#I CUT MY HANDS ON A SHARP EDGED CRACK AS I RUN MY FINGERS DOWN YOUR RAZORBACK | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

valkyriexo · 3 months ago

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HEART OF HATE | Bang Chan

ᑉ³pairing; bf chan x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Angst, Smut

ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI,Jealousy, dirty talk, swearing, P in V, unprotected sex , fingering,arguments, mentions of hate. manipulative chan. veryyyyy toxic chan. use of 'slut', 'good girl' , hair pulling, gagging, Smut. SMUTTT minors do NOT interact This chan is not a very good person read at your own risk!

ᑉ³Authors Note; Part or kinktober collab with @dandelions-143 Kinktober masterlist

The air crackles with tension as you and Chan face off, hearts racing and voices tight with anger. You can’t believe this is where your relationship has led, but here you are, standing in the middle of the bedroom, emotions on a razor’s edge.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were hanging out with her?" you snap, your voice shaking with rage. The words taste bitter on your tongue, every syllable laced with the resentment that’s been building for weeks. "I had to hear it from someone else—again. "

Chan’s face tightens, but you don't let up, the fury burning through you too strong to stop. "I trusted you. I trusted you, and you’re sneaking around with her of all people? I can’t even trust what you’re doing when I’m not around! How many times are you going to sneak around with her behind my back?"

“You’re blowing this out of proportion—”

"No, I’m not," you cut him off, stepping closer, your voice growing louder. "I’m not stupid, Chan. This isn’t the first time! You’ve been sneaking around with her, and you expect me to believe it’s just innocent?”

His eyes narrow, jaw tightening defensively. “Because she's just a friend. Why can’t you get that through your head?"

“A friend?” you scoff bitterly, your laugh sharp and cold. “If she’s just a friend, why hide it? Why let me find out from someone else, like I’m the outsider in my own relationship?” Your voice wavers, caught between the anger and the hurt threatening to choke you. "Do you even hear yourself? How am I supposed to believe anything you say?"

"I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this!” He replies bitterly.

Your heart pounds as disbelief courses through you, the fury bubbling up again. "You’re hanging out with her behind my back, keeping it a secret, and you think I’m overreacting?"

The hurt laces through your words, but the anger is stronger. "If it’s so innocent, why lie? Why not just tell me? Do you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care that you’re sneaking off with her when you know I don’t trust her?"

Chan’s expression hardens. “She’s just my friend. You’re reading into this way too much.”

"Then why are you keeping it from me?" you fire back, eyes narrowing. "Friends don’t have to sneak around, Chan. You’re hiding it because you know it’s wrong. You knew how I’d feel, and you did it anyway."

Your voice cracks, the betrayal cutting deep. "What am I supposed to think? That you just happened to forget to mention her every time you sneak off to see her?"

The room is thick with silence as you stare him down, the weight of everything he hasn’t said, everything he’s been hiding, hanging heavy between you. Chan’s eyes flicker with guilt, but his jaw tightens, and his hands ball into fists at his sides. “It’s not like that—” he starts, but you cut him off, your voice raw and trembling.

“Not like what?!” you snap, your heart pounding so hard it’s all you can hear. “You always have some excuse, don’t you? ‘It’s not like that.’ ‘You’re overreacting.’ But I’m done with your lies!”

“I’m tired of being the last one to know,” you continue, voice rising. “Do you even care about how this feels? Do you even care about us?”

He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair, but it only fuels your fury.

He scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Wow, look at you, making yourself the victim. It’s pathetic.”

The word stings, sharp and biting, like a slap across the face. Your chest tightens as you glare at him, trying to swallow the hurt, but it only fuels the fire burning inside you.

"Pathetic? Are you kidding me?" You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to keep some semblance of composure, but your voice shakes with the effort. "This isn’t about playing the victim, Chan. You keep dismissing my feelings like they’re nothing, like I don’t even matter."

“I can’t just stop hanging out with people because you have issues with them!” Chan snaps, his voice sharp, eyes blazing with frustration. “What, do you want me to check in with you every single time I see someone? I’m not your prisoner!”

Your anger flares, the heat of his words igniting something deeper in you. You can’t believe he’s twisting it like this.

“This isn’t about control or keeping tabs on you! It’s about being respectful of our relationship, of me!”

“You’re so self-absorbed! I can’t believe you’re trying to manipulate me into choosing between you and my friends!” Chan shouts, his voice rising to a near scream, the sharp edge of his anger cutting through the air.

I’m not trying to control you, Chan! I’m trying to communicate! I’m trying to get you to understand how this makes me feel, and you need to stop acting like I’m the problem here!”

His face twists, and when he speaks again, his words are venomous, each syllable laced with contempt. “Maybe if you weren’t so insecure, this wouldn’t even be an issue! It's exhausting, you know that? Always whining about how I should act, how I should feel, what I should do!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, a raw, painful ache spreading through you as his words sink in. "Whining?" you echo, disbelief coloring your tone. "Is that what this is to you? I’m whining because I want to feel respected in our relationship?"

“All i'm saying is that if you can’t handle me having friends, then maybe you’re the one who needs to figure out what you want! I’m not going to tiptoe around your insecurities!” He glares at you, his frustration reaching a boiling point. “You’re impossible! I can’t keep catering to your ridiculous expectations!”

The words hang in the air, and for a split second, you hesitate, the weight of the situation crashing over you. But the anger is too strong, the pain too raw.

“Maybe we should just break up then!” you shout, the words searing through the room, a final, burning accusation. They slip out before you can stop them, and the moment they do, everything falls silent. You don’t even pause to consider the implications, the anger in your chest too all-consuming to hold back.

His expression hardens, but there’s a flicker of pain that flashes across his face, quickly masked by anger. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, the words caught in his throat. The silence feels like a weight pressing down on you both.

"Fuck you! FUCK YOU CHAN. I’m tired of fighting for someone who doesn’t even care about my feelings!" You push forward, fueled by the heat of the moment. “Take all your things and go! I never want to see you again!”

His eyes widen, disbelief etched across his features. “You’re kicking me out of our house? Where am I supposed to go in the middle of the night?”

Your anger flares again, and you shoot back, “Go to her! Since you’re sneaking around with her anyway, I’m sure she’d love to have you!”

The accusation stings, and he glares at you, his voice rising. “This isn’t about her! You’re the one who’s making this a bigger deal than it is!”

“Then what is it about, Chan? You don’t care about me, and you don’t care how this feels! It’s all about you and your precious friends!”

“Stop trying to paint me as the villain,” he scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It's not her fault youu dont trust me!"

“I’m the one who’s been honest with you!” you scream, the words spilling out in a desperate rush. “You’re the one sneaking around and lying! I hate this! I hate you! I hate everything about how you treat me, how you act like I’m the problem! I hate you for doing this to us!”

Chan’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks taken aback, as if your words have struck him harder than any physical blow could. The heat of your anger hangs in the air, but now there’s something else—fear. Fear that he might lose you for good.

“Wait, stop,” he says, his voice suddenly quieter, almost pleading. “You don’t really mean that, do you? You can’t hate me!”

“GET OUT!” you scream, the words tearing from your throat like a wild animal escaping a cage. The intensity of your emotions threatens to consume you, leaving no room for mercy or second chances. “Get out! Just go!”

But before you can turn away, Chan strides forward, determination etched into his features. He grabs your arms, holding you in place as he looks deep into your eyes, desperation flooding his voice. “Look at me,” he demands, his gaze piercing through the fog of anger and hurt. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want me anymore, and I’ll go.”

The world around you seems to blur, his grip grounding you even as your heart races. You want to scream, to push him away, but something in the intensity of his gaze keeps you rooted in place.

“Chan…” is all you manage to say.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you hate me, and I’ll leave. I'll leave you alone and I won't bother you anymore,” he repeats, his expression a mix of desperation and fear, as if he’s bracing himself for the worst.

You open your mouth, but the words are lodged in your throat, heavy and suffocating. “I-I...."

The truth is, despite everything that’s happened, you don’t truly hate him. You hate what he’s done, how he’s made you feel, but your heart still aches for him.

"I-... Chan please." You beg, hoping he would let up on his grip.

“Please, just tell me,” he pleads, his voice softer now, as if he can sense your struggle. He gets closer, his lips now centimeters away from your ear. You can feel his breath, warm and shaky.

“I...I....I can’t,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words hang heavy between you both.

“Then what do you want?" he says quietly into your ear, his voice growling almost, a mix of desperation and determination. You can feel his warmth radiating against your skin, and he places a soft kiss on your ear, sending shivers down your spine. It’s a gentle gesture, yet it carries an undercurrent of desperation.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs again, his voice low and laced with urgency, lips brushing against your skin. With each word, his kisses trail down to your jaw, lingering there, tempting you to forget the hurt and the betrayal.

You can feel your resolve wavering. His proximity, the warmth of his body, the way he’s looking at you with such intensity makes your heart race for reasons you don’t want to acknowledge.

“Chan… this isn’t fair,” you breathe, trying to push him away, but he’s relentless, his kisses growing more insistent.

“Not fair?” he whispers against your skin, his lips moving closer to your mouth. “What’s not fair is you pushing me away when you know how I feel. You know I need you. I don’t want to lose you.”

You murmur, trying to regain control, but your voice carries no words as his lips hover just above yours, his breath mingling with yours.

Then, with a sudden rush of warmth, he kisses you—softly at first, a gentle brush that ignites the embers of longing within you. It’s a kiss filled with desperation.

The warmth of his mouth against yours sends shivers down your spine, drawing you in even as your mind screams to remember the hurt, the betrayal. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer, his touch igniting every nerve ending, making it harder to think.

“Chan…” you whisper against his lips, torn between the passion of the moment and the ache of your heart. But he deepens the kiss, his lips moving against yours with an urgency that steals your breath, coaxing you to surrender.

His tongue finds its way past your lips, his taste filling your mouth, sending sparks of pleasure through your veins. He kisses you with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

You should push him away, tell him no, but the heat of his kiss melts away the last remnants of your resistance, and before you know it, you find yourself giving in, your body responding to his touch, your desire matching his. He pulls off his shirt, his eyes still burning as he presses his lips against yours once again.

You can feel the hardness of his body against yours, the heat of his desire, and the promise of more, and sooner or later both your clothes were on the floor.

He pushed you back, your back thuding against the bed.

His kisses trail down to your neck, and you tilt your head back, lost in the sensations. His hands caress your body, sending waves of pleasure through you, as his lips explore every inch of exposed skin.

The ache inside you grows stronger, demanding to be sated, and you give in to it, letting the passion take over.

He pulls back, just for a moment, just long enough to look at you with such raw need that it takes your breath away. Then, he moves forward, his body covering yours, and your eyes close as you savor the feeling of his weight on top of you.

He kisses you again, and this time, there's no holding back. His hands trail down, moving lower, his fingers gently rubbing your clit. You let out a gasp, your body responding with pleasure.

Chan could sense your desire and quickly moved to satisfy it. He gently spread your legs, his fingers sliding into your wet pussy. You let out a soft moan, your body arching towards him as he began to finger you.

"Oh, God," you moaned, his fingers expertly bringing you closer to the edge. You could feel the pleasure building inside you, his touch igniting every nerve ending, taking you higher and higher.

He kept his pace steady, his fingers moving in and out of you, the pleasure intensifying with every move.

"Yes, yes," you moaned, your body quivering, your climax nearing.

With one last thrust of his fingers, you came, your body shuddering with pleasure. Your moans fill the room, your release a release from the pent up emotions, from the pain and the hurt.

Chan barely gave you time to react when he flipped you over on all fours. He pressed his hands on your lower back and pulled your hair closer to him until his lips were right near your ear.

"You're mine, and don't you forget it." he whispers, his breath hot and heavy. You looked at his eyes reflected in the mirror that stood facing the bed.They were filled with lust, darkened with desire, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

You felt the tip of his cock brush against your entrance, and you bit your lip, anticipation building inside you. But instead of putting it in, he began to tease you, moving it in slow circles around your clit.

"Chan.. please.." you moaned.

"Please, what?" he replied sternly.

"I need you."

"Yeah? Beg for it," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "Beg for my cock, you little slut."

You glare at him. You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “No,” you say defiantly.

He leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Beg,” he repeats, his fingers tracing patterns on your thigh. You shiver, hating that your body betrays you like this. You want to push him away, to tell him to fuck off, but you can’t. You’re too caught up in the moment, in the way he’s looking at you, like he wants to devour you. He leans back, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Fine,” he says, his voice dripping with disappointment. “If you won’t beg, then I won’t give you what you want.” You watch as he releases your hair, causing you to fall foward a bit.

"Wait..p-please," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Please, fuck me."

"Sorry, come again?" he says.

You clench your fists, hating that you're begging him, but you're so fucking horny. You need his cock inside you, filling you up, making you scream with pleasure. "Please, Chan, I'm begging you. Please, fuck me."

He shakes his head and grabs you again, resuming your previous position, his cock brushing against your clit again, making you gasp. "No, not yet. You need to beg some more."

You whimper, your body trembling. "Please, Chan, I'll do anything. Just fuck me already."

He chuckles, his fingers tracing your nipples, making them harden. "Anything, huh?"

