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cursedcola · 2 years

Note

Dorm leaders react to finding reader/yuu crying and overhear them say "I want to go home"?

A/N: Ah. Angst. My specialty lol. I am assuming you want imagine format? Hope so because that's what I am going with. Thank you for the request :)

Note: Idia's is so long. I went so overboard omg. I am sorry. I just think that he's neat.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle has seen many people cry, and unfortunately been the instigator for no small number of occurrences. Prior to turning over a new leaf, he was heinously blunt with his criticisms. Everyone knows this.

At the time he thought those people to be sensitive and naïve to the cruel ways of the world. They needed to toughen up!

That opinion lies in the past now. He was a prick. Riddle won't verbally acknowledge it but he knows. There is no need to bring it up because he is trying to change his ways

Key word: trying

You can't uproot years of bad habits and trauma overnight. He has his moments. From freaking out over students not studying, dress coding half the school, lecturing his friends on their diet....nothing too harsh, and no permanent harm done.

"This is not your world MC; 70% is unacceptable for a prefect to score on an exam. Slacking will not be tolerated! What kind of example are you setting for the other students?! Your grades reflect on the school!"

Perhaps he could have taken a moment to think and not let his emotions overcome him. Riddle knew how hard you studied; after all, you came to him for help many times. Each occasion he happily obliged and saw you progress using his study guides

It is why he wanted you to succeed. To show up with a perfect 100 that would be celebrated over sweets

Instead you arrived apprehensive and hiding your test behind your back. Already fragile and he-...goodness.

He sent you off running

Likely to go cower in the library and beat yourself up for disappointing him. Just like he used to do. Great Sevens he is an asshole. Ace is definetly going to rip him to shreds or at least throw his tea collection into the pond

After a brief rest to wash his face in the restroom, Riddle goes to the library and his heart shatters at the sound of sniffles from behind a particularly large stack of books.

"I can't do this anymore...this is too hard...he's right...he's right...he's right...I want to go home"

Sweat pools at his chin and his hands clench into tight, clammy fists. After hearing that, Riddle can't bring himself to interrupt and stands on the other side of the books, silent, and with his head down

He always felt regret and frustration after having an outburst - but all pale in comparison to the absolute shame and heartbreak hurting you has wrought

Leona Kingscholar

"Go home. It's past curfew"

And...no response. You are very lucky that Leona tolerates you, because ignoring him so flat-out would get you two nights in the slammer back where he comes from.

A goody-two-shoes like you never bends the rules, which is why Leona is curious to see you roaming the botanical garden so late. Not going to answer him? Now it's personal and he is your problem.

At first he opts to follow you around. Not for any particular reason, and merely because he wanted to find out if you stashed any secrets in the area

His patience runs thin as you walk up to every plaque and study each plant. You can't seriously be out here at this hour for a botany lesson, can you? Why not do this during the day

Each time you study a plant your mood seems to sour further. For absolutely no reason, at least from Leona's perspective. Not unless you have beef with the flora and fauna - which is impossible. Maybe. He really doesn't know what to expect from you anymore.

Eventually curiosity grows to concern. He's kept himself entertained, following you and leaving commentary once in a while. Yet he can't help but be creeped out with how you move around like a zombie.

With one plant left, he observes as you once again ignore him to examine it...only to let it go and sit on the floor in disappointment.

"So...You're out of plants, what now?"

He doesn't expect an answer after an entire night of nothing.

"I guess I'll go 'home'...wherever that is"

"Finally talking to me, huh? The hell is wrong with you? Do you think it's safe to be out here this late?,"

"Safe? It's just as safe right now as it is during the day"

A part of him screams to shut up and end the conversation there. It's not his buisness and he can just pretend this night never happened.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He can't help it.

"It means that nothing here is like home. Not the buildings, or the people, or the food, not even the plants. You know, where I come from roses grow on bushes not trees. And I don't have to worry about the broom I sweep the kitchen with suddenly taking flight! I want to go home where shit is normal"

Okay. You got him. He definetly wasn't prepared for that level of a stress dump.

What's worse is that he can't comfort you. He wants to. Truth be told, watching you wander through the garden listlessly upset him more than he is willing to admit. Yet he can't do anything, because that level of homesickness is something no one can understand.

"...NRC doesn't store every kind of plant in this garden. We can check other areas tomorrow"

Azul Ashengrotto

"Ah! At last, my food critique is here," Azul glows, clapping his hands when you walk into the room, "The Headmaster has given the Monstro Lounge a great opportunity to market our buisness at the upcoming cultural fair. Our stall's menu must be perfect!"

Azul ushers you inside with a hand on the small of your back and leads you to a prepared table. Truth be told, he could easily taste the new menu items himself or have one of the tweels do it on his behalf. So long as it tastes good, it will sell, right?

Wrong. In exchange for a vendor's slot and location that will actually yield profits - Azul had to make this contract worth the Headmaster's time.

In short, he promised something "never seen before," that would fit the festival's theme. Naturally, he did not do this without a plan. He had one made long before approaching Crowley with the idea.

You. You are the plan. Azul was going to theme his stall off of your world. Neat, right? All he needs is for you to monitor his project for accuracy, which he has already half-succeeded in doing by luring you here to taste test a new menu

"Jade! Bring out the first item," Sweat drips from the side of Azul's head, his inner anxiousness getting the better of him. Perhaps he should have told you instead of making it a surprise? He only had a few dish ideas to build off of from the rare times you spoke of your childhood. Sourcing similar ingredients without any idea of how things should taste was a task in itself. What if he butchers it? Would you hate him?

Jade sets the first dish on the table, and you visibly straighten up in surprise. You eye him in confusion, as if to say 'where the heck did you learn to make this? How?' and he softly smiles, "Go on. Take a bite,"

And you do. You lift a piece of the dish to your face and smell the aroma before taking a bite. A moment of silence passes, and Azul thinks he may have just killed two birds with one stone. Literally. Death to any chance he had with you or with the festival.

"It...it's not quite the same," you stare at the dish in thought, suddenly solemn, "yet still similar. Nostalgic, even. Thank you for making this for me. Truly, thank you"

A mixture of emotions fill him as he signals for Jade to prepare the next plate. Should he take that as a good response? He failed in recreating the dish perfectly, yet you appear content. Sitting there, slowly finishing the meal bit by bit and cherishing every bite.

"You’re welcome. If it suits your taste, we can add this to our permanent VIP menu," he hovers near your side before laying a gloved hand on your shoulder, "just for you"

You reach to lay your hand on top of his, "I'd like that. Sometimes I want to go home, but this? It helps,"

At that, Azul steels himself. Not only would this dish be added to his menu, but he will personally learn how to make anything you every mention from your home. He would make you talk more, and hopefully find a way to carve a place for you in Twisted Wonderland where you will never have to want for somewhere else.

Kalim Al' Asim

"Is that really necessary?"

Kalim pauses - well, to be fair, everything pauses with a flick of his wrist. Dust rags mid-air, sponges amidst cleaning dishes, the broom sweeping the floor, and so the books that were rearranging themselves in alphabetical order.

He hadn't expected you home for hours. Did Ruggie lie to him about you watching spelldrive practice?

Kalim rubs the back of his neck bashfully, and flicks his wrist for everything else to resume motion.

"Oh, prefect! You're home early. I wanted to help you fix up this dorm in return for everything you have done for me! Do you like it?"

A wet mop flies over your head, " I..uhm..yes? Yes, it's very sweet of you to offer but do we really need magic for this? I could have helped," and nearly drenches you in dirty mop water, earning a grimace of disgust.

Kalim chuckles, waving you off and out of the kitchen. He felt bad for sneaking in to your home while you were away, but he wanted o surprise you! Which...also did not happen, but you said he was sweet for it and that is exactly when he decided to stop listening.

A mantra of 'they think I'm sweet!' plays in his head as he sends more tools to clean the house as you both talk.

He makes a joke about how cleaning is easy with magic, and that you can call on him whenever you need help around the dorms. He will happily do it on your behalf

Which...may not have been the best thing to say to a magicless prefect that has been busting their ass trying to survive and be independent in a world where they do not fit in.

Just a little bit insensitive.

Miniscule enough for Kalim not to understand why you're suddenly frustrated with him.

His brow furrows when you plop on the couch an bury your face in your hands with a frustrated sigh.

"Ugh...you just- you don't get it. I swear, all you magic folk wouldn't last a day where I come from...ugh, I want to go home already"

You say the last bit under your breath but he still heard it. Kalim is aware that sometimes he does get ahead of himself, and that he has clearly overstepped a boundary. Normally he is not so hasty, but with you? All he wanted was to do something nice, and his mind was clouded.

He knows better than to flaunt what he has in front of other people. Not everyone has magic or the free will himself and many other students here are lucky enough to have. You've been working hard to be seen for your efforts, and that's something he admires greatly.

One by one the tools fly back to storage for safe keeping. All aside from the broom, which flies into Kalim's open hand. He steps in front of you, and holds the other out to help you up.

"Sorry, hehe. That was rude of me. I still want to help, so can we try again? Your way this time?"

Vil Schoenheit

"What is that thing?"

He had not intended to sound so repulsed. Disgusted? Yes. Just a tad, but there is a fine line.

You quirk an eyebrow at his comment, and follow his line of vision to the make-shift bracelet on your wrist. It was nothing fancy. Just your old shoe-laces put into an adjustable braid.

You tell him as such, and Vil cannot fathom what compelled you to make such an eyesore. He catches himself this time and doesn't voice it as bluntly

But my dear, it completely throws off your uniform. Goodness it's worse than Ruggie's oversized vest that he refuses to tailor.

"They're sentimental and from the sneakers I had on before someone put me in the ceremonial coffin. I still don't know who changed my clothes; and frankly? Don't want to, but at least they left my stuff in there,"

Okay, he understands. A piece from your past is hard to let go of but do you seriously need to wear it around campus? It completely throws off your charm.

Vil has always had a nasty habit of imposing his standards onto others, and so for the rest of the week you find him constantly eying your bracelet whenever he is nearby.

He merely wants to snip it with some scissors, he thinks, ever so tempted one evening when painting your nails.

You are his soon to be lover. Well, once you ask him to be so. Then he will turn you down and ask you himself because (1) he is not one who seeks, but is one who is sought after and (2) he must always have the upper hand despite this mindset

Anyway. You cannot walk around with those dirty laces on your wrist. He cannot accept it despite trying to on multiple occasions.

His compulsion overtakes reasoning, and as your nails are drying he "accidentally" cuts the thin cord holding the laces together with cuticle scissors

Needless to say that you are upset. Much more so than Vil ever could have predicted, and he watches in guilt as you try to salvage the laces with various knots

"I am sorry, my potato. Allow me to get you a new bracelet - "

"There is no new bracelet, Vil. This is from my home. I...I want to go home. This is all I have left and I need to fix it!"

It is not every day that Vil feels regret for his actions. He convinced himself that he was doing you a favor by getting rid of the old thing, but really? He was being selfish and ignored your feelings for what he wanted

He pushes that down, choosing not to acknowledge his fault and silently takes the broken bracelet. With a few strategic knots he has it stable, but it'll take some extra loving to fix properly.

"We can go out tomorrow to get some supplies. With a few beads, I am certain that these pieces could bind a lovely necklace together!"

He will have to be honest about breaking it on purpose, but for now Vil is happy that you have calmed down and are satisfied with his solution. Part of him wants to decipher what you said; however, he'll set that aside and take heed from his previous mistake. Something is keeping you tied to your home, and if he wants you to stay then he'll have to create a stronger bond for himself and this world first.

Idia Shroud

What does he always tell you?

No, not that there is always a catch with 'f2p' games. Well - yes, he does say that but right now we are talking about the other thing

Y'know

That the outside world sucks??? Hello??? He is essentially a broken record, repeating this every time Ortho or yourself try to get him to leave his room

Everything you need for survival can be acquired from one space. Need money? Work remote. Food? Delivery. Entertainment? Does he need to even -

Look. The point is made. Back on topic, Idia has enforced this time and time again. Yet you always insist on dragging him somewhere or going out on your own if he refuses. More often the latter, because you need to find him in a very special mood for him to go out anywhere physically. When you weren't as close, he would let you go off easily. It isn't his job to babysit you? Now though? He is a bit more 'tricky' on the topic.

Idia thrives on your attention. Absolutely adores it. When the CCTV picks you up as you bypass the Ignihyde security, his heart throbs because he knows that you have no other buisness here other than coming to see him or Ortho. Yet...he has issues being honest about this. Normally he'll be freaking out like a normie in his room until you knock, and then he speedily throws on his headset and pretends that he was in the middle of programming something important

Then you do your thing and "annoy," him with your "normie" talk. Tell him all about your day, joke around, play some games, maybe sneak out and get him stuff from the vending machine so he doesn't have to

And then it ends. Either it's late and you have to go home, or you have other plans to attend. Either way, you always extend an invitation for him to join. Just to get some fresh night air or go have some quality people time

As stated prior, at first he did not care. He'd let you go without a peep. Now? He has...ugh, emotional attachments *barf*. He hates knowing that you're leaving him to go have fun with other people, and he also is extremely uncomfortable with you walking alone at night. Did you not learn from what happened to him? Are you asking for a ghost to kidnap and take you as their bride/groom? He won't save you, y'know. He won't!

Needless to say, he is hella paranoid. More so about the second scenario than the first, because at least with other people you're just doing boring things like shopping.

So, Idia does what any sane person in his situation would do...and stalks you by hacking into NRC's security cameras. Just until you're in you’re home, safe, and he can relax. His intentions are pure and you haven't noticed yet. Why stop?

It's odd that on the night Idia begins to think his protective tendencies are unnecessary, that his anxiousness is justified

"What the f*ck?" He nearly growls, seeing three figures lurking outside his dorm, just beyond the entrance. Obviously not any of his students and seemingly waiting for someone.

His suspicions are proven right when you walk out the front door and one of them steps in your way. Idia thanks his past self for investing in high resolution cameras for his dorm, because he's easily able to get a clear picture of their face.

Unfortunately, audio recording is unethical (curse you Crowley) and he can't hear a word that they're saying - but it doesn't look good. Not from how you shrink backwards towards the front door, looking frantically for a way out. Sweat dribbles down Idia's neck as he debates what to do. He's not built for confrontation? But he's dorm leader, so isn't stopping this kind of stuff his job? Okay, but you're not a student of Ignihyde. Shit, you're his "friend" though. If he leaves you alone then why did he bother with all this in the first -

One of the figures grabs you by the collar, and Idia is out the door faster than Grimm when there's a can of tuna on the line. His desk chair left spinning in his wake as he bolts down the halls of his dorm

"Now listen here you little shit-"

"How about you listen ya filthy noob. I will give you three seconds,"

Idia throws open the front door an immediately pries the newly noted Savanaclaw student off you. His hair blazing double it's normal height and dark red, fueled by rage akin to what only Kingdom Hearts can evict from people. His eye begins to twitch just from looking at their false confidence fall apart. Of course, normies are all talk and no act when shit gets rough. What else did he expect?

"We have no buisness with you, shut-in. Butt out,"

"Three seconds. Leave or I will activate our military grade security systems,"

"Wha-"

"Two"

"Dude, you think we care?"

"One"

"Fine! Whatever! Don't think you're off the hook, prefect"

The title is spit out like a curse, and Idia nearly calls his newest project to chase after them ('Cerberus' Robotic doggos meant to deliver mail, but have an attack function. Why not?)

By the time they’re gone, Idia's thoughts begin to settle and his sense of self returns. He's outside, in his casual clothes with no shoes, there's a slight chill, and he's gripping something - or rather someone - tightly.

"Ah! I'msorryIdidn'tmeantotouchyou," he jumps back, his hair turning bright pink and hands shaking from what he did

You cough into your fist, "No prob. You didn't have to do that...I know you hate confrontation," your voice comes out shaky, and Idia's brain halts, "You're crying," he whispers in disbelief.

"What? No. Pssh. You seriously think that could shake me up? Have you seen the stuff I deal with daily?"

He is not convinced. If it were anyone else, he would have left. He can't handle this kind of stressful situation...then again, he normally can't handle confrontation either, but he just did so…

He sighs, inching closer "What...what did they say to you?" he can try. He might regret it, but he hasn't been rational all night.

Your eyes glaze over, likely reliving whatever conversation just took place before your eyes well up, "I know it's not true. I know. I know I can fit in somehow but I just want to go home. It would be so much easier if I could just go home,"

The last of your words are muffled by your hands as you frantically try to compose yourself. Idia doesn't need to hear more. He's intuitive. From what you've said and the way that student spoke your title...he gets it. Which is why he leads you back inside, lets you sleep in his bed, and prepares a special little surprise for those students with the camera footage from earlier. He was planning to stay awake playing video games, why not use his time more ‘productively’?

Idia stands by his words - the outside world sucks. Yet you know what sucks more? Pissing him off, and making one of the only people he has *barf* emotional attachments to, feel the need to leave him and go to another world to feel safe. There is a reason he was placed in Ignihyde, and it wasn't his smarts or reclusiveness.

No. It was his temper.

Malleus Draconia

“Prefect. Does this belong to you?”

Malleus holds out a phone unlike any sold in Twisted Wonderland. At first he thought his technological illiteracy was why he couldn’t pin point the design, so he brought the phone to Ignihyde’s dorm leader. Not even Idia recognized the brand, but with a bit of tinkering he was able to get the phone charged and working (through methods Malleus could not begin to fathom).

The home screen brightened up and soon they found your name in the settings. Malleus was surprised, to say the least. He did not expect you to be the owner of such foreign technology, or for Idia to throw the phone as if it burned him. Something about being a ‘red flag’ and invading your privacy? Eh. Surely there is nothing too concerning inside an old phone.

To be safe, he withholds his curiosity in favor of returning the phone to you. He could not navigate it even if he wanted to, honestly.

He made the right call. The way your eyes sparkle with recognition at the device and take it gingerly from his hands. You twirl it around a few times in disbelief, earning a bemused chuckle from him.

“I found it near the ceremonial hall. Be careful with your belongings or else they may one day end up in the wrong hands,”

You smile brightly at him when the screen lights up, and throw your arms over his shoulders in a hug, “Thankyouthankyouthankyou! I can’t believe you found this for me! I was so worried I lost all my pictures and data,”

You startle him with the physical contact. He definitely did not picture your first hug to go this way. Although he quickly composes himself, returning the gesture albeit with less strength.

He grows curious, “Pictures? Data?” wondering if there really was something worth while in the phone. You pull him at arms length and giddily start tapping away at the screen, “yeah! Having this means I can should you all what my world looks like! Food, people, scenery - oh, I think I have some memes saved too,”

He refrains from asking what a ‘meme’ is, too caught up in trying to understand you. Sure, he expected you to be happy that he found your phone but to see this level of cuteness? Are you missing anything else that he can find?

You hastily show him your phone and begin to swipe through the “camera roll,” as you call it. Once in a while you stop to laugh, explain who a person is or what’s going in in a picture. He soaks it all in like a sponge, committing each face to memory since they’re important to you.

Time passes, and you begin to slow down. Occasionally you’ll stare at a photo longingly, or revisit others to zoom in on faces or pieces of the scenery.

“I wonder if they miss me,” you whisper, and he understands where your heart is. Painfully so.

He stares at your reflection in the phone, wondering how such joy can be turned to sorrow so quickly, “They would be fools not to. You are…unforgettable…to say the least,”

You nod, wiping away a stray tear, “I hope so. I want to go home, but the thought of them forgetting me? Or the people here doing the same…I wish that I didn’t have to choose,”

You will never be forgotten. Malleus can assure you that much. The nickname “Tsunotaro,” will forever haunt him (affectionately) for the rest of his life - and you? He will always care for you, no matter where you go.

He cannot make that choice for you or take away your suffering. Neither does he regret retuning the phone and digging up these old memories. It pains him to see you so heartbroken, but he knows you love that world just as much as this one.

You won’t have to choose. He will find a way to bridge both worlds if it means that you can be happy. Then you can take him to all the places in those pictures, introduce him to the people and things you love - and then? He isn’t quite sure, but it’s a start to a long road of ensuring that you never leave his side.

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sweetsweetjellybean · 2 months

Text

Your crush on Eddie was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened leads you into a storm.

I wasn't happy with my first version of chapter 4. So I polished it up and added a little more dialog. Feel free to wait for the next chapter but if you'd like to read it, either as a refresher or for the very first time, please let me know what you think. XOXO-Jelly

Masterlist Listen to Fake Plastic Trees Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago. Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees surrounding Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away.

Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

Eddie’s eyes narrow as his brows pull tighter into a frown. You push one of your headphones back, and the noise of everyday chatter and car engines bursts into your reality.

"You know your girlfriend is deeply weird, Munson," the spiky-haired jock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, not even trying to hide his distaste.

Girlfriend. You’ve both tried to stamp out that rumor—yet no matter who else you go out with, those sparks never last and pale in comparison to the steady flame you feel around Eddie. Would it really be so bad if it were true? The answer scares you more than you expect.

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black jeans clinging to his narrow hips. An impatient sigh pulls the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame. "You in or out?" His fingers snap near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on his silver rings, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

"Sure, whatever," Dan grumbles, extending a hand with a few crumpled bills.

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk, teasing the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum. Dan’s hand hovers while he glances around for prying eyes, but Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground before he can take it.

"Oops," Eddie’s voice drips with feigned innocence before he pivots on his heel and walks away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering a curse.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie calls over his shoulder, flashing a dismissive two-fingered salute. A gaggle of pink-cheeked girls from the sophomore class crosses his path, eyes trailing over him like he's their favorite song come to life.

"Ladies." He extends an arm, waving them on, his voice as smooth as a melody. They flutter past with giggles and heated glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van when no one is looking – to be the subject of the rumors they'd later deny.

He never hides his interest when he likes a girl — everybody knows when Eddie Munson is into someone. But he’s never looked at you that way, never given you that smile meant for those he desires. And that’s something that has never bothered you. Now, it stirs something else — a green thorny vine wrapping around your insides. He’s just Eddie – your friend. The same old Eddie, you reaffirm, even as your heart whispers lies of a different tune.

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud, sending vibrations through the timeworn wood. His eyes linger on the girl's retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, tipping your chin toward where Dan is stalking off in a dark cloud of annoyance.

"Careful is my middle name, doll." He smiles a big, sly grin, dimples deepening, causing a flutter in your chest, an unexplained sensation that's become strangely frequent these days.

He nods at your leg, eyes dropping to your thigh. "What’s this?" His dark lashes make half-moon shadows on his cheek as his thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses covering the denim patch on your jeans. A trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you crave more of his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, hyper-aware of the warmth of his skin as the ghost of his touch lingers. "The art of visible mending."

"Looks cool." His gaze meets yours, a little too intense and a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

"Are you coming over after school?" Your voice is steadier than you feel.

