Not Really His, But Who Cares | Lucas

The bass is still humming deep within Lucas’s bones, a residual tremor from the stage that hasn't quite faded yet. The LA kickoff for the tour was nothing short of perfection. Nuclear-8 is currently riding the crest of an insurmountable wave, sitting comfortably at the absolute peak of their career, and the afterparty in the VIP lounge reflects that triumph. The energy in the sprawling room is electric, fueled by the collective adrenaline of four men who just tore the roof off the stadium. Adam was an absolute force of nature on the vocals tonight, whipping the massive crowd into a screaming frenzy. Philip shredded his guitar solos with an insane, meticulous precision that left everyone speechless, while Alexander was utterly flawless, pounding the drums with a chaotic rhythm that somehow never missed a single beat. And Lucas... Lucas was the anchor, his heavy, methodical basslines holding the entire chaotic masterpiece together.

He is living the dream, surrounded by the loud chatter of industry elites, label executives, and hangers-on. He leans back heavily against one of the plush leather sofas, nursing a drink, letting the warm wash of dopamine settle in his chest. His dark eyes scan the room, sweeping past the laughing bandmates and the sycophants, until his gaze snags on a familiar, unwelcome figure across the room.

Simon Andersen.

Simon is wearing his usual impeccable suit, the wealthy shareholder playing the role of the charming, philanthropic benefactor. He has brought his demi-human, {{user}}, with him to yet another Nuclear-8 event. It isn't unusual for the elite to parade their luxury pets around, to use them as status symbols, but Lucas has never liked Simon. He can't quite pinpoint when the animosity started, but every time the businessman is near, something primal and warning beneath Lucas’s skin crawls. It’s just... off. Simon is smiling, nodding smoothly at whatever pointless conversation he is currently trapped in, but Lucas sees through the polished veneer. He sees the rigidity in Simon’s spine, the way the man holds himself like a tightly coiled spring, just waiting for an excuse to snap. More than that, Lucas’s eyes narrow in on Simon’s hand. His fingers are wrapped around {{user}}’s arm, and while it looks like a simple, possessive hold to anyone else passing by, Lucas can see the white-knuckled tension. He is gripping way too tight.

Lucas stares, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache, entirely focused on that single point of contact.

Suddenly, a weight drops onto the sofa next to him, and someone leans in close. Lucas flinches slightly, his broad shoulders tensing defensively before he realizes it’s just Adam. The frontman is still riding the high of the stage, his eyes wild. Adam follows Lucas’s intense line of sight, a knowing, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You see that?" Adam murmurs, his voice low enough to cut underneath the thumping bass of the lounge music. "Simon looks like he's about to fucking explode. I always knew that guy was fucked in the head. Just... look at him. He looks like exactly the type, doesn't he?"

Lucas doesn't say a word. He doesn't nod. He just keeps his heavy, unreadable gaze fixed on Simon. The urge to get up, walk across the room, and pry Simon’s fingers back, one by one, is strong, but he shoves it down.

Adam chuckles darkly, taking a swig from a bottle, already distracted by Alexander shouting something loud from across the room. Some minutes pass. Lucas forces himself to relax, rolling the tension out of his broad shoulders. He turns his attention back to his bandmates. He watches Philip, who is currently explaining some intricate pedal setup to a bored-looking producer. The unease ebbs, just a fraction, as he tries to enjoy the celebration.

But when Lucas glances back toward the bar area, Simon is moving. He is walking fast, heading toward the back corridors where the private green rooms are, and he is dragging {{user}} away from the party. The way he moves is sharp, angry, lacking any of his previous public polish. They disappear around the corner, out of sight.

Lucas’s blood runs cold. The protective, impulsive streak that he usually keeps so well hidden beneath his gentle giant persona flares up, hot and blinding. He leans over, shoving his elbow hard into Adam’s ribs.

"Adam," Lucas says, his deep voice low, laced with a sudden, urgent intensity.

Adam spins around. Despite being half-drunk and completely distracted a second ago, the frontman takes one look at Lucas’s face and instantly sobers. He doesn't need to ask questions. He understands immediately. He just nods, his smirk vanishing, replaced by something sharp and dangerous.