He continues to tease you, his cock brushing against your clit, his fingers playing with your nipples. You're begging him, pleading with him to fuck you, but he's not listening. He's enjoying this too much, and you hate him for it.

But at the same time, you love it. You love the way he's making you feel, the way he's making your body respond to his touch.

"Please, Chan, I can't take it anymore," you gasp, your body trembling with need. "Please, fuck me."

He finally relents, his cock sliding inside you.

He started thrusting, each stroke hitting you deeper and deeper, the pleasure bordering on pain. You could see your reflection in the mirror, your face contorting in pleasure, slowly getting more...

and more ...

and more utterly fucked out.

You watched as your body arched and quivered, and the sight sent another wave of pleasure through you, intensifying the sensations. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips tighter. "You're fucking mine, understand?"

You couldn't respond, the pleasure overtaking you, rendering you unable to form words. His thrusts became faster, harder, his cock reaching places you didn't even know existed.

You moaned out, shutting your eyes as you were unable to hold back, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

"Look at yourself, baby." he growls, his hand tightening in your hair. When Chan saw no reaction from you, he spoke again.

“Be a good girl and keep eye contact with me.” He said, lifting your chin up so you could meet the dirty image plastered in the mirror once again. You opened your eyes and your reflection looked back at you, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes hazy with lust.

You looked debauched, completely at his mercy, and you loved it. Fuck, you tightened even more with that realization.

Chan grunted, picking up the pace, fucking you harder and deeper, your cunt clenching more and more around him.

"You hate me? Are you sure? Your body tells me a different story." He said as his hips slamming into you, and you could feel the pressure building again, the pleasure intensifying.

He grunted, his movements growing erratic, and you knew he was close. "Say it," he growled, his voice laced with desire. "Say you hate me"

"I- I- I ha-ha," you breathed, your body quivering, the pleasure nearing its peak.

"Say it." he commanded, his thrusts hitting you even harder.

"I-I h-hate you," you moaned, the words tumbling from your lips. He began to pound you even harder.

"Again!"

"I- I hate you. Oh, God, I hate you so much," you cried, the words spilling from your lips, your body teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

" Fucking slut. You can't resist me even if you say you hate me. Can't resist my dick inside you, can you?"

Your body shook with pleasure, and then you were coming again, the orgasm tearing through you, your cries filling the room.

And then, just as you thought it was over, his hand grabbed your hair, pulling your head back, and he pushed his cock into your mouth.

You gagged, the sudden intrusion nearly overwhelming, but the pleasure was too much, and soon, you found yourself giving in, the feeling of his cock filling your mouth, the taste of his precum sending shivers of pleasure through you. "Tell me you hate me now, huh"

You moaned, the words muffled by his cock, the pleasure coursing through your veins, the heat and the taste and the feel of him too much to resist.

And then, he was coming, his cock pulsing in your mouth, his cum filling you, the taste of it salty and sweet and everything you needed.

You swallowed, his cum dripping down your chin, the taste of it lingering on your tongue. You felt exhausted, drained, yet somehow satisfied, the pain and the hurt replaced by something else.

And as he pulled out, the last traces of his release spilling onto your lips, you knew that despite everything, despite the betrayal and the lies, there was still something between you, something stronger than the pain and the anger.

"Chan-"

He cut you off with a kiss, his lips crashing against yours, his tongue probing into your mouth. You kissed him back, your body responding to his touch, the pain and the hurt giving way to desire once again.

As your lips moved together, the intensity began to shift. It softened, the anger fading as something deeper, something raw and vulnerable, took its place. When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads resting against each other as the room fell into a quiet, charged silence.

"I’m sorry," you whispered first, the words trembling on your lips. "I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t hate you, Chan… I could never hate you. I was just—" You paused, your voice thick with emotion, your chest aching. "I was so hurt, Chan.."

Chan’s hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that were starting to fall. “No, don’t be sorry,” he murmured, his own voice breaking slightly. “I deserved that. I didn’t tell you about her because… because I didn’t want to deal with what I knew it would do to us. I was selfish.”

Chan sighed, his eyes softening as he looked at you, the weight of his own regret heavy in the air. “I know you didn’t mean it. But I also know I gave you every reason to feel that way. I should’ve been honest. I should’ve trusted you with the truth instead of making you feel like you had to find out on your own.”

You bit your lip, the words still caught in your throat, but you forced them out. "I felt so betrayed, Chan. But it wasn’t just because of her. It was because you didn’t trust me enough to handle the truth."

His face twisted with regret, and he nodded slowly. “You’re right. I didn’t trust you, and I’m so sorry for that. I thought I was protecting you, protecting us, but I only ended up hurting you more.”

You could see the remorse in his eyes, and it broke your heart to know that both of you had let things get this far. You reached up, your hand resting against his cheek as you searched his gaze. “I don’t want to fight like this. I don’t want to hurt each other.”

Chan leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment as he sighed deeply. “Neither do I. I don’t want to lose you because of my mistakes.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest, and you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I don’t want to lose you either,” you whispered. “But we can’t keep hiding things from each other. If we’re going to move forward… we have to be honest.”

“I know,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I promise, no more secrets. I’ll be better. I’ll be the person you deserve.”

You nodded, the heaviness in the room starting to lift, replaced by something more fragile, but real. “I’ll be better too,” you whispered, your voice full of sincerity. "I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean them."

Chan’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his lips brushing gently against your forehead in a silent apology. “I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words raw and filled with everything he hadn’t been able to say before.

"I love you too," you breathed, your heart full of both pain and hope.

In that moment, you both knew that there was still a lot to work through, but there was also a chance—a chance to heal, to rebuild. And despite everything, you wanted to try.

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delulustateofmind · 9 days ago

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This is your home!

TW: Yandere behaviors, Kidnapped-ish Reader, Stockholm Syndrome, Manipulation, Older man x College student! Reader, Toxic relationship, Drugging, trapping. Gn! Reader

Wc: 1.3k

It seems like only a year ago you attempted to break up with your partner.

No—my deepest apologies—you tried to break up with your partner.

You see, he was the kind of lover who made you feel trapped. A man a few years older than you, with a stable job and a steady income, who somehow managed to fall for a mere college student.

That should have been your first red flag.

He begged you to move in, claiming your co-ed dorms weren’t exactly the safest. Did you really enjoy sharing a shower room with strangers? Was that the kind of life you wanted?

So, of course, you followed the hand that fed you. You were young, naive, and far too eager to believe in happily-ever-afters.

You moved in—why wouldn’t you? He was handsome, older, and confident, and his apartment was immaculate, with matching furniture. A dream for any broke college student.

He made space for you. A little nook for your “silly toys,” he’d tease, smiling warmly over his shoulder. He even set up a desk for you in his office so you could “spend more time together.” That is, until you spent that time playing video games instead of working on your finals.

He’d always find a way to scold you for it.

And then he started paying for your tuition.

At first, you refused—it was too much, and you had scholarships to rely on. But those scholarships suddenly disappeared. The donor funding your education pulled out, no explanation given.

So he stepped in. Your dutiful boyfriend.

He even showed you a spreadsheet, breaking down the mountain of debt you’d accumulate if you didn’t let him help. What choice did you have?

You felt bought out.

You felt like you’d sold yourself.

Desperate to regain some independence, you took up a part-time job. But even that became a problem. “I have money, let me take care of you,” he’d say, exasperated. Or worse: “Why are you working so hard when I’m here to make life easier for you?”

Still, you pushed back. For a little while, at least.

Until the day they let you go—just like that.

These strange occurrences… they made you overthink—his words, not yours—as you sat across from him at the café.

Your hands trembled as you raised the coffee cup to your lips, the warmth doing little to steady your nerves.

“Let’s break up,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you glanced away from his piercing gaze.

You caught the flicker of heartbreak in his beautiful eyes, a pain so raw it almost made you falter.

“I’m the problem, not you,” you continued, your words wavering like the hand that held your cup. “I just… I just need to get my life together.”

For a moment, there was only silence. The bustling café around you felt muted, like the world was holding its breath. His gaze remained fixed on you, unblinking, unwavering.

“That’s not fair,” he finally said, his voice calm, but there was a tension in it—a barely restrained crack.

Your chest tightened as you stared into the dark swirls of your coffee, avoiding the weight of his eyes. “It’s for the best,” you murmured.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, fingers threading together as if he were holding himself together. “For the best? For who? You?” His tone was soft, coaxing, but there was a sharp edge beneath it.

You nodded, though the motion felt hollow.

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “You’re not making sense. You say you need to get your life together, but I’m right here. I’ve always been here. Isn’t that enough?”

It wasn’t enough. That was the problem.

You swallowed hard, daring a glance at him. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. Those heartbreakingly beautiful eyes of his—once so warm—now felt like they were cutting straight through you.

“I need space,” you said, forcing the words out before they could dissolve into cowardice. “I need to figure things out on my own.”

His hand moved across the table, fingers brushing yours. It was a tender gesture, but it felt like a trap. You pulled back instinctively, and his expression darkened, just for a moment.

“Space?” he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest. “I see.”

But he didn’t. You knew he didn’t.

He wasn’t the kind of man who accepted things like this easily. You could feel it—the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior, the questions he was desperate to ask but refused to voice.

“You’re just… throwing everything away?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable. “After everything we’ve built together?”

Guilt stabbed at you, sharp and unrelenting. “I’m not throwing it away. I just need to…” You trailed off, searching for the right words, but they evaded you, leaving behind an aching emptiness.

The sound of a plate clattering in the distance made you flinch. He didn’t. He just stared at you, his gaze so intense it felt suffocating.

“Is there someone else?” he asked suddenly, his voice low but steady, like he was bracing himself for the answer.

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “No! It’s not like that.”

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t have to lie to me. You owe me that much.”

“I’m not lying,” you insisted, the desperation in your tone surprising even yourself. “This isn’t about anyone else. It’s about me.”

A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

You froze, the words hitting harder than they should have.

“I guess I should’ve seen this coming,” he said, leaning back in his chair once more. His eyes flicked to the window beside you, watching the rain drizzle against the glass. “You always did have one foot out the door.”

The knot in your throat tightened, but you didn’t respond. What could you say?

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the space between you feeling insurmountable.

Finally, he exhaled sharply and stood, tossing a few bills onto the table. “If this is what you want,” he said, his voice void of the warmth it once held, “then I won’t stop you.”

But as he turned to leave, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over. Not really.

You managed to find a new apartment—a cheap, incredibly cheap one. The kind of place where the pipes rattled and the paint on the walls peeled if you so much as looked at it wrong. You had to take out a loan just to secure it, and as you stared at the mountain of paperwork, you felt the weight of your choices pressing down on you.

What had you been doing for the past year? Locked away in some castle. You almost cried just thinking about it.

The move was exhausting. Box after box filled with remnants of a life you didn’t recognize anymore. You left some things behind—things he’d given you, or things you couldn’t bring yourself to touch. It felt like shedding skin, leaving those pieces of yourself in the apartment you once shared.

A month passed in strained silence. You hadn’t heard from him, but you felt his presence everywhere. The way your phone seemed heavier in your pocket. The way every knock on the door made your heart jump. You told yourself it was paranoia, that he’d moved on.

Until one day, your phone lit up with a call.

His name stared back at you, bold and glaring.

You froze. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. The phone rang once. Then twice. Then thrice.

You didn’t answer.

When it finally stopped, the voicemail icon appeared, along with a text. You hesitated before opening it, your breath catching as you read the message.

"Can we talk?"

That was all it said.

But it wasn’t just the message. Attached to it was a picture.

Your chest tightened as you opened the image.

It was of your desk. Your old desk. The one from his office. On it sat your “small little toys”—the ones he used to tease you about. The picture was perfectly framed, almost artistic in its composition.

He still had your things. Of course, he did.

You told yourself you should’ve picked them up by now. That you’d been putting it off because you couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing him again.

But now… now you weren’t sure if going back was an option.

Your phone buzzed again, and you jumped.

Another text:

“You forgot these. They’re waiting for you.”

Something about the message sent a chill down your spine.

Waiting. That word lingered in your mind, heavy and suffocating.

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You could just ignore him, pretend you hadn’t seen the message. But deep down, you knew he wouldn’t stop. Not until you answered.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure if you wanted him to.

You told yourself you were overthinking. The picture, the message—it was just him being thoughtful, wasn’t it? After all, he was a caring guy. Always had been.

You stared at the text again. “They’re waiting for you.”

Your things. That’s all he meant.

Still, you hesitated. The memory of his voice, so calm and steady in the voicemail, echoed in your mind. It wasn’t like him to sound so… subdued. You’d expected anger, bitterness—anything but that gentle request.

Maybe you owed him this much. A chance to talk, to clear the air.

You typed out a quick reply:

“Okay. When?”

His response came almost immediately, as though he’d been waiting for you.

“Tonight. I’ll make dinner.”

Dinner. Of course, he’d turn this into a gesture of kindness. That was just like him—always going the extra mile, always making you feel like you were the center of his world. It had been suffocating at times, sure, but it wasn’t bad. Was it?

The memory of his smile tugged at your mind, warm and genuine, the kind of smile that made you feel like everything would be okay. You wanted to believe in that version of him, even now.