"I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got to go back to the trailer after," Eddie replies, his eyes still holding yours in a silent conversation you can't quite interpret. "I’ve got stuff to do." Something in his tone suggests layers you're not ready to peel back. "Not your kind of stuff."

The house where Eddie grew up doesn't look the same anymore. Someone else has moved in – keeping the lawn perfect and fixing up all the broken things, erasing any traces of tragedy. The neighborhood has moved on, absolving themselves like they hadn’t just turned their back and let it happen. As if it wasn't their problem. Eddie's staying on the other side of town now with his Uncle Wayne in a tiny one-bedroom trailer. Wayne's heart is in the right place, even if he drinks too much, just like Eddie's dad did. But he's not bad, just... lost when it comes to dealing with an angry teen, and with him working nights, Eddie's on his own to figure out how to deal with it all.

"I can keep you company?” You try to keep the offer casual despite the hump in your pulse.

He shakes his head, a shadow crossing his features. "Nah, I’ve got to stop at Rick's, then a run." There's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

You frown and look away, hiding your disappointment. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, keeping your voice low, "We smoke together all the time."

"The big deal," he says, reaching out to lift your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Is that this is business, and I don’t want you involved. Alright?" His voice is firm, letting you know he won’t budge. "I’ll pick you up later," he promises. "Movie night. Just us."

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds you for a heavy beat before breaking away. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts when you part ways at the door.

As you make your way to class, those feelings nag at you like a forgotten lyric. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the persistent ache that spreads through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

But you push it all down, guarding it like a secret. To lock it away in the confines of your ribcage, where it can't taint the one thing you value most. The friendship you've built is too important, too rare to risk on a silly crush that might only live in your head and fade with time. It’s a gamble you won’t take. You can't lose him. You won’t watch that light in his eyes dim for you, awkward silences replacing the laughter. Without him, you’d be alone.

Cold gray days give way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon are veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier as fall edges closer to winter. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

Lowering the lid of your laptop, the light in the room dims as the brightness is trapped between the two halves. Your arms stretch over your head, loosening the tension in your neck as you push away from your desk, drifting towards the sounds of life from the living room. Steve’s long legs are stretched out on the chaise end of the couch, a Bulls game on the TV, but his attention is stuck on the laptop resting on his thighs.

“My eyes are going to fall out my head if I stare at that screen for any longer,” you declare, rounding the corner of the couch.

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” He nods at the TV, extending his arm to make space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side.

“You’re so warm.” You nuzzle into his chest, and his lips touch the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed. I still have a few hours of work left,” he sighs, his finger sliding down the trackpad as he scrolls through a document that never seems to end.

“Is that for the launch?” Your eyes squint at the brightness of the screen.

He groans at the ping of another incoming email while toggling between the many windows he has open. “Yeah, we're in the final stretch. The event team is trying to finalize the details. Maroon 5 and Fallout Boy are locked in to perform, but we’re still waiting to hear back from a few other acts and about a million other details that need ironing out.”

“It’s going to be a great night, baby. Everyone will be so impressed,” you assure, the arm you have draped across his stomach tightening, trying to impress your words into him. “Everything is going to go smoothly, you’ll see.”

He scoffs, doubt clouding his voice. “I wish I had your confidence. The server's capacity is still a question mark, and we're racing to fix streaming delays. Fuck!” The heels of his hands press into his eyes. “All I need is this thing to fail at the last minute, especially with Richard and my dad watching.” He imitates his father's stern tone, “Typical. He’s always been a fuck up. Chokes right before the buzzer.” Letting his hands drop, his eyes turn to you. “I should have listened to you and not invited my parents. I actually never thought they would agree to come. Now I’m running around trying to get things ready for them too.”

“Hey,” you take one of his hands between yours, “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.”

He manages a smile, but it’s just a placation.

“What can I do to help?” You ask, “I’ll make sure we have some Pellegrino stocked and that cheese your parents like.”

There's a pause as he weighs his next words. “I’ve already called the housekeeper and told them to put fresh sheets in the guest room in case they decide to stay here, but I still need to make a reservation at the Four Seasons as a backup.”

Your jaw tightens, but you curb your annoyance at how John Harrington has everyone trained to cater to his high-maintenance whims, but this is for Steve’s peace of mind. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow. Consider it done. Anything else?”

He hesitates, a little apologetic. "My suit... the dry cleaner closes early tomorrow. I hate to ask, but I might not make it in time–"

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

His lips lift at the corners, and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I love you.” He leans forward, slotting his lip softly between yours. “I’ll put the ticket in your bag. Thanks for helping out, Ace.”

“I just have Eddie's interview tomorrow afternoon. I should have plenty of time." Standing, you tug at his hand. "Now, can we go to bed? Everything will look better after a good night's sleep.”

His mouth sets in a determined line as he shuts down his laptop, yielding to your pull as he rises. His hand finds a place on the small of your back, grounding you both as you climb the stairs together.

Hitching the strap of your messenger bag higher on your shoulder, you kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. Car horns blare in the distance as traffic rolls by in the busy neighborhood. The sun casts a glint off the steel CursedSound sign, its metal already weathering with a faint tinge of color. The heavy door is yanked open, its clank and whine making you jump.

"Hi," Eddie greets you with a soft tone from the other side of the threshold.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years. Part of you still expects the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over in the same way, like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he still see the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider, welcoming you in. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the hall.

The lobby is in chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips, watching you take in the space.

The brown paper has been removed from the windows, allowing bright light to stream through the streaked and dirty glass. All the furniture has been pushed toward the center of the room, and ladders and paint cans litter the floor space. A large mural wrapping around the windows and front entrance has been outlined but not completed. In the same graffiti style as the one upstairs, this one displays more cityscapes with waves of the lake breaking at the forefront. Winged skulls and guitars blend with colorful swirls of clouds rising toward the ceiling.

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room. “Really beautiful.”

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "I thought it was a dump."

"Well, what can I say?” You spin around. “It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens with your praise.

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans.

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain Lolla tee you put on this morning. None of the trendy outfits you usually wear for interviews seemed to fit right today.

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m so nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. “Maybe it’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me."

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right." He says, taking a step forward, his gaze locking with yours. "After all these years, it's still you.

"Eddie." His name comes out on a breathless sigh as you look away. The shield of anger between you is heavy and battered, and you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold it up. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

He rakes a hand through his curls, "Of course." His lips tighten into a flat line as he gestures toward the stairs. "After you."

You lead the way to the second floor, where the smell of fresh paint permeates the air. A ladder leans against a half-painted wall, and orange extension cords crisscross the carpet in the hall, winding into the studios like work has been suddenly halted.

"Where is everyone?" You look around the abandoned space before stepping inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck that holds the mixing board is ready, and the wiring is underway.

"I didn’t know how long you’d be here, so I told them to take the rest of the day off." His eyes follow the movements of your hand, brushing over knobs and sliders of the soundboard that's still sheathed in a protective layer of plastic.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, walking back out into the hall.

"I didn’t think we needed the audience," he shrugs, walking along with you to the next room.

"I hope you don’t fall behind schedule." The walls of the small Studio B are covered with walnut slats to create an acoustic barrier while still keeping the room open, while the mixing room kept the original exposed brick.

"I’ve got time."

"Even so," you move to the window. The sun glints off the mirrored surface of the tall building across the street. "I’m sure you're eager to open. Put out that first album with the CursedSound logo in the liner notes."

"Of course I am." He comes to stand beside you, taking in the bustle of the city at midday. "It’s gonna be good to have nothin’ between me and the music. Let the artists be as creative as they want. Their management can deal with the corporate A&R people and leave me out of it."

"You never did like playing by the rules," you smile, catching his eyes in the reflection of the glass.

He turns his head, studying your profile. "Why should I?" he continues, his tone more determined, "The rules sure as hell never helped me. I'm gonna take my chances as I find them, even if I have to play a little dirty. I deserve happiness the same as the next guy."

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him.

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall. "The rules seemed to be treating you well."

You raise your shoulders with a warm smile gracing your lips, one you have no intention of concealing. "I love my job. I like the city, and…I have Steve."

"You ending up with Steve Harrington," his voice curls around the name, a sneer you can almost see, "I gotta admit, I didn't see that one coming."

Stopping, you pivot to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's a good guy, Eddie."

He sighs in a short, almost defeated breath. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient distraction. "Where does this go?" You wonder with your hand closing over the knob.

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You let it go like it burned you, swallowing the lump that has made a sudden appearance in your throat.

"Sure. Can't beat the commute." He reaches around you, turning the doorknob to reveal another flight of stairs. "Do you want to go up?"

Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The closet carpet is soft under your fingers as wet tears rain down on the glossy pages. Steve's voice gets closer as he calls out your name. A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that Eddie's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he faces you, seeking your reaction.

"No, that's okay. I think we're fine down here. I wouldn't want to disturb anyone," you say, attempting to sound confident as you wipe your palms along the sides of your jeans.

Eddie scratches the side of his head as his brow wrinkles. "Who do you think it up there?"

A hot breath passes your lips as you turn away, walking back down the hall toward Studio C. "I don’t know," you call over your shoulder, too chicken to face him. "Skyler Simmons. Rock royalty. Media darling. According to the magazines, your long-time girlfriend. The one you own a house with. Ring any bells? Isn’t she here with you?"

"My what? Skyler Simmons?" The deep belly laugh that follows has you spinning on your heels to face him.

"Wait. You’re serious?" His dimples make an appearance as his smile deepens. "Me and Skyler?" He can barely get her name out without chuckling.

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

His brows shoot up. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you huff. "It came up in my research. Do you have a relationship with her or not?"

"I know her," he offers, shaking his head, "She’s a friend. We go to the same group."

"What group? The one for annoying assholes."

He pauses, his arms crossing over his chest. "The one for people with addiction in their families. That okay with you?" His voice escalates. The simmering anger in his eyes mirrors the intensity of his tone. "Skyler is gay. Her girlfriend's usually hanging around, too. Does that mean I’m fucking her too? Jesus."

Frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Glancing at your feet, your voice diminishes to barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

"Maybe because it’s none of anybody's fucking business." His piercing gaze bores into you as the sharp words land like heavy stones in the sour pit in your stomach. "Hold on," he waves a hand in front of you, "Why do you even care?"

"I don’t," your voice falters as the dishonest answer leaves you without hesitation. Your eyes trace the patterns on the floor. "It just makes for a better story, is all."

His hands run through his hair, fingers tugging on the ends as his tone softens. "Doll," he pauses, taking a deliberate step closer. His warm fingers cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. Those amber swirls, always seeing beyond your surface. "No one else is in my apartment, and no one else is gonna be."

His touch sends a searing heat spreading through your skin as the weight of your engagement ring pulls on your finger. "You’re a grown man, Eddie. Do whatever you want." Stepping back, his hand falls from your face as you turn and enter the studio.

"Fucking stubborn," the low murmur carries under his breath as he follows you inside.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." You spin around the room, taking in the progress, before letting your bag slide down your shoulder and sinking onto the couch.

Gray triangles of acoustic foam now adorn the live room walls in contrasting patterns, and layers of soft carpeting line the floor. The mixing room's mural stands completed, and the furniture has all been placed.

His eyes move around the room, the pride evident on his face. "Just some wiring and the vocal booth, and I’ll be ready to start setting the levels."

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you shift, tucking a leg under you as he joins you on the couch.

"Shhh," he hushes you, raising a finger to his lips. "The others will get jealous."

Rolling your eyes, you pull your phone from your bag, open the recording app, and set it between you both.

"How does this work?" Eddie's eyes are fixed on your phone while he rubs the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." You set the pages in your lap, drawing in a steadying breath. He’s sitting in front of you with a key to a locked door – one that might be best left closed and forgotten, but it’s time to hear him out.

"Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You slip into your most professional tone. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly in timber as a much smoother, older Eddie begins to answer, "Thank you. I always have time for my favorite magazine." He winks.

Your lips press into a line as you tilt your head to the side, taking a quick glance at your packet. "In April 2003, Fever to Tell was released by a relatively new band and a completely unknown sound engineer. It went on to sell over a million copies, putting The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the name Eddie Munson on industry minds. Fever to Tell is still, to date, one of my favorite albums. Were you aware of the significant impact this record would have when you were working on it?"

"At the time, we were really just hopeful, you know? We believed in the music we were creating. Karen and Nick, and Brian flew out from New York with their last dime, and we just got to work. Karen had this kind of raw, untamed energy, and I wanted to capture that, to add an edge to the album. It was this post-punk dance-floor-friendly racket that injected a much-needed dose of authenticity into a musical era that was getting stagnant."

"It's not an exaggeration to say that record helped shape the direction of indie and alternative rock for years to come. But what I want to ask is you before all that. What was the road like moving from Hawkins to having your dreams come true in LA? Was this the path you first set out on, or were there curves in the road?"

"I think 'curves' is a generous term for the absolute shit choices I was making for myself back then," he chuckles. "As you know, I left Hawkins about a year after I graduated. That town had already decided I would never be anything more than a freak– a loser with no future. If I had stayed, that's exactly what would have happened. I was trying to outrun my past without a clue what I wanted for my future. I had my own band back then, and sometimes, we’d open for slightly bigger bands that rolled through town. One of them was about to tour and invited me to go as their one and only roadie, and it felt like a free ticket out."

"Bananafish," you interject, swallowing and glancing down at your notes.

"Yeah, Bananafish. God, they sucked. Did you know they started as a Spin Doctors tribute band?"

"No," you laugh, "And that wasn’t a red flag for you?"

"It should have been. I wasn’t with them for long anyway. I think I lasted for three weeks before they cut me loose for getting in a fight with the drummer." He pauses, shaking his head. "I never knew when to shut my mouth. At that point, they had hooked up with another band called Everly. Slightly better, but not by much. I managed to hold it together for a few months. I was high or drunk most of the time, the only reason they kept me around was because they liked the way I babied their instruments."

"I remember,” you nod. “You’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school."

"Got to treat a lady right if you want her to sing for you," he says with a sly rise and fall of his brows, draping an arm over the back of the couch, shrinking the space between you.

"I was surprised that you left it behind."

Eddie's expression turns more solemn. "There were a lot of things I wished I could’ve taken with me. But back then, I couldn’t even take care of myself."

"I don’t believe that," you swallow, the words sticking in your throat, "You could have tried."

"If I had tried, they would’ve ended up broken, and I’d‘ve lost them anyway." His fingers brush your shoulder, and you flinch. The leather creaks as you sit back against the arm of the couch, just out of reach.

"Back to Everly. Why did you part ways?"

"Oh, well, I fucked it up, of course. They had landed a spot at Bonnaroo, and I got so fucked up the night before I missed sound check. When I managed to pick myself up off the floor of the van, they handed me my duffel and a twenty and told me to pound sand." His eyes drift away, fixating on a point across the room. "I had barely been outside of Indiana, and there I was, stuck on some farm in Manchester, Tennessee, with no ride, no money, and no one to call. I was angry at the world and never felt more alone. People always talk about hitting rock bottom, I thought that was it, but now that I look back, it was more of a crossroads. If I had followed that darker path, there would have been no coming back. I was wandering around backstage where they park buses, hungover, maybe still half in the bag, and that’s when I met Max."

"Max Navarro?" You shuffle through the pages of your notes.

"Yeah. You know him?" Eddie’s eyes brighten as his gaze drops to the pages in your lap.

Your head turns from side to side. "You referred to him as a mentor in the Stones interview, but I couldn’t find much on him besides his name being listed as an audio engineer for several tours."

"That’s Max." Eddie breaks into a smile. "He’d tell you he likes flying under the radar. He was hanging out in front of the bus playing guitar with a couple of guys when I walked over like a cocky shit, picked one up, and started playing. He gave me something to smoke, and it wasn’t weed. All I know is that I woke up face-down in the dirt the next morning. I don’t know if he liked me or just felt bad for me, but he dragged me on the bus and had me start assisting him with the sound for Faith No More."

"Faith No More? Are you kidding me?" Your hands fall to your lap, slapping against your thighs, jostling the cushion enough for your phone to slide toward the back of the couch. "You had their poster in your room. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you had a charmed life."

"Well, even the sun shines on a dog's ass some days," he laughs.

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?"

"Max is who taught me about everything." His voice holds a reverence when he says his name. "He kept an eye on me. Showed me how to work the boards. He said he could see shadows following me around, so when we got to LA, he took me out to the desert, fed me some tea, and exercised my demons."

"Did it work?" Max wasn't the only one to see shadows looming. Consequences of decisions made by others. Expectations of a community that turned its back. They clung to him like an impenetrable fog.

"I’m not sure. I felt lighter after, but it could have been the gallon of water I sweat out," he chuckles. "After that, he cashed in a favor and got me an internship with a small studio in Laurel Canyon. I parked cars at night and lived in a room the size of a closet at Max’s house. I worked my ass off. I went to therapy–"

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in.

"Don’t knock it until you try it." He looks at you from under raised brows. "It’s, uh, good to talk about things. Be open, you know?"

"No thanks. I tried that once," you tell him pointedly, the tightness in your chest returning, "It didn’t work out for me."

Your arrow hit the target. Regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–"

"You decided to stay in L.A. and work at a studio instead of going back out on the road?"

"I like studio sessions. Makes me feel like I’m working towards something. I like completing an album and putting it out in the world. Some people thrive being out on tour, like Max. Not me," he scratches at his chin. "Too many ghosts on those old roads."

Like the ones back in Hawkins that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring past shames of a lovesick and foolish girl. Robin had seen it, and so had the entire town, but you aren’t her any longer. She lies resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city drowns out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, flipping through the pages of your notes, ticking off the points from your outline.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and Chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful. But I really stayed for the music,” he shrugs. “Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I won’t shut up about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" Your gaze rises from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve. Mostly for work."

"Oh yeah. Makes sense." His jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze. "Well, I guess the rest is history. Is that enough for your story?"

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending on a flat note. A stone sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lack the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

Eddie sits up suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of history, I want to show you something." He stands up, looking towards the door and back at you, "Um.. wait here, okay? I’ll just be a minute."

"Okay-"

He holds up flat palms. "Don’t go anywhere." His eyes close as he winces, " I mean, you can wander around if you want. Just don’t leave."

"Eddie-"

"I’ll be back." He holds up one finger as he exits the room.

With a sigh, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet, walking through to the live room where a drum kit stands at the ready. The snare looks a little worn, and the symbols have lost their shine. Your nails tap the high hat, and you smile at the shimmering sound.

"What am I doing?" You whisper, spinning the gold band on your finger.

The sound of the floor creaking echoes through the hall. Eddie enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half. His name written in Wayne's shaky handwriting, peeking out from underneath his fingers.

"What's all this?" You ask as he sets down the box with a heave in the center of the room and sinks to his knees, hovering over the taped flaps.

"I have no idea," he grins mischievously. "Wayne gave it to me when I stopped by last week and told him I would see you. But you know him, he never throws stuff out. It could be anything." His hand smoothes over the top as he raises a brow. "Wanna find out?"

Your hands slide over your jean-covered thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there."

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you take a seat on the floor on the side of the box.

His mouth quirks up, watching you get comfortable. With a fluid motion, he leans and grabs a box cutter beside the soundboard. His shirt lifts slightly, offering a glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape.

"Score!" He pulls out the ragged-edged sheet that was folded and tucked into the top of the box. "Corroded Coffin," he reads aloud the words scrawled across it with something resembling shoe polish.

"Oh no," you laugh, your head turning side to side as you rock in your seat.

"Hey. This is rare band memorabilia. It’s probably worth money," he defends, holding it up proudly.

"Yeah, to the guy you have to pay to haul it away," you giggle.

"Alright, Alright," he folds it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches into the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comic books and hands them to you.

"Still in good shape." You thumb through the copies of Tank Girl and Witchblade.

"My campaigns." He pulls out a pile of notebooks and sets them aside before reaching back in. "Some CDs." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye.

"Hey, that’s my Cranberries Cd!" Your fingers dig into the carpet as you tip forward, yanking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

"I don’t know how that got there," he scratches his head, "You must have left in the van."

"Nice try, Munson." your eyes narrow, "I checked there." You lean over the box, poking a finger into his chest, "I knew you had a crush on Dolores."

"You got me. It was the accent," he admits with a grin full of dimples, his hand closing around your finger.

"I’m keeping it." You drop back into your seat and pick up the case to examine the disc.

"Holy shit."

You raise your head to meet his wide chocolate eyes, a look of sheer delight written across his face. "Close your eyes," he instructs, pulling back the flaps of the box, hiding whatever he's found.

"Mrs. Click?" You set the CD on top of the comics.

"Better," he says excitedly, waving a hand toward your face. “Come on. Close your eyes."

"Fine." You leave one eye open, folding your hands in your lap.

"No peeking." He wags a finger.

Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal. Plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Your hands fly to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

He winces as he hands over the two-foot garden gnome. "How can you call something so ugly a pretty name like that?"

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at her droopy hat and too-large ears, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her buck teeth and flowery dress that barely conceals her body.

"She's beautiful." You cradle her in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

"You’re the one who dared me to," he scoffs.

Your cheeks already ache with an unrestrained smile as the memories from that night surface. "I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard."

"I was drunk," he defends, his face turning red.

"You tripped over your feet and ripped your pants," you gasp for air, trying to get the words out with your laughter, "You had on those Garfield boxers with the hearts."

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson came out in his bathrobe, screaming about shooting you in the ass."

Eddie shakes his head as you laugh at his expense. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

"Shh," you cover her ears with your hands. "You can’t get rid of her."

"Never," he agrees, reaching out for her. "I’ll find her place of honor around here somewhere."

"Put her on your nightstand," you suggest, handing her over.

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "I’ll have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, and his eyes ignite. He smiles like he’s savoring every sound, like your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for.

The shards of the past press against the scar tissue encasing your heart as if struggling to free themselves and reassemble in the present. Your hand finds its way to your chest, pressing gently on the tender center, trying to quell the ache and remain in this moment—with him.

"What else? What else?" You clap your hands, bouncing in your spot.

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you. "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He places them aside. "Thanks, Wayne. Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes. Oh, this is yours." He tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" His voice brims with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, and a sharp sound follows. "Yes." His tongue sticks out from the corner of his mouth as he pries off the lid.

His voice fades into the background as your focus turns to what you're holding. The fabric of your Musicland vest unfurls as you hold it out in front of you, the gold name tag still pinned to the front catching the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns as each inhale becomes battle.

There’s a scrape of metal as the lid pops off. "Polaroids," Eddie declares, his attention lost to the thrill of his find as he flips through the stack of photographs.

Your heart races as the room seems to shrink. "Stop it," you whisper, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough can make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he goes on, unaware.

"I said, that's enough!" The balled-up vest flies from your hands, landing back in the box. Adrenaline surges through your veins as you push yourself up on unsteady legs. "I need to leave."

