking.

"Oh, shut up," Benny grumbled.

"Don't get mad at me," Santiago replied, his expression feigning innocence. "I wasn't the one who got scared by a rat."

It was clear that more than anything; the guys shared a brotherhood between them. An unbreakable bond.

"You're all terrible," you joked, unable to contain a smile.

"Yeah, yeah," Benny waved his hand dismissively. "But we're also the guys who will protect you from the rats, so you're welcome."

"How valiant," you replied, earning a few snickers. "Between all the rats and Benny's screaming, how did you guys have time to decide you wanted to make music?"

"Oh, that was a no-brainer," Tom piped up, leaning back in his chair. "These guys would play and sing every chance they got. ‘Didn't matter if it was the middle of the night or the ass-crack of dawn, they were always making music."

"We could hear them in the next barracks," Frankie added, his voice softer than the others, his gaze fixed on the table. "Santi and Will would have their guitars out, and they'd just start playing."

"And Benny would be singing along," Santiago added, "Or dancing. Or doing some weird combination of the two."

Benny shrugged, his grin lopsided. "Gotta keep things interesting."

You nodded, taking notes as the conversation flowed, their stories illuminating the early days of Triple Frontier. You could picture them on a rickety wooden stage, surrounded by sweaty bodies and cigarette smoke, their music carrying them into the night.

As the meal wrapped up, you felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that you'd have to eventually write about their military experience, something they clearly were not proud of.

"Guys, I'm going to have to ask a difficult question," you began, swallowing thickly. "But it's necessary for the article."

"I think we know what you're gonna ask," Santiago said, his tone guarded. "And we don't have any regrets about joining the military. It was a hard time for everyone, but we did our best. We served our country."

"I know, and I respect that," you replied, "But you're also a rock band now, and people are interested in what drove you to that point, how you got out."

The silence hung heavy, no one willing to break the tension. Finally, Benny spoke up, his voice uncharacteristically somber.

"It's like I said earlier, we were all looking for an escape. We needed something to believe in, something to help us make sense of everything. Music was that thing for us."

"It became our purpose, our mission," Will continued, his words deliberate. "We knew we had something special, and we weren't going to let anything stand in the way of that. When Nixon sent us home in '70, we decided to pursue our dream, no matter what."

"So, to answer your question," Santiago concluded, "We joined the military because we were desperate, and we got out because we were hungry. Nothing more, nothing less."

"I understand," you nodded, grateful for their honesty. "And thank you for trusting me with your story."

"You're welcome," Frankie said, his voice quiet but his eyes warm.

"Now, let's go rock this show," Benny declared, his energy returning as he jumped out of his seat. "We've got a lot to celebrate."

You nodded, tucking your notebook away. As the group filed out of the café, you couldn't help but linger a moment longer, a strange feeling tugging at your heart.

You glanced back, catching Frankie's gaze, his eyes searching yours. A silent understanding passed between you, a mutual respect and appreciation for the fragility of the moment. You smiled softly, nodding in his direction before heading off to join the others.

-----------------------------

The road to the venue in San Francisco was a blur of green and gray, the hum of the tour bus's engine playing a monotonous backdrop to your thoughts. You were lost in the loop of the group's words at the cafe earlier when Tom's voice cut through, sharp and sudden.

"Alright, you ready for the real rockstar treatment?" Tom asked, eyeing you from across the narrow aisle. His brow was furrowed, a crease of concern marking his usual stoic expression.

"Sure," you laughed, trying to infuse some bravado into my voice. "How bad can it be?"

"Bad? No, not bad. Just... intense." He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing some sacred secret of the trade. "When we open these doors, there's a sea of fans out there. They'll swarm the bus before we even hit the pavement."

"Fans?" You echoed dumbly, clutching your notepad like a shield.

"Like bees to honey," he added, his eyes scanning your face for understanding. "Just stick close to us, okay?"

"Got it." The words tumbled out easier than you felt. The pen in your hand suddenly seemed like a flimsy shield against the onslaught of adoration awaiting the band.

The bus slowed to a halt, and through the tinted windows, you could see a swarm of people pressed against the metal fencing, their faces flushed with excitement. A sea of faces along with a racket of shrieks and chants, banners and signs hoisted high—all for the five guys you'd shared sandwiches with not even two hours ago.