So, that evening, you found yourself standing outside his door. The apartment looked the same as you remembered—pristine, welcoming, like it had been plucked straight from a magazine. You knocked hesitantly, the sound of it feeling too loud in the quiet hallway.

The door opened almost instantly.

He stood there, his face lighting up at the sight of you. “You came,” he said, his voice filled with relief.

“I—yeah. For my stuff,” you replied, shifting awkwardly.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, stepping aside to let you in. “Come on in. I just finished cooking.”

The smell of something delicious wafted out, warm and inviting. It made your stomach twist—not from hunger, but from the strange mixture of nostalgia and unease settling in your chest.

You stepped inside, your gaze sweeping over the apartment. It was exactly how you left it. No, that wasn’t right. It was better. Cleaner. More organized. Your things, the ones you’d left behind, were neatly arranged in the same spots they used to occupy.

It was like you’d never left.

“I made your favorite,” he said, leading you to the dining table. The plates were already set, the soft glow of candlelight dancing across the surface. It was the kind of effort he always put in, the kind that used to make you feel special.

But now, it felt… off.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you said, forcing a smile as you sat down.

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “It’s no trouble. I just want you to feel comfortable.”

Comfortable. That’s what he always said when you’d been upset, when you’d tried to pull away.

The dinner was good—perfect, even. He talked about small things, work, how he’d been keeping busy. He didn’t ask about your new apartment, didn’t press you for details about your life. If anything, he seemed… patient.

When the plates were cleared and the conversation lulled, he stood and gestured toward the office. “Your things are in there. I packed them up for you.”

You followed him, your steps hesitant. The office looked exactly as you remembered it, down to the way your desk was arranged. Your “small little toys” were lined up neatly on the shelf, untouched except for the care he’d taken to clean the dust from them.

“I didn’t want you to feel rushed,” he said softly, watching as you looked over the room. “I know how much these meant to you.”

You glanced back at him, guilt prickling at your chest. He was smiling, that same warm smile that always made you feel safe. But there was something in his eyes—something you couldn’t place.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet.

He nodded, stepping closer. Too close. You could feel the warmth of his presence, the subtle shift in the air as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, almost tender, “you don’t have to go. You can stay here, where it’s safe.”

The words were kind, caring. But they lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

“I can’t,” you said, stepping back. “I—I have to go.”

His hand dropped to his side, his smile faltering for just a moment before it returned, softer, gentler. “Of course,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You swallowed hard and turned away, focusing on the task at hand. You quickly grabbed your little trinkets, each one feeling heavier than it should as you set them into the small box he had left out for you. The edges of your vision blurred slightly, and your mind felt strangely… woozy.

“You feeling alright?” His voice was warm, almost teasing, and you could hear the smile in it even though you weren’t looking at him.

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice sounded far away, almost like it wasn’t yours.

The room seemed to tilt ever so slightly, and you reached out to steady yourself against the desk. The surface felt cool under your fingertips, grounding you just enough to stay upright.

“I don’t know,” he said, stepping closer, his tone a mockery of concern. “You look a little pale.”

Your head turned toward him, but your movements were sluggish. His figure was close now—too close—and his smile, while soft, seemed sharper somehow, like it could cut you if you looked at it the wrong way.

“You’ve been so stressed lately,” he continued, his voice dripping with honeyed care. “All this running around, all this independence... It’s no wonder you’re not feeling well.”

“I just need to—” You stopped, the words slipping from your mind as quickly as they’d formed.

“Shh,” he murmured, reaching out to steady you, his hands gentle as they guided you back against the desk. “It’s okay. Let me take care of you.”

“I—” You tried to pull away, but your body wasn’t cooperating. Your legs felt like lead, your arms heavy and limp.

“There we go,” he whispered, his voice almost soothing as he adjusted his grip, cradling you like you might break. “Let’s get you back to where you belong.”

The words sank into you like cold water, and your heart pounded in your chest. “I don’t—”

But your voice was weak, and the edges of your vision darkened as your knees gave way.

He caught you, of course. He always did. His arms were steady, strong, and terrifyingly familiar as you seemed to melt into them.

“You’ll see,” he said softly, his lips brushing against your temple as the darkness closed in. “This is for the best. You’ll understand soon enough.”

The last thing you heard was the faint click of the lock turning.

When you woke up, it was in a bed you knew well—his bed. The familiar scent of expensive lavender laundry detergent and faint cologne clung to the sheets, grounding you in a way that made your head spin.

Your body felt heavy, but there was no immediate pain. Just a dull, aching tiredness, like you’d slept too long.

The soft shuffle of footsteps drew your attention, and he appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray of food. His face lit up when he saw you were awake.

“There you are,” he said, his voice warm and soothing. “I was starting to worry.”

You blinked at him, your mind foggy. “What… happened?”

“You fainted,” he explained, setting the tray down on the nightstand. “I knew you weren’t feeling well, but I didn’t think it was this bad. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

“I need to go home,” you murmured, though the words felt weak, half-hearted.

He crouched beside the bed, his hand reaching out to brush the hair from your face. “You’re not going anywhere until you’re better,” he said softly, but there was an edge of finality in his tone. “I can’t let you hurt yourself like this.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sincerity in his eyes made the words catch in your throat. He wasn’t angry—far from it. He looked… concerned. Genuinely so.

“I made another one of your favorites,” he said, gesturing to the tray. “You need to eat something. Please.”

And somehow, you did.

The first week passed in a haze. He was always there, tending to you with quiet patience and a gentle touch. He cooked your meals, brought you tea, even read to you when you were too tired to focus on your own.

When you’d ask to leave, he’d smile, tilting his head like you’d just said something silly. “Why would you want to leave when you’re safe here?” he’d ask, his tone light, affectionate. “This is your home.”

At first, you resisted. You’d test the locks when he wasn’t looking, search for your phone, try to reason with him. But each time, he’d find you.

And each time, he’d reassure you.

“I know this is hard,” he’d say, holding you close as you fought back tears. “But I promise, I’m doing this because I love you. Because I can’t bear to see you hurt yourself.”

The way he said it—so tenderly, so earnestly—made it harder to argue.

Months passed.

Your protests grew quieter, your attempts to leave less frequent. He never raised his voice, never hurt you. Instead, he smothered you in kindness, his care so unwavering it became impossible to distinguish from love.

He brought you little gifts—books he thought you’d like, your favorite snacks, new clothes in your size. He’d sit with you for hours, talking about everything and nothing, his laughter warm and infectious.

And slowly, bit by bit, you began to feel it: the comfort of his presence, the safety of his arms.

You still thought about leaving sometimes. But every time you’d imagine the cold, lonely world outside, his face would appear in your mind, smiling, reassuring.

“I take care of you,” he’d remind you. “No one else will.”

And part of you started to believe him.

A year later, the apartment felt less like a prison and more like a sanctuary. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You’d stopped counting the days a long time ago. The routine he built for you was too carefully crafted, too comforting in its predictability. Meals prepared before you asked, your favorite books always within reach, even the temperature of the room adjusted to perfection. He knew what you needed before you did.

But tonight, something felt different.

He sat beside you on the couch, his arm wrapped around your shoulders as always, his fingers idly tracing circles on your arm. The television played softly in the background, though neither of you were paying attention.

“You’ve been quiet today,�� he said, his tone light, almost teasing. But there was an edge beneath it, subtle but sharp, like a blade hidden beneath silk.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “I’m fine,” you replied, offering a small smile. “Just… thinking.”

He tilted his head, his gaze soft but probing. “Thinking about what?”

“Nothing important,” you said quickly, looking away.

His hand stilled against your arm.

“I hope you’re not thinking about leaving me,” he said, his voice so soft it made your skin crawl.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. “I’m not,” you said, too quickly.

He smiled then, that same warm, reassuring smile that had once made you feel safe. But now, it felt like a mask. “Good,” he said, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Because you know what happens when you try.”

Your stomach twisted, memories flashing through your mind.

The first time you’d tried to escape, you’d woken up hours later, your body weak and trembling, with him at your bedside, his expression one of heartbreak. “You scared me,” he’d said, brushing a hand through your hair. “I can’t lose you. Don’t ever do that again.”

The second time, he hadn’t been so kind. His voice had been cold, his eyes devoid of warmth as he’d pinned you against the wall, his hand gripping your wrist just hard enough to bruise. “I love you,” he’d whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “But if you try to leave me again, I’ll have to show you how much.”

You hadn’t tried since.

Now, as you sat beside him, the weight of his arm around you felt suffocating. You nodded mutely, your hands curling into fists in your lap.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” he said, his voice bright again, as though nothing had happened.

He reached for the remote, turning off the television, and stood. “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand to you. “Let’s go to bed.”

You hesitated for only a moment before placing your hand in his. His grip was firm, steady, like an anchor pulling you under.

As he led you to the bedroom, his fingers intertwined with yours, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the hallway mirror.

The person staring back at you was a stranger—someone small, broken, and unrecognizable.

But it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Because as he closed the bedroom door behind you, the lock clicking into place, you knew one thing for certain:

You weren’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Characters:

BNHA: Hawks, Dabi, Endeavor

AOT: Erwin, Zeke, Levi

JJK: Gojo, Geto, Nanami...(maybe Yuta...if he was older)

HxH: Chrollo, Illumi, Hisoka

#jujutsu kaisen #yandere insert #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere drabble #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #yandere my hero academia #yandere attack on titan #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere geto x reader #yandere gojo x reader #yandere nanami x reader

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goldfades · 4 days ago

Note

blurb based of joes frustration at the end of the game pretty plzzzzz

it’s not the first time you’ve seen him like this, jaw tight, eyes stormy, the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing against the set of his mouth. but tonight feels different. sharper, maybe. rawer. his shoulders slump as he sinks onto the edge of the couch, the post-game silence clinging to him like an ill-fitted coat.

you don’t say anything at first, because what’s there to say? you know better than to try and fill the cracks with empty words—he’d see right through you anyway. instead, you linger in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, studying the way his hands rub at his face, frustration bleeding through the spaces between his fingers.

“rough one,” you offer finally, voice quiet, testing. it’s not much, but it’s something.

he doesn’t look at you, just shakes his head in that way that’s less no and more don’t even start.

“joey—”

“not tonight.” his voice cuts across the room, low and strained, and it stings more than you care to admit. not because he’s angry—it’s not the first time the aftermath of a loss has made him short—but because he won’t let you help carry the weight. he never does.

you hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. you could leave him to stew in his own misery, give him the space he seems to want so badly.

but then again, that’s never been your style.

you push off the doorframe, making your way toward him despite the tension crackling like static in the room. the air feels heavier with every step, but you don’t stop until you’re standing right in front of him. he still doesn’t look up, but you can feel the heat of his frustration radiating off him, see it in the way his leg bounces like a drumbeat he can’t silence.

“i’m not trying to fix it,” you say, your tone soft but steady, letting the words settle between you. “i just don’t want you sitting here drowning in it alone.”

his hands drop to his lap, and finally, finally, his eyes meet yours. they’re tired, bloodshot, and edged with something sharp enough to cut. “i don’t need a pep talk,” he mutters, his voice a low rasp. “i know what went wrong. i don’t need anyone telling me how to feel about it.”

“good thing i’m not here to give you one,” you reply, easing yourself down onto the couch beside him. close, but not too close. it’s a delicate dance, one you’ve learned to navigate over time. “but i am here. whether you like it or not.”

his gaze flickers to you for a moment, a brief flash of something softer breaking through the storm before he looks away again. he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, head dropping into his hands. “it’s just… god, it’s so fucking frustrating.” the words come out ragged, pulled from somewhere deep and aching. “i know we’re better than this. i know i’m better than this. but tonight… it felt like nothing i did was good enough.”

there’s a beat of silence, heavy and loaded. you let it hang there for a moment before leaning back against the couch, your head tilting slightly as you watch him. “you ever think that maybe it’s not all on you?”

his head snaps up at that, and you can see the protest forming on his lips before he even says a word. “it is on me,” he argues, voice sharper now, cutting through the quiet. “that’s my job. that’s what being the quarterback means. i’m supposed to lead, supposed to—”

“supposed to be perfect?” you cut in, raising a brow.

the question hangs in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, he just stares at you, his jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words to throw back at you. but then he exhales, the fight draining out of him just as quickly as it flared up.

“it’s not about being perfect,” he says finally, quieter now, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “it’s about…” he trails off, his hands running through his hair in a way that makes it stick up in every direction. “fuck, i don’t know. i just hate losing.”