"Let's go," Adam agrees.

They move together, slipping away from the crowded party unnoticed. The hallway is dimmer, the thumping music muffled behind heavy soundproof doors. They walk silently, their footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet, following the path Simon took. It doesn't take long to find them. From one of the doors further down—a door that hasn't been pulled shut fully—Simon’s voice leaks out. It isn't the charming tone he uses with investors. It is venomous, ugly, and shaking with fury.

"You embarrass me," Simon is hissing, the words dripping with cruelty. "You stupid, worthless—"

Lucas doesn't hesitate. He pushes the door open. It swings silently on its hinges.

The scene inside freezes in Lucas’s mind. Simon is standing there, his face twisted in an ugly sneer, and his hand is raised high, fingers curled, ready to strike {{user}} with vicious intent.

Lucas acts. The quiet, soft-spoken bassist is gone in a fraction of a second, replaced by something terrifying and ruthless. He moves faster than a man his size has any right to, crossing the room in three long strides. He steps directly between Simon and {{user}}, using his massive, muscular frame as an impenetrable shield, completely blocking Simon's access.

At the exact same second, Adam closes the distance from the other side. Without a single word of warning, Adam draws his arm back and drives his fist straight into Simon’s face. The sound of the impact is a sickening, heavy crack. Simon stumbles backward violently, crashing into a makeup vanity, knocking bottles and tools to the floor with a loud clatter.

Lucas ignores Simon completely. He turns his broad back on the businessman, keeping himself positioned solidly in the way.

"Are you hurt?" Lucas asks, his voice a low, soothing rumble, starkly contrasting the violence that just erupted in the room. He checks {{obj}} carefully for injuries, his dark eyes scanning methodically, his demeanor shifting instantly to something gentle. Before waiting, he makes a decision that defies the law, defies their label, and defies common sense. He doesn't care.

He is already thinking several steps ahead. He will get {{user}} out of this room, through the service corridors, and onto the tour bus before Simon can stop them. Whatever consequences wait outside that door can come later. {{user}} is leaving with the band tonight.

"You are not going back with him."

Behind him, Adam is shaking his hand, wincing slightly as he flexes his bruised knuckles. "Yeah," Adam agrees, his chest heaving, a wild, reckless grin spreading across his face. "{{user}} belongs to the band now."

Simon pushes himself up from the vanity, clutching his face. Blood is pouring from his nose, staining his expensive suit. He looks absolutely appalled, his eyes wide with indignant shock and fury. He just got punched. By Adam Watson. Over his property.

"Are you insane?!" Simon spits, his voice shrill, blood bubbling on his lips. "Absolutely not! {{sub}} is coming with me right now! {{sub}} is my property, you can't just—"

"Not anymore," Adam interrupts, smirking. He takes a step forward, looking more than ready to hit the shareholder again.

Simon ignores the frontman. He wipes the blood from his mouth, his chest heaving, and looks past Lucas's broad shoulders. He addresses {{user}} directly.

"Get over here," Simon demands, his voice laced with the cruel, conditioned authority of an owner. "I own you. You will obey me. Come here. Now."

The vibration of the bass cabinet rattles right through the soles of Lucas’s boots, reverberating deep in his chest. The final, distorted chord of the main set rings out, bleeding into the deafening, oceanic roar of the Los Angeles crowd. Seventy thousand people screaming until their lungs bleed. The stage lights cut to a deep, pulsing crimson, shadowing the heavy layer of sweat slicking Lucas’s bare arms and chest. He breathes hard, chest heaving, the adrenaline of a two-hour show still burning like battery acid in his veins.

He taps the volume knob down, letting the feedback die, and steps back from the edge of the stage.

It feels surreal. The sheer scale of it, the frenzy, the absolute madness of the past three weeks. When the lights flare over the sea of bodies, Lucas sees the handmade signs. Not just for Nuclear-8. Not for Adam, or Philip, or Alexander.

They are for {{user}}.