"Here we go." Benny clapped his hands together, grinning ear to ear. "Showtime, boys—and lady."

The door hissed open, and the sound hit you like a physical wave. You instinctively clutched at your bag, holding it close.

Tom went first, striding out to make sure the path was clear. Santiago followed, loose and relaxed. The rest of the band fanned out behind him, their signature swagger dialed up to an eleven. You trailed a few steps behind, feeling like an awkward sixth wheel.

Hands reached out, grasping at any piece of the band they could touch. A security team formed a protective barrier, pushing back the throng as the group made their way towards the stage entrance.

The crowd's chants grew louder, a steady rhythm of "Triple Front-ier! Triple Front-ier!"

It was a strange mix of emotions: awe and intimidation, wonder and apprehension. You felt small, insignificant. But at the same time, a tiny spark of pride flickered within you. It was an honor to be part of that experience.

Someone jostled you from the side, a fan slipping past security to try and touch one of the guys. Off balance, you stumbled, your heart leaping to your throat, instincts screaming that you'd be swallowed whole by this crowd and your rock and roll dreams would be over.

"Hey—watch it!" A familiar voice rose above the chaos, strong and steady.

Frankie.

Before you could fall, his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against the solidity of his chest. He was warm and real amidst the surreal whirlwind of bodies and noise.

"Gotcha," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, giving you a feeling in your core that made you feel even more unstable.

His grip on you tightened, his palm splayed across your stomach. Your own fingers curled around his wrist, the pulse there fluttering under the pad of your thumb.

You reached the safety of the entrance into the Fillmore West, and he let go, the loss of contact almost physically painful.

"You alright?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.

"Y-yeah," you stammered, heat rising to your cheeks. "Thank you. I mean, for catching me. You know."

"No problem," he replied, the corner of his lips quirked up. "Just stay close next time, okay?"

You nodded, trailing behind him as he joined the rest of the group, the adrenaline of the moment still coursing through your veins.

Before you could fully process what had just happened, Tom boomed. "Alright, boys—we're behind schedule. You're on in five - let's get this show on the road!"

The group scattered, each of them heading in a different direction. Frankie cast a glance over his shoulder, his gaze lingering for a moment on you before he turned away, following Tom near the stage.

You took a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. This was your job, after all. You needed to keep your wits about you.

The boys all made their way close to the stage, huddled in a circle as Tom gave them a pep talk. You could tell that the group was amped up, and they were ready to go. They had an energy about them that was contagious, and you could feel the excitement building as the crowd started cheering louder and louder.

Suddenly you heard Santiago's voice over the group, "Stop, hey, what's that sound?"

"Everybody look what's going down!" The boys echoed.

The group then broke apart, and you could see them all getting ready to perform. Benny ran to the stage first to a sea of applause. Tom hovered back, talking with a lighting crew member and giving a thumbs-up to the sound technician.

Santiago grabbed his guitar, checking the tuning as Will and Frankie tuned their bass and guitar. Benny was already behind the drum set, tapping the sticks on the drums.

The crowd was now going wild, and the band seemed ready. Frankie headed out first, then Will, then Santiago.

"What a day, what a crowd," Santiago said, his voice low and gruff into the microphone. "We've come a long way, baby. Thank you."

You watched as the band played the intro to their hit song, "Santa Maria." The crowd went nuts, and you could feel the electricity in the air.

As the song played, the band started getting more and more into it, their energy feeding off the crowd. Santiago and Benny were bouncing around the stage, while Will and Frankie stayed more rooted in place.

You watched as Frankie moved to the center of the stage, his fingers expertly dancing across the fretboard of his bass. He was the epitome of cool and collected, despite the sweat dripping down his forehead, the same broad hands that splayed across your waist earlier playing the guitar with ease.

Your pen couldn't go across the paper fast enough, trying to capture the essence of the concert—the sweat that glistened on Santiago's brow as he sang every lyric, the bass reverberating through Frankie's body as if he were the instrument himself, Will's fingers deftly plucking the strings of his guitar, his hair fluttering wildly around him, Benny's eyes locked on the audience as he slammed the drums, his arms flying furiously.

After an hour and a half, the group played their final encore, bringing the crowd to their feet. Santiago and Will stood back to back, singing the last notes of the song, the rest of the band playing the final chords.