“i know.” your voice softens, the sharp edges smoothing out as you reach over to nudge his shoulder gently with yours. “but it’s not just about tonight, is it?”

he doesn’t answer right away, but the silence says enough. you know how he gets—how the losses pile up in his mind, not just the ones on the field but the ones in his own head. every missed pass, every fumble, every moment where the weight of the world feels like it’s on his back. it’s not fair, but he carries it anyway, like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

“you’re allowed to be mad,” you say eventually, your voice low but firm. “you’re allowed to be frustrated, to hate losing, to feel like shit about it. but you don’t have to shoulder all of it alone. that’s what i’m here for, joey.”

he doesn’t say anything, but the way his shoulders drop just a fraction tells you he’s listening. you reach out, your hand finding his on the couch between you, your fingers brushing lightly against his knuckles. it’s a small gesture, but it feels like enough.

for now, at least.

his hand shifts on the couch, brushing against yours for just a second before he grabs it. firm, almost desperate. it’s a small move, but it catches you off guard—joe’s never been one to reach out like this, not when he’s all wrapped up in his head. but then he’s tugging you toward him, his grip strong enough to make it clear he’s not letting go anytime soon.

he doesn’t say a word as he pulls you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck. the hug is tight—bone-crushing, really—but you don’t mind. if anything, it tells you just how much he’s been holding back.

“i hate this,” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled but no less raw. “i hate feeling like this. like i let everyone down. like i’m not good enough.”

“joey…” you start, but he shakes his head against you, cutting you off before you can say anything else.

“just—let me get it out, okay?” his words come fast, tumbling over each other like they’ve been bottled up too long. “the offense couldn’t get going. the o-line was all over the place. and me? i was fucking useless out there. missing reads, throwing late… i don’t know what the hell was wrong with me tonight.”

you don’t interrupt, don’t try to argue with him or tell him he’s being too hard on himself. you know better than to try and fix it for him, not when he’s like this. instead, you just hold him tighter, your hand moving to his back to rub slow, soothing circles.

when he finally pulls back, it’s only to sink down onto the couch, pulling you with him until you’re lying back against the cushions. he rests his head on your chest, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels grounding, like he’s letting himself find a moment of peace in the chaos.

your hands move without thinking, running up and down his arm in that slow, rhythmic way you know he likes. it’s a small thing, but it’s enough to make his breathing even out, the tension in his body easing bit by bit.

“it’s not all on you,” you say quietly, your voice breaking the quiet that’s settled over the room. “you know that, right?”

he doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think maybe he’s fallen asleep. but then he shifts, turning his face into your shirt, his voice muffled but steady. “i know. i just… i can’t help feeling like it is sometimes.”

“you don’t have to carry it all, joey,” you murmur, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his arm. “that’s why you’ve got a team. that’s why you’ve got me.”

he doesn’t respond, but the way he relaxes against you says enough. and as the silence stretches on, the only sound his slow, steady breathing, you let yourself hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let himself believe it, too.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#joe burrow bengals #joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow smut #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic #nfl imagine #joe burrow fluff

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luckystay · 27 days ago

Text

One Step Too Far

idol!bang chan x manager!fem!Reader

word count : 3k

a/n : this is my first time writing smut so bare with me now!!

Content Warning: smut, fingering, argument, cheating

Minors DNI

The clock ticked past 1 a.m., and the studio felt heavier with each passing second. You lay on the worn leather couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest, your body aching with exhaustion. Across the room, I.N sat in the recording booth, his head bowed as he sang the same line over and over. His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed on, even as his shoulders slumped further with every take.

Chan, seated at the control board, hadn’t looked up in hours. His focus was unrelenting, his hand hovering over the controls as he tweaked and adjusted, chasing some invisible standard only he seemed to see. It didn’t matter to him that I.N was obviously running on fumes or that you were tired of sitting in this room, the weight of the day pressing down on you. It didn’t even matter that you had a life and a boyfriend waiting for you at home and you’re not just stray kids’ manager.

You sat up slowly, the irritation bubbling inside you stronger than the fatigue weighing down your body. Chan wasn’t going to call it. You could see it in his posture, the stubborn set of his shoulders. If you didn’t step in, this would go on until morning.

Without sparing him a glance, you stood, smoothed out your skirt, and made your way to the booth. You opened the door and turned to I.N, your voice firm but calm. “You’re done for tonight,” you said, leaving no room for argument. “Go home. That’s an order.”

I.N blinked, startled, but his relief was obvious. He hesitated only for a second, glancing toward Chan, who had finally stopped what he was doing to look over. His expression was tight, but you ignored it. I.N grabbed his bag and slipped out of the booth quickly, like he didn’t want to stick around long enough for anyone to change their mind.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving just the two of you in the studio. The tension hit immediately, sharp and suffocating. You could feel Chan’s eyes on you as you turned back, crossing your arms and standing near the control board.

“You’re pushing him too hard,” you said, breaking the silence. Your voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the edge in it.

Chan’s jaw tightened. He leaned back in his chair, shifting slightly as his hips pushed forward. Against your better judgment, your eyes flickered downward, catching on the way his sweatpants hugged his thighs—thighs that looked criminally good thanks to the extra hours he’d been putting in at the gym. His forearms, revealed by the sleeves he’d pushed up, were a distraction all on their own, every muscle flexing with restrained tension. The effortless control he exuded made it harder to focus, a warmth creeping between your legs that you tried to suppress.

“I’m doing what I need to do,” he said, the sharp edge of his voice cutting through your haze and snapping you back to reality. His eyes locked on yours, unwavering. “This comeback has to be perfect.”

“At the expense of what?” you shot back, frustration lacing your words. “At the expense of them? Of you? He was exhausted, Chan. He could barely keep his eyes open!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he snapped, standing abruptly. The scrape of his chair against the floor was like a gunshot, “I see it, okay? I see everything. But this is what it takes. If we want to be the best, there’s no time for slacking off!”

Your chest tightened, and you exhaled through your nose. “Slacking off?” you repeated, “You think letting him rest after a full day of hard work slacking off? He’s not a machine, Chan, and neither are you!”

You could feel his frustration radiating through him as he argued, “If he can’t handle a little extra work, then maybe he’s not cut out for this.”

That was it. The last straw. Your heart drummed hard in your chest, “Do you even hear yourself right now? You’re supposed to be their leader, not their drill sergeant! You’re burning them out, and for what? Your idea of perfect? Which is completely unrealistic btw!”

Chan’s face hardened, his jaw muscles flexing as his eyes bore into you. His voice dropped, colder now. “Don’t act like you understand what it’s like to be me. You don’t. You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under, the things I have to do to keep this group moving forward.”

Your pulse quickened, the anger now burning hotter than before. This wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that, not the first time he’d pushed you away, and not the first time you’d had to bury what you were feeling. Because even though the tension between the two of you was anything but professional, you’d never given in. He was the leader, and you were the manager. He had a job to do, and so did you. But the way he spoke, the way his eyes softened when they lingered on you, it was clear that something was there—something neither of you wanted to admit all these years.

You swallowed, trying to stay composed. “And you think I don’t feel that pressure too?” you fired back, not backing down. “This is my job too, Chan. I see what you’re going through, and I try to help, but you won’t let anyone in! You’re so obsessed with being perfect that you’re driving everyone—including yourself—into the ground!”

he took another step toward you, his voice rising now, matching your anger. “Because if I don’t, who will? Who’s going to make sure this comeback doesn’t fail? Who’s going to take the heat if we don’t measure up?”

the world around you blurred for a second. Your mind flashed back to the beginning when you first met bang chan. You immediately thought he was attractive—hell, who didn’t? He had that unspoken charm, that undeniable intensity that drew people to him. And, it wasn’t one sided, everyone could see the way he’d look at you too, the way his eyes would linger on your face, your body just a second too long when he thought no one was watching, the way he never denied you a request or told you no. But he always ended up pushed people away you’ve came to realize, kept everyone at arm’s length, including you.

while the chemistry between you two was undeniable, you’ve learned to push it aside. You couldn’t risk it. Plus, you had a boyfriend now, someone who understood the job and the long hours and the stress. But even then, there were times when Chan’s proximity, his touch, and that damn look in his eyes made it hard to breathe and it kept you awake at night with guilt.

“You think you’re the only one carrying this?” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “Newsflash, you’re not. I’m here. The members are here. But instead of trusting us, you’re shutting everyone out and pushing until there’s nothing left. Is that how you want to lead?”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, and the air between you two felt like it could snap at any moment. Chan’s fists were clenched at his sides, the muscles in his arms visibly tightening. His eyes burned with a storm of emotions—anger, frustration, and something else you couldn’t quite place.

his breathing was heavier now, and you noticed how his chest rose and fell with every shallow intake of air. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. You were drawn to him, to the intensity that only he seemed to evoke in you.

Your gaze flickered to his lips, then to his eyes, still stormy, but with something darker. Something you knew all too well. Chan's gaze dropped to your lips, a slow, deliberate movement. His body was close enough now that you could feel the warmth coming off him. Your breath caught in your throat.

The space between you had never felt so charged, so filled with potential. Neither of you dared to move, all those moments where he had kept his distance, where you’d buried your feelings, where you tried to be professional going out the window.

You suddenly felt his hard grip on your waist, and it caught you off guard—his touch, so intense, so unlike anything he’d ever given you before. Your breath hitched, the warmth of his fingers pressing against your skin sending a rush of heat through your body. You had always been able to keep things under control, but now, with him so close, you realized why he had always kept his distance. Because this—this was too hard to back out of. This feeling, the sudden intensity of it all, was something that immediately made you crave more.

"You think I’m pushing them too hard?" he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. His lips grazed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “Am I pushing you too, uhmm…?"

His question made your stomach flutter. The way his hands tightened slightly on your waist made you feel every inch of his frustration, his desire, and it was clear that he wasn’t just talking about work anymore. His voice was lower now, more intense, and it made you feel like you wanted to throw yourself at him and merge together. His lips were just a breath away from your ear, and your body reacted before you could think.

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers brushing against his shirt, trying to steady yourself, to remind yourself of where you were. But everything about him—his body, his musky scent, the way his voice trembled slightly with restraint—made it almost impossible to think clearly.

"Chan," you cried out, but the rest of your words caught in your throat as his thumb brushed across the skin of your waist, making you shiver. His grip was firm, but there was something softer in the way he held you now, like he was both desperate and careful all at once.

You didn’t have the strength to keep the distance anymore. The anger was still there, but it was quickly being replaced by something else, something more urgent. Your pulse was racing, your hands trembling as they gripped the fabric of his shirt feeling how firm his chest was, and you had to stop yourself from pulling him in. Because if you did, you might not be able to stop.

“Please, Chris” you breathed out.

His free hand, firm and warm, brushed the side of your face, his thumb trailing along your jawline as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. There was something different in his gaze now. No more anger, no more control—it was vulnerability, raw and unguarded, and it struck you harder than you anticipated.

His lips were just inches from yours, and for a heartbeat, everything stood still. It was like a moment suspended in time, a moment where neither of you could pretend anymore. The fight was over. The frustration, the tension—it was all just a gateway now, a bridge between you and him.

“Keep calling me Chris,” he said, his voice barely a whisper as his lips brushed against yours, just enough to make your breath stop.

And then, you felt his lips press against yours—slow at first, tentative, as if testing, as if waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. Your lips parted under his, and the kiss deepened, the heat between you growing unbearable.

His hands moved to your back, pulling you closer, his touch both needy and gentle. Every inch of your skin burned under his touch, and you couldn’t remember a time when you’d ever felt this drawn to someone. His lips were insistent now, hungry. Your body seemed to move of its own accord, desperate to close the distance, to press into him and feel him fully, finally.

He pulled away for a split second, his breath mingling with yours, a hot whisper against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice strained with desire.

You could feel it in the way his fingers gripped your hips, in the way his chest heaved against yours. The tension felt primal.

As your hips pressed together, you felt him—hard and thick, pushing against. you’d always noticed the outline through his pants. Feeling it now, against you, was something else entirely. It sent a wave of heat straight through your body, making it hard to think straight.

“Chris…” his name left your lips softly, almost like a plea. You didn’t even know why you said it, but it made him pause for a second before his hands tightened on your waist.

He leaned in, his lips finding your neck. His kisses were slow but heavy, like he was testing the waters, each one driving more insane. He moved lower, to your boobs, his breath hot as he let out a low hum. “Hmm…” he mumbled against you, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine.

Chan's teeth grazed the soft skin of your boobs before he bit down roughly you knew it would leave a mark. You should have cared—you should have stopped him—but the way his mouth felt, the way his hands claimed you, made it impossible to think about anything else. You were completely lost in him.

One of his hands slid up your thigh, fingers brushing between you legs until they found their way where you wanted him most. He pressed against your soaked underwear, his movements slow but deliberate as he started rubbing you through the fabric. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and full of heat. “I barely touched you and you’re dripping wet—like a virgin. That boyfriend of yours is not satsfying you, huh?”

before you could answer, he pressed harder on your cunt, drawing a pathetic whimper from your lips. He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Is that why you’ve been such a bitch lately? You just needed me to fuck the frustration out of you?”

The mention of your boyfriend slapped you in the face, dragging you back to reality for a moment. You almost forgot about him—about the person waiting for you at home, the one who trusted you. Shame and guilt clashed with the overwhelming pleasure Chan was pulling from you, leaving you frozen as his words hung heavy in the air.

Chan’s words hung in the air, daring you to respond. The way his fingers slid past the fabric of your underwear as he pushed one inside you left you gasping for breath. You knew this was dangerous, teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t take back, but the fire he ignited in you was too consuming to ignore.

Your hands gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as your lips parted, whispering, “More.”