Eddie's laughter dies in his throat as he looks up, the joy in his eyes replaced by confusion. "Wait a minute." He gets to his feet and follows you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. Without hesitation, you sling your bag over your shoulder and maneuver past him towards the door.

“Just hold on a minute.” He blocks your path again, hands up, eyes searching yours for answers. “Tell me what's going on.”

"What do you want?" The words slice the air, eyes locked, a bare blade of anger.

"I wanted to-" His eyes flick toward the abandoned box in the center of the room.

"No." Your head shakes, "Why are you here? Now? After all this time? What do you want from me?"

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest as his voice turns softer. "I missed my friend."

"Your friend," sarcasm drips from your words as you quirk a brow, "So you show up here with a box of crap and a ‘hey doll’,” your voice lowers to mock him, "And I’m supposed to what? Forget about everything that happened and hand you a clean slate. Drop everything in my life to follow you around like a puppy because you feel like paying me some attention?"

"That’s not…I’m not asking for that." His hand runs through his curls, frustration building in his tone.

"I'm not going to sit here with you wandering down memory lane and watch you pretend like you cared." Your eyes sting, but tears won't fall. You've shed your last one for him long ago. "Like any of it mattered."

"No one's pretending here, doll." He steps closer, his hands falling to his side, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. "Of course, it mattered—all of it."

Your bag falls from your shoulder with a resounding thud, its weight matching your resolve as you push your hand against his chest. "I don't believe that for a second. If it mattered, you never could have done what you did."

"Done what?"

"Left me!" Your hand lands flat across your heart. "Without a goodbye, just some shitty mixtape full of songs that I can't listen to without my heart breaking over and over."

"You're right, okay." His voice rises to match your volume, his fingers closing around your biceps. "I was a fucking coward, and I ran. I couldn't see that look on your face again, the one you had when I told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye, but I knew you'd try to convince me to stay, and that was never going to happen. I'm sorry I hurt you, but I can't be sorry I left."

"Hurt me?" You push his hands away, taking a step back to control the cracking in your voice. "You didn't just hurt me, Eddie. You destroyed me."

He swallows, looking away. "You were better off."

Fresh anger surges, along with the strong desire to escape – to leave this dead and buried, maybe for another decade until the hurt isn’t so strong.

"See, that right there is why I'll never believe you," you snap, pointing an accusatory finger his way as you step around him, your hand closing around the doorknob. But at the last moment, you turn, wanting him to hear it. At least once.

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I was a mess after you left. I cried for days, but I clung to this pathetic hope that you’d call to explain everything. To say it wasn't the end for us. You wouldn’t just throw me away, right? Not after everything we had been through together. I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid that the second I left, the phone would ring."

There's regret in his eyes as he steps forward, getting closer until he can touch you again, one hand gently gliding up your arm.

"But that call never came, did it, Eddie? Not one. And every day that passed, I died a little. But then I wasn't sad anymore. All those tears, they turned to hate," you say coldly, locking your gaze with his. "I hated you. I hated every song that came on the radio, reminding me of you. I hated Hawkins and everyone in it. But most of all, I hated myself for trusting you. For believing that you ever cared about me. That I wasn’t alone. That's what you did to me, Eddie.”

“You made me hate myself."

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence as his gentle hand cradles your jaw. “There’s so much I want to explain to you.”

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside your stone. "You kissed me. And then you left me the next day. You knew how I felt."

"I know. I know. I’m sorry." He steps closer, trying to pull your rigid form into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "You don’t even know how much. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing. Trying to make it up to you. But you’re wrong. It all mattered. I did care. That kiss..it’s the reason…" He pulls back and looks into your eyes, "You knew me, you always did, but there were things I couldn’t tell you. Things I couldn’t admit even to myself. I was scared and angry all the time."

Your head shakes as you swallow hard. "You're not even real!" You shout in his face, your fingers clutching the doorknob behind you. Spinning, you tug hard, but his hand slams against the door above your head, keeping it shut.

"Stop, doll," he pleads. “Let me explain,” but the push-pull intensifies. You're no match for his strength. "Stop it!" he yells. His hand pushes on your shoulder, turning you to face him. Anger flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks flush.

"I made you up.”

“No.”

“The boy I knew could never have done that. He could never have hurt me like that." Your shoulder jerks, breaking his hold as you attempt to turn away again.

His fingers wrap around the side of your neck, keeping you in place. "That boy could never have given you what you wanted. He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to handle you."

"Is that why you’re back?" You ask, still defiant even as his thumb presses into your throat, tipping your head to meet his gaze. "Dragging this all up again, ruining my life? Because you do?"

"Damn right, I do."

His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his mouth moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a fire that seems to spread with each touch. The scent of clove and cedar leaves you lightheaded as the flames lick through your body. The scruff on his cheek is a rasp against your skin, a roughness contrasting with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. This kiss is filled with years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestra's finale.

Minutes slip away, yet your greedy mouths remain desperate. The room falls into a hushed stillness, save for the sharp intakes of breath and the sensuous wet slide of lips. The kisses seem endless, broken only by fleeting gasps for air, compelling you to pull each other closer, savoring every taste. Your fingers tangle in the soft waves at the nape of his neck, evoking a low, guttural groan that mingles with your shared breaths when you tug. His hands trace the curves of your body, touching every inch as they follow a path beyond your hips and ass, seizing the back of your thighs. With a firm grasp, he lifts you, pressing you against the unyielding door. You gasp as he positions you just how he wants — aligning himself hot and hard against your center.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips as his hips roll, igniting fireworks through your body. Your eyes flutter shut, and a kaleidoscope of colors burst in the darkness.

He nips at the plush of your bottom lip, teeth grazing in a tender claim, a muted buzz begins in your bag—a sharp, insistent sting—that yanks you from the haze back into the real world. His eyes remain closed when you pull away. He leans closer, chasing your mouth, but the moment is already shattered.

Your stomach plummets as the harsh reality sets in. His kiss now tastes like the ash of betrayal. The distressed whimper escaping your throat finally has him looking at you, shock written clearly across his features. Slowly, he releases you, your body sliding against his until your feet meet the floor. He takes a step back, hesitating, swallowing, "Doll —"

"No." You shake your head, your hands covering your mouth. The gold band on your fourth finger is a cool scorch against your swollen lips. "I have to go." You spring into motion, rushing to gather your bag.

"Stay, and we can talk about this," he implores, moving one hand to his hip while the other rakes through his hair.

"Please don’t," you plead. "Don’t ask me for anything else." You swing the strap over your shoulder. "I just ch—" But the word stays stuck in your throat, as your eyes swim with tears.

His face falls, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was me," he insists, frustration in his voice as you scrub your face with your hands. "I don't want you driving when you're upset."

"I'm sorry," you say with an aching heart, pushing past him and closing the door behind you.

The sidewalk blurs under your feet as you race to your car. Fat raindrops splatter against the concrete like a spray of gunfire, each one a cold, wet slap against your skin. The sky chooses this moment to crack open, unleashing a torrent that feels personal. Your car comes into view, a bright orange ticket flapping under the wiper. Perfect. Just perfect.

With hands slick from the rain, you fumble with your keys before throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. Snatching the ticket from under the wiper as you go and crumpling it into your fist, stuffing it into the glovebox to be dealt with later. The downpour drums on the roof, enclosing you in a watery cocoon as you search through your bag for your phone. A missed call from Steve and a text reminding you about the dry cleaning. You spill the contents of your messenger onto the passenger seat, pens and lip gloss tumbling into the footwell. "Shit!" The word is a half-sob as you clutch the receipt marked with today's hours in unforgiving black ink.

Glancing at the clock on your dash, it hits you with the subtlety of a wrecking ball– six minutes until closing. It might as well be in another time zone, given the snarled rush hour traffic and the river that the streets have become. Your car roars to life, and you pull out onto the roadway, tires hissing on wet asphalt, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. Your skin still sings with Eddie’s touch, but it's the burgeoning storm of words—cheater, adulterer, betrayer—mixed with the soft hazel of Steve’s disappointed eyes that tattoo themselves across your conscience. This is the unforgivable sin, and you can't undo it, but you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

You're double-parked now, hazards blinking a frantic rhythm. The 'CLOSED' sign on the dry cleaner's door mocks you as you rattle the unrelenting metal handle. "Please, please, please," you whisper, pounding on the uncaring glass, your unheard pleas bouncing off the empty shadows within. A car horn cuts through the rain —"What the fuck, lady?" The other driver yells, uncaring of your predicament.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" The words are a rain-soaked shout as you slosh back to your car, drenched and defeated.

Another angry horn sounds off as you pull into traffic, carelessly cutting off a Yellow Cab in your haste. Rainwater drips from your hair, soaking your shirt. Even with the heater set to blast, it does little against the chill that has settled deep in your bones. Down the road, a bright blue sign glows like a beacon, and you jerk the steering wheel, the car fishtailing as you skid into the lot.

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights are too bright and too sterile as you grab a small bottle of mouthwash off the shelf in the travel section and wait in line to pay, the store's generic electronic music grating against your already frayed nerves. Outside, you stand on the corner, swishing and spitting the minty liquid onto the sidewalk, repeating the process, trying to cleanse more than just your mouth. A passerby wrinkles their nose at you from under their umbrella. "This is Chicago! You've seen worse!" You snap, arms thrown up in exasperation while the rain and your regrets mingle on the cold pavement.

With pruney fingers, you pull the cardigan you had left at Stax off the back of your office chair. Shrugging it on, the material dampens from your wet t-shirt but offers a little warmth. Your phone buzzes as you settle at your desk — five missed calls from Eddie and four texts. The roar of the heavy rain and being buried deep in your bag had muffled its sound, not that you would have picked up.

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

Eddie: Look, I need to know that you’re okay.

Eddie: I swear to Christ if you don’t pick up.

Eddie: Okay, have it your way. I’m driving to your place.

What? No! Your thumb presses the call button, and it rings twice before it connects. There’s no hello, just the slight hum of an engine and the rain pelting glass.

“I’m okay,” you breathe into your phone, “I didn’t go home. I’m at my office.”

Your heart drums in your ears with each second of silence. Your eyes flutter shut, relief flooding you when he finally responds. An exhale loosens the tension in your chest. His voice resonates in a dark rumble through the phone, "We need to talk."

“I….I know,” your voice wavers as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. “I just need a minute here, Ed. Can you give me some time?”

The rhythmic blink of the turn signal punctuates his heavy sigh. “Yeah. Alright. But doll,” he pauses as the sound of water splashing against his vehicle mingles with the whoosh of passing traffic, “You’re not running away from this. And trust me, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. Think about what I said, okay? I meant it all.”

With a tight throat, you whisper, "I have to go," and disconnect the call.

Placing your phone on the desk, you dab the raindrops off your face with a tissue. The quiet of the office wraps around you, its half-dark corners and the soft glow from the monitors creates a place for you to breathe and be still. The raging storm and the ticking wall clock echoing in the solitude do little to distract you from thoughts you’re not ready to face. With a deep breath, you lift the lid of your laptop, seeking refuge in the normalcy of work as you coax the screen back to life.

The song erupts from the speaker on the edge of your desk, a jolt of sound shattering the silence like an accusation. You grab it with fumbling fingers, scrambling to press the off button. Covering your face with your hands, you let out a sound that is equal parts sob and hysterical laughter, wondering how you ended up in this situation. With your elbows pressed against the wooden top, you bury your face in your hands.

“What are you doing here, kid?” The gruff voice cuts through your misery.

"Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

"Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest." Hopper towers over you, standing beside your desk with his hands buried in his pockets.

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, surprised while he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

“You kids really think Jim Croce is the only thing on my playlist?” A chuckle escapes him as he eases into the chair beside you, “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

You muster a puzzled look, shaking your head in feigned denial.

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting Joyce for dinner at that Italian place on Taylor Street. Have I told you about it? I’ve been dreaming about the breadsticks. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. You dip it in olive oil,” he groans, “Forget about it. Those things knock your socks off, and I’m wavering on the main course between—”

“I need you to take me off the studio opening,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest.

“We’ve been over this. Unless you have some good reason–”

“Eddie kissed me,” the confession slips out, eyes widening in shock at your admission, hands flying to cover your mouth.

His brows rocket upwards, then draw together, his gaze sharpening, voice dipping into a low, protective timbre, “What do you mean he kissed you?”

“No,” you clarify, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing an elbow against the desk, massaging your temple to soothe the forming headache. “I kissed him. We kissed. It was mutual.”

Hopper reclines, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze level and unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, kid. I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you.”

“I know. I know. Steve…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the photo of Steve on your desk.

Hopper leans in, his hand cutting through the air. “I don’t give a fuck about Harrington,” each word gains in volume, “This is about you and everything you’ve worked for. It’s 2012. That kind of nonsense ends careers. Do you know what can happen if he complains?”

Your eyes roll. “He’s not going to complain, Hop.”

“You don’t know that,” he counters, his head shaking off your naivety. “These things like this have a way of coming out. That was an amateur move. Where is your professionalism? What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, lowering your eyes. “We have more of a history than I let on.”

“Well, stop the presses. I couldn’t have figured that one out.” His voice lowers in resignment, “Maybe this is my fault–”

“No–”

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “I’ve babied you. Maybe it’s because you’re my favorite or because you were just a kid when you started. I let you get away with too much over the years because you’re a damn good writer. But that stops now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going back to that studio, and you’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief palpable. “You're still going to make me finish?”

“Damm, right I am,” Hopper affirms, not missing a beat. "If I hand your work off, it raises questions. Big, messy questions. What do I tell downtown when they ask why the piece was reassigned? Unless you’re ready to come clean to Harrington?”

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

“I thought so.” Hopper leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This could be both our necks," he mutters, concern filling his voice.

Your head shakes, but your determination is clear. "It won't."

“It better not. I don’t want to hear another word about it until that last story is on my desk. Are we clear?”

Your jaw clenches, the reality of the situation hitting hard. "Crystal."

Hopper's gaze remains fixed on you, ensuring his point has been made. "Good," he says, his voice softening, "Now go on, get out of here. Deal with whatever mess you've got going on. Just make sure it's sorted by Monday."

Your key slides into the lock and you turn it slowly, the tumblers falling into place with a series of soft clicks. You pause, leaning your forehead against the chill of the metal door, grappling with a rising queasiness that sours your stomach.

A wave of home's warmth engulfs you, mingled with the earthy aroma of herbs and roasting potatoes. The vibrant strains of Queen accompany Steve's honeyed tones floating down the hall from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, ace. I was beginning to wonder where you were," his voice, laced with a touch of concern, greets you, “Busy day? Did you write me a Pulitzer?”

Your messenger bag slides from your shoulder, giving into gravity with a loud smack against the hardwood.

His voice grows nearer, warmer as he moves down the hall, the floor lightly creaking with each footfall. “I swung by the Athenian Room, grabbed us Chicken Kalamata, and I have a bottle of Chardonnay breathing.”

Your favorite. Your heart sinks further, receding behind your ribcage, unworthy of his care or devotion.

He stops short when he rounds the corner into the foyer, taking you in, his eyes reflecting your disheveled state.

"I didn’t get the dry cleaning," you admit, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I was... too late."

For a heartbeat, he's silent, but his eyes remain tender. “Hey, that's alright, ace. I'll just skip the gym in the morning and swing by the cleaners before work. Are you okay?”

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle and draw the cardigan tighter around yourself. "I got caught in the storm."

“Did you forget your coat?” He draws closer as you give a small nod. His hands slide up your biceps, continuing on to wrap around you. “You're frozen.” He uses his thumb to lift your chin. “How about a hot shower, yeah? I'll keep dinner warm. You'll feel better after you eat.” His mouth begins to near yours, but you turn your face away.

"I think I'm coming down with something," you manage, your lies teetering atop your mounting guilt. "My throat is sore."

Concern etches his features, his brows knitting together as he adjusts, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

Pulling away, you bury your face into his shoulder. "I think I'll just shower and go to bed."

“If that's what you want,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, though his tone is threaded with disappointment. “Go on up. I'll bring you some water and a couple of Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you step away with a weight in your chest. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” He waves off your apology, his smile faint but sincere. His arms fold over his chest as he turns back toward the kitchen.

As you climb the stairs, the music snaps off, replaced with the distant roar of a sports game, the announcers' voices carrying up the stairwell.

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the regret. Sliding down the tiles, you draw your knees close while your tears fall, mixing with the stream of water spiraling towards the drain.

Your life is a song made up of the choices you've made, each one a different note that sounded so sure at the time, but now the harmony seems slightly off-key. The steam rises around you like a specter. It's the quiet between the chords. And you're there, just listening, trying to figure out if there's a note you'd change or if every single one was necessary. As you nestle into bed, sleep tugging like an insistent tide amidst the drift into dreams, one truth resonates clear– the music plays on.

Song 5 coming this week! Follow @tornupdates for notifications

Thanks for indulging me with this new version. I wanted to get it right. This next chapter is going to be Steve's launch party and will explore the fallout from that kiss. I love each and every one of you and I hope Torn!Eddie makes an appearance in your sweetest of dreams. -Jelly

#steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #torn series

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spookyrea · 4 days

Text

face of gold, heart of coal (my cross to bear, baby!)

You and Loki have an agreement - just sex with absolutely no feelings. None. Nu-uh. Zero.

(Unfortunately you both signed that agreement with your fingers crossed)

Word count: ~2k

Warnings: fem reader - plot? what plot? p-i-v sex, oral (f receiving), hate sex (kind of. 'hate' if the definition of hate was 'longing so profound it makes you mad'.)

“If only our team could see you right now. Whoring yourself out to me. Your big, bad villain.”

“Not so bad,” you bit out. “You’re nothing but a lap dog.”

“Boo. Another lazy insult,” he snorted. “Big, though?”

He pulled your hand down to palm at the length of him, straining against the fabric of his trousers. You shrugged, even as your thighs clenched in anticipation. “Eh.”

Loki laughed, closing his mouth over yours in a wet kiss. “I seem to recall you singing a different song a few days ago.”

“Your memory is failing you. Dementia, maybe? That’s pretty common with men your age.”

His upper lip curled. He dropped your wrist to gather your skirt in his hands, hiking it up to your waist. “Hold this,” he commanded.

You bunched the fabric in one hand. With his hands now unoccupied, he traced the inside of your thighs slowly, tipping your hips upwards to get a better look at your clothed mound. Both of his thumbs slid over the cotton fabric of your underwear, reverently in comparison to the way he had demanded your submission. They pressed gingerly, barely pulling your folds apart before pressing them back, working in circular motions around your clit but not quite over it. His eyes were half-lidded, transfixed on the way his fingertips spread wide over your hips, on the twitch of your tense muscles, on how you gave yourself up to him angrily and willingly.

You stifled a whine, hoping he wouldn’t notice - but he did. Loki always noticed; every gasp, every lingering look, every shiver when his hand brushed over yours - he saw it all. He could read you like a book, something that both infuriated and secretly delighted you, to be seen and understood so completely.

Loki mimicked you, scrunching his face up in a patronizing pout. One hand rose to pinch your cheeks, holding your head still while he pressed a sloppy kiss to your temple. “Oh boo hoo. Woe is me. Please, Loki, have mercy.”

You hissed, digging your knuckles into his abdomen. He laughed in response, dragging his nose across your jaw before sucking a mark under your ear. Your voice came out thready despite your best efforts, a casualty of the way his other hand was drawing figure-eights across your thigh. “You cocky bastard.”

“Careful. You speak to me like that again and I might just leave you wanting.”

“You won’t.”

He dipped his head, laving his tongue over the junction of your shoulder and throat. His thumb slid to the side, tracing the damp seat of your underwear with lazy intent. “I won’t?”

“Nope.” You swallowed another embarrassing sound when the meat of his palm ground against you with delicious friction.

“What makes you so certain?”

You tilted your head; distracted as he was by marking up your throat, his hold on your face had loosened enough for you to get your lips around the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger. You scraped your teeth over the delicate skin, delighting in how his body tensed against you. “Because you want me just as badly.”

“You’re finally right about something. Looks like you do have some coherent thoughts in that pretty little brain of yours.”

“Asshole.”

“Tsk. Try harder. I’ll make you a deal - if you call me something creative, I’ll let you come tonight.” He pulled away, his head tipped ever so slightly to the left to admire his handiwork. No doubt your lipstick was smeared across your face at this point, considering how it stained his pale skin from the tip of his nose to the sharp point at the corner of his jaw. “I warn you though, mortal, I’ve been alive for many centuries. I’ve heard it all.”

“Monster,” you tried.

“Old news.”

“Duplicitous snake.”

“Boring.”

“Evil, traitorous coward.”

“It’s starting to look like tonight will only be about me, little thing.” Loki grinned, sliding the tail of his belt through the buckle. It fell open with a clatter against his thigh as he worked the zipper of his slacks down and pushed on your free hand, urging you to take him in your fist and pump him slowly.

“Lover,” you spit.

He paused. “Excuse me?”

“I said ‘lover’.” Even without his hand guiding yours, you drew your hand back and forth in lazy tugs, arousal pooling, hot and wanting, at the way his stomach jumped, muscles visible through his open shirt. “What a pathetic god. To love a human.”

His eyes crawled down, then back up the length of your body. Slowly, achingly slowly, he slipped from your grasp and sank to his knees in front of you. “Truly debased.”

You ran your fingers through his damp curls, heavy with the humidity of want. “It’s sad, really.”

He tapped the back of your calf, shouldering your leg until you draped it over his back, and pressed a loud kiss to your lower belly. “Clever girl.”

Loki pulled your panties to the side; you would have been embarrassed by the threads of arousal clinging to them if it wasn’t for the way his expression darkened, a clear reverence rolling off of him while his thumb slid over you, pulling your folds apart to get a better look. His pretty eyes were awash with desire, burning a hot and syrupy trail as they traveled from the mess between your thighs to your face.

You smoothed a curl out of his eyes and watched him tip his head, pressing a loud kiss just beside your clit. He took his time teasing his mouth over you, alternating between licking long stripes and sliding sloppy kisses over slick, heated skin. The hand around your thigh clutched you in a bruising grip, holding you against his shoulder like you might slip away if he let go. His other hand slipped between his own legs and worked slowly up and down his cock.

You tipped your head back against the wall. “You’re enjoying this.”

His grip tightened. “Shut up.”

Loki squeezed his eyes tight, desperation clear in the way he tipped his head for a better angle. He closed his lips around your clit and sucked, pulling a thready gasp from your chest. You felt a familiar coil between your hips, winding and winding as he worked you more urgently; occasionally you felt his forearm bump against your shin while he pumped his cock in time with rolls of your hips.

You grew delirious. Your legs shook, struggling to hold you upright. You planted your hand on his shoulder for support, back bowing off the wall with the force of your impending orgasm. Loki laughed against you, the sound humming over your skin in the most delicious way.