The crowd cheered, the deafening noise drowning out everything else. You watched as the guys made their way off the stage, exhaustion etched on their faces.

You caught Frankie's gaze as he passed by, his eyes locking with yours for a brief moment. He smiled, a lazy, lopsided smile that sent a jolt through your body.

As the boys made their way backstage, they were greeted by a mob of adoring fans. Benny and Santiago were surrounded by a group of girls, their shrill voices echoing through the hallways.

You lingered in the shadows, watching the scene unfold. It was a strange feeling, witnessing the band's transformation from the quiet guys you'd shared sandwiches with just hours ago to these larger-than-life rock stars.

The guys seemed to be used to it, their easygoing nature never faltering. They signed autographs and posed for pictures, their smiles genuine.

But as the crowd dispersed, you saw a rare glimpse of the band's true selves.

"Triple Frontier's not just a band," You penned in a rare moment of stillness. "They're a phenomenon, a revolution. And I'm right here, in the eye of the hurricane."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Drinks on me, folks," Tom declared, his voice hoarse yet triumphant as he claimed a spot at the bar for the band, crew, and you. The band had decided they wanted to celebrate a good show with some drinks.

"Make that a bourbon, neat," You chimed in, slipping onto a stool beside Tom. Your adrenaline still coursed, mingling with anticipation and fatigue.

"Hard day at the office?" Tom joked, his gaze scanning the group to ensure everyone was accounted for and content.

"Something like that," You said, your eyes scanning the room for Frankie. He was somewhere amid the tangle of bodies and laughter, but maddeningly out of reach. You wanted to thank him for earlier.

The bartender slid a glass in front of you, the amber liquid beckoning.

"Bottoms up," Tom said, raising his own drink in a toast. "Here's to the end of a helluva first show on tour with us."

The whiskey was smooth, burning a warm trail down your throat. The buzz was instant, settling into your bones and loosening the knots that had been tying you up since you'd first stepped foot on the bus.

The conversation flowed freely, and you finally got to get acquainted with the roadies, a diverse group of people with varying stories of their own. It was nice, you thought, to be part of a community.

It had been a long time since you'd felt so at ease with a group of people, so included and welcomed. Your job, despite being the closest thing to a rockstar's life you'd ever experienced, had left you somewhat isolated.

And then there was Frankie, his eyes meeting yours across the room as if drawn by some magnetic force. But before your liquid courage could act upon it, Benny came up to you, his voice slurred but his eyes still clear with a mischievous glint.

"The newest girl on the bus, huh?" He said, leaning in close to your ear. His breath was warm and heavy, the smell of beer and cigarettes mixing with the warmth of his skin.

You narrowed your eyes at him, sensing the questionable compliment coming.

"Yeah, Ben," you replied, trying to keep things friendly but also cautious of his intentions.

"Well, you know what they say," he continued, a smirk playing on his lips, "behind every successful man, there's a woman holding down the fort."

You rolled your eyes, trying to laugh it off as you glanced around the bar, looking not only for Frankie amid the crowd this time but for someone to get you out of this.

"Benny, I don't need a man to be successful," you said, feeling a hint of irritation in your tone. "I can be successful on my own, thank you very much."

Benny let out a low chuckle, not treating your words as a serious rebuttal.

"Well, sure, honey, you can be successful without a man," he said, still smirking. "But let's be honest, it's not going to be as easy as if you had one to support you. I mean, think about it. Who's going to iron your clothes, cook your meals, and keep the house tidy when you're out there touring?"

"Benny..." Will had heard part of the conversation, and his face scrunched up in disapproval. "Lay off, man."

But Benny was relentless, "I'm just saying, sweetheart, it's a stark reality. A strong woman like you, you're gonna face a whole lot of challenges out there in the world, and it would sure be a lot easier with a good man on your side. Just remember, a good woman is hard to find these days. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to find one of the roadies to show you the ropes."

You felt the heat of embarrassment rising in your cheeks as you excused yourself from the conversation telling Tom briskly, "I think I'm gonna head back to the hotel, not feeling too well."

You stepped out of the bar, feeling the cool night air on your skin. You knew Benny was a good guy, you had seen it in the countless acts of kindness he showed the crew, but his words stung more than you had anticipated.