A dark, smug smirk tugged at his lips as he slipped in another finger without hesitation. “You’re so greedy,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His free hand gripped your hips, adjusting them just enough to let him reach deeper, finding the spot that had your knees threatening to give out.

Your back arched against the wall, each deliberate movement of his fingers sending ripples of pleasure through you, throwing any last bit of control you had out the window.

He leaned in, lips just brushing against yours but not quite connecting, teasing you, testing your patience. “Say it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your mouth, his voice full of raw intent. “Say you want me.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue, your pride and guilt fighting against the overwhelming desire coursing through you. But then his fingers pushed deeper, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, and all hesitation vanished. “I want you,” you admitted, your voice shaking but sure.

As soon as the words left your lips, Chan kissed you, hard and possessive. His mouth devoured yours, claiming you like he had every right to, his tongue sliding against yours as his hand moved inside you like an expert. His fingers worked you relentlessly, drawing out sinful moans, even as his other hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate for more.

Your back arched as his hard-on pressed against your thigh, the thin layers of clothing between you barely enough to keep the heat at bay. His growl vibrated through you, each thrust of his fingers sending a shock of pleasure through your body. “God, you’re so sensitive,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. “Does he even touch you?”

“Stop,” you managed, your voice shaky with both frustration and need. “Don’t talk about him.”

But Chan only smirked, his eyes darkening with possessiveness. His fingers didn’t slow, they only deepened, pressing into you harder. “Why? Are you thinking about him now?” he mocked, his voice dripping with jealousy. “Does he make you feel this good? Bet he doesn’t even know how to make you cum, does he?”

Your heart stuttered, a burst of guilt and anger flaring up. You hated that he was right. Hated that your body was betraying you, reacting to him in ways you hadn’t felt before. You tried to push the thoughts of your boyfriend away, but the way Chan’s fingers moved inside you, so sure and commanding, made it impossible to think of anything else.

“Look at me,” Chan demanded, his voice sharp and insistent, pulling your attention back to him. His fingers slowed, but they never stopped, teasing you, driving you closer to the edge. When you finally met his gaze, his eyes were dark, focused, and intense—it made your pulse race.

“if im going to fuck you, atleast look at my face” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to remember who’s making you feel this way. Not him. Me.”

You gasped at the rawness of his words, at the way he claimed you with nothing but his touch and his voice. Your chest heaved with each shaky breath, your whole body betraying you as you leaned into his touch.

you could feel your body trembling, every nerve firing as if it couldn’t contain the mounting pleasure anymore. “Chris...” you gasped, your voice strangled, a plea more than anything, as your body arched up into him, your fingers clutching at his shoulders for support. His grip on you tightened, his movements deepening, pushing you to the very edge.

You were close and he could see it—the way you fought the need building inside you, the guilt and pleasure swirling in equal measure. he had you exactly where he wanted. “cum for me baby”

And then, with a sharp inhale, everything snapped. A flood of heat and pleasure consumed you, washing over you in waves, so intense it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. You felt yourself coming undone in his hands, your body trembling uncontrollably as the world around you blurred. His name escaped your lips in a breathless moan, as your legs shook and your heart raced—every inch of your skin alive, every thought consumed by the overwhelming feeling of being completely, utterly lost in him.

Chan groaned in response, his body pressed tightly against yours as he slowed, letting the aftershocks of your release roll through you, each lingering pulse making your body shudder once more.

Your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as the last waves of pleasure faded, your body still humming from the intensity of your orgasm. Chan’s fingers brushed gently over your skin, a soft contrast to the desperation he’d shown just moments before. He looked down at you, his eyes softer now.

You swallowed, your throat dry, unsure of what to say. The weight of everything hung heavy between you. The moment was still too raw, too real. "That... that was..." you tried, but the words failed to come.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rich with satisfaction. “I know,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your forehead.

“I’m going to break up with him,” you said, your voice quiet but sure.

Chan’s expression softened just slightly, but he didn’t say anything right away.

As you regained some sense of your surroundings, your gaze drifted down, and you noticed his painfully looking boner, when your eyes met his again, he just smirked.

“I’ll take care of it,” he muttered, his voice low.

He reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, and continued before you protested. “Get some rest. I’ve worn you out too much.”

You nodded, too exhausted to argue, and as he left, you couldn’t help but wonder what this meant moving forward.

#kpop smut #skz imagines #stray kids #bangchan smut #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #skz smut #dom bang chan #stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #bang chan imagines #bang chan x reader #bang chan x you #skz x reader #stray kids hard thoughts #stray kids hard hours #stray kids headcanons #skz drabbles

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miirohs · 8 months ago

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cariño [c.s.z]

pairing: Mob Boss!Carlos Sainz x GN!Reader wc: 1.3k cw: blood, implied off screen violence an: i cannot write hurt/comfort, forgive me for this raw ahh fic... i actually did most of the spanish in here myself though my spanish sucks for someone whos been learning for two years. also this better do well or im actually going to ragequit (not).

“Carlos?” You sat up, eyes heavy as you turned your head in the direction of the bathroom.

There was a crack in the bathroom door, a sliver of light faintly illuminating the room. You could hear him clunking around inside, soft groans of pain reverberating around the room. He’d been in there for god knows how long, leaving you restless as you waited for him to somehow come back.

Pulling yourself out of bed, you tiptoed across the room, pushing the bathroom door open quietly.

A mess was all that greeted you.

You grimaced at the smell of iron staining the air, slightly pushing the gun that sat right at your feet. Various articles of clothing had been discarded all over the floor, a trail of blood stained the floors and the granite countertops.

Your eyes followed it to the bathtub, where you saw Carlos laying. His breathing was shallow, head tipped back against the edge of the bathtub, exposing the cuts all over the visible upper half of his body.

He wore nothing but a white undershirt, pants seemingly still on as they weren’t among the pile of clothes you’d seen earlier. Hearing you shuffled seemed to wake him from his dazed state, head turning in your direction. You froze.

The low lights seemed to cast a shadow over his eyes, barely hiding his bloodshot eyes, full of frustration and irritation as he stared at you.

“Creí haberte dicho que no me molestaras (I thought I told you not to bother me)…” He trailed off, annoyed expression on his face softening into something less harsh at the sight of you, “…Y/n. Is something wrong?”

“What happened?” You murmured softly as you approached him, causing him to try to sit up in the tub as.

“Nothing cariño, please go back to bed, I'm sorry for disturbing your sleep.” He groaned, offering you a faint smile as if to comfort you. In all honesty, it made you all the more unsettled at his disheveled appearance, like an itch you couldn’t seem to rid yourself of.

“Carlos, who’s blood is this?” The question made the smile drop off his face, a closed off expression taking its place as you got closer to him.

“You don’t need to worry about it.” He snapped suddenly, glaring at you as if daring you to take another step closer. “No más de esto, déjalo cariño (no more of this, let it go sweetheart).”

You didn’t listen to him, gently sitting yourself down next to the tub. The cold was a sharp contrast to the heat in your legs.

Looking over, his hand was covering his waist, teeth gritted in pain as you reached down to move his hand.

Pausing, you looked to him for confirmation and he nodded, despite his former reservation about you seeing him in that state.

Gingerly, you lifted his hand off, eyes widened at the sight of blood soaked in his shirt.

“Te lo dije (I told you),” He retorted with a frown, “I told you so, I didn’t want you seeing all of this.”

“Could you roll it up so I could at least see what's wrong?” You fretted, fingers lightly running up and down the ribbed material of his undershirt.

Exasperated, he obliged, pulling the material that seemed to stick to his skin.

“What the fuck happened…” You trailed off, breathing becoming uneven as you scanned the expanse of his wound, cutting through his skin and exposing the flesh. His ribs were bruised up, various other cuts around the area of the wound.

Worst of all, the coppery smell seem to burn your throat, tears welling up in your eyes at the sight.

“Breath, mí felicidad,” He groaned, bringing up his hand to your own and caressing your knuckles, “I’ve had worse happen to me, and you panicking will not make things easier.”

“But we should call the doctor-”

“We can’t,” He insisted, straining as he sat up to look at you, “You need to do it. There should be a first aid kit in the cabinets, can you get it?” Even as he was bleeding out there in the tub, he had such an intense gaze, mixed with some form of adoration as he watched you.

Reluctantly you got up, opening up the cabinets to shuffle through the boxes, hands eventually hitting something in the back. You pulled out a big black box, and he nodded as confirmation that it was indeed the right box.

You were shaking slightly as you set it down next to you, opening up the box. There were various supplies such as painkillers, bandaids, gauze, even sterilized materials resting at the bottom in their packets.

You shakily cleaned your hands, pulling out everything you could need before putting on the gloves you had found sifting through the box.

“What- what do i do now Carlitos?” You whimpered, swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat as you pulled the antiseptic out.

He grimaced at the sight, but nonetheless shook his head, moving so he could show the wound to you.

“It stopped bleeding a while ago, so it needs to be cleaned so that it doesn’t get infected, then we can think about stitches.”

The thought made your stomach churn but you pushed aside the nausea, gently dipping a cotton ball in antiseptic and bringing it to his wound. He hissed as you wiped away the dirt and sweat, his jaw clenched tightly, but he didn’t protest.

At some point during the whole process, his hand had reached up to you, running up and down your arm rather gently for someone having a needle stuck in them. You could hear him wincing softly, licking his lips as you pulled the needle through his skin another time.

His grip on your arm tightened a couple times, but not to the point of making you uncomfortable, more as a way of telling you it hurt even if he put on a stoic expression.

The final stitch was made, and you could finally breathe a sigh of relief as you wrapped the gauze around his waist.

Done," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "You'll be okay now?"

“Sí, gracias mí amor (yes, thank you my love),” He murmured, offering you a kiss on the forehead as he hauled himself out of the tub, seating you down on the lid as he limped to the sink. You sat in silence as he wiped the blood off himself, watching as he grimaced at the bruises and various other cuts.

The gravity of the situation was still fresh on your mind, a sense of unease as you watched him lean over the sink.

“What happened tonight…?” You stopped, noticing how he had tensed up once again. You had touched a sore spot, obviously one fresh in his mind. “If you don’t want to answer-”

“Some fucker brought a knife and tried to sabatoge me during the meeting, but I made sure to personally take care of him before I left the room. I couldn’t say the others were very happy with me, I think they were just unhappy it wasn’t me who dropped dead this time.” He chuckled incredulously, heart dropping to your stomach as the implications of what could have happened floated through your head.

He must have noticed your reaction, because his simpered smirk slowly turned into a look of realization about what his words must’ve meant.

“Ay cariño, i didn’t mean to worry you like that,” He cooed, reaching over to pull the hair out of your face, “I love you. You trust me, don’t you?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch.

“Venga, dímelo (come on, tell me) cariño.”

“I do trust you,” You repeated to him, looking into his eyes as he broke into a faint smile, “just promise me you won’t come home like this, don’t die on me.”

He stroked your hair, bringing you closer to him. “And I will, mí amor, I will.”

You didn’t have to know of the things he did to others, the things he’d done just to come home to you. All that was important, at the end of the day, was that he’d always come back to you.

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ikyoudreamofme · 9 days ago

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Accident-MS

summary: You get a call from Matt but it’s not the call you ever expected.

C/W: car accident,mentions of blood and cuts, pre-established relationship, use of y/n.

A/n:Part 2 is out!

——————————————————————

“Hi y/n? This is Dr Sharp at Los Angeles General Hospital calling, you are Matts emergency contact along with two others. He has been involved in a car accident and has serious injuries.”

~☃️~

I’ve been cleaning my house all day as Matt was coming over soon and I want it to look presentable. I just finished putting away the laundry falling down onto the couch with a loud exhale. I got a call from Matt smiling at my phone answer the call. “Hey Matt.” I say my voice going a little higher at my excitement. The voice on the other line wasn’t the usual voice I’d hear. I freeze staring blankly at the table, listening to the man, my smile of joy falls into a face of worry. The call goes silent for a few seconds before I’m able to speak. “uh..have you called his brothers?” I say my voice shaky holding back sobs. the voice on the other end of the phone says no. I hang up looking for Nick’s contact through blurred vision I press ‘call’.

After the second ring he picks up “y/n? Matts not here,you okay?” He enquires. I take a deep breath in. “Nick it’s Matt. The hospital called me he got in an accident. They said it’s bad.” I blurt out, voice cracking. I hear Nick get up shouting to Chris for him to get out of his room. “I’m going to the hospital now I’m gonna pick you up.” I say before hanging up and letting Nick tell Chris.

We get to the hospital and the doctor’s words, ‘serious injuries’, replay in my head. “we’re looking for Matt Sturniolo” Chris asks the lady behind the counter. She’s asks us who we are to the patient. “I’ll get you his doctor for now you can wait here.” She points to rows of chairs behind us. As we wait I play with my fingers, my leg bouncing up and down as all the worst things that could happen run through my head. A doctor walks over to us his badge saying the same name as the doctor who called me. He warns us that Matt is out of surgery but still sedated to manage his pain, he may be asleep for a few more hours but when he wakes up he will still be groggy. The doctor told us Matt had sustained internal bleeding cause blood to enter his lungs and a broken arm that they had to move back to place. The worst part is Matt might not ever wake up again.