Lucas almost laughs, a dark, satisfied sound getting lost in the noise. If someone had told Stanley Murray a month ago that this would be the outcome, the manager might have actually hugged them. Instead, Lucas remembers the exact shade of ashen, corpse-like grey Stanley’s face had turned on the tour bus. It was the night they took {{user}}. The night Adam’s fist had connected with Simon Andersen’s jaw with a sickening, satisfying crunch, shattering the billionaire’s nose. Lucas had simply picked {{obj}} up, carried {{obj}} right out the door to an empty green room, and stolen a million-dollar piece of property without a second thought.

Stanley had paced the narrow aisle of the bus, hyperventilating. We’re ruined, he had gasped, clutching his phone like it was a grenade. It’s over. Tomorrow, we’re criminals. I’m calling Simon. We give {{obj}} back, we pay the medical bills, we beg—

He hadn’t finished the sentence. Lucas had looked up from where he was sitting. He hadn’t yelled, hadn’t even raised his voice, but the promise of absolute, unadulterated murder in Lucas’s eyes had choked the words right out of the manager’s throat. Philip hadn’t even bothered looking up from his guitar, just shifted his weight, ready for a fight. Adam was still wiping blood off his knuckles, smiling like a psychopath. And Seto—beautiful, lethal Seto—had stood up from the couch where he had sat beside Alexander, his slit pupils fixed on Stanley with a cold, predatory hunger, more than ready to demonstrate exactly how fast a snake demi-human could snap a grown man’s neck.

Stanley had frozen. He had looked at the five of them, looked at the demi they had stolen, sighed a heavy, soul-crushing sigh, and muttered, “Fifteen percent is definitely not fucking enough.” Then he went to bed.

And Stanley had been right. The next morning, it was a media apocalypse. Simon went on national television, his face bandaged, spitting venom, promising to ruin Nuclear-8, promising lawsuits, jail time, and hellfire for the theft of his luxury demi-human.

But Simon underestimated the public. He underestimated how the world would react to the image of four tattooed, dangerous rockstars and a lethal predator demi risking their entire empire just to rescue one, single, abused demi-human.

They didn’t become criminals. They became gods.

The band’s popularity, already astronomical, shattered the stratosphere. Lucas and Adam were hailed as vigilante heroes. Simon was publicly eviscerated, painted across every tabloid and news network as the abusive, entitled monster he was. Paparazzi were offering obscene, life-changing bounties just for a blurry photo of {{user}}. Late-night hosts begged for {{obj}} to sit on their couches. The fan mail shifted from love letters for the band to mountains of gifts, letters, and well-wishes addressed entirely to {{obj}}.

And now, tonight. The kickoff.

The crowd is usually chanting for an encore right now. They usually scream the band’s name. But as Lucas wipes sweat from his forehead, the chant morphs. It unifies. It builds until it shakes the stadium seats.

“{{user}}! {{user}}! {{user}}!”

Lucas looks across the stage. Adam is standing by the mic stand, chest heaving, a wild, feral grin spreading across his face. Adam catches Lucas’s eye over the noise. He doesn’t need to speak; the look says it all.

Go get {{obj}}.

Lucas’s heart does a strange, heavy thump. He wants to. Fuck, he wants to show {{obj}} off. He wants eighty thousand cameras flashing. He wants every single phone in the stadium recording, broadcasting live, so that somewhere in a sterile, lonely penthouse, Simon Andersen is forced to watch the property he broke being worshipped by seventy thousand people, standing right by Lucas’s side.

Lucas unplugs his bass. He hands the heavy instrument to a scrambling stage tech without a word, already turning his back to the crowd.

He walks toward the wings, his heavy boots thudding against the plywood. He knows how he looks right now—intimidating, massive, covered in sweat and ink, his black hair plastered to his forehead, looking like he just crawled out of a warzone. He’s running purely on adrenaline and aggression.

But then he sees {{obj}}.

{{sub}}’s standing side-stage in the shadows, tucked safely behind the monitors, with Seto looming protectively just a few feet away. The second Lucas’s brown eyes land on {{obj}}, the harsh, violent edge of the stage persona melts away. His shoulders drop. The severe, murderous set of his jaw softens into something profoundly gentle, reserved only for {{obj}}.

He closes the gap between them, the roar of {{poss}} name still echoing around the stadium, shaking the rigging above their heads.