You'll never forget the first time someone made you feel invisible because of your gender. It was a sobering reminder that, despite your success, the industry was still a man's world. You were a woman, and women had no place in the rock 'n roll world, especially not as a journalist. You were a novelty, a rarity, an outlier. A pair of tits.

It was a painful realization, and one you had to learn to accept if you were going to make a name for yourself. You were more than just some bozo’s personal maid. You were a sharp mind, a skilled writer, and a tenacious spirit. And you were going to prove every jackass who thought that way including Benny wrong.

"Fuck 'em," you murmured, the alcohol making you bolder as you went into the payphone booth to call a taxi.

You didn't need anyone's approval or permission to do your job, and you damn well knew it.

You dialed the number for the taxi service and they promised a cab within the next 15 minutes. You sighed and leaned against the cool glass of the phone booth, trying to clear your mind. "Hey" a deep voice pulled you out of your thoughts. There was Frankie, leaning against the booth door, his expression unreadable.

"Are you leaving?"

"Yeah," you replied, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I'm sorry, I just-"

"No, I get it," Frankie cut you off, "I saw what happened back there and Will told us that Benny was being an asshole. I'm really sorry about that. He's usually a decent guy, but when he drinks..."

"It's alright. He's not the first asshole I've had to deal with and he won't be the last." You tried to sound more nonchalant than you felt.

Frankie carefully looked at you, you cursed yourself for feeling so exposed in his gaze. “Do you have a ride back to the hotel?”

You nodded, "Yeah, the taxi will be here soon. I should probably go wait for it, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Frankie said, "If you want some company, I can go back with you. I'm not really in the mood to be around a bunch of drunk assholes, myself."

The offer caught you off guard, but the idea of having Frankie as company seemed comforting. "That would be...nice, actually."

-----------------------------------------------------

You nursed a whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass as you swirled it absentmindedly. The bar at the hotel was dimly lit, casting long shadows over the bottles that lined the shelves and reflected in the mirror behind them. Frankie slid onto the stool beside you, coming back from the bathroom.

"Another round?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

"Let’s do it." You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling. Frankie matched your smile and ordered for the both of you. You liked that he knew what you wanted without needing to ask. He sighed, the tension easing from his broad shoulders as he leaned back, resting his elbows on the bar.

"So," he continued, turning towards you, "how's the article coming along?"

"Slowly but surely," you replied, your eyes tracing the edge of your glass. "I feel like I'm still getting used to all of this."

"Honestly?" He looks thoughtful as he takes his hat off and cards through his dark curls. "It's kind of hard for us, too."

You raise your eyebrows at him, curious.

"Yeah," he continues, "I mean, it's been a lot to adjust to. And it's not just the crazy schedule and the traveling, the fans. Trying to fit my daughter into all of this. It's the media and the pressure and all the expectations. It's a lot to take in."

"I bet," you agree, nodding slowly. "But I can see how it would be pretty exciting, too.”

Frankie hums in agreement, "It is. It's just a lot. It's like, this is something we never thought was actually possible and now that it's happening, I don't know, I just never really expected it to be like this."

"Like what?"

He shrugs, "I don't know. So big. So fast. I guess I just always thought we'd have more time to enjoy it, you know? Before it all gets so crazy."

You give him a small smile, "I get that. But nights like tonight, where the whole bar wants to buy you a drink, should be easy to enjoy."

"Yeah," he agrees, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "you're right. Unless your drunk bandmate decides to bother the sweet Rolling Stone reporter to where she wants to leave the party."

You feel the warmth of a blush creeping up your neck, "It wasn't really that bad, I just..."

"You don't have to explain," he interrupts, his voice gentle. "Just because this is your job doesn't mean people can talk to you like that."

You take a sip of your newly placed drink, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it spreads warmth through your body.

"I know," you agree, "but I'm used to it. The industry is a man's world and women, especially journalists, are seen as outsiders. It's just part of the job, I guess."

Frankie lets out a low whistle, "It sounds like a lot of bullshit, honestly. But hey, if you're tough enough to handle all of that, you're tough enough to handle whatever comes your way."

You smile at him, appreciating his support. "Thanks, Frankie. I really appreciate it."

He nods, "Of course. Like I said, if you ever need anything, just know I've got your back."