Every step closer to his room my heart sped up thumps getting louder and louder. My stomach felt empty when I opened the door seeing the bruises that scatter his face and collarbone and a cast on his right arm that lays beside him. Machines beep around his bed, I turn around looking at Chris and Nick their eyes, fixated on their brother, filling up with tears threatening to spill down their cheeks. I pulled a chair closer to the bed grabbing his hand resting my head next to it. “please wake up..” I whisper repeatedly to Matt.

~☃️~

After an hour or two sitting in Matt’s hospital room doctors coming in every 20 minutes for check ups I fall into a light sleep my head resting on the edge of the bed. “y/n?” A hoarse voice talks. I look up seeing Matts eyes just barely open. My mouth drops letting out a sigh of relief, as I sit up hugging him carefully, kissing the top of his head. “Oh My God Matt you’re okay.” I say telling myself more than him. He hums in response. His brothers get up repeating a similar hug to mine.

The doctor checks his injuries giving him morphine to manage his pain. “He has to stay for the night so we can monitor him closely” The doctor tells us. I look down at Matt rubbing my thumb across the back of his hand reaussuringly. Chris and Nick go back to theirs grabbing some things for Matt.

“what happened Matt?” You ask him looking up at his wounded face. “I don’t know I was just on my way to yours…some uncontrolled driver crashed into the side of me” He winces taking a deep breath. I frown and kiss him softly “I’m so happy you’re okay” he hums in response.

#fluff #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo fluff #matthew sturniolo #matt fluff #matt sturniolo #matt x y/n #matt x reader #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #jake webber #tara yummy #johnnie guilbert #jake and johnnie #carrington #christopher sturniolo

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sweetsweetjellybean · 9 months ago

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After the kiss you can't forget about, your past and present with Eddie collide under the glow of the city lights and the glittering stars at the City Beats launch party.

Masterlist Listen to Clumsy 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

“Stop being such a baby and just let me look.”

The light in Eddie’s bathroom buzzes with a slight flicker, casting a pallid tint over the worn linoleum and water-stained sink.

“I don’t recall anyone asking for your services here, Florence Nightingale,” Eddie grumbles, perched on the edge of the vanity with a blood-soaked washcloth pressed against his forehead. The knuckles on his right hand are swollen and split, and the scrape along his jaw is already turning colors.

You pour a little iodine on a cotton ball you grabbed from the first-aid kit— the one your dad made you keep in your car for emergencies, though this probably isn’t what he had in mind. “Who else is going to patch you up?” you question, shifting until you’re standing in the space between his spread legs.

With a sigh, he lowers the washcloth and tosses it into the sink. Blood wells up in the gash above his brow, the skin around it swollen and purple. As gently as possible, you dab around the cut with cotton.

“Oww.” He winces and leans away. “That shit stings.”

"Sorry." You push up on your tippy toes, drawing closer, one hand resting on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. The scent of his apple shampoo tickles your nose as his hand moves to your hip, anchoring you. You purse your lips and blow gently over his wound to soothe the sting. His chest expands with a sharp intake of breath.

"Better?" you whisper, a flood of butterflies taking flight within you. His fingers press tighter into your skin, your shirt inching upward, eliminating the barrier between his touch and your warmth.

"Yeah." His throat bobs, his gaze roaming your face.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

His grip on you loosens as his eyes fall away.

You pick up one of the butterfly strips, pulling back the adhesive tabs. “You said you weren’t going to do anything. I asked you not to.”

The faucet drips into the cracked tub as you press the strip into place. “It was my choice to end things, Eddie. It didn’t feel…it wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

He grabs your fingers, holding them away. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have been running around with him in the first place.”

The anger in his tone has you stepping back until you can feel the towel bar pressing into your shoulders. He stands and faces away from you, shaking his head.

“So what? I’m a slut now?” Your voice is small in the cramped space, bouncing off half-filled bottles of shampoo and shaving cream. Maybe you shouldn’t have told him about losing your virginity to Parker Hayes in the backseat of his mom’s Chevy last weekend. But that’s something you tell your best friend, right? Eddie has certainly never shied away from sharing his sexual exploits with you. Maybe, deep down, you had been hoping for some kind of reaction, but not this.

“No.” His shoulders slump as he turns to face you, the hardness in his stance softening. “I don't think that way,” he explains, his voice growing gentler, “and I'd never think that about you. I want you to date. I want you to have everything. I just want to…” The rest of the sentence dies in his throat as a familiar shadow falls over his eyes, dimming their warmth. “I guess this is what happens when you're friends with a chick,” he chuckles.

“Might have been easier if Gareth had moved down the street instead of me.” You switch gears to match his tone, a familiar move after all this time.

“Yeah, you’re a pain in the ass,” he says, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Speaking of Gareth, I got a thing.” His gaze drops to his wrist, but he’s never worn a watch. “Lock up when you leave, alright?”

You're still standing in his bathroom when the front door clicks closed.

Your hands smooth down the skirt of your long-sleeved mini-dress. Its modest front sits elegantly at your collarbone, but the back—you twist your head to check the mirror behind you—the back dramatically plunges to just above the curve of your ass.

“Wow.” Steve stands stopped in his tracks at the entrance of your walk-in closet, his eyes drinking you in. “You look like a sunset.” He moves behind you, pressing a kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder as his hand slides over the rose gold sequins covering your dress.

“You’re not too shabby yourself, handsome.” You turn to get the full effect of his designer camel-striped suit with a bright mustard tie. “I always like you in yellow,” you tell him, running a finger down the cool silk.

His smile widens as he grips your hips, spinning you back towards the mirror, wrapping his arms around your middle. “We should do this more often,” he says, holding your gaze in the reflection.

“What?” you ask, crossing your arms over his. “Launch streaming radio services?”

“No, smart ass.” His lips find your temple. “Get dressed up like this and go out. With everyone coming, do you know what it reminds me of?”

“Dare I ask?” You flutter your lashes.

His grip on you tightens in a deliberate firmness that has you tensing. He steals another kiss, pausing for a moment before saying, “Prom.”

“Uck,” you moan, stepping out of his arms and moving to the island to pick up a pair of earrings. “Your parents went to prom? How sad.”

“Come on. Not them.” He shoves his hands in his pants pockets, his gaze tracking your movements. “Everyone else, though. Didn’t you have fun at prom?”

“I don’t remember,” you shrug, attaching the diamond to your lobe.

“Of course not. How stupid of me,” his tone drips sarcasm as he shakes his head, “How could I have forgotten about your Hawkins amnesia.”

The shrill melody of his ringtone sounds from the bedroom, pulling him away before words can escalate. Lately, high school memories seem to invade every conversation, leaving a residue of guilt that clings tighter with each mention. Alone, you face the mirror, taking a steadying breath. He’s under a lot of pressure. This is his night. You plaster a smile on your face, forcing a semblance of calm. You owe him.

With a final glance, you slip on a nude pair of heels and move to the bedroom to let him know you're ready. Steve’s phone is discarded on the bed beside him, where he sits with slumped shoulders and his hands raking through the hair he had just spent time styling.

“Baby?” You keep your voice soft as you sit down next to him, your hand moving to rub circles on his back. “What’s going on?”

He glances up, only now becoming aware of your presence. "It's my parents," he murmurs, his lashes fluttering with rapid blinks as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "They've decided not to come."

“What? But they’re at the hotel.” Your mind races over the possibilities, “Are they okay? Did something happen?”

“Yeah, my dad ran into a client. That’s what happened.” Steve's voice hardens, taking on a bitter edge as he echoes his father's words, “Business is business, Steve. You understand, don’t you, son?”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” you say in a near whisper, covering his hand with yours.

“It’s my fault. I didn’t really want them here, you know? But when I dropped by the hotel this afternoon with the tickets, my dad actually seemed proud of me for once. Fuck. I feel so dumb for getting excited.” He pulls his hand from yours to tug at the messy strands falling over his brow before his eyes find yours again. “Did I ever tell you about my baseball coach in middle school?”

“No,” you shake your head, shifting on the bed to move even closer beside him, offering what comfort you can.

“Coach Patterson.” His eyes fall to his lap. “He tried talking to him once when he dropped me off for a game. He told him that it would mean a lot if he’d stayed and watched me play. But Dad…” Steve's voice falters, “He just looks at me and says, ‘I've got better things to do than watch you lose.’”

“Steve-”

His eyes bore into yours, filling your chest with an ache. “The thing is, we did win, but he still never stayed. He didn’t believe in me. I guess he still doesn’t.”

His phone screen brightens with an incoming call, and he picks it up, silencing it with a push of a button. “I've poured everything I have into this, trying to be perfect, what they—what everyone—expects me to be.” The frustration builds in his voice,“But no matter how hard I try, it'll never be enough. Not for them. And maybe... not for you either.”

You cradle his larger hand between yours, wishing he could see himself through your eyes. “You’ve always been enough.”

“I want to give you everything–”

“Steve, stop. You can’t live for other people. Pursue this because it brings you fulfillment, not for anyone else. Think about everything your dad has given your mom. Do you think it’s made them happy?”

He pulls his hand from yours, a fleeting shadow crossing his features as his gaze drifts to some distant point in the room. “I’d never treat you the way he treats her.”

“That’s right.” Gently, you cup his face, your thumbs brushing lightly against his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to you. “You’re better than him. And if he can’t see that or celebrate your wins, that’s his shortcoming. Tonight is going to go off without a hitch, and Richard is going to thank his lucky stars for having the good sense to have assigned you City Beats.”

Leaning in, you press a soft, deliberate kiss to his lips. “You deserve your success.” His hand rises to cover yours, and your face softens into a smile. “Now, can we go? I need you to dance with me during the slow songs. I’ll even let you pretend we’re at prom.”

The corners of his mouth rise, his chuckle warming the space between you as he leans in, your foreheads touching gently. “What would I do without you, Ace?” The words are gentle as his lips seek out yours. A car horn blares from the street below, breaking the moment. “I think our driver is getting antsy.”

“Well then, handsome,” you say, a gentle determination in your voice as you smooth out an imaginary crease on his jacket. “Let’s go to a party.”

Dozens of spotlights pierce the night, illuminating the iconic Adler Planetarium. Limos and sleek cars roll up, dropping off the who’s who of the city—celebrities, influential politicians, and tech moguls—onto the red carpet-lined stairs. Banners emblazoned with the City Beats logo wave from the art deco building's great dome, set against the dark waters of the lake and the distant city lights.

“Wow,” you breathe as Steve takes your hand and helps you out of the car. The magnitude of the moment takes over. Now it’s your turn to be impressed. “Baby, you did all this!”

Steve’s signature smirk takes over his face, his cheeks tinting with a flush from your compliment. A camera flash pops in your face as you step out onto the red carpet. With a deep breath, you tighten your hold on his hand. The PR team's efforts have paid off. Photogs from all over the city and national publications line the step and repeat. The air is a blend of lake chill and expensive perfumes as you await your turn to be photographed. Steve’s reassuring hand, firm along your ribs, holds you steady as the flashes blind you. His gaze drops to yours, brimming with unmistakable pride, lending you his confidence. A quick squeeze of his hand coaxes a genuine smile as you face the cameras together.

“Not used to being on this side,” you murmur, keeping your teeth on display under the relentless flashes.

He chuckles, drawing you forward. “You're a natural,” he whispers, guiding you to the entrance with a hand at your back.

As you step into the grand foyer, your name being called pierces the hum of conversations. Rihanna waves from across the room, her manicured hand catching the light. She mouths ‘Call me’ before being swept away by her very tall date.

"Was that–" Steve asks, eyes widening.

"I interviewed her last year," you explain, returning her smile with your own as she navigates the crowd.

"Must have made an impression. That was the new point guard for the Chicago Bulls." His eyebrows raise as he watches them disappear into the throng of guests. Leaning in, his breath tickles your ear, “I don’t think we’re in Hawkins anymore, Dorothy.”

Light laughter bubbles from your throat. “Thanks, Toto,” you quip, threading your arm into the crook of his elbow, letting him lead you along.

Abstract designs mimicking sound waves, musical notes set into star patterns, and cosmic shapes elegantly adorn the solarium. The floor-to-ceiling windows extend the celestial theme, allowing for sweeping views of the night sky.

“From Skyline to Bassline: This is City Beats Streaming Radio.”

The DJ's smooth voice transitions the songs playing through the speakers as they live-stream from a platform beside a wall of digital screens alive with a social media feed and a map showing millions of listeners around the world tuning in.

Steve lets go of your hand as he’s swarmed with department heads buzzing with reports and updates. You stand alone, crossing one hand over another as muted conversation hums under the beat of the music. The waitstaff weaves through the crowd, offering trays of fluted glasses brimming with bubbling champagne, and you gratefully accept a glass. Guests interact with kiosks exploring the different channels offered by City Beats, including specific music genres, news, and talk shows, while others move onto the themed lounges or drift out to the terrace for the small bites and views of the city.

“Harrington.” Richard's booming voice sends Steve’s staff scattering into the crowd. “Everything is looking just splendid, son.” He greets Steve with a firm handshake before his voice drops,“Now, how are those numbers?”

You look away, rolling your eyes out of view as you drain the rest of your glass. He can’t give Steve five minutes of peace.