You found no relief in his mouth; he seemed only to wind you higher and higher but never to the edge. Your chest heaved, pleasure turning desperate and achy. You pushed on his forehead, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. “Stop. Loki, it’s not… I need…”

He paused, his mouth still pressed against you. His eyes scanned yours curiously, brimming with mischief, before he gave one final flick of his tongue. You clenched, hissing through your teeth, and squirmed away. His shoulders shook with laughter under your leg. Loki turned his cheek into your thigh and drew his wet chin across your skin, leaving an uncomfortable sticky path in his wake.

“Get -” Your order stuttered and died on your tongue when he bit down on your hip. “Get back up here.”

“So bossy.”

“You want me so bad, Laufeyson.”

“So, so badly,” he hummed mockingly.

You let him nudge his way between your legs, lining his hips up with yours to guide himself inside you. There was an initial pressure, that familiar press before your body yielded to him and he slid down to the hilt.

He groaned once his hips met yours and, privately, you agreed. There was something electric about him, as if he had rewritten the polarity of your nerves so they yearned in his direction. He was an asshole - arrogant, stubborn, untrusting - but there was such an aching kindness in the way his fingers trailed over your skin that it left you feeling raw and oozy.

A self-deprecating laugh hissed through his teeth when your fingers wound through the curls at the back of his skull. Very quietly, he murmured something against your skin.

“What was that?”

“I said I hate you.”

“Right.” His hips rolled against you slowly, testing you. “Come on, lover,” you goaded him on. “Fuck me like you hate me.”

He groaned. “One day you’ll let me make love to you.”

You gasped when he thrust into you, jolting you up the wall. He set a brutal pace, tugging your body down onto him with every sharp jerk of his hips. You twined your arms around his neck for support and tried to leverage your weight against him, shifting so he was angled to bump against that soft spot inside you that made your knees buckle. The sob that ripped through you when he finally connected seemed to spur him on, working him into a frenzy.

“One day you’ll let me do this in a bed. In my bed. No, actually, in our bed. Now, tell me what you feel.” Loki punctuated the order with a kiss, though you were both moving too much to get any further than a brush of open, panting mouths.

You nodded dumbly. “It’s- it’s good. So- oh, right there. Please.”

“Yes. Beg for me.”

Annoyance turned over in your belly. You scraped your teeth along his jaw. “Asshole.”

Loki pulled your body to a sudden stop, his cock buried to the hilt deep inside of you. His head cocked menacingly to the side.

“Hmm.” He gave an experimental roll of his hips. “You’re lucky you make the most fantastic sounds when you come. And I do so very, very badly want to hear them. So sing. Praise, this time, little mortal.”

His thumb pressed meanly against your clit. Each jerk of his hips against you made you bump against the calloused skin, a delicious but not-quite satisfying pressure.

“You want me so badly. I could have you eating out of the palm of my hand. But I’m merciful. I won’t make you do that.” Loki licked a hot stripe up the side of your throat. “I’ll just fuck you instead. Now come on.”

Your face scrunched up, hands fisting in the back of his shirt. You’d given up on stifling any sounds you made, letting broken, wanton sounds tumble from your mouth with each nudge of his thumb against your clit. Your chest ached, your breaths thready and gasping, barely sucking in air before it escaped you as a squeal or a sigh. Your thighs shook with the force of it all, body gone taut and boneless all at once.

You pulled him in as tightly as you could as you came, burying your nose in his throat, seeking some tether to ground yourself by. It was all too much - too hot, too sweaty, too bright, too good. You needed him to come. You needed him to stay. You needed, needed, needed.

Loki stumbled into his climax and stilled after a few more sloppy thrusts, winding his arms around your back to properly ensnare you. His breath licked over your skin and left goosebumps to rise in its wake.

You stayed tangled like that for an eternity, slowly winding down back to Earth in the other’s arms. Your fingers traced a shy path down his nape while his hands slid up and down your sides placatingly.

Eventually, he set you down on your feet. His hands smoothed down your skirt before tucking himself away in his slacks. Your voice was small as you watched him loop his belt back through the buckle. “I get closer and closer every day.”

“To what? First-degree murder?” He turned his face up to yours, a joking tilt to his brows. Something in your expression gave him pause, the smile melting off of him. He smoothed out the front of his slacks and then put his hand on your shoulders, leveling you with an unreadable look. “Really?”

You nodded mutely, turning your eyes to the floor. He tipped your face up to keep them trained on him.

“Ask me,” you murmured.

“Make love to me, darling.”

You paused, drawing the moment out. “Maybe. If you’re a good boy.”

He sighed, a long-suffering sound. “You vex me.”

#loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki smut #loki x you #loki fanfic #loki x female reader #SO MAD THAT IT TOOK ME THIS LONG TO FIGURE OUT FORMATTING #im gonna have to get out of the habit of double tapping the enter key r i p #anyway found this in my drafts and completely forgot I wrote it lmao

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belladonnadawn · 1 month

Text

But Daddy I Love Him

“Say they want what’s best for me. Sanctimoniously performing soliloquies I’ll never see. Thinking it can change the beat of my heart when he touches me.”

A day off with Andrew made you think about your domestic life and life before it. CW: mentions of sex

It's been years after the incident, yet your heart still aches whenever your mind drifts towards it. To say that it was hell was an understatement; you've been isolated, called every name under the sun, and met with condescension from the people who ‘want to save you’. The crowd was torn between dragging you to the mud and lifting you up in their arms. It was a painful, overwhelming, and disturbing experience. But all their noises fall deaf on your ears once you're with him.

Between bated breaths and heated touches, a scandalous tryst– not unheard of; you both found something deeper, something beyond lust and desire. Your nights of passion muted any screams from the world, drowning you in him and him only. In his bed– and yours, you were two lovers lost in paradise.

All the men you've been with pales in comparison to him. Andrew was sweet, caring, passionate, and teasing. A true gentleman. It was painfully cliché, but it's true– no one knows him like you do. And if others did, they'd understand why you loved him like you did.

Dusk crept in, it was peaceful as both of you had your day offs. You sat on his lap, mindlessly playing with his hair as he read his book. He looks good focused, handsome as ever. Smile crept into your face as butterflies went wild in your stomach.

“Darling?” Andrew's soft voice dragged you back to reality. You hummed in response, wearing that same love struck smile. “What do you want for dinner?” His hands gently caressed your back in a gentle manner. Even after being with him for years, you were still electrified by his touches.

“I found this new recipe on the internet. Do you wanna try?” You suggested.

“Of course, darling.” He leaned closer, sealing it with a kiss. It was as sweet and loving as always, you had to fight the urge to pull him closer, wrap your arms around him for a full on make out session. “Do you want me to cook it for you?”

“No, I want us to cook together. I want to spend as much time with you while we have our day off.”

He chuckles, closing the book and placing it on the table. “You’re quite needy today.”

“Is it bad that I want to spend time with my boyfriend?” The title rolls off your tongue smoothly, it feels nice knowing he’s the one holding it.

“I understand, our time together these past few days was scarce. I missed being with you too.” Andrew pulled you closer, trailing small kisses on your jaw and neck. He pulled away with a grin, “We shall prepare then so we can go to bed early.”

You were disappointed as you both pulled away as you both walked towards the kitchen, wanting more of his physical affection; but you understand that that can wait.

The apartment was small and cozy, enough for the two of you. Life with him so far was domestic and comfortable. You remembered your parents’ faces when they knew about your relations with him. And once you announced that you’re ready to move out, they immediately protested; screaming how he might be manipulative, dangerous, and what you and Andrew had was nothing but fleeting desire.

But you were firm, almost petulant, laying all the proofs that you had. It felt like a court case, justifying everything that you could to assure them. At last, they finally conceded after you told them that once there’s a problem you’ll immediately move out. They were still suspicious, you can’t blame them, but over time you could see how they were starting to accept him as a significant part of your life– your significant other.

“What’s on your mind, darling?” Andrew wrapped his arms around your waist. “Mind sharing it with me?”

You gave him a small smile, knowing that you can’t lie to him due to how observant he is. “It’s just things… about us.”

His brow furrowed as his face became filled with concern, “What about us?” He asked gently, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

“Like what happened…”

He nodded, but you could see a glimpse of sadness in his face. “I understand, sometimes our mind wanders in places we never expect to be in. But that’s all we do, we wander not stay”

“I know, Andrew, I just think that it still feels surreal. Living this life with you domestically was something that I never thought we could achieve, back then I thought we’ll be apart after they almost tore us to shreds. I’m happy we’re not.” You gave him a soft smile, giving his lips a small peck..

As you pulled away, you looked at him, blush evident on his cheeks, “I am happy too, darling.” He responded softly. You could see his eyes glance at your lips, blood rushed to your cheek as you closed your eyes and leaned closer.

A sigh escaped your lips as you felt your lips touched. It was magical and passionate as you expected. His arms around you tightened, you ran his fingers through his hair. Andrew leaned closer, deepening the kiss causing you to let out a sound of satisfaction. You were both insatiable, drunk on each other.

You both catch your breath as you pull away from each other. His hands on your cheek, the other on your thigh. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you, darling.” Andrew’s eyes half lidded, filled with desire and love as he looked at you.

For a moment you were just two lovers in the kitchen, doting on each other endlessly. The past was far enough to reach you as you both ran away to your own world– the one you never wanted to escape from.

Pattern banner from Cafekitsune

#zsakuva #sakuverse #andrew marston #but daddy i love him

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wordywarriorwrites · 2 months

Text

Feels Like Home

Feels Like Home | AO3 | Rating: M | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x F! Reader

Summary: They say you can't go home again, but maybe for you and Javi, home isn't a place - it's a person.

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Language.

Getting Chucho Peña back up on his feet after a bad fall from the hayloft – that was all you’d been tasked to do.

But you hadn’t considered the prodigal son.

You hadn’t thought about all the ways dark, earthen eyes – eyes that had seen too much – could be so compellingly, devastatingly, hauntingly preoccupying. Hadn’t really thought of how the stories of this larger-than-life individual would pale in comparison to the actual person. Hadn’t really believed that this man and this town would get to you, become so much a part of you that you’re thinking about rejecting a career-changing offer that would see you moving on to bigger (though perhaps not exactly better) things.

Four seasons have passed, and yet, you haven’t felt the itch to pack a bag and hit the road. And because you stuck around, Javi, Chucho, and you have become los tres amigos. Reading books and watching Cheers. Exchanging cards and gifts on birthdays and at Christmas. You host dinner at your place once a month. Javi occasionally pops in during your meal break at the hospital to bring you something decent to eat. And sometimes, his dad will call you nenita – a term of endearment that feels far too precious to be directed toward a drifting, wayward soul like you.

It’s hard not to mull over the what-ifs – especially with how Javi looks beneath the sparking lights of the convention center. Exuding confidence, chit-chatting, and mingling with your coworkers like a pro, all understated power and authority. He stays still while everyone else gets pulled into his orbit, revolving slowly around him, like planets circling the sun. He steers you in that way, too, pulling you into his atmosphere, making it painfully impossible to keep your gaze averted from the fine figure he makes in his charcoal gray suit.

This isn’t the first fundraising event he’s escorted you to. In fact, he’s graciously played the role of plus-one several times. Haughty conversations, dry chicken dinners, watered-down drinks, and office politics – he’s been there and done that. And for a man who says he hated it, that he’s left all that bullshit behind, he’s really good at it, reading the room and owning his space within it better than most of your puffed-up peers.

It’s difficult not to admire him. Get attached to him. To feel as if you’ve made a real, true friend. You don’t have many of those and neither does he. It’s as if you’ve somehow been chosen. That out of all the people in the world, he’s picked you.

Bowling on Thursdays. The little snort that sometimes escapes when he laughs. His gentle manner with horses. The scent of his cologne; a blend of leather, wood, and oakmoss. The way he always refuses dessert, but somehow, ends up finding room for two servings, especially if it’s your homemade peach cobbler. His shoulder – the one you lean on when you nod off during a football game. His arm – the one you grip during scary movies. His ear – the one he lets you talk off when the day has been too hard and too bloody, and you can’t fall asleep.

If you leave, you lose it all. You lose him.

“Is it just me,” Javi prompts with a slight nudge, turning away from the inner circle and leaning in close to speak directly into your ear. “Or are all the doctor jokes really fucking terrible this year?”

His voice – low and amused – cuts through the chatter and clinking cutlery, guiding you out of the spiral of dark thoughts and back into the present. You glance up at him and wonder if that inquisitive, clever mind of his has worked out how you really feel and uncovered what you really think. And if he knows, has he just been too polite to say anything? Even if it’s only to let you down gently?

“Maybe you should teach them a thing or two,” you manage to quip, burying your emotions by taking a rather undignified gulp of merlot.

Javi snorts and shakes his head, “With their egos? Not likely. Look, can we get outta here? Go get some real food?”

You nod, placing your now empty wine glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and snagging your purse up from the table. Javi is quick to take your arm and the lead, guiding you both through the throng and a seemingly endless stream of polite farewells. The elevator, the parking garage, the drive-thru – none of it really registers. It’s not until you’ve fallen into the cushions of your couch, a heavy bag of tacos in hand, and two beers on the coffee table in front of you, that your brain gradually starts to come back online.

“M'starving,” Javi announces, snatching up the takeout bag and plopping down next to you. “Remind me next time to eat before I pick you up.”

He peels off his jacket. Kicks off his shoes. Wriggles his sock-covered toes into the plush carpet and sits forward on the cushion just far enough to reach the table. Large, deft hands drop napkins – one onto your knee and one onto his own – and then, he’s unfurling paper and distributing a half dozen oversized carne asada taquerias onto two paper plates. A brief pause. A rather ferocious bite. A long, low groan.

“Fuck me, that’s good,” he mumbles, cheeks puffed out and comically overfilled.

“Emily Post would not be impressed,” you teasingly chide.

Javi grins and juts his chin, “Hey, get my tie? It’s the one you got me for my birthday, and I don’t want to ruin it.”

Once his messy hands are out of the way, you do as he asks, working the knot free and slipping the silk off with a careful tug. You pop a few buttons for him, too, and he gives you a nod of thanks before digging back in with renewed gusto, washing it all down with long pulls on his beer.

You don’t know how he does it, but his steady, calm demeanor always manages to soothe you. You unclench your jaw. Relax your shoulders. Even eat with him. Once the food’s devoured and the mess is cleaned up, you offer him a nightcap that promises to be better than what he’d been served at the fundraiser, and he happily accepts.

With tumblers in hand, the two of you migrate out to the patio. Javi is quick to indulge in his after-dinner smoke, bringing flame to paper-wrapped tobacco with a practiced flick and inhaling deeply. He fills his lungs with nicotine a few more times before turning his attention to his glass, bringing it to his nose before taking a slow sip.

“Dios mio,” he appreciates aloud. “What is this?”

“Macallan,” you tell him.

“That’s damn good whiskey.”

“It ought to be for five grand a bottle.”

Javi chuckles and lets out a low whistle, “You lift it off a truck or something?”

“It was a gift,” you admit, taking a seat on the outdoor bench. “From Brad.”

He blinks slowly, “Your ex?”

You nod and shrug slightly, “Bastard always did have good taste.”

Javi doesn’t pry – he just smokes and paces, seemingly content for you to either share or plead the fifth. You take a sizable gulp for courage and finally tell him about Alaska, about the brand new, state-of-the-art facility, and what an opportunity it is. You explain the position. Tell him it offers better pay and an extremely generous housing stipend. A year there, maybe two, and you’ll have your pick of any hospital you want to work at going forward.

Brad’s presence, his role as department head, his status as your ex-fiancé, the wholly inappropriate “welcome gift” he supposedly sent on behalf of the entire staff – a gift you’re certain was pilfered from his dad’s private collection – none of it matters. You’re going there for work because you go where you’re needed, nothing more.

“Got the papers inside,” you say quietly. “Just gotta sign ‘em.”

Javi curses. Drops the butt of his cigarette into the remaining inch of whiskey. Sets the glass down a little too hard on the window ledge. It’s tense now, the air between you, the atmosphere filling with acridness neither one of you is accustomed to. He rolls his jaw. You tap your nail against the tumbler. Javier runs a hasty palm over his mustache and then, much to your surprise, he sits down next to you.

Your glass is taken and hastily put aside. Slowly, carefully, as if giving you the chance to pull away, Javi slots his fingers between yours. When you don’t protest, he holds on tight and brings your knuckles to his lips. His palm pressed to your palm; he lowers his head until his furrowed brow meets the back of your hand. It’s so achingly, intimately tender, so unexpected and jarring, that makes your eyes well.

You swallow hard and clear your throat, “Look, Javi, I’m –”

“Don’t,” he interjects with a slow, purposeful shake of his head. “Just… Don’t.”

The moment stretches, unbearable with the weight of the unknown, all nerve-wracking and heady at the same time. Javi eventually looks at you – eyes searching and examining and questioning. Head slightly tilted, a wayward chunk of his hair tumbles out of its’ carefully coiffed place, and you don’t consider your actions when you take back your hand to carefully brush it off his forehead.

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs.

You frown and stroke his cheek with your thumb, “I don’t want to, either.”

Javi’s fingertips brush your forearm, and when he leans forward, you meet him in the middle. Your mouths join. Lips brushing, breath stolen and returned. The two of you are traversing unmapped and uncharted territory, but it’s so easy. It's as if you’ve been touching like this, kissing like this, for such a long time.

All languid and unhurried until he licks into your mouth, coating your tongue in hints of vanilla, nutmeg, and smoke, and then, you’re both in pursuit of more. Tripping over each other to get back inside. Both of you going for his belt, and then, your underwear – no finesse or thought of the bedroom just steps away because the couch will work just fine.

Knees sunk into the cushions and cheek mashed into an armrest. Heels kicked off and the skirt of your ankle-length dress tugged up over your hips. Javi explores and discovers you from behind, tongue tasting the unmistakable evidence of your desire, and fingers stoking the flame until you’re begging him to put you out of your misery.

“Condoms,” you croak, gesturing blindly. “In my work bag.”

A low growl. Nips and licks and sucks to the back of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the rounds of your shoulders. You’re melting to the floor, rolling into your back, eyes barely able to focus as he snatches up your battered canvas tote and upends it, the contents spilling out messily and noisily across the carpet.

“Preparing for an orgy?” he teases, letting the line of rubbers unfurl above your head.

“Shut up,” you sass, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You know I had to teach that sex ed class today.”

“Did the hospital supply bananas?”

“Actually, it was cucumbers.”

Javi laughs. Tears open the package. Rucks up his shirt. You watch, gaze hooded as he slides the rubber on. You toss out a compliment to his technique, and he flushes, all hasty to push your legs apart and make room for himself between your splayed thighs.

“It’s been – I haven’t done this in a while,” you admit, bravado lessening slightly.

Javi clicks his tongue, thumbs making small circles on your kneecaps, “Me, neither, cariño. Been saving myself for you.”

Your spluttered laugh brings out his hidden dimples, and then, he kisses you. Smiles gradually fade, amusement giving way to urgency, prompting you to reach for him, guiding him until he’s slowly sinking into you, filling you. And it’s a snug fit, but it’s just right, and when Javi rocks his pelvis, you’re remade. Suddenly cast adrift, in search of an anchor, you dig your fingers into his hair. Seek out his shoulders with your hands. Follow the curve of his spine and twine your legs around him just so you can feel the way flexes and stretches into your touch.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper against the shell of his ear. “Javi, please… Please, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises against your throat. “You feel so good, mi corazón. Feels like you’re mine. Like you’ve always been mine. Fuck.”

His words thrum through you, wreaking havoc, curling your spine, bringing even more heat to your cheeks. There’s no hiding the way your legs are trembling, no stopping your body from bearing down, from clenching hard, from trying to keep him deep inside for as long as possible. His name spills out from your lips like marbles on a wooden floor, the reverent mantra smothered only by his mouth seeking yours.

“Say you’ll stay with me,” Javi demands, teeth nipping your chin.

You nod frantically, “Yes. Yes, I’ll stay with you.”

In possession of you, of your agreement, Javi’s hold becomes unforgiving – fingertips digging into the meat of your hip and the nape of your neck. His thrusts turn pointedly devastating – retreating and surging forward, all precise and measured, purposeful in the way he seems to take control, bringing you to orgasm for the third time with a broad, self-satisfied smile that isn’t as humble as he probably thinks it is.

When he finally comes, he buries himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, stubble rubbing against your cheek as he muffles his groans of pleasure into the crook of your neck. As the two of you lie together in the afterglow, his head pillowed by your breasts, your arms and legs wrapped around him, breaths slowing until they match, the truth of you, of him, becomes undeniably clear.

Home isn’t a place. It’s a person.

And you’ve finally found each other.

#javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fanfic #javier peña narcos #javi pena x reader #javi pena x you #narcos fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena narcos

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spacebarbarianweird · 3 months

Text

Lost and Found

Synopsis: Astarion dissapears, and Tiriel goes looking for him.

Tags: dadstarion, dhampirs, hurt/comfort

Alethaine's age: 6 years old

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons This one is more Tiriel x Astarion centered but Alethaine has her role, too

Astarion can’t move - his regeneration doesn’t catch up with the damage he received. His ribs are broken and so are his hands. There is nothing left of his renowned vampiric strengths - he is helpless in front of those warriors.

Kill the vampire. Kill the vampire. Kill the vampire.

He feels dawn is close. His body stirs, and a wave of panic floods his mind. The sun will kill him. The sun will burn him.

Astarion tries to stand up but a strong blow knocks him down.

The first rays of the sun cut him like blades.

The last coherent thought comes to his mind.

Tiriel was right. He should have listened to his wife.

Tiriel is worried sick.

Astarion left a month ago with those men from Tunland - promising it would take only a dozen days and she wouldn't be stuck home with their daughter all alone.

But it’s been four weeks and he still hasn’t returned.

Alethaine sits on the ceiling with a book. Her adorable little face looks so serious that Tiriel can’t resist smiling every time she glances at her daughter.

Like every elven child Tiriel has seen, Alethaine looks a bit like a perfect doll - a bit smaller than human children, with soft silver hair, and pointy ears that twitch, reacting to sounds. The quarter of human ancestry doesn’t manifest at all in her. She could pass for a high elf if it wasn’t for her vampire fangs, skin too pale for a living girl, and the fact she barely breathes. Sometimes Tiriel can’t resist waking Alethaine up just to make sure she hasn’t died in her sleep. Just motherly anxiety, besides, nothing could have prepared Tiriel to be the mother of a dhampir.

Well, what did she expect, taking a vampire as a husband - but she had no idea dhampirs were anything but a myth.

“Mum.”

“What is it, Kitten?”

“When will Dad come back?”

“I don’t know”, Tiriel says.