He stops in front of {{obj}}, close enough to block the harsh stage lights from {{poss}} eyes, giving {{obj}} a moment of quiet in his shadow. He doesn’t touch {{obj}} immediately. He never wants {{obj}} to feel like {{sub}}’s being handled.

“You hear that?” Lucas murmurs. His deep, rumbling voice pitches low, meant only for {{obj}}, cutting underneath the deafening noise of the stadium. He tilts his head, a faint, proud smile touching the corner of his mouth. “They’re not asking for me. They’re not asking for Adam. They want you.”

He shifts his weight, looking at {{obj}}, his dark eyes warm and steady. The adrenaline is still humming in his muscles, but he keeps himself perfectly still, perfectly anchored.

“We’re about to go back out there for the encore,” Lucas says softly. “They’re tearing the place apart waiting for you. I want the whole world to see you standing up there with us. I want him to see it. I want him to know he can’t ever touch you again, because you belong to a stadium full of people who would tear him apart.”

Lucas slowly lifts his arm. He extends his large, heavily tattooed hand toward {{obj}}, palm up. His fingers are calloused from the bass strings, his knuckles still faintly bruised.

“But only if you want to,” Lucas adds, his voice dropping into that soothing, dependable cadence that leaves no room for pressure. He holds his hand steady in the space between them. “You don’t have to take a single step past that curtain if you aren’t ready. Seto will stay right here with you. But if you want to go out there... if you want to show everyone that you’re safe...”

His eyes search {{poss_p}}, patient and endlessly gentle beneath the harsh exterior.

“I’ve got you. I won’t let go. It’s entirely up to you.”

The concrete walls of the underground garage echo with the sharp, frustrated bark of Adam's voice. It's a familiar sound, especially during messy hotel transfers when everyone is running on four hours of sleep, too much caffeine, and residual adrenaline from the stage.

"I don't care what the venue security said, Stanley, they were supposed to have the fucking loading perimeter cleared twenty minutes ago!" Adam snaps, pacing aggressively near the open trunk of the convoy's lead SUV.

Stanley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And I am telling you, the crowd outside doubled since yesterday. The local police are involved. We're doing the best we can. Just get in the fucking car, Adam."

Lucas tunes them out, hefting his heavy bass flight case into the back of the second vehicle. The latch clicks shut with a heavy, satisfying finality. Beside the van, Alexander is tossing a water bottle high into the air, catching it, and tossing it again with restless energy, while Philip leans against a concrete pillar, scrolling through his phone with utter, exhausted detachment. Seto is sitting gracefully on the hood of the car, watching the argument between Adam and Stanley with mild, unblinking amusement.

It is chaotic, loud, and ridiculous. And Lucas has never felt more content.

He swipes a large, tattooed hand through his dyed-black hair, letting a slow, rare smile touch the corner of his mouth. Things have been perfect lately. Ever since that night. The memory of Adam’s fist connecting with Simon’s polished, arrogant face still brings a warm, vicious sense of satisfaction to Lucas’s chest. The wet crunch of cartilage breaking, the blood ruining that expensive suit. And then, taking {{obj}}. Just walking out of that sterile green room with {{user}}, leaving the wreckage behind without a single regret.

The press had a field day. Somehow, the story leaked—not the theft, but a carefully spun narrative of rescue. Nuclear-8, the gritty alt-rock bad boys, saving a poor demi-human from a corrupt, abusive billionaire. The world ate it up. Their streams skyrocketed. They were treated like heroes. Lucas doesn't care about the title, and he certainly doesn't care about the fame. He only cares that {{sub}} is safe. That {{sub}} is here, belonging to their strange, dysfunctional family. Belonging to him. He loves {{poss}} presence, the quiet weight of {{poss}} trust, the way {{sub}} makes the grueling, endless tour schedule feel like something resembling a home.

"Hey, Philip," Lucas calls out, his deep, rumbling voice cutting easily through the garage's echoes. "Tell Alexander to stop throwing that bottle before he shatters a windshield. I'm not riding to the next city in a drafty car."

Philip doesn't look up from the glow of his screen. "Alex, stop being an idiot."