“According to sales, we are easily beating the first round of projections and are slated to hit our monthly target in the next hour.” Steve’s voice is filled with cool confidence, but his palm is damp when his fingers slip between yours.

“That’s good to hear,” Richard says, the tightness in his expression easing as the redness circling his face begins to fade. He leans closer to Steve, his tone firm, “I don't think I need to remind you that Second City has a lot riding on this, which means you've got a lot riding on this.”

Steve's lips press together in a firm line as he stands a little taller and smooths a hand over his tie. Your teeth clamp down on the inside of your lip, forcing your silence.

A waiter glides to your side, stopping to collect your empty glass. You place your flute on his tray a touch too forcefully. The clink with the other glasses is louder than intended, breaking the moment. Richard straightens, his attention drawn to you for the first time. He steps back, the wheels turning behind his eyes as he tries to place you.

His manufactured grin returns as he claps Steve on the shoulder. “Keep up the excellent work, my boy. This is impressive.” He waves a hand, gesturing around the party, “I don’t know what any of it is, but it’s impressive,” he laughs, expecting you to join him. When you only muster a weak smile, his laughter fades, replaced by a brief, awkward silence.

“I’m glad you brought the little lady with you tonight, Steve. She just gets prettier and prettier,” Richard continues, not missing a beat. “My wife’s around here somewhere, probably telling someone how to do their job,” he chuckles, then signals a waitress for more drinks. “Make sure you say hello. She loves gossiping with the other wives.” Handing you both a fresh glass, he adds, “Now, see to it our boy here doesn't work too hard, okay?” With a final pat on Steve’s shoulder and a wag of his finger in your direction, Richard moves off into the crowd.

Steve exhales quietly, the tension leaving his shoulders, as he gently squeezes your hand.

“I don’t know how you stand him,” you fume, “How many years have I worked here, and the bastard doesn't even recognize me.”

“Trust me, you’re better off not being on his radar,” Steve replies, downing his champagne in one go before passing the empty glass off to a passing waiter. “I’m sure he’s going to be on my ass when I meet with the investors.”

“But it’s such a nice ass,” you grin over the rim of your glass, letting the bubbles tickle your lips.

His eyes gleam as he leans in a little closer, but his response dissolves before it's spoken. Warmth heats the bare skin of your back as someone steps close behind you. Your stomach plummets like a rollercoaster, and goosebumps dot your arms—there's no need to look.

“Eddie,” Steve welcomes him with a handshake that shifts to an embrace. “You made it.”

Since the kiss, Eddie has honored your request, maintaining the distance you needed— a display of restraint that the high school version of him might not have managed. But after your talk with Hopper and the shadow of the looming deadline creeping closer, it was only a matter of time before you had to face him. And the clock has just run out.

“How could I pass this up?” Eddie’s gaze darts around the solarium before landing on you. “Doll.” He leans in, placing a light kiss on your cheek before turning back to Steve. “This is some party. Congratulations, man.”

"Thanks for passing the word down your contact list,” Steve says, his tone sincere. “My head of PR mentioned you've made her job a hell of a lot easier."

“Happy to help,” he shrugs, adjusting the gold cufflinks at his wrists. He’s ignored the last few buttons of his pressed black shirt and worn it open-collar, allowing a glimpse of the fine black-inked lines that grace the skin of his chest.

“Do you own a suit that isn’t black?” You ask, eyeing the slim-fit pinstripe, that's obviously been tailored to fit him like a glove. “Or is that a rental?”

“Ace,” Steve chides.

Eddie laughs, the sound rich and easy. “Gotta match with the sweet old tats, don’t I?” The edge that once sharpened your words now fails to cut. His smile blooms into dimples, and it’s contagious. Despite the crackling of nerves and self-made promises, he disarms you. A line creases Steve’s brow as the moment hangs, and your smirk echoes Eddie’s.

A peel of laughter rises above the blend of music and conversation as the party continues. A harried junior staffer pushes through the crowd, bumping shoulders and muttering apologies as she tries to keep a stray lock of hair from escaping her updo. “Steve, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she keeps her voice low despite her breathlessness. “Ted's already on his fifth bourbon, and he's cornered Harris Blake from Bean City Brews. He's telling that joke about the nun and the circus tent, and I think we are about to lose half of our ad revenue for this quarter."

"Shit," Steve mutters, his fingers raking through his hair. "Okay, let's deal with this." Relief washes over the staffer's face as she quickly turns, leading the way.

Steve pauses, his eyes meeting yours, an apology written on his face. "I’m-”

"It's okay. Go," you reassure with a squeeze of his bicep. His lips lift at the corners before he turns away, disappearing into the crowd as your gaze lingers after him.

The weight of Eddie’s eyes settles on you before you’ve even turned to meet them. “So, is this the part where I chase you around all night until you finally agree to talk to me?” he asks, closing the distance with a step forward.

“Actually, I thought we’d skip that part.” Your eyes dip to your shoes, avoiding his stare. “I want to apologize for what happened. I let my emotions get the better of me. It was unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional?” Surprise lifts brows before his lips press together in a hard line. “Come with me.” His hand closes over yours, pulling you through the solarium without looking back before you can object.

“Eddie-” you start, but he’s already ushering you into the double doors of the sky theater.

He doesn’t stop as he leads you into the darkness, the room illuminated only by the soft rows of small floor lights as the soaring domed ceiling swirls with violet and periwinkle projections of the starry sky. Ignoring the few others milling around, he tugs you into the privacy of the shadows, finally releasing your hand. In the orchid-tinged light, his stare holds a depth that's hard to look away from. “This isn’t business, doll. You mean every–” he swallows, “you’re my closest friend.”

“You don’t even know me anymore, Eddie.” Your head shakes, silently begging him to understand.

His hands move to grip your shoulders. “There are some things that time can’t change.”

“It can’t happen again,” you state in a firm voice, taking a step back and widening the gap between you.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, waiting as a couple meanders past, pointing out Cassiopeia. “Then what do you propose?”

“I’ll finish the articles.”

“And then?”

“And then everything goes back to the way it was. I'm sure we'll cross paths from time to time.” The words emerge on a strained breath, tightness seizing your lungs. “It’s for the best.”

“That’s not good enough,” he counters, the shake of his head cutting through the dim light. “I want you in my life.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“You can.” He inches closer, blowing out a sigh. “Look, it was my fault. Be my friend. Draw that line, and we won’t cross it. I know you’re still pissed at me, but we can work through it.” His voice falters, the earlier resolve in his eyes melting into a plea. “Aren’t you tired of carrying all this around inside of you?”

His question softens the tension in your chest, suggesting a sliver of peace you hadn't known you were seeking. Maybe the scars etched on your heart for so long have also shielded it from joy. You swallow the lump in your throat, offering an almost imperceptible nod.

“Can you try for me?” he pleads.

“I can’t make you any promises,” you nod again, more sure this time. “But I’ll try.”

His thumb gently traces the side of your face before his arms circle you, pulling you close against him—the scent of vanilla and clove clings to his jacket. Under your cheek, the fabric is cool and smooth, tinged with a hint of tobacco, taking you someplace you thought was lost.

“Don’t mark up my suit with that shit you wear all over your face,” he teases, his hold on you not lessening an inch. “It is a rental.”

There is a tentative hopefulness in your newly minted truce with Eddie. Almost as tangible as the pulse of the bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes. His smile, easy and unguarded, lights up his face as he guides you through the sea of finely dressed attendees with a hand resting on your lower back. Stopping to exchange hellos and handshakes with a group of industry professionals who are eager to discuss his Studio opening. He pushes the topic aside in favor of introducing you. With an effortless charm, he leaves no room for doubt about your credentials as a journalist at Stax and suggests the value an interview with you would bring to their clients.

“What?” His eyebrows lift, amusement playing across his features as he catches the pleased look on your face as you tuck a handful of new business cards into your clutch.

“Are you auditioning to be my new publicist?” you tease, your brain already teeming with the new articles his introduction just made a possibility.

The warmth of his laughter is becoming a welcome sound. “I’ll be anything you want, doll,” he offers, the words punctuated by a flirtatious flash of his dimples.

A snort accompanies the roll of your eyes, even as your stomach flutters.

“I’m proud of you, you know? he adds, a soft earnestness in his tone. “I like showing you off.” The tenderness in his expression doesn't waver as he follows you through the solarium. You find your fiancée chatting with a familiar face. A welcome distraction from all things Eddie.

“Dulcita,” Argyle wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Looking bitchin, as always. That dress is killer.”

Laughing, you nod toward his outfit, “Well, I’m just trying to keep up. You look amazing.”

With an exaggerated flourish, he poses with his thumbs stretching the lapels of his periwinkle floral suit before turning to greet Eddie with a handshake.

Steve's hand finds its way to your hip, drawing you near. "I thought I’d lost you. Where'd you disappear to?"

“Just exploring a bit,” you offer, meeting his look with a smile, but his eyes shift past you toward Eddie.

A pretty blonde waitress weaves through the crowd, her tray of fresh drinks catching Eddie's attention. He flags her down with a tilt of his head and a confident wink. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, plucking a few glasses from her tray to pass around.

“This event is popping off,” Argyle chimes in, taking a glass and nodding toward Steve. “Congrats, dude. I couldn’t have planned this better myself.”

Eddie extends a glass in your direction. “Doll?”

Steve’s shoulders tense as his stare fills the space between you and Eddie, the sides of his mouth dipping. “Have you eaten?” he asks, his hand tightening slightly on your waist.

For a heartbeat, you just look at him, letting the wave of irritation roll past. Your teeth sink into your lip as you decline Eddie’s offer with a shake of your head.

Eddie's face tightens, a flash of restrained agitation crossing his features as he retracts the glass and dismisses the waitress with a polite nod. Argyle, shifts uncomfortably, his lips pursed into an O as his gaze skitters across the room.

Turning fully towards Steve with a soft expression, you aim for lightness. “Argyle’s right, you know. It all looks perfect, Steve,” you say, channeling warmth into your words, “Everyone’s having a great time. All your hard work is really paying off.”

Half of his mouth lifts as his gaze wanders over the crowd. “Guess we’ll see on Monday when the final numbers come in. Richard is already pushing to take City Beats national.”

Your face falls, “But that’s...that’s a massive undertaking. You’d have to restructure everything, wouldn’t you?”

Steve nods, his expression turning heavy. “Yeah, it would mean a major overhaul, not just in marketing but across multiple departments. We'd likely need to set up satellite offices in other cities, which means a lot of travel for me. It’s ultimately up to the investors, though.”

“Not too shabby, Harrington,” Argyle says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “You’re going to be running with the big dogs now.”

The conversation becomes muted as worry knots your stomach. Steve doesn’t seem to realize that his decisions impact more than just his own future. The coming months loom large with late nights and lost weekends. The toll won’t be just the dark circles under his hazel eyes but the shared moments slipping away like water through your fingers. His relentless drive for success and approval is edging him closer to repeating his father's mistakes—becoming distant, hollow, bitter. Pouring himself into work to the point of exhaustion, neglecting those he loves, just as he was once neglected. You can't just watch as he loses himself, not when you see the signs, feel the strain.

“Come on, Ace, smile for me. This is a good thing.” Steve says with a soft tone as his lips find your temple.

“I know that, and I’m so proud of you,” you manage, lifting your cheeks in the look of adorement he hopes to see. “You work so hard. I just worry.”

His hand shifts to cradle your jaw, tipping your chin to meet his gaze. “It will be fine, I promise. I’ll take some time before things really ramp up,” he reassures, the corners of his hopeful eyes crinkling. “Maybe for a honeymoon?”

“Sounds like someone is trying to think of excuses to get out of the actual work,” Nancy’s voice slices through the moment, her arrival almost as commanding as the deep plum of her silk dress that clings and flows in all the right places, complementing her sleek dark hair.

“A national campaign?” Jonathan steps beside Nancy, his narrow tie and vintage-cut suit making him look straight from the 1950s. “You might as well give back the ring now. Sounds like he’s already married to his work,” he leans toward you, cupping his mouth like a secret, earning him a chuckle from the rest of the group.

Ignoring him, Steve directs his attention to Nancy with a self-assured smirk. “Thanks for showing up, Nance. Wouldn’t want you to miss the moment Second City leaves Spectrum behind for the history books."

Her eyes narrow as her arms cross over her slender body, “That’s adorable, Steve, really. But the idea that your little radio project outshines a whole TV network? Please..”

Steve lets out a snort as his hands move to his hips. “Last I checked, Spectrum's sprawling empire was one channel.”

“We're thinking of expanding,” her voice is as smooth as silk as she examines her nails.

“With the tech we’re developing for on-demand music, who’s going to need cable?”

“If you can manage–”

“If I may suggest putting away the rulers,” Argyle’s voice rises above their bickering, “It’s Steve’s party, and I think we’ve had enough dick measuring for the evening.”

“Fine,” Nancy agrees as she holds Steve's stare, matching his smug expression, “I’ll concede. Congratulations on your accomplishments, Steve.”

“Appreciated,” Steve says, with a tip of his chin.

“But let's be clear,” Nancy adds, unable to help herself, “my dick is still bigger.”