The six-year-old flips the page. Tiriel notices elven letters, Espruar. Meanwhile, she is barely capable of reading a page in Common without having a headache, Alethaine easily reads books in both of her mother tongues.

She is smart, her daughter. Just like Astarion.

Who disappeared without a trace.

It’s not like him. Of course, dealing with pacts and contracts isn't a fast job. It often takes Astarion days just to understand what exactly happened between his client and whatever force they’ve decided to sign papers with (because no one wants to admit to their mistakes).

But Astarion doesn’t like to be away for too long. Tiriel knows it too well. They have been together for twenty-six years but what is it in comparison with two centuries of slavery, considering his previous life is completely erased from his memories? Astarion still has nightmares, he is still haunted. He needs her as much as she needs him.

He would have come back already - to her, to their daughter, to their home.

Tiriel is sure something bad has happened.

Vampires are vulnerable to the sun. To silver. Astarion could have been killed and she would never know about it.

Tiriel didn’t like Astarion’s last client at first sight—an obnoxious chieftain from the Tunland who was so similar to Tiriel’s abusive drunkard of a stepfather that she almost had a panic attack. He even spoke with the same shitty dialect native to Tiriel’s human relatives.

Tiriel even suggested finding someone in town to look after Alethaine in her absence. Hells she was going to let him go alone! But Astarion talked her out.

I love having you as my bodyguard, but let’s not leave Alethaine without both of her parents.

Tiriel feels a gentle touch of fingers on her hair.

“Mum.”

“Hm?”

“Your mum and dad were half-elves like you? Or one of them was an elf like me and Dad?”

Tiriel looks up. Well, sooner or later she would have asked. For some reason the absence of Astarion’s family doesn’t bother Alethaine (at least now), maybe because she understands the concept that “dad was killed and resurrected and it was so long ago it was all forgotten”—but the fact that Tiriel doesn't have anyone except for her husband probably surprises her.

“My mother was a human and my father was an elf.”

“But where are they? Is grandma dead?”

Tiriel is quiet for a second. Grandma. Well, sure. Tiriel did have a mother. A woman who gave birth to her. And hated her so much didn’t even bother to give her a name.

Tiriel does mental math. She has no idea how old her mother was when they last saw each other but considering some of Tiriel’s brothers had already had children,the old hag must be around ninety. If she is alive, which is dubious considering the living conditions in the Tunland and, especially, in the Sunset Mountains.

“And grandpa? If he is an elf, he is still somewhere!”

“Alethaine, I don’t know who my father was or is. I don’t know his name, I don’t know where he was from. And as for my mother… she wasn’t a good person.”

Alethaine winces her nose.

“But she was your mum!”

“She was a woman who gave birth to me. But she was never my mum. Alethaine, sometimes it happens. Sometimes mothers don’t love their children. And sometimes fathers just disappear without a trace. There are plenty of adults who shouldn't become parents at all.”

Alethaine shakes her head.

“What if Dad has disappeared too?”

“No,” Tiriel says firmly. “Your dad will come back.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Because he loves us.”

Alethaine squeezes her lips.

“Mum.”

Tiriel smiles. Once Aletaine starts asking, she doesn’t stop.

“Were you happy when I was born?”

“Of course! We were very happy to have you!”

Tiriel feels tears pricking her eyes. Of course, she can't know it but she is sure her own birth was met with curses and insults once her bitch of a mother and the midwife saw that the newborn had pointy ears.

Elven bastard. Dirty blood. Pixie.

Holding her own daughter in her arms for the first time, Tiriel couldn't understand how anyone could carry a child in their own body, experience childbirth, and still hate such an innocent human being.

“When I have a daughter, I will love her very-very much, just like you love me”

“Well, then she will be lucky to have both a mother and grandmother.”

Tiriel looks outside as if hoping to see a familiar figure approaching the house.

Nothing.

There is only one thing Tiriel can do about it except for waiting.

“Alethaine, I need to go away for a few days. You will live with the innkeeper's family.”

“You will go looking for dad?”

“Yes. And, please, don’t make me feel sorry I’ve left you with them.”

Alethaine nods. The innkeeper, his husband, and their five children are the only dwarves in Daggerlake - and almost the same “weirdos” as the Ancunins. Besides, the innkeeper is a retired adventurer and brews the best ale Tiriel has ever drunk.

“And promise me you won’t crawl on the ceilings. Even if you are asked to.”

“But it’s fun!”

“Yes, but people usually don’t like it when the child they are asked to look after can run away from them to the ceiling.”

“Bu muum…”

“ALETHAINE.”

Tiriel rarely uses her “rage” voice on Alethaine but it always works. Anethaine flinches, her eyes wide open and the book drops to the floor.

“Alright! I won't crawl on the ceiling!”

“Good girl. Now, get dressed and take what you need”

Tiriel hopes it will take her less than a week to find Astarion.

She is even ready to provide an offering to some deity to ensure she won’t coming back home a widow.

It’s hunger. Pain. Desperation.

Astarion wanders through narrow stone halls looking for prey. Nothing. There is nothing. This place is lifeless.

He is still there, in the dungeons, isn’t he?

Still locked somewhere under his master’s mansion. Starved, beaten, tortured.

It was all a dream

The sun. The warmth of a mortal body. The kisses, the hugs. Home, wife, daughter. It was just a mind trick.

The memories fade so does his consciousness.

A red-haired woman. Freckles on her back. She is saying something to him. Who is she? He can't remember.

A little girl. Cold pale skin, no breathing, blood with a bitter scent of wormwood. Dhampir? Or just an unfortunate child turned into a spawn?

No, they are not real. He is going to hear HIS voice. Humiliating orders. Astarions waiting for it like a lash.

Boy, don’t slouch before me.

Astarion lies on the cold stone. His body is paralyzed. Vampires can spend decades like that - they can’t die of hunger, they just freeze in a neverending torture.

The woman. She keeps invading his thoughts. Who is she? The vision slips away.

You’ve brought cattle, boy.

Yes, the master is here. He is disappointed. He will flay Astarion’s skin and chain him to the wall. But what did astarion do? Did he run away? Did he fail to bring the food? Did he break one of the unwritten rules he couldn’t possibly remember?

The night vale, the stars in the skies, the mountains in the distance. A bunch of red-haired warriors. Kill the vampire. Kill the vampire.

Sun is burning Astarion’s skin.

Did they just return him to his master?

Astarion doesn’t move. Soon there is no name, no reason. Just an empty starving shell.

BLOOD.

Astarion’s body stirs up. Someone alive is close, close enough for his vampiric senses to catch them.

HEART BEATING.

So loud he hears it from a distance.

He jumps on his feet and walks toward his prey.

A woman. Probably, a half-elf. He catches her mixed scent. She is armored with a two-handed ax.

And she is alone.

“Who is there?” she asks, ready to thrust her skull-crushing weapon. Too bad the prey has dark vision. It gives her some advantages. But she will be dead soon anyway, once she satiates his starving body.

He bares his fangs and almost physically senses her fear. The blood of a scared creature is the sweetest.

“Astarion?” her voice trembles. She takes a step back.

And drops her weapon.

He rushes toward her and knocks her to the ground. She doesn’t resist for some reason but the vampire doesn’t pay attention to that.

Astarion pierces her neck. Blood streams down his throat.

So sweet, so delicious. He can’t stop - he won’t stop. Every drop of this woman’s body is going to be his, he is going to satiate himself and then he will go hunting for someone else…

His body slowly gets warmer and his sanity slowly returns.

Astarion. My name is Astarion.

He doesn’t have a master.

He can… feed… on mortals…

Freedom. Sunlight.

Tiriel.

He pulls away and the woman falls on the stone floor, unable to move and barely breathing.

“Oh no…” he mutters observing what he has done. “Tiriel…”

Astarion crawls back to his beloved. Her eyelids are half open, and her skin is almost as pale as his.

“Tiriel!” he slaps her cheek. “Tirel! Stay awake! Look at me, look at me! Oh gods!”

He presses her weak body to his chest, cradling her in his arms. His darling Tiriel, his wife, his thiramin…

“M-my bag… There is… a… potion” she whispers.

Astarion opens it and finds a small bottle. He unclenches Tiriel’s jaw with his strong hands and pours the liquid into her mouth.

The color returns to her cheeks and her heart stops beating so fast. Her eyes are still full of fear and it hurts Astarion even more.

“Tiriel… I…” Astarion mutters but he can’t say anything else.

What is he going to say, after all?

“Astarion, what the hells happened to you?” she finally says. “You looked like a fucking ghoul! Well you still do… a bit”

Astarion gulps. His throat hurts. He needs more. He is too weak, too exhausted. Astarion looks at his hands to avoid Tirilel’s eyes and horror pierces him once again.

His hands are all covered in burns. Nail plates are broken, and the skin hangs in shreds.

“Hey! Astarion, look at me!” Tiriel finally makes herself sit up and grabs his mutilated hands. “Hush, I am here, I am here!”

She hugs him and he feels how weak she is. His body trembles, the panic crushes his mind with boiling hot waters, tears stream down his face and his mouth is open in a silent scream.

“Hush, my love, it’s going to be alright. We are going home. Alethaine misses you”

Alethaine. His daughter.

He is safe. His master is dead. He has it all.

And he’s almost lost it.

Tiriel cups his face. “Astarion, I shouldn’t have let you go. I knew something was wrong. Did they try to kill you?”

“I don't remember.”

“Where are your things? Daggers? The armor?”

Astarion looks down - his feet are bare, the trousers and the shirt are all in rags. He does look like he just emerged from a tomb.

“Damn. Well, let’s hope no one will attack us on the way back. Come on, let’s go outside and get you more blood. And then we are going home and the fuck I am letting you go alone next time!”

Tiriel lies on the bedroll. She’s set up the tent in the cave—close enough to the surface but with access to the underground tunnels.

She didn’t manage to understand what exactly happened to Astarion and why he was that feral when she found him. But the burns on his skin betrayed the only reason—the sun.

It seems like whoever did this managed to overcome Astarion in a fight and then let him burn in the sun. Astarion managed to get into the tunnels but lost his way. And since the tunnels were completely empty the hunger didn’t let him heal.

She knew they couldn't trust those bastards from Tunland! She has a good intuition after all. Next time Astarion had better listen to his wife!

Her whole body hurts, especially her neck. Astarion rarely feeds on Tiriel—her blood is more like a medicine to him rather than food but when he does he is always gentle, making sure the process doesn’t hurt her. But this—this was a full-fledged assault. He ripped her throat with his fangs and she is alive only thanks to the fact he returned to his senses before it was too late.

She hears light footsteps.

Astarion is back. His hands are healed and he looks like himself, not the starved monster she encountered in the tunnels.

She elbows up, but Astarion pulls away in embarrassment.

“Astarion, come here,” Tiriel asks. “I’ve spent a month in an empty bed. Don’t deprive me of your presence,” she takes his hand in hers.

Together they sit on the bedroll and Tiriel hugs him nuzzling the crook of his neck.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I’ve almost killed you.”

“But you didn't. Astarion, please, you’ve lost yourself because of hunger. I won’t deny I was scared,but it doesn’t mean it has to change anything about us.”

“I almost killed you,” he repeats. “I would have stepped in the sun if I had done it.”

“Hm, and left our daughter an orphan? I don’t think there are many people ready to raise a dhampir.”

“Where is she?”

“I left with the innkeeper’s family. Good thing I went out looking for you. Who knows where the darkness would have taken you.”

He nods and presses his legs to his chest. Tiriel hugs him from behind. When they just started being together she did it daily—a ritual to console him. But it’s been a while since he needed it.

She kisses the nape of his neck. Then she kisses his cheek. Caress his ears. Plays with his curls.

“I love you,” she whispers. “You are the best thing that happened to me.”

Astarion weeps and Tiriel tugs him closer.

“You need to meditate, love” She kisses his forehead. “Think about something good. Remember how we left Baldur’s Gate twenty-six years ago? We hit the road at sunset and just walked hand in hand. Or when we were stuck in some shitty northern town for the whole winter? I couldn’t make myself leave the room and one night you came back with a pair of rings. You just put one on my finger and kept staring at me as if you saw me for the first time.”

“I prepared the whole wedding speech but forgot it all,” Astarion says, not even trying to get into reverie.

“Or remember how we were both freaking out because of the pregnancy? One day you just knelt in front of me, placed your hand on my belly and burst into tears because your vampire hearing allowed you to hear Alethaine’s heartbeat.”

“We need to go home, Astarion, and you need to rest. Then we can talk about anything that bothers you.”

Alethaine flips the page of the book. Thanks to dark vision she can read in complete darkness. The story catches her mind—it is a story of old times when elves ruled Faerun. Thousands and thousands of years before the Age of Humanity, her ancestors walked those lands, building the towers and castles and practicing the ways of long-forgotten magic.

But the intrusive thoughts keep getting into her young mind. First, Dad disappeared without a trace and Mum was so worried she could barely do anything. Then, Mum left town and Alethaine was all alone. Sure, the dwarven family is friendly and they don’t mind taking care of one more child (it’s not a big deal if there are five or six of them), but with every passing day Alethaine was getting more anxious.

What if both of her parents had died? What if she was already an orphan?

Two months passed like this. And then, she was woken up by familiar voices, and her tiny world was restored.

The dhampir puts the book away and takes her plushie. It’s nice to sleep in her own bed for once, but she feels so lonely it cripples her.

Alethaine walks to her parents’ room. Mum and Dad lie in each other’s arms. They discuss something she can’t understand.

“I think we have a visitor,” Astarion chuckles. “What is it, princess?”

“Can I sleep with you?” Alethaine asks, pressing the plushie to her chest.

“Sure, come here!” Astarion opens the blanket up inviting Alethaine in. The dhampir immediately nestles between her parents.

Tiriel hugs her and kisses the crown of her head and Astarion adjusts a bit so he can see both of his girls.

Alethaine relaxes. Her mother’s heartbeat is so loud it’s basically the only thing she can hear. Dad doesn’t breathe and his heart doesn’t beat, but she finds special comfort when he holds her—there is something more natural about his cold hands than her mother’s warmth.

“Did something scare you, princess?” Astarion asks, intertwining his fingers in Alethain’s long soft hair.

Alethaine feels a wave of sadness and fear rising up in her body. Before she manages to say anything coherent she bursts in tears causing both of her parents to immediately rush to comfort her.

“Were you afraid we were absent for so long?” Tiriel asks, placing Alethaine in her lap. Her motherly kisses are so tender the dhampir cries louder and more desperate.

Astarion sits up and wraps his hands around them both.

“I am sorry, princess. We aren’t going to leave you anymore, we promise.”

Alethaine sniffs, pressing her nose into Tiriel’s chest.

And then she hears a quiet lullaby.

Astarion hums it in Elven. Alethaine can’t decipher words but the song soothes her as Tiriel sways her a bit in her arms as if the dhampir was still a baby.

Both her mother’s warmth and her father’s undead coldness weave a perfect sense of comfort for her.

Of course, they were going to come back. They are her parents. They can’t disappear, they can’t die.

As Alethaine drifts into sleep, she notices the way her parents look at each other.

This image is being engraved in her mind and Alethaine will remember this even years later.

Even centuries later Alethaine Ancunin will remember the way her mother smiled to her father and the way Astarion held Tiriel’s hand. The way they talked to each other, the way they saw the world in their lover’s eyes.

Three centuries later, when Alethaine takes her own daughter in her pale hands, this image will flee into the dhampir’s mind, and she will weep, mourning her long-dead mother.

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96 @locallegume @brainfullofhotsauce @coffeeanddonutscafe @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @queenofthespacesquids

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soupandsorcery · 10 months

Text

"Astarion and I had a conversation about you once," Ciro says, seemingly apropos of nothing. They're stoking the fire higher in the hearth to ward away the chill in the air. Astarion is in the bath, which he'd promptly claimed for the next 'hour--no, two. Actually, just come check that I haven't drowned if you don't see me before bed'. Gale is sitting on the bed, making a face at the way it squeaks, even though the three of them have stayed in much worse places than this.

"Do I want to know?" Gale asks, and Ciro can feel him watching them. They've grown to learn the differences between the way Gale and Astarion look at them, though they both manage to convey their own hungry sort of awe with just their eyes.

Ciro smiles and feeds another small, neatly split log into the fireplace. "It wasn't bad. It was complimentary even. For Astarion."

"Oh, I'm sure that was interesting. Tell me."

The bed squeaks, and Ciro turns to see Gale lounging. He's shucked off his outer robe, and is just in a tunic and pants. For a man who looks so good in finery, Ciro thinks they might like him best when he's dressed down and comfortable. He looks more approachable then. More touchable.

"It was a little while after he bit me for the first time," Ciro explains. "And he was saying that after tasting me, he was wondering what the rest of our group might taste like. I think he compared you to a fine, well aged brandy."

Gale's eyebrows lift and something sparks in his eyes. It's curiosity, the same light he gets when he's about to spend the next few hours buried in books, chasing down some obscure spell or reference.

"Really?" he asks. "That is high praise from Astarion."

"I told you." Ciro smiles and comes to join him on the bed. It's going to be a tight fit for the three of them, but when the inn keeper offered them two rooms to divide up, they'd quickly declined. "I agreed that you'd probably taste very good."

Gale's cheeks go pink, and Ciro laughs softly. For a man who can weave erotic magic like no one they've ever met before, sometimes the simplest things make him blush. And maybe that makes sense. Maybe Gale has spent so much time with the grand and the ethereal that the small and mundane still manage to catch him off guard.

It bodes well for Ciro then, small and mundane as they are.

"What is it like?" Gale asks, sitting up on his elbows. "When he bites you?"

"It hurts," Ciro answers truthfully. "But that part is over quick. Then it just feels sort of...warm. Woozy. But Astarion always makes it a seduction. You know how he is." Gale nods. "He's good at distracting me from the pain of it and making it into something more tender."

Gale's eyes are very warm now, lit by the firelight and the heat of his curiosity and desire. "What does he do?" he murmurs. "Paint me a picture."

"That's not my thing." Of the three of them, Ciro is the worst with words, but they try anyway. "He kisses the spot where he bites me, and his hands wander. I don't really think about the pain when he's stroking me...you know."

Now their cheeks are on fire, a splash of red across their pink skin. Gale is still gazing at them intently, like he's expecting more, and Ciro feels the heat from the fire and the thump thump thump of their heart.

"Words are all well and good, Gale darling," a drawling voice interrupts them. "But they're no comparison to the richness of experience. Wouldn't you agree?"

Astarion emerges from the separate bathing area, draped in nothing but low slung pants. His pale skin glistens in the firelight, and his hair is damp and even curlier from the steam. He looks like a treat, but then, he always does.

He catches Ciro looking and smiles, small and tender, before winking at them.

"You ah-- You might have a point," Gale says, clearing his throat. "And I have been thinking about it."

"Really?" Astarion's eyebrows climb up his forehead. "I...didn't think you were interested."

"I wasn't. At first. Not that I'm opposed to you feeding yourself, of course, but Ciro had it well covered, and. Well, I'll admit I was being a bit of a baby about the pain aspect of it. But Ciro makes it sound very intriguing. And I've seen the way they look when you're finished with them."

"How I look? How do I look?" Ciro asks, glancing between the two of them.

"Soft, sleepy," Gale says at the same time Astarion purrs, "Ruined."

It's enough to make them blush darker, and then groan, falling face first into one of the pillows on the bed. "You're the worst," they mumble.

"Which of us are you talking to?" Astarion wants to know.

"Take your pick."

He chuckles, a low, rolling sound that does things to Ciro's body and their heart. It's not fair that he's so casually attractive. Or that Ciro is so easily flustered.

"Leave them alone," Gale says fondly.

"Alright, I'll turn my attention back to you then," Astarion replies. "Are you actually interested in seeing what it's like? I won't be offended if it's more of an...idle curiosity."

Gale is quiet for a moment, and Ciro can practically hear him thinking. "I suppose I should try it, shouldn't I? I can hardly be involved with a vampire without letting a little blood every now and then, right?"

"Well, you could. It's hardly a requirement. But I won't deny that I am still ravenously curious to find out what you taste like."

Ciro snorts into the pillow at the word choice and gets poked in the side for their trouble. Their men and their drama.

"We'll call it an experiment, shall we?" Gale declares. "I'll try it, and if I don't like it, no harm, no foul."

"No harm, no foul," Astarion agrees. "I should have done this better when it was my first time with Ciro. You won't be offended if I make this a little more romantic for our dear Gale, will you, pet?"

Ciro sits up and finds Astarion looking at them intently. It's an honest question, they realize, from the way Astarion looks at them and the little furrow of anxiety between his brows.

"I won't be offended," they promise him. "You've more than made up for it."

Astarion smiles, reaching for Ciro's hand to kiss the back of it before sweeping around the room. He grabs one of the chairs from the little side table and puts it near the fire, then stands in the center of their rented room with his hands on his hips. His eyes flick back to Ciro, and a smile plays around his lips.

"Could I trouble you to help me?" he asks. "Gale isn't as...familiar with pain as you are. It might help if he had a distraction." There's a mischievous glint to his eyes, and he picks up one of the pillows from the bed and lays it in front of the chair.

Ciro catches on to Astarion's meaning before Gale does, and they smile, sliding off the bed. They kiss Astarion's cheek, leaning into him for a moment. "I can be distracting," they murmur.

"You certainly can."

"I--oh," Gale says, finally catching on.

"Indeed. Come sit," Astarion drawls, gesturing to the chair.

Gale practically scrambles to obey, sitting down in the chair, legs spread. Ciro slides in gracefully, sinking down to their knees on the pillow. It's clear that Gale is nervous, from the way he's shifting and his eyes darting back and forth. Ciro can't pretend they didn't feel the same when they did this for the first time, but they've all come a long way since then.

"Breathe," they murmur to Gale. They slide their hands up his thighs, fingers massaging the muscles there. "We'll take care of you."

"Yes," Astarion agrees, moving in behind the chair. His long, elegant fingers slide over Gale's shoulders and down to his chest. "You are ours to look after."

"Alright." Gale takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and his posture relaxes. He sits back in the chair and tips his head back to regard Astarion. "I'm ready."

"Hm, not yet, I think," Astarion murmurs. "Ciro?"

That's their cue. With an ease borne of practice, Ciro walks their fingers up Gale's thighs even more and starts unlacing his pants. Gale lifts his hips enough that Ciro can drag the garment down, freeing Gale's cock. He's already on his way to being hard, but it never does take much to get Gale going when the two of them are involved.

Ciro glances to Astarion, to make sure he's comfortable with this amount of sexual contact happening right in front of him. It comes and goes these days, and sometimes he wants to be involved, while sometimes he'd rather not be in the room at all. But now there's a honeyed warmth to his eyes, and a slow, pleased smile tucked into the corners of his mouth.

He catches Ciro looking and inclines his head a little, in answer to the silent question.