You take another sip of your drink, feeling the tension of the night begin to fade. The liquor was doing a great job of releasing any inhibitions or shyness you had with Frankie. The two of you talked and laughed about everything.

There was something comforting about his steady presence, his warm laughter resonating with your own. As the night wore on, the bar began to empty out, the loud chatter and clinking glasses giving way to the soft hum of a late-night radio. "My Love" by Paul McCartney & Wings filled the air.

"God, I love this song." You said, leaning against him. “This might be controversial but McCartney is way better than Lennon."

"Lennon has passion, though. He's a rebel," Frankie countered, a smile on his lips.

"I have to say, though, radio never does a song justice," you mused. "You lose the depth—the soul of the vinyl."

"Couldn't agree more." Frankie looked down at you, his eyes softening.

Those damn brown eyes.

"Then maybe..." Frankie began, hesitation making his voice just a bit uneven, but before he could finish his thought, the bartender made an announcement- "Last call!”

You both glanced at your watches, realizing how late it was. Where had the time gone?

“Guess we lost track of time,” you said, a little surprised.

Frankie rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Yeah," he agreed. “I guess we did.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken thoughts and feelings that neither of you were quite ready to articulate.

"Hey," You perked up. "I brought my Red Rose Speedway vinyl."

He stood up and offered you his hand, "How about we get out of here and give it a proper listen?"

You hesitated for a second before taking it. His hand was warm, fingers firm against your own, and you felt the uninvited familiarity of those damn butterflies.

"I think I'd love that," you answered with a small smile that reflected in his eyes.

You hesitated for a second before taking it. His hand was warm, fingers firm against your own, and you felt the uninvited familiarity of those damn butterflies.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

You couldn’t believe he was on your hotel room couch.

His large body sprawled out on the floral pattern, elbow resting on the armrest and head propped up by his hand as he watched you rummage through your luggage. The dull light from the lone lamp in the corner of the room cast long shadows across his features, accentuating his strong jawline and nose.

"Got it," you exclaimed, triumphantly holding up the vinyl.

He looked over at you with eager eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

You placed the small record player on the table next to the couch, carefully placing the record on the turntable and lowering the needle. The crackle of anticipation filled the room as the music began to play. You sat down on the couch next to Frankie, his presence a warm and reassuring closeness in the low-lit room. The opening notes of "Big Barn Bed" flooded into the room.

"I can try to skip it to 'My Love' if you want me to." You suggested.

"No, I like it. I like it a lot," he replied, his eyes fixed on you.

The two of you sat in silence as the song played, the air between you thick with tension. As the last notes of the song faded away, you turned to look at Frankie, your eyes meeting his.

"What do you think?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze remained steady on your face, the corners of his mouth twitching into a soft smile. "I think," he began, his voice matching yours in its whisper-soft delivery, "I think I needed this...a little bit of music, a little bit of normality. And you."

"I needed this too," you admitted softly.

His hand found yours on the couch, fingers entwining with a comforting familiarity. The intimacy of the moment sent a swell of warmth through your body.

Frankie's gaze never left yours as he leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours for permission. You found yourself holding your breath, your heart pounding against your chest as he closed the distance between you.

His lips met yours in a soft, slow kiss that made your head spin.

"Is this okay?" he murmured against your lips, pulling back slightly to study your expression.

"Yes," you wrapped your hands around his neck. "It's more than okay."

Your lips met again, deepening the kiss and asking for more. He tasted like smokey liquor and cigarettes

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, your bodies molding together on that floral pattern couch.

You moved to straddle him on the couch, the flowing skirt from your mini-dress bunching up around your waist as you moved.

Frankie's hands came to rest on your hips, thumbs tracing small circles through the thin fabric of your dress. Looking into your eyes for permission, he started to slowly lift the hem, his touch on your bare skin.

Your hands drifted to his hair, tangling your fingers in the dark curls and removing his hat. There was an urgency in his movements now, a raw need that echoed your own.

His lips, hot and insistent, traced a path down your neck and you began to move against him, riding out the want building within you.

Without hesitation, he lifted you from the couch and carried you to the spacious bed on the other side of the room. He laid you down gently and you lifted your arms, allowing him to carefully pull the dress over your head and toss it aside. His eyes raked over your bare body, your breasts exposed to his intense gaze.