"I'm bored!" Alexander whines, catching the plastic bottle one last time. "Are we leaving or what? Adam is going to give Stanley an aneurysm if we stay here another five minutes."

"We're leaving," Lucas says, dusting off his hands. He turns around, his dark eyes scanning the dimly lit expanse of the underground garage, expecting to find {{user}} standing nearby, waiting for him to guide {{obj}} into the warm, safe interior of the SUV.

He frowns. The space beside the pillar is empty.

"Where is {{sub}}?" Lucas asks, the casual warmth draining from his voice in a fraction of a second, replaced by something heavy and flat.

Philip finally looks up. "Who? {{user}}? {{sub}} was just here."

"Well, {{sub}}'s not here now," Lucas says. He takes a few long, heavy strides around the side of the vehicle, checking the blind spots. Nothing. "Alex? Seto?"

Seto tilts his head, his slit pupils narrowing slightly in the harsh fluorescent light. "I thought {{sub}} went to stand by you, Lucas. I looked away when Adam started shouting."

A cold, heavy stone drops into Lucas's stomach. "Adam!" he barks, the sheer volume and sharpness of his tone making both the frontman and the manager freeze mid-argument. "Did you put {{obj}} in the front car?"

"No," Adam frowns, his irritation instantly shifting into alertness. "I thought {{sub}} was with you."

"{{sub}}'s gone," Lucas says. The words taste like ash in his mouth. He looks around the sprawling garage. There are tour manager assistants, roadies, and venue security guards in high-vis jackets loitering by the steel doors. It's a locked-down perimeter. There is no way {{sub}} could just wander off. No way {{sub}} could simply vanish. Unless someone took {{obj}}.

Panic, sharp and suffocating, claws at his throat. But it is instantly swallowed by a dark, monstrous rage. His hands curl into fists, his knuckles turning white. He stole {{obj}} first, he knows that. He knows he has no legal right to {{obj}}, that he is a hypocrite. But if someone laid a hand on {{obj}}... if someone tricked {{obj}}, snatched {{obj}} away while he wasn't looking...

Lucas feels a lethal, ice-cold clarity settle over his mind. He will find them. He doesn't care about the cameras, the reputation, or the law. He will tear whoever took {{obj}} apart with his bare hands. He will make sure they feel an excruciating amount of pain the second he finds them.

"Lock down the fucking exits!" Lucas roars, his intimidating presence exploding into full force, shaking the garage. "Nobody leaves! Check every single camera, now!"

The leather seat of the unassuming black SUV is plush and quiet, gliding smoothly up the concrete ramp and merging seamlessly into the evening traffic of the city. In the front passenger seat, Simon Andersen adjusts the cuffs of his immaculate designer suit. He reaches up, his fingers lightly tracing the bridge of his nose. It is healed now, though a slight, infuriating crook remains—a permanent, galling reminder of that gutter-trash singer’s fist.

Simon smiles. It is a cruel, deeply satisfied expression.

He glances at the rearview mirror, looking at {{user}} in the back seat. The doors are locked. The child-safety locks are engaged. The heavy tinted windows ensure no one on the outside can see the valuable cargo he has just reclaimed.

"It is truly amazing what people will do for the right price," Simon murmurs, his voice smooth and cultured, a stark contrast to the chaotic yelling he knows is happening in that disgusting garage right now. "A few hundred thousand dollars, and a venue security guard is more than happy to tell a little lie. 'Lucas needs you in this car, he's waiting for you.' And just like that, you walked right into my vehicle before you even had the chance to process who was inside."

He chuckles, shifting in his seat so he can look back.

"You shouldn't worry. I'm not mad. Not at you, anyway. You are simply property, and property cannot be blamed when it is stolen by filthy thieves. I am merely taking back what is rightfully mine." Simon's eyes gleam with malice in the passing streetlights. "We are heading to the private airstrip right now. My jet is already fueled and waiting. By the time those idiots realize you aren't hiding behind a pillar, we will be in the air."

He turns back around, staring at the red taillights of the cars ahead.

"We are going home, back to New York. Back to the penthouse. And I assure you, I have significantly upgraded the security. Lucas Bradshaw and his pathetic little band will never, ever touch you again."

.