"Focus on me," Ciro murmurs to Gale, one hand wrapping around his cock to stroke it slowly.

Gale's eyes are riveted on Ciro as he sucks in a deep breath, hips already bucking minutely up into Ciro's touch. Ciro grazes his thumb over the head of Gale's cock, gathering the growing wetness from the tip to spread down as he keeps working him up.

Astarion keeps his hands on Gale too, fingers dipping under the open collar of his shirt, dancing over his collarbones.

"Ciro's beautiful on their knees, don't you think?" Astarion purrs into Gale's ear. It must have an effect because Gale's dick twitches in Ciro's hand. "So very eager and obedient. So ready to please you. To please us both."

There's so much promise in that tone of voice, and it catches Ciro up in it too, making them swallow hard.

"Perhaps we'll both indulge in how good you must taste tonight," Astarion says, and Ciro dips their head to lick a hot stripe up Gale's cock.

"Ah," Gale moans. His hands are wrapped around the arms of the chair, a white knuckled grip as Ciro and Astarion work him up between them.

"Yes, very good," Astarion continues, and Ciro doesn't know which one of them he's praising. They suppose it doesn't really matter.

They ease their mouth over the head of Gale's cock and then take him all the way down to the root. Not having a gag reflex has come in handy many a time with their lovers, especially Gale, who is surprisingly well endowed.

They hold it there for a moment, taking in the feeling of Gale in their mouth, the way the head of him hits the back of their throat, the way they can feel the tension climbing in his body.

Then they pull off, sucking in a gasp of air before going back to it.

Astarion just waits. Watches. Occasionally offers praise in his low, seduction edged voice. When Ciro glances up, they can tell that Astarion is thumbing Gale's nipple under his shirt, and that Gale is sprawled in the chair, almost boneless with pleasure.

"If you keep this up--" Gale chokes out. "I am not likely to--ah! I'm not likely to last."

"That is the goal," Astarion says. He sounds a bit breathless now, but is otherwise composed. Ciro knows that if they looked into his eyes there would be a million different emotions in them, but they focus on their task, sucking Gale down and swirling their tongue around the head of his cock.

He leaks a salty drip, which Ciro laps up eagerly, letting themself get lost in it. Gale's little moans of pleasure are almost musical, and Ciro knows from experience that he's beautiful when he falls apart.

He's close now, Ciro can taste it, and apparently Astarion can too because he chooses that moment to bite him. Ciro hears his voice, a low, "Breathe, love," and then Gale's gasping sharply.

Ciro looks up, but it's not pain on Gale's face. At least not entirely. He looks like he's in a harsh sort of ecstasy, sharp and brutal, but like he's enjoying every second of it. His body arches a bit, and Astarion keeps a hold of him, not letting him buck too hard.

He's learned, from his time feeding on Ciro, how to really refine this art. How to walk the line between pain and pleasure, and wait for the moment when the two can blend together beautifully.

Gale's there now, wrapped up in it, and Ciro has just enough time to pull back a bit before Gale comes undone, coming hard in their mouth.

Ciro works him through it, licking him clean before they pull off. Astarion pulls away a moment later, dragging his tongue over the small drips of blood that have spilled down Gale's neck. He presses a kiss, tender and soft, to Gale's neck, and then lets out a pleased sigh.

"Well?" Ciro asks, sitting back on their heels. "Was it everything you expected?"

Astarion smiles, and he almost looks drunk with it. "And more, darling. We were right, all that time ago. He's positively exquisite."

"I'm flattered," Gale says. "And spent."

"It's a very good look for you," Astarion tells him.

Between the three of them, they manage to bank the fire and move their way to bed in various states of undress. By an unspoken agreement, Gale gets the middle, and Astarion and Ciro curl up on either side of him. It is a tight fit, but Ciro has never complained about having to huddle close with these two.

It's several minutes later when Astarion speaks again. "Was that...was it alright?"

Gale chuckles and turns his head to kiss the tip of Astarion's nose. "'Alright' doesn't do it justice in the least. That was an experience. One I would be happy to repeat, if you're all willing."

"Count me in," Ciro murmurs sleepily.

"I suppose I could be convinced," Astarion replies, and he sounds very pleased behind the flippant words.

"Then it's settled."

Like so many things between the three of them, it comes down to a conversation and mutual agreement, and Ciro smiles, happy and eager to see where life leads them next.

#bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #astarion x gale #astarion x tav x gale #noah oc: ciro #noah plays with words #bg3 spoilers #no idea what their ship name is or even if they have one #but i was seized with the urge to write this #beware of smut here

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purp-rabb-bnnuy · 5 months

Text

I'm late to watching the pjo show, but I just finished the 1st ep and oh. My. GODS! ITS AMAZING!!! I've never read the books, but I did watch the movies and the movies PALE in comparison to the masterpiece of a show!

Sally Jackson is just... *chef kiss* fantastic! Everyone is so well cast! Percy actually feels like a 12 yr old! Annabeth is so blunt, i love it! I also love the representation shown so far!

Do I already know who the lightning thief is? Yes.

Is Luke already giving me the ick/a bad vibe? Also yes. The body-less voice is too. Not to forget clarisse.

"CaNt FoRcE tHe GoDs To Do AnYtHiNg" yeah well apparently Percy "ill make him see us both" Jackson will make the gods do something!

I just love this show already

#pjo #pjo tv show #pjo series #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #sally jackson #grover underwood #annabeth chase #percabeth #smartwater #pay child support #chiron #wise girl #seaweed brain

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saintship · 10 months

Note

could I request a florist!könig x reader?? I don't even know how this would go, but I like the idea of him being absolutely enthralled in plants and bugs as a kid. lil dude would know anything and everything about flowers, because he'd bring back random assortments of wildflowers and foliage back to his grandmother after a day of wandering around the woods and playing pretend, and she'd buy him a big book about flowers one day because she thought it was adorable.

was thinking reader could be a regular, because she likes having fresh bouquets around her workplace/at home/to give as gifts? she knows quite a bit about flowers and their meanings (though, it pales in comparison to what könig knows- i don't think anyone could ever compete), and she's just head over heels for whatever whack ass/gorgeous assortment he comes up with for her.

who knows, maybe our lil köni finally musters up some courage one day and throws in a free bouquet for her? 👀

Ancient draft. Cobwebs. Please forgive me this request is magical

*Some real places are mentioned but the floral shop is fictional ALSO if my German is bad feel free to correct me and I can make the edit, thank you!

Daffodils - König x reader

Salzburg wasn’t the city you were born in, but it might as well have been. You’d found a peace there; the summer rain, snowy winters, and captivating architecture being just a few wonders of the city.

Hotel Altstadt was where you made a living, tucked inside a busy plaza where the young children could never seem to sit still. A dozen or so steps across from the hotel was a small floral and plant nursery.

Königs Blumen un Pflanzengärtnerei, a shop that had grown popular since it opened its doors for travelers and tourists. The shop was beautiful, inside and out, with creeping vines and a wonderful twinkling filling the room each time the door opened. The brass bell responsible was entwined with a long sprig of lavender, which carried its smell to greet newcomers. Shelves of live, flowering plants lined the walls, some of which you couldn’t name, while in the center, a calm fountain bubbled around several ferns and tall lilies. The piece would block the register entirely if it weren’t for the owner’s height—he had to be more than 6’5’’, with generous muscle accompanying his stature and a head of auburn waves that brushed his ears before tapering off. He always wore a black fabric mask with floral detailing. Beautiful, but you always wondered why he did so.

The reason you were lucky enough to familiarize with him was the honeymoon couples of the hotel—you were often tasked with picking up entryway bouquets and treated rose petals for the bedspreads, and protected that position with your life. Today was the day you gathered enough courage to strike up a non-professional conversation with the man you’d been admiring for some time.

A breeze slanted through the alleys and roadways, providing some relief from the warm weather. You made your way across the plaza with your delivery cart as usual, thanking a young girl who held open the shop door for you. You walked inside, glancing into the fountain where coins glittered below the wavering surface.

“Good morning, König.” You sidled up to the counter, offering him a smile.

“Morgen! Here for the roses again?” He replied brightly, leaning down to reach for the package of white and red roses used for romantic suites.

“Yes, thank you..” your heart pounded as you received the first package, not missing how your fingers grazed his hand.

“I’m sure you grow a lot of these, huh?”

You managed to spit it out; a simple invitation to a real conversation.

“Yes..but it is not often I’m bored.” König remarked, handing over another package. “I enjoy the white ones especially.”

You gazed at the flower he’d pointed out, nearly getting distracted before quickly stowing it away and reaching for the next.

“Eternal love, right?”

König looked up, blinking.

“The meaning, I mean. Of-of white roses?”

Oh my god, kill me.

“Oh, yes! I have heard that perspective..though I always thought the classic meaning was most accurate; youthfulness.” He paused, holding onto the third package to study it. “So—young love, then.” He looked up, and you felt as though the earth fell around you. You took the last box, setting it down carefully.

“What other meanings do you know?” It didn’t matter that you knew many already, you just couldn’t drag yourself away from him.

“Quite a few..” he looked off a bit, thinking. “What’s your favorite flower?”

You felt a twinge of warmth at your cheeks. “Daffodils.. daffodils are my favorite. I like adorning flowers too, like baby’s breath and lily of the valley.”

He blinked, pleasant surprise flashing over his gaze. “Are you a florist?”

“I make arrangements for my friends sometimes—so, freelance?”

He laughed a bit. “Keep it down, I need business.”

You smiled in return. “Every good business has a partner, no?”

You don’t know where this banter was coming from, but decided to seize the confidence while it was there.

“I suppose you’re right.” König conceded, then studied you for a moment. “You already know what daffodils represent, don’t you?”

You don’t reply for a moment, seemingly forgetting how to form a sentence, before your phone goes off.

“Sorry..hello?” You turn, holding the phone to your ear. “Right..okay. Be right there.” You click to end the call, grasping your cart. “I’ve got to go. Nice talking to you..”

You steer back into the plaza, letting a deep breath free itself from your chest. Your hammering heart only frustrated you further, shaking your head and getting back to to work.

It was a notable stretch of time before your job drove you back to König's shop; lord knows you weren't going to wander in there on your own volition. The thought of him started to make your heart flip over, and it was close to nauseating. When you did, you saw something near the door that caught your eye. Abandoning your cart, you approached the small display table arranged to the side. You usually had trouble with written German as opposed to spoken, but the label was straightforward. "Blume des Monats". Flower of the month. It was an arrangement nestled in a small ceramic vase, the dominating flower being--the daffodils.

"You inspired me."

König's voice behind you made you turn, nearly spraining your neck from surprise. "I did?"

He was wearing a button down today, the sleeves hiding his hyacinth tattoo.

"You did. The adorning pieces, too. I find yellow and white fit nicely together for a light summer arrangement, both their looks and etymology."

You turn back, confirming the appearance of the baby's breath that framed the yellow flowers. "I agree."

König stepped up so he was standing beside you, looking at the arrangement as well. "I have to tell you, uh.. while I was arranging this, I wasn't imagining it to be displayed."

You look up at him, blinking. "No?"

He seemed to avoid your eyes. "No." he shifted his weight, glancing at the floor. The sight of a relatively intimidating man shifting on his feet was, admittedly, endearing. Still, the warmth in the tips of your ears irritated you to no end.

"I was going to uh..give it to you. Because I thought you'd like it. And then I was going to ask you on a date."

You smile to yourself, looking at your shoes. "I wish you would have."

You felt his eyes on you. "Truly?"

You nod, meeting his eyes. Suddenly, your nervous energy melted ever so slightly into a comfortable sort of understanding.

"Well, uh.." König took the arrangement by the stems, the water dripping as he held it in front of him. You couldn't help but laugh gently at his tenacity.

"Your floors-"

"Could I take you on a date sometime?"

"I--yes, just, oh your shoes.." you take the hand he holds the flowers with, setting them gently back in their place. You can only see his eyes, but they seem to be smiling.

"Wonderful. I'll have another when I pick you up."

"Oh, that's not-"

"With orchids."

You blink, his proximity suddenly clouding your awareness.

"Oh."

His eyes seem to tilt with another smile.

"I think you know their meaning."

#cod requests #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mwii #könig call of duty #könig mw2 #könig x reader #könig cod #könig modern warfare #könig fanfiction

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xjoonchildx · 2 years

Text

adonis | pjm x reader

🚨 summary: your crackpot of a neighbor will not rest until you throw yourself at the gorgeous paramedic in town. she's nuts, y'all.

🚨 pairing: reader x paramedic!jimin

🚨 genre: meddling neighbors? horny little old ladies with bad-slash-good intentions? awkward OCs who can't find the words to speak in the presence of greatness?

🚨 warnings: one very mouthy senior citizen, sweet/shy jimin, an OC who can't find a clean shirt throughout the entire fic, one very spoiled pomeranian, smoking, sexual innuendo, literally one line of implied smut

🚨 word count: 3.4K (lmao)

🚨 notes: this is my drabble *snort* for the possum anniversary and i am celebrating the wonderful @starlostjimin who is such a cool, funny, amazing, talented person. did you know that 911 is 911 in america AND canada? anyhoo. i hope you like my very first jimin fic ever, and i hope it delivers on the things that you wanted 💕

thank you always to @hobi-gif for being the most amazing beta and person in general.

If you had to wager a guess, you’d say it was Mrs. Choi from the fourth floor who’d dialed 911. That miserable old bat has always struck you as kind of a snitch.

At any rate, that’s how you find yourself standing outside your condo at ten o’clock at night, wearing nothing but a faded bathrobe and a pair of worn-out house slippers. Lights mounted on top of the fire truck idling at your building’s entrance turn the courtyard into a tragic makeshift disco, everything and everyone splashed in flashes of red and white.

You mill around on the damp grass with the rest of your neighbors, each of you turned into temporary exiles in mismatched sleepwear.

Mr. Nam from the sixth floor is yelling into his phone as he paces, giving someone an earful about the disruption. Mrs. Song from the seventh floor was smart enough to grab a lawn chair and she watches the scene unfold like it’s one of her beloved dramas. Mr. Baek from the first floor doesn’t pay any mind to the fuss around him, engrossed in a book good enough to drown out the grumbling and sirens.

But you don’t spot the woman who lives in the unit next to yours – not right away – because it takes her an absurdly long time to heed this whole evacuation business.

When Mrs. Yun finally breezes through the condo’s glass doors, she does so with all the subtlety of a pageant queen. She makes a beeline for you, decked out in a Hawaiian-print muumuu loud enough to wake the dead – accessorized by a full face of makeup, a full set of curlers, and her trusty Pomeranian tucked under one arm.

“What is all this fuss about?” she pouts, giving Chichi an affectionate scratch. You lean over to give the dog your own scratch and she licks your fingers as thanks.

“Hell if I know,” you shrug. “I came outside when I heard the sirens. Which, by the way, was about ten minutes ago.”

“I was busy,” Mrs. Yun sniffs, affronted by your reprimand. She sets Chichi down to pat her curlers and make sure each is still in place. “I have a friend coming over tonight.”

“A friend.”

“Yes honey, a friend,” she echoes, tone haughty. “You should try it some time.”

God, you really should. The only man in your life these days is the Doordash driver and the last time he’d come by, he’d made a clumsy joke about your sodium intake. You’d been embarrassed, sure, but somehow that pales in comparison to this reminder that you’re being outsexed by the little old lady next door.

“You should ask someone when they plan to let us back in,” Mrs. Yun says, tapping her foot impatiently. “You should ask – ” she pauses to look out over the crowd, eyes lighting as she points one fresh gel nail in the direction of the fire truck, “ – him.”

You follow the trajectory of that thin finger with your gaze until your eyes land on Mrs. Yun’s intended target. And then you blink as you take in what is surely the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. Dark eyes and sandy blonde hair and a jawline so sharp, it could have been cut from granite.

Holy shit.

“I’ll say,” Mrs. Yun grins, and your face burns with embarrassment when you realize you’ve spoken out loud. It flames even hotter when she raises an arm to wave him over.

“Sir? Sir!”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” You panic, whispering in the most threatening tone you can muster. “Put your hand down. Don’t – ”

But it’s too late. Mrs. Yun has already caught the attention of this Earth-bound Adonis. He makes his way towards you both without delay, wearing an easy smile so devastating it makes sweat bead at your temples.

“Hi there,” he greets kindly. “How can I help you?”

“Thank you, Mr. – ” Mrs. Yun pauses to squint at the name embroidered on the man’s dark navy uniform, “ – Park. What’s all this uproar about tonight, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he chuckles, and you find yourself mesmerized by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Someone called 911 because they smelled smoke, so we had to come check it out.” A radio secured to his shoulder crackles with an incoming transmission and he pauses to listen before he speaks again. “Pretty sure they’re almost done checking the building. Old places like this, we’ve always got to put in a bit more attention where the wiring is concerned. Wouldn’t want to leave you ladies in a dangerous situation.”

“Oh, of course not,” Mrs. Yun purrs, making no effort to hide the cheeky once-over she gives him. “We certainly appreciate you being thorough.”

The Adonis – Mr. Park – flushes, clearing his throat as the tips of his ears turn pink. You make a mental note to sit Mrs.Yun down later to explain that a few things have changed since her heyday.

The radio crackles again, a garbled voice coming over the line.

“Sounds like they’re almost done,” he explains, looking down at his feet to find Chichi sniffing at his boot. He crouches down to pet her and she curls into the curve of his hand, eager for his touch.

Somehow you’re willing to bet this man has that kind of effect on everything in his path – men, women, and houseplants alike.

He gives Chichi a few firm scratches before getting back to his feet. The rigid fabric of his uniform pants strains against the lean muscles of his thighs as he moves and Mrs. Yun’s eyes practically bug out of her face. You’d jam an elbow in her side if you thought there was a chance you could pull it off without being caught.

“I’d better get back,” he says, turning to you with one of those debilitating smiles. Your toes curl inside the shabby velvet of your slippers. “Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

“Oh, we won’t!” Mrs. Yun calls out, appreciating his retreating form with a lifted brow. You wait until the man is well out of earshot before turning on her.

“What the hell was that?” you demand.

“That – ” she says with her nose in the air, “ – is why you never leave the house without your face on.”

“You were practically undressing that man with your eyes,” you accuse hotly. “You do know what sexual harrassment is, don’t you?”

Mrs. Yun huffs as she bends down to scoop up Chichi. “I wasn’t harassing the man, I was appreciating him. Fine art is meant to be admired.”

“Oh, please,” you grumble. “And don’t think I missed that little detail about the smoke.”

She narrows her eyes at you.

“Mind your business.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

One week later, a knock at the door nearly startles you right off the couch. You frown into your half-eaten carton of ramen and set it down on the coffee table, taking a moment to seriously contemplate pretending not to be home.

But then there’s more knocking – more insistent this time.

You pad across the floor, crack the door open and the ramen in your stomach threatens to come right back up.

“Hi again.”

You blink.

“Sorry to bother you, it’s just that your neighbor suffered a fall and she said you would have a key to get into her place.”

The Adonis – Mr. Park – looks a little sheepish as he stands in the doorway, waiting for you to speak like a normal human being with a passable set of social skills. He shoves one hand through his sandy blonde hair and the locks seem to fall back in slow-motion.

“I – y-yes of course,” you stutter, so flustered that you nearly trip over your own feet in your haste to scramble for the kitchen. You dig Mrs. Yun’s spare key out of the silverware drawer and rush back to drop it into his waiting palm.

“I hope she’s okay,” you worry, biting at the inside of your cheek. “I’m right here if you guys need anything else.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” another voice promises, and you crane your neck to peer past the stunning Mr. Park to search for the source of it. A second man stands out in the hallway, a heavy duffel bag slung over one muscular arm covered in a myriad of tattoos. His face is boyish and beautiful and soft, a stark contrast to his powerful body.

Jesus. Who’s doing the recruiting in this city?

“We’ll have this back to you right away,” Mr. Park promises, and your neck heats when he rewards you with one of his sweet smiles.

The second they leave, you make a beeline for the bathroom – and cringe as you stand in the mirror and peel one half-dried ramen noodle off the front of your shirt.

🚨🚨🚨 🚨

15 minutes later, Mr. Park’s picture-perfect partner is knocking at your door.

“Hey there.”

You might have run a brush through your hair and dabbed on a bit of tinted chapstick in the last five minutes, but he notices that – or the absence of one half-dried ramen noodle, he makes no indication.

“Hi again,” you say. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, for sure. Maybe a little banged up, but otherwise she’s alright. She’s asking for you though, if you can walk over with me.”

“Yes, of course.” You shuffle into the hall and let him lead the way, through the open front door to Mrs. Yun’s unit and the narrow foyer that opens up into her living room. She’s upright on the couch, holding an ice pack to her head. The glorious Mr. Park is bent down on one knee at her side.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says, looking as pleased as a queen holding court, “I’m grateful every day for the very dedicated public servants in this city. That was terrifying.”

“But you’re okay, right?” you ask.

“Nothing broken, so far as we can tell,” the Adonis says. “She’s probably going to be good and sore tomorrow, but for now she’s doing just fine.”

“Thanks to Mr. Park and Mr. Jeon here,” Mrs.Yun says sweetly. A little too sweetly, in fact. The wheels in your brain start to turn and you eyeball her from across the room. She peeks at you from behind the ice pack and dons an angelic smile.

“Yes, they are certainly appreciated,” you say slowly, the skepticism in your voice vibrating at a frequency only Mrs. Yun can hear. She beams at Mr. Park as he gets to his feet and starts to pack up his things.

Mr. – Jeon, was it? – slings his heavy duffel bag over his shoulder. “Be sure and take those anti-inflammatories tonight, okay? You’ll be all locked up in the morning if you don’t.”

Mrs. Yun practically preens at the personal attention she’s gotten from these two insanely good-looking men. “I will.”

“You’re lucky to have a good neighbor,” the Adonis says to Mrs. Yun, turning to you with a genuine smile. Your heart thuds in response. “If it’s alright with you, keep an eye on her tonight? She might need your help.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her, alright,” you say with a tight smile, and Mrs. Yun clears her throat.

🚨🚨🚨🚨

“Promise me – right now – that you really fell.”

“What did I tell you about leaving the house with your face on?”

“Answer the question,” you fire back and Mrs. Yun sighs, tossing the ice pack down on the couch.

“Yes, honey, I did fall. I fell in love with that scrumptious Mr. Park the second I saw him. And if I were a woman thirty – ”

You raise an eyebrow.

“ – Okay, fifty years younger than I am, I would be taking him for a spin myself. But since I’m not, I’ve decided that you should have him. Did I bend the truth a little? Yes. But for a good cause. I’m a very thoughtful person, you know.”

“You are outrageous,” you hiss, pacing as Mrs.Yun pretends to look for dirt under her fingernails. “This is a waste of public resources! They’re supposed to be responding to emergencies. Real emergencies.”