"Took my damn breath away," he murmured. He removed his clothes except for his underwear, exposing his tanned chest and soft belly.

Then, with a gentle push, he allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bed next to you, both of you inhaling sharply as skin met skin. His hand traced a gentle path from your shoulder down to your waist, ending his trail between your legs.

His thumb found your swollen clit, gently circling it. Your hips bucked in response, a soft moan escaping your lips. His fingers slipped lower, sliding into you with ease. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, drinking in every reaction, every shudder of pleasure that coursed through you.

Your hand found his hard length, trapped in the fabric of his underwear. Without a pause, you slipped your hand within the elastic band and drew him out.

A low, guttural moan came out of him as you stroked his thick cock, pre-cum already beading at the tip.

"You're gonna kill me," he growled, his hips thrusting involuntarily into your touch.

He shallowly thrust his thick fingers inside you, matching the rhythm of your hand on him. Your soft moans filled the room, mingling with the faint strains of the next song on the vinyl.

When you came, his mouth found yours again, swallowing your gasps and moans as he helped you come down. His thumb was still gently circling your clit.

He removed his fingers from you and gripped your wrist, gently but firmly. His eyes searched yours, a silent question written on his features. You nodded, understanding his need.

Your bodies shifted on the soft bed sheets, Frankie positioning himself between your legs. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against yours.

"Tell me you want this," he whispered.

"I want this." Your words were breathless, barely audible.

He slid into you slowly, filling you completely. Your fingers dug into the muscles of his back as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin.

"Oh fuck," he grunted.

The feeling of him inside you was unreal, his thick length stretching and filling you in ways that nobody had ever done before. He slowly inched himself into you until he bottomed out, and for a moment the two of you just stayed there, breathing each other in; the whiskey, the weed, the road. You both smelled the same but also so different, and you both wanted to know more.

"Fuck, baby." He breathed.

And then he began to move. His hips rocked back and forth in a steady rhythm, his cock gliding in and out of you. You matched his rhythm, wrapping your legs around his waist and urging him deeper.

You both moved together, lost in the sensation of each other's bodies. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the air, mixed with the faint music still drifting in from the record player.

He lifted his head, his gaze fixed on yours as he continued his slow thrusts. His hands roamed your body, squeezing and pinching your breasts and ass, exploring every inch of you.

You gripped the back of his neck, pulling him down into a passionate kiss. His tongue traced your lips before entering your mouth, deepening the kiss.

His pace began to quicken, the friction between you building. His cock filled you completely, hitting all the right spots, and the pleasure was almost overwhelming.

"Fuck, I'm so close." He grunted, his hands gripping your hips as he thrust deeper.

He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again and applying the perfect amount of pressure.

It was enough to send you over the edge. Your orgasm washed over you in waves, his name tumbling from your lips as you clung to him.

He came a few seconds later, his cock throbbing inside you and spilling his cum into you.

"Fuck." His forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged.

He rolled off you and lay down on the bed beside you, the both of you coming down from your high. He pulled you close, your head resting on his chest.

The record was still spinning, the soft crackle of the vinyl the only sound in the room.

"Holy shit." You murmured, trailing your fingers along his chest.

He nodded, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Holy shit."

You both laughed, the tension in the air broken by mutual satisfaction, what felt like a great exhale to your tension. You rested your chin on his chest, gazing up at him.

"Thank you," you whispered, suddenly feeling shy.

"For what?" He raised an eyebrow.

"For... well, for everything. For tonight, and for just being you." You smiled at him.

He grinned, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Thank you, too. This was the best night I've had in a long time."

You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing briefly. "Me, too."

The two of you lay in silence for a while, content to just be close. His arm was wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers idly playing with your hair.

"Frankie..." You whispered.

"Hmm?" He responded, his voice soft.

"If you're tired, you can stay..." You trailed off, suddenly unsure of yourself. Maybe this was all too forward?

He pulled you closer, planting a kiss on the top of your head. "I'd like that," he murmured, his eyes already beginning to droop closed.

You smiled, snuggling closer to him and feeling his heartbeat against your skin. The night had ended up being more than either of you expected, and it seemed the morning would be no different.

The two of you fell asleep, tangled together, as the vinyl record finally stopped spinning and the night came to a quiet end.

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