“First of all – ” Mrs. Yun is defiant, chin in the air, “ – Nothing ever happens in this town. Nothing. And second, there’s dust in your panties, sweetheart. If that’s not an emergency, I don’t know what is.”

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream and Mrs. Yun ignores it, climbing off the couch with ease to cross the room and crack open a window. She pulls a box out of the tiny accent table perched beneath it and proceeds to light an absurdly long cigarette.

“You’re too damned young to be shut away in your house all the time,” she argues, pursing her lacquered lips to blow a stream of smoke out the window. “Work. Couch. Work. Couch. How can you stand it? Let me tell you what I’d be doing right now if I could turn back the clock and have your youth again: Mr. Park. I’d be doing Mr. Park. You should be doing Mr. Park.”

You stifle a disbelieving laugh. The novelty of your neighbor’s loose lips and bad habits wore off a long time ago, but sometimes she still manages to catch you off guard.

“Well, I’ve got an early morning so unless you have any more unsolicited sex advice to share, I’m going to have to call it a night.”

Mrs. Yun blows another long stream of smoke out the window.

“Nope. I’ve got it all off my chest.”

“Good then,” you say, turning on your heels. You make it all the way to the door before you pause and call out to her.

“And put that thing out!”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

Three days later, you find yourself struggling with an overloaded paper bag from the grocery store. Yes, you’ve purchased the reusable ones and yes, they’re a hell of a lot stronger – but you never miss an opportunity to leave them hanging in the closet on your way out the door.

Something in the bag is wet – well, moist at the very least. And it’s enough to have you gripping the bottom tight with both hands as you try to maneuver your way through the revolving door at the entrance to your condo. It’s an awkward fit inside the narrow sliver of space and as you’re shuffling forward, the door’s momentum dies. You push at it with one foot and lose an onion from the bag, nearly losing your balance in the process.

You blow out a heavy breath and go to push the door again, only this time it smoothly glides away before you even make contact. The misstep makes you jerk forward, but at least the door keeps moving long enough for you to step out of it.

“Think you lost something back there.”

Most of your hair has slipped out of your ponytail holder by now, the strands matted to your forehead with the sweat you worked up on the walk from the car. But when you turn, you can still make out the glorious Mr. Park quite clearly. He drops the onion back into your bag and smiles at you.

“Please, allow me.”

He lifts the bag out of your arms, carefully securing the bottom like you’d done just moments before. With your hands now free, you push your hair out of your face and silently pray that you don’t look as unfortunate as you suspect you do.

“You don’t have to do that,” you demur. “But I appreciate it anyway. Mr. Park, right?”

“Well, I’d much prefer you call me Jimin,” he laughs, the sound of it making heat bloom inside your chest. “But yeah, it’s me again.”

He’s not wearing his uniform, you realize. And though some small part of you mourns the loss of those fitted shirts and pants, his off-duty look – an oversized sweater, jeans and pair of sharp boots – sure as hell doesn’t disappoint.

“Do you… live here?” you ask stupidly, as though a man this handsome could live anywhere on this entire street without someone taking notice. “Or – ”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I came by to check on your neighbor. You know, after the fall and all. I told her she could call me if she ever needed anything and she asked me to stop by.”

“You gave – ” you pause, shock forcing your voice at least an octave higher, “ – You gave Mrs. Yun your phone number?”

His cheeks pink at the observation. “She’s in her 70s, you know? Lives alone. I really don’t mind.”

You truly have no idea how your chain-smoking, jazzercising, oversexed hellion of a next-door neighbor has managed to convince this man she’s a frail old woman in need of a hero.

Will wonders never cease?

“Besides,” he says, “She’s kind of...quirky, you know?”

“That’s a very strange way to say unhinged,” you counter.

He laughs.

“You’re funny. Come on, I’ll walk you up.”

yun: DID YOU HAVE YOUR FACE ON [ 9:15 PM ]

yun: he told me he helped you with your groceries [ 9:15 PM ]

yun: now tell him to help you out of your clothes [ 9:16 PM ]

you: go to bed [ 9:16 PM ]

Two days later, legs like noodles from spin class, you limp through your front door and sag onto the couch. You might have napped for a second, you’re not entirely sure – but after a knock sounds at your door, you are most definitely alert. Your thighs protest as you force yourself off the couch to answer it.

You crack the door open and it’s him. Adonis. Mr. Park. Jimin.

And you’re wearing a gray workout shirt with what you are certain is one very sizeable sweat stain down the front. Good God, will there ever be a time when you see this man and don’t look like a complete wreck?

“Oh my gosh, did she call you again?” you ask, incredulous. “You are so sweet to do this for her, really but this is too – ”

“ – She didn’t call,” he interrupts, looking just the tiniest bit bashful.

“Oh.”

“Listen, this is kind of embarrassing and maybe not entirely appropriate given I know where you live, but it’s just that I don’t have your number.”

Your eyes widen and your already distressed legs start to feel a bit more weak. Jimin scrubs a hand down his jaw before he speaks again.

“I was actually wondering if you might let me take you to dinner sometime.”

You blink.

“Or I could cook you dinner. I make this really great prawn dish? But again, I’m not trying to be a creep or anything and it’s okay if you’re not comfortable with that – ” he’s backpedaling now, his words coming out in a rush.

“– You are not a creep,” you insist, when you’ve finally come to your senses and figure out how to access your words and use them to form sentences. “I just – I was just not expecting that. But yes, I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

Your knees threaten to buckle at the slow smile that comes over him.

“That’s great.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

You fling the silverware drawer open and practically rip Mrs. Yun’s key out of it in your mad dash to her apartment. No, you do not feel guilty for letting yourself into her house, the woman has absolutely no boundaries and could use a taste of her own medicine.

You slam the door behind you when you walk in, and Mrs. Yun squints at you from her perch in the window. She blows out a perfect ring of smoke and then raises a brow.

“Got a bee in your bonnet?”

“Give me one of those,” you demand. “Right now.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨

There’s a knock at your door – again – only this time, you already know who’s on the other side. It’s your beloved Doordash driver, bringing an order of your beloved shio ramen. Two, actually.

You open the door to grab your food and Jimin calls out from the couch.

“Need some help with that?”

“Nah, I’m good,” you say over your shoulder.

When you turn back to thank the Doordash guy, he’s staring into your living room, eyes wide and trained on Jimin. You clear your throat and he snaps his focus back to you.

“Have a good night,” he says pleasantly.

And then he gives you a thumbs up.

yun: can the two of you keep it DOWN [ 11:22 PM ]

yun: some of us need our beauty sleep [ 11:22 PM ]

#jimin fic #jimin x reader #park jimin #possumversary

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sweetsweetjellybean · 7 months

Text

A crush that was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened.

Masterlist WC: 12399

TW: 2012 AU, Older!Eddie, Older!Steve, Femreader, Second Chance Romance (not a slow burn), Love Triangle, Smut, 18+ No minors beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees that surround Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away. Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

Eddie’s eyes narrow as his brows pull tighter into a frown. You push one of your headphones back, and the noise of everyday chatter and car engines bursts into your reality like a bubble popping.

"You know your girlfriend is deeply weird, Munson," the spiky-haired jock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, not even trying to hide his distaste.

Girlfriend? You’ve both tried to stamp out that rumor—yet no matter who else you go out with, those sparks never last and pale in comparison to the steady flame you feel around Eddie. Would it really be so bad if it were true? But your answer scares you more than you expect.

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black of his jeans that cling to his narrow hips. With a sigh of impatience escaping him, the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt pulls tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame underneath.

"You in or out?" He snaps his fingers near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on the silver rings that adorn his fingers, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

"Sure, whatever," Dan grumbles, extending his hand with a few crumpled bills.

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk and a casual flick of his fingers. He teases the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum for a heartbeat. Dan’s hand hovers, eyes darting for prying eyes, but before he can grasp it, Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground.

"Oops," Eddie says, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. He pivots on his heel, walking away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering curses under his breath.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie calls over his shoulder as he turns to join you, flashing a dismissive two-fingered salute. A gaggle of giggling girls from the sophomore class crosses his path, eyes trailing over him like he's their favorite song come to life.

"Ladies." He casually extends an arm, waving them past, his voice a smooth melody that never fails to draw attention. They flutter past with whispers and longing glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all seem to vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van, to be the subject of rumors they'd later deny.

He never hides his interest when he likes a girl — everybody knows when Eddie Munson is into someone. But he’s never looked at you that way, never given you that smile meant for those he desires. And that’s something that has never bothered you. Now, it stirs something else — a green thorny vine wrapping around your insides. He’s just Eddie–your friend, the same old Eddie, even as your heart whispers lies of a different tune.

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud that sends vibrations through the timeworn wood, eyes lingering on the girls retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, your eyes following as Dan stalks off, his annoyance like a dark cloud.

"Careful is my middle name, doll." He smiles a big, sly grin, dimples deepening, that causes a flutter in your chest, an unexplained sensation that's become strangely frequent these days.

He nods at your leg."What’s this?" His eyes drop to your thigh, dark lashes making a half-moon shadow on his cheek. His thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses over the darker denim patch on your jeans, and a trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you yearn to lean into his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, strangely aware of the warmth of his skin, the ghost of his touch lingering with an unfamiliar tingle. "The art of visible mending."

"Looks cool," he says, his gaze meeting yours, a little too intense, a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

"Are you coming over after school?" Your voice is steadier than you feel.

"I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got to go back to the trailer after," Eddie replies, his eyes still holding yours, a silent conversation you can't quite interpret. "I’ve got stuff to do," he adds, and something in his tone suggests layers you're not ready to peel back, "Not your kind of stuff."

The house where Eddie grew up doesn't even look the same anymore. Someone else has moved in, always keeping the lawn perfect, and all the broken things have been fixed up. Erasing any traces of tragedy. The neighborhood has moved on as well, absolving themselves. Like they hadn’t just turned their back and let it happen as if it wasn't their problem. Eddie's staying on the other side of town now with his Uncle Wayne in a tiny one-bedroom trailer. Wayne's heart is in the right place, even if he drinks too much, just like Eddie's dad did. But he's not bad, just... lost when it comes to dealing with an angry teen, and with him working nights, Eddie's on his own to figure out how to deal with it all.

"I can keep you company," you offer, the words casual but your heart isn't in it. You can't help the way your gaze lingers on him, hopeful despite yourself.

He shakes his head, a shadow crossing his features. "Nah, I’ve got to stop at Rick's, then a run," he says, and there's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

You frown, frustration knitting your brows. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, your voice lower, "We smoke together all the time."

"The big deal," he says, reaching out to lift your chin, forcing you to look at him, "Is that this is business, and I don’t want you involved. Alright?" His voice is firm, letting you know he won’t budge. "I’ll pick you up later," he promises, "Movie night, just us."

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings that are threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds onto you for a heavy beat before breaking away, stirring a current of unease within you. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm leaving a trail of goosebumps on your arms and a warmth low in your belly as you part ways at the door. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts.

As you make your way to class, the feeling clings, like an overplayed song on the radio — a sense that the simplicity of life is about to fracture. The ache is new and confusing. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the gnawing, persistent sting that seems to spread through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

But you push it all down, resolving to guard your secret, to lock it away in the confines of your ribcage, where it can't taint the one thing you value most. The friendship you've built is too important, too rare to risk on a silly crush that might only live in your head–one that might fade with time. It’s a gamble you won’t take. You can't lose him. You won’t watch that light in his eyes dim for you, awkward silences replacing the laughter. Without him, you’d be alone.

It's safer this way–safer for your heart, for his, and for the delicate balance you've maintained for so long. The stakes are too high. You’ll keep your cards close to your chest. It’s a dangerous game you're playing, one you’re determined to win.

Cold grey days have been giving way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier each day. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

Lowering the lid of your laptop, the light in the room dims as the brightness is trapped between the two halves. Your arms stretch over your head, loosening the tension trapped in your neck as you push away from your desk, drifting towards the sounds of life coming from the living room. Steve’s long legs are stretched out on the chaise end of the couch, a Bulls game on the TV, but his attention is stuck on the laptop resting on his thighs.

“My eyes are going to fall out my head if I stare at that screen for any longer,” you declare, rounding the corner of the couch.

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” His arm extends, making space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side.

“You’re so warm,” you comment, your cheeks nuzzling into his chest as his lips find the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed. I still have a few hours of work left,” he sighs as his finger slides down the trackpad, scrolling through a document that seems to never end.

“Is that for the launch?” Your eyes squint in protest at the brightness of his screen.

He groans at the ping of another incoming email while he toggles between the many windows he has open. “Yeah, we're in the final stretch. The event team is trying to finalize the details. Maroon 5 and Fallout Boy are locked in to perform, but we’re still waiting to hear back from a few other acts and about a million other details that need ironing out.”

“It’s going to be a great night, baby. Everyone is going to be so impressed,” you assure, the arm you have draped across his stomach tightening, trying to impress your words into him. “Everything is going to go smoothly, you’ll see.”

He scoffs, doubt clouding his voice. “I wish I had your confidence. The server's capacity is still a question mark, and we're racing to fix streaming delays. Fuck!” The heels of his hands press into his eyes. “All I need is this thing to fail at the last minute, especially with Richard and my dad watching.” He imitates his father's stern tone, “Typical. He’s always been a fuck up. Chokes right before the buzzer.” Letting his hands drop, his vulnerable eyes turn to you. “I should have listened to you and not invited my parents. I actually never thought they would agree to come. Now I’m running around trying to get things ready for them too.”

“Hey,” you coax, tilting your head to lock eyes with him and taking one of his hands between yours, your heart aching with the tension you know he’s carrying. “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.”

He manages a smile, but it’s just a placation.

“What can I do to help?” You ask, “I’ll make sure we have some Pellegrino stocked and that cheese your parents like.”

There's a pause as he weighs his next words. “I’ve already called the housekeeper and let them know to put fresh sheets in the guest room in case they decide to stay here, but I still need to make a reservation at the Four Seasons as a backup.”

He hesitates, a little apologetic. "My suit... the dry cleaner closes early tomorrow. I hate to ask, but I might not make it in time–"

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

His lips lift at the corners, and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I love you.” He lends forward, slotting his lip softly in between yours. “I’ll put the ticket in your bag. Thank you for helping, Ace.”

“It's just Eddie's interview for me tomorrow afternoon. I should have plenty of time." Standing, you give his hand an encouraging tug. "Now, can we go to bed? Everything will look better after a good night's sleep.”

His mouth sets in a determined line as he shuts down his laptop, yielding to your pull as he rises. His hand finds a comforting place on the small of your back, grounding you both as you climb the stairs together.

"Hi," Eddie greets you from the other side of the threshold, the softness of his tone mirroring the gentleness in his eyes.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years, still expecting the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over the same way he did last time like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he look beyond the scars to the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze away, down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as a flush of warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider to welcome you inside. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the dimly lit hall, now familiar with the layout.

The lobby is in utter chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips as he watches you take in the sight before you.

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room.

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you. "I thought it was a dump."

His breath, a warm whisper against your ear, spins you around. "Well, what can I say? It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens.

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans.

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain tee with Lollapalooza written across the front. None of the trendy fashions you usually wore to interviews seemed to fit right today. Causing you to tug at necklines and fidget with the hems of three different outfits before settling on something casual. There’s nothing to hide behind – the armor is off. It’s time to hear him out.

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m feeling nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. The shield of anger you’ve held between you is battered and worn thin, leaving uncertainty behind.

"It’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me."

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right," he takes a step forward, his gaze locking with yours, "After all these years, it's you.

"Eddie." His name comes out with an almost breathless sigh as you look away. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat before prompting. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

He takes a step back, raking a hand through his curls, "Of course." His lips tighten into a flat line as he gestures toward the stairs. "After you."

"Where is everyone?" You ask as you step inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck to hold the mixing board has been completed, the glass installed, and the wiring is underway.

"I didn’t know how long you’d be here, so I told them to take the rest of the day off." His eyes follow the movements of your hand as it brushes over knobs and sliders of the soundboard, still sheathed in a protective layer of plastic.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, walking back out into the hall.

"I didn’t think we needed the audience," he shrugs, walking along with you to the next room.

"I hope it doesn’t make you fall behind schedule." The walls of the small Studio B are covered with walnut slats to create an acoustic barrier while still keeping the room open, while the mixing room kept the original exposed brick.

"I’ve got time."

"Even so," you say, moving toward the window. The sun glints off the mirrored windows of the tall, sleek building across the street. "I’m sure you're eager to open. Put out that first album with the CursedSound logo in the liner notes."

"I am." He comes to stand beside you, his gaze taking in the bustle of the city at midday. "It’s gonna be good to have nothin’ between me and the music. Let the artists be as creative as they want. Their management can deal with the corporate A&R people and leave me out of it."

"You never did like playing by the rules," you smile, catching his eyes in the reflection of the glass.

He turns his head, studying your profile. "Why should I?" he continues, his tone more determined,"The rules sure as hell never helped me. I'm gonna take my chances as I find them. Even if I play a little dirty. I deserve happiness the same as the next guy."

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him. His mother. His childhood. The opportunities that came so easily to everyone else.

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall, "The rules seemed to have treated you well."

You raise your shoulders while a warm smile graces your lips, one you have no intention of concealing. "I love my job. I like the city, and…I have Steve."

"You ending up with Steve Harrington," his voice curls around the name, a sneer you can almost see, "I gotta admit, I didn't see that one coming."

Stopping, you pivot to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's a good guy, Eddie."

He expels a sigh in a short, almost defeated breath, shaking his head. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient diversion. "Where does this go?" You wonder out loud as your hand closes over the knob.

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You release the doorknob as if it was hot.

"Sure. Can't beat the commute." He reaches around you, turning the doorknob to reveal another flight of stairs. "Do you want to go up?"

A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that he's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he moves to face you, seeking your reaction.

"No, that's okay. I think we're fine down here. We wouldn't want to disturb Skyler," you say, attempting to sound confident as you wipe your palms along the sides of your jeans.

Eddie reaches up and scratches the side of his head as his forehead wrinkles. "Who?"

A hot breath passes your lips as you turn away, walking back down the hall toward Studio C. "You know," you call over your shoulder, too chicken to face him. "Skyler Simmons. Rock royalty. Media darling. Your long-time girlfriend. The one you own a house with. Ring any bells? Isn’t she here with you?"

"My what? Skyler Simmons?" The deep belly laugh that follows has you spinning on your heels to face him.

"Wait. You’re serious?" His dimples make an appearance as his smile deepens. "Me and Skyler?" He can barely get her name out without chuckling.

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

His brows shoot up. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you huff, "It came up in my research. Do you have a relationship with her or not?"

"I know her," he offers, shaking his head, "She’s a friend. We go to the same group."

"What group? The one for annoying assholes."

He pauses, his arms crossing over his chest. "The one for people with family members who are addicts. That okay with you?" His voice escalates. The simmering anger in his eyes mirrors the intensity of his tone. "Skyler is gay. Her girlfriend's usually hanging around, too. Does that mean I’m fucking her too? Jesus."

A splash of frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The carpet of your closet is soft under your fingers as wet splashes of tears rain down on the glossy pages, Steve's voice getting closer as he calls out your name. Glancing down at your feet, your voice diminishes, barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

"I don’t," your voice falters as the dishonest answer leaves you without hesitation, and your eyes trace the patterns on the floor, "It just makes for a better story, is all."

"Fucking stubborn," the low murmur carries under his breath as he follows you inside.

Signs of careful refinement have touched every corner of this studio. Gray triangles of acoustic foam now completely adorn the walls of the live room in contrasting patterns, adding both practical functionality and visual interest. The mixing room's mural stands as a completed masterpiece, and a deep-seated leather sofa, designed to look comfortably aged, takes its place in front.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." The strap of your bag slides down your shoulder as you sink down onto the couch, taking in the details that have been added since your last visit.

His eyes move around the room, the pride evident on his face that his vision has become a reality. "Just some wiring and the vocal booth, and I’ll be ready to start setting the levels."

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you say, shifting to tuck a leg under you as he joins you on the couch.

"Shhh," he hushes you, raising a finger to his lips, a playful glint in his eyes. "The others will get jealous."

With an eye roll, you reach into your bag, your smile never fading as you retrieve your phone and open the recording app with a deft touch, placing it between the two of you.

"How does this work?" Eddie inquires, his eyes fixed on your phone, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." As you set the pages on your lap, your gaze lifts to meet his, a small, reassuring smile on your lips. The faint strains of songs from the past echo behind the locked door in front of you – one that might be best left closed and forgotten. But he’s in front of you, handing you the key. You draw in a steadying breath, your chest rising and falling with it. "Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You exchange warm smiles, like kids pretending to be grownups. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly in timber as a much smoother, older Eddie begins to answer, "Thank you. I always have time for my favorite magazine." He winks.

Your lips press into a line as you tilt your head to the side and take a quick glance at your packet. "In April 2003, Fever to Tell was released by a relatively new band and a completely unknown sound engineer. It went on to sell over a million copies, putting The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the name Eddie Munson on industry minds. Fever to Tell is still, to date, one of my favorite albums. Were you aware of the significant impact this record would have when you were working on it?"

"At the time, we were really just hopeful, you know? We believed in the music we were creating. Karen and Nick, and Brian flew out from New York with their last dime, and we just got to work. Karen had this raw, untamed energy, and I wanted that to add the edge to the album. It was this post-punk dance-floor-friendly racket that injected a much-needed dose of authenticity into a musical landscape that was getting stagnant."

"Bananafish," you interject, swallowing and glancing down at your notes.

"Yeah, Bananafish. God, they sucked. Did you know they started as a Spin Doctors tribute band?"

"No," you laugh, "And that wasn’t a red flag for you?"

"It should have been. I wasn’t with them for long anyway. I think I lasted for three weeks before they cut me loose for getting in a fight with the drummer." He pauses, shaking his head. "I never knew when to shut my mouth. At that point, they had hooked up with another band called Everly. Slightly better, but not by much. I managed to hold it together for a few months. I was high or drunk most of the time, the only reason they kept me around is because they liked the way I babied their instruments instead of hauling them like luggage."

"I remember you’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school," you muse.

"Got to treat a lady right if you want her to sing for you," he says with a sly rise and fall of his brows. He casually drapes an arm over the back of the couch, shrinking the space between you.

"I was surprised that you left it behind."

Eddie's expression turns more solemn, his eyes locking onto yours. "There were a lot of things I wished I could’ve taken with me. But back then, I couldn’t even take care of myself."

"I don’t believe that," you swallow, the words sticking in your throat, "You could have tried."

"If I had tried, they would’ve ended up broken, and I’d‘ve lost them anyway." His long fingers brush your shoulder, and you flinch. The leather creaks as you sit back against the arm of the couch, just out of reach.

"Back to Everly. Why did you part ways?"

"Oh, well, I fucked it up, of course. They had landed a spot at Bonnaroo, and I got so fucked up the night before I missed sound check. When I managed to pick myself up off the floor of the van, they handed me my duffel and a twenty and told me to pound sand." His eyes drift away, fixating on a point across the room as he gets lost, reliving the memory. "I had barely been outside of Indiana, and there I was stuck on some farm in Manchester, Tennessee with no transportation, no money, and no one to call. I was angry at the world and never felt more alone. People always talk about hitting rock bottom. I thought that was mine, but now that I look back, it was more of a crossroads. If I had followed that darker path, there would have been no coming back. I was wandering around backstage where they park buses, hungover, maybe still half in the bag, and that’s when I met Max."

"Max Navarro?" You question, shuffling through the pages of your notes.

"Yeah. You know him?" Eddie’s eyes brighten as his gaze drops to the pages in your lap.

Your head turns from side to side. "You referred to him as a mentor in the Stones interview, but I couldn’t find much on him besides his name being listed as an audio engineer for several tours."

"That’s Max." Eddie breaks into a smile. "He’d tell you he likes flying under the radar. He was hanging out in front of the bus playing guitar with a couple of guys when I walked over like a cocky shit, picked one up, and started playing. He gave me something to smoke and it wasn’t weed. All I know is that I woke up face-down in the dirt the next morning. I don’t know if he liked me or just felt bad for me, but he dragged me on the bus and had me start assisting him with the sound for Faith No More."

"Well, even the sun shines on a dog's ass some days," he laughs.

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?"

"Max is who taught me about everything." His voice holds a reverence when he says his name. "He kept a close eye on me. Showed me how to work the boards. He said he could see the shadows following me around, so when we got to LA, he took me out to the desert, fed me some tea, and exercised my demons."

"Did it work?" Max wasn't the only one to see the looming shadows. Remnants of decisions made by others. Expectations of a community that turned its back. They clung to him like an impenetrable fog, obscuring the light in the world.

"I’m not sure. I felt lighter after, but it could have been the gallon of sweat," he says, a chuckle escaping his lips. "After that, he cashed in a favor and got me an internship with a small studio in Laurel Canyon. I parked cars at night and lived in a room the size of a closet at Max’s house. I worked my ass off. I went to therapy–"

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in, a wry grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"Don’t knock it until you try it." He looks at you from under raised brows. "It’s, uh, good to be open, you know?"

"No thanks. I tried that once." You look at him pointedly, the tightness in your chest returning, "It didn’t work out for me."

The thinly veiled jabs you’ve been sending his way were hitting the target. Something like pain or regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–"

"You decided to stay in L.A. and work at a studio instead of going back out on the road?"

Like the haunting echoes back in Hawkins, the ones that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring of the past, the shame emphasizing the pitiable acts of a girl lovesick and foolish. Robin had seen it, and so did the entire town. Yet, you're no longer that vulnerable soul. She lies in solitude now, resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city's symphony drowning out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, your fingers flipping through the pages of your notes, making sure every point from your outline has been covered.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful," he shrugs, his voice carrying a hint of noncommitment, "But I really stayed for the music. Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I’m always talking about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he’s always talking about but hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" You ask, your gaze rising from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve, mostly for work."

"Oh yeah. Makes sense." Eddie's jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze, his reaction a puzzle. "Well, I guess the rest is history. Is that enough for your story?"

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending like a song without a crescendo. A stone of disappointment sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lacked the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

"Okay-"

He holds up flat palms. "Don’t go anywhere." His eyes close as he winces, " I mean, you can wander around if you want. Just don’t leave."

"Eddie-"

"I’ll be back." He holds up one finger as he exits the room.

Sighing, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet. Your steps carry you through to the live room, where the area rug underfoot is a clever imitation of age — its colors muted, its pattern artfully faded, though there's no doubt it's brand new. Your nails lightly tap the high hat as you pass the drum kit, and you smile at the shimmering sound that reverberates through the room, giving you the same pleasure as the sound of glass breaking.

With a heavy drape in hand, you pull it aside and peer down onto the busy street below. The dim clamor of the city filters into the room, a steady rhythm of life. A question escapes your lips, almost a whisper, as you survey the world beyond the studio's walls, "What am I doing?"

The thought lingers as you spin the band of gold on your finger as your eyes trace the movements of the people and vehicles outside. You're caught in a moment, anxiety a lump in your throat you can’t seem to swallow. The street's hustle and bustle continues, indifferent.

The sound of the floor creaking with footsteps echoes through the hall. He enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half. You recognize Wayne's shaky handwriting peeking out from behind Eddie's fingers, his name written boldly with a black marker.

"What's all this?" You ask as he sets down the box with a heave in the center of the room and sinks to his knees, hovering over the taped flaps.

"I have no idea," he says with a mischievous smile. "Wayne gave it to me when I stopped by last week and told him I was going to see you. But you know him. He never throws stuff out. It could be anything." His hand smoothes over the top as he raises a brow. "Wanna find out?"

Your hands slide over the denim covering your thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there."

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you shift from behind the glass wall, taking a seat on the floor. Your legs cross casually as you face him from the opposite side of the box. One side of his mouth lifts as he waits for you to settle in. In a graceful stretch, he leans to the side, retrieving a box cutter from atop the soundboard, where it sits next to a pile of plastic straps. His shirt rises, revealing a teasing glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape.

"Score!" He yells, pulling out the ragged-edged sheet that was folded and tucked into the top of the box. "Corroded Coffin," he reads aloud from the crude writing, scrawled across it with something resembling shoe polish.

"Oh no," you laugh, your head turning side to side as you rock in your seat.

"Hey. This is rare band memorabilia. It’s probably worth money," he defends, holding it up proudly.

"Yeah, to the guy you have to pay to haul it away," you giggle.

"Alright, Alright," he concedes, folding it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches in the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comics, handing them to you.

"Still in good shape," you comment, thumbing through Tank Girl and Witchblade comics. Opening one of your favorites, the art greets you like an old friend.

"My campaigns!" Eddie exclaims, pulling out a pile of notebooks and setting them aside before reaching back in. "Some Cds." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye.

"My Cranberries Cd!" You cry, your fingers digging into the plush carpet as you tip forward onto your knees, taking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

"I don’t know how that got there," he chuckles, scratching his head, "You must have left in the van."

"Nice try, Munson." your eyes narrow, "I checked there." You lean over the box, poking a finger into his chest, "I knew you had a crush on Dolores."

"It was the accent," he admits with a grin, his dimples on full display as his hand closes around your finger, warding off your attack.

"I’m keeping it," you declare, dropping back into your seat and picking up the case to examine the inside.

"Holy shit."

You raise your head to meet his wide chocolate eyes, a look of sheer delight written across his face. "Close your eyes," he instructs, as he pulls back the flaps of the box, hiding whatever he's found.

"Mrs. Click?" You set the CD on top of the comics.

"Better," he says excitedly, waving a hand toward your face. "Close your eyes."

"Fine." You close one eye, folding your hands in your lap.

"No peeking," he scolds. Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal — plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Yyou squeal, your hands flying to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

He winces as he hands over the two-foot concrete garden gnome. "How can you call something so ugly a pretty name like that?"

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at the way her hat droops over ears too large for her head, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine, turned-up nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her crooked buck teeth and the yellow and white flowered dress that barely conceals her lumpy body.

"She's beautiful," you tut, cradling the statue in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

"You’re the one who dared me to," he scoffs.

"I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard." Heat takes over your cheeks as you smile unrestrained.

"I was drunk," he defends, his face turning red.

"You tripped over your feet, and your pants pocket ripped off on that branch," you gasp for air, trying to get the words out with your laughter, "You had on those Garfield boxers with the hearts."

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar, while his fingers find their way into his curls. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson said he was going to shoot you in the ass."

Eddie wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

"Shh," you say, covering her ears with your hands. "You can’t get rid of her."

"Never," he agrees, reaching out for her. "I’ll find her place of honor around here somewhere."

"Put her on your nightstand," you suggest, handing her over.

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "Only if you want me to have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, a rhapsodic melody that dances and twirls through the room. His eyes ignite with a warm, genuine light, and he smiles like he’s savoring every note, as if your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for.

The shattered remnants of life you once shared press against the scar tissue encasing your heart. They're persistent specters, trying to dislodge themselves and reform into your present. You can feel their sharpness pulling trying to come together like a puzzle.

Your hand instinctively finds its way to your chest, where your heart resides beneath the layers of history. Pressing gently on that tender spot at the center, you push away the complications of the past and the future and just are, in this moment with him.

"What else? What else?" You clap your hands, bouncing in your spot.

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you, "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He tosses them aside. "Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes." He pulls out some folded band tees. "Want any of these?"

"Maybe," you shrug, "I could have them recut."

"Oh, this is yours," he tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" He asks, his voice brimming with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, creating a sharp sound as something shifts inside the metal container.

"Yes," he says, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth as he attempts to pry off the lid. Your focus turns to what you're holding, and you clutch the vest's hems, watching as your Musicland uniform unfurls before you.

His voice fades into the background as the gold name tag pinned to the front catches the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns, threatening to bring bile to the surface as breath comes hard, each inhale a battle.

"Polaroids," Eddie declares in triumph as he pries off the lid.

"Stop it," you manage to utter, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough could somehow make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he remarks, unaware.

"I said, that's enough!" The balled-up vest flies from your hands, landing back in the box. Adrenaline surges through your veins, and you push yourself up on unsteady legs, resolute despite the confusion on his face. "I need to leave."

"Wait a minute." He gets to his feet, following you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. You sling your bag onto your shoulder, stepping around him towards the door.

"Just hold on a minute." He steps in front of you again, raising his hands with open palms, lines forming on his forehead. His eyes search yours, trying to find answers. "Tell me what's going on."

"What do you want?" The words slice the air, eyes locked, a bare blade of anger.

"I wanted to-" His eyes flick towards the abandoned box in the center of the room.

"No." Your head shakes, "Why are you here? Now? After all this time? What do you want from me?"

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest and he hesitates, speaking softly, "I missed my friend."

"Your friend," sarcasm drips from your words as you quirk a brow, "So you show up here with a box of crap and a ‘hey doll’," your voice lowers to mock him before you continue, "And I’m supposed to what? Forget about everything that happened, hand you a clean slate and drop everything to follow you around like a puppy again because you feel like paying me some attention?"

"That’s not…I’m not asking for that." His hand runs through his curls, frustration building in his tone.

"No one's pretending here, doll." He takes a step closer, his hands falling to his side, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. "Of course, it mattered. All of it."

"Done what?"

"Left me!" Your hand lands flat across your heart. "Without a goodbye, just some shitty mixtape full of songs I can't even listen to without reliving it over and over."

"You're right." His voice rises to match your volume, his fingers closing around your biceps. "I was a coward, and I ran. I couldn't see that look on your face again, the one you had when I told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye, but I knew you'd try to convince me to stay, and I was never going to. I'm sorry I hurt you, but I can't be sorry I left."

"Hurt me?" You push his hands away, taking a step back to control the cracking in your voice. "You didn't just hurt me, Eddie. You destroyed me."

He swallows, looking away. "You were better off."

Fresh anger surges, along with the strong desire to escape – to leave this dead and buried, maybe for another decade until the hurt isn’t so strong.

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I cried for days after you left. Then I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid to miss your call."

There's regret in his eyes as he steps forward, getting closer until he can touch you again, one hand gently gliding up your arm.

"But that call never came, did it, Eddie? Not one. And every day that passed, I died a little. But then I wasn't sad anymore. All those tears, they turned to hate," you say coldly, locking your gaze with his. "I hated you. I hated you for every song that came on the radio reminding me. I hated Hawkins and everyone in it. But most of all, I hated myself for believing. That's what you did to me, Eddie. You made me hate myself."

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence, as his gentle hand cradles your jaw.

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside you’re stone. "You kissed me, and then you left me. You knew how I felt."

"I know. I know. I’m sorry." He steps closer, trying to pull your rigid form into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "You don’t even know how much. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing. But you’re wrong. It all mattered. I did care. That kiss..it’s the reason…" He pulls back and looks into your eyes, "You knew me, you always did, but there were things I couldn’t tell you. Things I couldn’t admit to myself, how scared and angry I was."

"Stop, doll," he pleads, but the push-pull intensifies. You're no match for his strength. "Stop it!" He yells, his hand pushes on your shoulder, turning you to face him. Anger flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks flush.

"The boy I knew could never have done that." Your shoulder jerks, breaking his hold as you attempt to turn away again.

His fingers wrap around the side of your neck, keeping you in place. "That boy could never have given you what you wanted. He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to handle you."

"Is that why you’re back?" You ask, still defiant even as his thumb presses into your throat, tipping your head to meet his gaze. "Dragging this all up again, ruining my life? Because you do?"

"Damn right, I do." His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses, the space between charged with past promises, until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his commanding lips moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a flame that seems to spread with each touch. His scruff is a rasp against your skin, a pleasant roughness that contrasts with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. The scent of clove and cedar envelopes your senses, leaving you lightheaded as fire licks through your body. This kiss is the culmination of years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestral finale. Instruments unite in a tumultuous crescendo, echoing the mighty crash of a wave against the shore.

Minutes slip away, yet your greedy mouths remain desperate. The room falls into a hushed stillness, save for the sharp intakes of breath and the sensuous wet slide of lips gliding against each other. Your fingers gently tangle in the soft waves at the nape of his neck, evoking a low, guttural groan that mingles with your shared breath when you tug. The kisses seem endless, broken only by fleeting gasps of air, compelling you to pull each other closer, savoring every taste. His hands trace the graceful curves of your body, touching every inch as they follow a path beyond your hips and ass, seizing the back of your thighs. With a firm grasp, he lifts you. Pressing you against the unyielding door, gasping as he positions you just how he wants — aligning himself hot and hard against your center.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips as his hips roll, igniting fireworks through your body. Your eyes flutter shut, and colors burst against the darkness – a kaleidoscope exploding behind your lids.

As he nips at the plush of your bottom lip, teeth grazing in a tender claim, a muted buzz begins in your bag—a sharp, insistent sting—that yanks you from the haze back into the real world. His eyes remain closed when you pull away. He leans closer, chasing your mouth, but the moment is already shattered.

Your stomach plummets in a tight coil of regret as the harsh reality of your actions sets in. His kiss, once sweet, now tastes like the ash of betrayal. A distressed whimper escaping your throat has him finally looking at you, shock written clearly across his features. Slowly, he releases you, your body sliding against his until the flat of your feet meets the floor. He takes a step back, hesitating, swallowing before he starts, "Doll —"

"Stay, and we can talk about this," he implores, one hand moving to his hip as the other rakes through his hair.

"Please don’t," you plead, "Don’t ask me for anything else." You swing the strap over your shoulder. "I just ch–" But the word stays stuck in your throat as your eyes swim with tears of regret.

His face falls, and he tries to argue, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was me," he insists, frustration in his voice as you scrub your face with your hands. "I don't want you driving when you're upset."

"I'm sorry," you say with an aching heart, pushing past him and closing the door behind you.

The sidewalk blurs under your feet as you race to your car. Fat raindrops splatter against the concrete like a spray of gunfire. Each one a cold, wet slap against your skin, snapping you back to reality. The sky chooses this moment to crack open, unleashing a torrent that feels personal. Your car comes into view, a bright orange ticket flapping under the wiper like a flag of defeat. Perfect. Just perfect.

Glancing at the clock on your dash, it hits you with the subtlety of a wrecking ball– six minutes until closing. It might as well be in another time zone, given the snarled rush hour traffic and the river that the streets have become. The car roars to life as you pull out, tires hissing on wet asphalt, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. Your skin still sings with Eddie’s touch, but it's the burgeoning storm of words—cheater, adulterer, betrayer—mixed with the soft hazel of Steve’s disappointed eyes that tattoo themselves across your conscience. This is the unforgivable sin and you can't undo it, but you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

You're double-parked now, hazards blinking a frantic rhythm. The 'CLOSED' sign on the dry cleaner's door mocks you as you rattle the unrelenting metal handle. "Please, please, please," you whisper, pounding on the uncaring glass, your pleas unheard, bouncing off the empty shadows within. A car horn cuts through the rain — a harsh, impatient blare. "What the fuck, lady?" The other driver yells, uncaring of your predicament.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" The words are a rain-soaked shout as you slosh back to your car, drenched and utterly defeated.

With a turn of the key, your car growls to life, another angry horn sounding off as you pull into traffic, carelessly cutting off a Yellow Cab in your haste. Rainwater drips from your hair, soaking your shirt. Even with the heater set to blast, it does little against the chill that has settled deep in your bones. Down the road, a bright blue sign glows like a beacon, and you jerk the steering wheel, the car fishtailing as you skid into the lot.

With trembling fingers, you pull the cardigan you had left at Stax off the back of your office chair. Shrugging it on, the material dampens from your wet t-shirt but offers a little warmth. Your phone buzzes as you settle at your desk — five missed calls from Eddie and four texts. The roar of the heavy rain and being buried deep in your bag had muffled its sound, not that you would have picked up.

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

Eddie: Look, I need to know that you’re okay.

Eddie: I swear to Christ if you don’t pick up.

Eddie: Okay, have it your way. I’m driving to your place.

What? No! Your thumb presses the call button, and it rings twice before it connects. There’s no hello, just the slight hum of an engine and the rain pelting glass.

“I’m okay,” you breathe into your phone, “I didn’t go home. I’m at my office.”

Your heart drums in your ears with each second of silence. Your eyes flutter shut, relief flooding you when he finally responds, an exhale loosening the tension in your chest. His voice resonates in a dark rumble through the phone, "We need to talk."

“I….I know,” your voice wavers as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. “I just need a minute here, Ed. Can you give me some time?”

With a tight throat, you whisper, "I have to go," and disconnect the call.

Placing your phone on the desk, you dab the raindrops off your face with a tissue. The quiet of the office wraps around you, its half-dark corners and the soft glow from the kitchen creates a place for you to breathe and be still. The raging storm and the ticking wall clock echoing in the solitude do little to distract you from thoughts you’re not ready to face. With a deep breath, you lift the lid of your laptop, seeking refuge in the normalcy of work as you coax the screen back to life.

The song erupts from the speaker on the edge of your desk, a jolt of sound shattering the silence like an accusation. You grab it with fumbling fingers, scrambling to press the off button. The sudden calm is unsettling. Covering your face with your hands, you let out a sound that is equal parts sob and hysterical laughter, wondering how you ended up in this situation. With your elbows pressed against the wooden top, you bury your face in your hands, muffling the sobs that mix with laughter — the tragedy of your life bordering on absurd.

“What are you doing here, kid?”

The gruff voice cuts through your introspection, startling you for a second time. "Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

Hopper's dry remark floats from behind you, hands buried in his pockets. "Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest."

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, a note of surprise in your voice as he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

“You kids really think Jim Croce is the only thing on my playlist?” A chuckle escapes him as he eases into the chair beside you, “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

You muster a puzzled look, shaking your head in feigned denial.

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting Joyce for dinner at that Italian place on Taylor Street. I’ve been dreaming about the breadsticks. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. You dip it in olive oil,” he groans, “Forget about it. Those things knock your socks off, and I’m wavering on the main course between—”

“I need you to take me off the studio opening,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest like a barrier.

“We’ve been over this. Unless you have some good reason–”

“Eddie kissed me,” the confession slips out, eyes widening in shock at your admission, hands flying to cover your mouth.

His brows rocket upwards, then draw together, his gaze sharpening, voice dipping into a low, protective timbre, “What do you mean he kissed you?”

“No,” you clarify, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing an elbow against the desk, massaging your temple to soothe the forming headache. “I kissed him. We kissed. It was mutual.”

Hopper reclines, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze level and unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, kid. I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you.”

“I know. I know. Steve…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the photo of Steve on your desk, the words catching in your throat.

Your eyes roll. “He’s not going to complain, Hop.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, lowering your eyes. “We have more of a history than I let on.”

“Well, stop the presses. I couldn’t have figured that one out.” His voice lowers in resignment, “Maybe this is my fault–”

“No–”

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “Everyone knows you’re my favorite, but right now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief palpable. “You're still going to make me finish?”

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

“I thought so.” Hopper leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This could be both our necks," he mutters, concern filling his voice.

Your head shakes, but your determination is clear. "It won't."

“It better not. I don’t want to hear another word about it until that last story is on my desk. Are we clear?”

Your jaw clenches, the reality of the situation hitting hard. "Crystal."

"Welcome home, Ace. I was beginning to wonder where you were," his voice, laced with a touch of concern, greets you, “Busy day? Did you write me a Pulitzer?”

Your messenger bag slides from your shoulder, giving into gravity with a loud smack against the hardwood.

That dish — your absolute favorite. Your heart sinks further, receding behind your ribcage, unworthy of his care or devotion.

He stops short when he rounds the corner into the foyer, taking you in, your disheveled state reflected in his eyes.

"I didn’t get the dry cleaning," you admit in a low murmur, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I was... too late."

For a heartbeat, he's silent, but his eyes remain tender, brimming with concern. “Hey, that's alright, Ace. I'll just skip the gym in the morning and swing by the cleaners before work. Are you okay?”

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle, drawing the cardigan tighter around you like a shield. "I got caught in the storm."

“Did you forget your coat?” He asks drawing closer as you give a small nod. His hands slide up your biceps, continuing on to wrap around you. “You're frozen.” He uses his thumb to lift your chin. “How about a hot shower, yeah? I'll keep dinner warm. You'll feel better after you eat.” His mouth begins to near yours, but you turn your face away.

"I think I'm coming down with something," you manage to say, your lies teetering atop your mounting guilt. "My throat is sore."

Concern etches his features, his brows knitting together as he adjusts, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

Pulling away, you press your face into his shoulder. "I think I'll just shower and go to bed," you whisper, your voice muffled.

“If that's what you want,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, though his tone is threaded with disappointment. “Go on up and I'll bring you some water and a couple of Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, stepping away with a weight in your chest. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” He waves off your apology, his smile faint but sincere. His arms fold over his chest as he turns back toward the kitchen.

As you climb the stairs, the music snaps off, replaced with the distant roar of a sports game, the announcers' voices carrying up the stairwell.

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the sting of regret. Sliding down the slick tiles, you draw your knees to your chest, allowing your tears to meld with the streams of water spiraling towards the drain.

AN: Thanks for sticking with this series. I know it's a long one and I took a while to update. To be honest, I lost a little confidence in my writing but I still feel like this a story worth telling. This is my love letter to Eddie. My way of giving him an ending he never had a shot at. I'm going to see it through. Do me a solid and leave a comment & reblog. My asks are always open. Your song suggestions continue to bring this story to life. XOXO - Jelly

Song 5 - Coming soon! For notifications follow @tornupdates

Listen to Fake Plastic Trees here.

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