Argyle groans as Jonathan's eyes roll skyward. Eddie takes a gulp of champagne, trying to stem his laughter.

“Where’s Robin?” you ask, cutting off whatever retort Steve was planning before it has a chance to leave his mouth, “Didn’t she ride with you guys?”

“She took off at the coat check with Jessie J—something about a twerking tutorial,” Jonathan explains, looking confused as he tucks his hands in his pockets.

Nancy's laugh tinkles with mischief. “Trust me, it's a sight. Robin insists she's better.”

“Well, I’m not missing that,” Eddie says, polishing off his drink, “I’ll catch you all later.” He turns and leaves your group, placing his empty glass on a waiter's tray as he walks past.

As he melts into the crowd, Nancy's gaze shifts to Richard making his way toward your circle. Her smile tightens ever so slightly, “Oh god. Is that Richard Kingsley?” she asks Steve. “I thought he’d have retired by now, off riding a golf cart in Florida.”

“No such luck.” Steve mutters under his breath, “Play nice, please.”

“I’m always nice,” she whispers before she plasters on her grin, “Richard.”

Richard approaches with a practiced smile, extending his hand to Nancy. “Nancy Wheeler, Spectrum’s shining star in the digital domain, or so I’ve been told. They’ve certainly sent us their best tonight. How’s the world of content directing? ”

“Actually, Richard,” Steve quickly corrects, his voice firm yet courteous as he positions himself alongside Nancy, “Vice President of Content Strategy. Nancy’s been leading the charge there for over a year now.”

Richard's smile doesn't falter as he turns to Nancy. "My apologies, Nancy. I’m sure it's a well-deserved promotion.” She offers him a polite smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes as he continues, “Your insights at the conference in New York were…enlightening. It's always good to have industry leaders like yourself in attendance.”

As if on cue, a junior staff photographer weaves through the crowd. Richard snaps his finger at him, seizing the opportunity, "Let's capture this moment, shall we? A picture for the company archives.”

“Better him than me,” Jonathan mutters as the staffer directs the group a few feet away, ensuring the City Beats Logo will frame the background of the photo. Richard positions himself at the center, patting at the shine of his red face with a handkerchief before draping an arm over each of their shoulders.

“That’s depressing,” Jonathan snorts, watching the setup. “Well, I'm off to find a drink that matches my cynicism,” he adds, taking the opportunity to slip away, leaving you alone with Argyle.

“So,” The sweetness of pineapple and weed hit your nose as Argyle leans over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear, “It looks like you and Eddie sorted out your shit, huh?”

“We’re tolerating each other,” you tell him without turning your head.

“I don’t know, man,” he muses, his eyes narrowing, “Tolerance was not the look on your face when you walked in here with him.”

A huff escapes your throat as you whip around to face him. “I’m interviewing him, remember?” you ask, trying to keep defensiveness out of your voice. “I'm just trying to be…pleasant.”

“You can tell yourself whatever you need to,” he adds, concern written across his face. “But from where I’m standing, you look like you’re in way over your head.”

The words die in your throat as Eddie reappears, weaving through the crowd with the grace of someone used to navigating this kind of affair. In one hand, he balances a plate arranged with an assortment of canapes and sushi, each piece a miniature work of art. His deep brown eyes keenly focused on you. “Eat something, doll,” he suggests, handing the plate over to you.

That feeling wells up in your stomach as you purse your lips, trying not to let your mouth stretch too big in front of Argyle, although he probably has picked up on the heat rising to your face. “Thanks,” you say shyly, accepting the plate.

“I’ll snag one,” Argyle reaches toward your plate with two fingers.

Eddie brows lower. “You can get your own, they’re not charging.”

“Sheesh, I know, dude. They're from my restaurant,” Argyle informs him.

“Then you know exactly where to get more,” Eddie counters.

“Did you find Robin?” you ask, changing the subject. “Was she twerking?”

“Yeah, I caught the tail end of it. And I’ll never unsee it,” his genuine laughter fills the space. “I think it’s burned into my retinas.”

“Mrs. Harrington," comes the voice of a junior staffer materializing beside you with such abruptness that the plate nearly slips from your grasp. "They want you in the photo now.”

“Umm, sure,” you say, glancing to where Steve is standing with Nancy, laughing at something she said. Eddie takes the plate from you, his easy smile from earlier erased by the downturn of his lips.

Smoothing down your skirt, you follow the photographer, consciously relaxing the clench of your jaw over how you were addressed. Steve’s eyes sparkle with warmth as he makes space for you between himself and Nancy, Richard positioned at the end. The clear happiness on his face eases your irritation. His hand finds a place on your ribs, pulling you into his side before the photographer directs you where to look.

“Very nice,” Richard comments with a nod after the flash goes off.

“One for your company Christmas card,” Nancy quips, throwing a look in Steve's direction.

Richard, not missing a beat, turns to you both. “Yes, well, it’s always a pleasure, Ms. Wheeler. I hope you enjoy the party,” he says before shifting to Steve. “Ready to give the investors a tour, my boy? They’ve had their share of drinks. Should be just about softened up for you now.”

“I’ll be right with you, Richard.” Steve waves him off, his eyes softening as he looks down at you, “You going to be okay on your own for a while, Ace?”

“Absolutely,” you tell him, rising to your toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You’re going to kill it, handsome.”

The side of his mouth tips up as you use your thumb to wipe away the gloss you left behind. “How did I get so lucky?” he wonders aloud, his gaze locked on yours. Leaning in, he captures your lips with his in a kiss that lingers a beat too long for a public place.

“I'll find you later.” Regret clouds his eyes as he pulls back, slipping on the professional mask he wears far too often. He walks away with Richard in tow.

“I better go find Jonathan,” Nancy tells Argyle and Eddie as you rejoin your friends, “or he’ll end up in a corner talking politics all night, and I made him promise me that he’d dance with me for at least one song.”

“You can sign me up for one too, Wheeler,” Eddie says, popping a piece of sushi in his mouth. “No arm twisting required.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, Munson,” she promises, pointing a playful finger at him before turning to leave, her dress swirling behind her.

“You, Eddie Muson, volunteering to dance,” you tease, your expression mockingly shocked. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“Play your cards right, doll, and I’ll show you up close and personal,” Eddie says, his eyebrows dancing as he offers you a canapé.

“That’s alright, Eddie. I’ve got my regular dance partner right here, right Argyle?” you say, looping your arm through his.

“Yeah... yup,” Argyle murmurs, his attention momentarily snagged by a tall brunette striding past. She sweeps a waterfall of silky hair over her shoulder, pretending not to notice him, but the extra sway added to her hips says otherwise.

“Solo dame una noche con ese culo y te haré mami, querida,” Argyle calls after her, untangling himself from your arm.

“Traitor,” you accuse, watching him go with a shake of your head as he follows after her without a backward glance.

“Ve por ella, amigo,” Eddie encourages with a booming laugh.

Turning back to you, he rocks on his heels, a smirk playing on his lips. “Looks like it’s just you and me, doll.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to look so happy about it,” you chide when his dimples make an appearance, sending the rusted chains around your heart rattling when it jumps under your ribs. Maybe Argyle wasn’t too far off the mark.

A brisk wind cuts across the dark surface of Lake Michigan. The City Beats logo burns bright in yellow neon, its light spilling over the outdoor stage and dancing across the water’s surface in a rotation of colors. Despite the press of bodies, warmth is scarce, with the night air nipping at any exposed skin. Before you can even think of shivering, Eddie drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, the fabric holding the residual warmth of his body. He stands close beside you, seemingly unfazed by the cool temperature, as Maroon 5 concludes their set.

The crowd sways as one, heads bobbing in sync with the rhythm pulsing into the chilly evening. The spice of Eddie's cologne is a veil around you, drawing you closer into his orbit. Glancing his way, you expect his attention to be on the show, eyes tracking each note and chord. Instead, you find the intensity of his gaze fixed on you.

As the song ends with the band offering their thanks, the MC dashes on stage to announce the next performer. With a tip of his chin, Eddie motions for you to follow him. Together, you squeeze through the crowd, walking along the path at the lake's edge until the sea of people begins to thin, their noise fading into a distant murmur until it's just the two of you left, accompanied by the quiet hush of waves lapping against the bank.

He stops, gazing out over the water, city lights dancing in his eyes. “I almost forgot how your face changes when you listen to music. It’s like the lyrics break right through, lighting you up from the inside.”

“My one true love,” you respond with a wistful sigh, giving him a shrug.

“Oh yeah?” He turns toward you, inching a bit closer to reach into the breast pocket of the suit jacket enveloping your shoulders. He pulls out a tightly rolled joint, eyeing you with a raised brow. “What’s with all the ‘Mrs. Harrington’ business?” he asks, placing the joint between his lips and fishing a brass Zippo from his pants pocket. “Did you get married and forget to invite me?”

Your eyes flash skyward as he lights it with a practiced flick and takes a deep drag. “I don’t know...Steve encourages it. I think it’s his way of reminding me he’s waiting for me to set a date.”

He passes you the joint and blows out a lung full of white smoke that swirls into the night air. “You have left the poor sap waiting for a while.”

“I don’t want to talk about my relationship with you, Eddie,” you say, flicking the ash off the burning paper's end before pressing it to your lips and inhaling.

“Why not?” His gaze probes, seeking an opening, a slip, anything. “Friends talk about their relationships, don’t they?”

You can’t help but cough, the potency of the smoke catching you off guard. “You know exactly why not,” you retort, passing the joint back to him. A soft fog settles over your thoughts, smoothing out the evening’s sharpness. “And you? Volunteering to help with the guest list...” You eye him skeptically, “Trying to ease your conscience?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he takes another hit, “It was only a couple of texts, doll,” he says, passing the joint back to you, his fingers brushing yours. “Trust me, I sleep just fine at night. What’s between you and me started long before Steve entered the picture.”

"Well, he’s here now," you assert with defiance, your gaze locked with Eddie's as the joint burns down in your fingers.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, guiding your left hand into the streetlamp's glow until the diamond on your finger flashes. "I guess he is. But doll," he steps closer, his eyes holding yours, "so am I."

“Yeah? Let’s wait and see if you stick around this time.” Your skepticism is clear as you bring the joint back to your lips, watching his face fall with your pointed words.

“So this is where the cool kids hang out,” Hopper’s gruff voice cuts into the night, anchoring you back to reality. Eddie takes a step away from you, his hands tugging on the ends of his curls. Hopper’s eyes narrow on the joint between your fingers. “Really think it’s wise to smoke grass at a work function?”

“I promise not to operate any heavy machinery,” you respond in a dry tone, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

The older man’s eyes shoot skyward before he holds out an expectant hand, “Give it here.”

You hand it over, and the burning paper crackles as he takes a practiced drag, “Are you going to introduce me?”

“Sorry. Yeah,” you rub your forehead, “James Hopper, this is my…um, friend, Eddie Munson.” Eddie leans forward, reaching out to shake hands as you quickly explain, “Hopper’s my editor.” The steadiness in your voice doesn’t quite bridge the awkward moment.

Eddie’s brows raise as Hopper’s hand closes over his in a crushing grip. “Hell of a grip,” Eddie comments with a question written across his face.

“A handshake is a good measure of man,” Hopper offers him no other explanation, handing him back the smoking joint before turning to you. “I expect a write-up of the launch on my desk by 10:30 tomorrow for the digital edition. And don’t skimp on the details about the radio service. Downtown is keen on pushing this, so I hope you paid attention.”

“No problem, Hop. I’m on it,” you assure him.

“Now, I’m going home to Joyce. If she gets a whiff of this on me, I’m sending her your way.”

“You’ll be in the clear,” you promise with a soft grin.

Hopper's stern demeanor gives way to something gentler. “Alright,” he says with a nod, “Enjoy your evening, kid.” His eyes dart to Eddie. “But not too much.”

“Jesus, that’s your editor?” Eddie asks once Hopper is out of sight. “The guy missed his calling, he would’ve made a great cop.”

Your laughter accompanies the dismissive shake of your head. “We better go back inside.”

The walk back is steeped in quiet, the night’s emotions a heavy weight that weaves threads of weariness and a dull ache through your limbs. Eddie appears less burdened, wearing an expression of contentment, his hand slipping beneath the fabric of his jacket still resting over your shoulders. The warmth of his palm seeps into the bare skin of your back while his thumb traces soothing circles along your spine. Carried in on a breeze, the earthy spice of late-blooming asters mingle with the vibrant colors of marigolds softened under the glowing canopy of string lights.

As you near the terrace, the murmur of voices grows, and the sparse groups of people along the pathway thicken to a full gathering. The shift from the lake’s tranquility to the party's bright lights and crescendo of conversations is jarring. The solarium overflows with party-goers, their inhibitions loosened by drinks as they flood the dance floor, the music swelling louder and more insistent than before. Despite the sea of people, it takes only moments for Steve’s gaze to lock onto yours across the room as you reenter with Eddie by your side.

Without hesitation, he leaves the conversation he'd been having and moves toward you. The corners of your mouth lift in a greeting that isn’t returned. His forehead creases with a question. The air seems thicker as you slide the jacket off, returning it to Eddie, the tightness in your chest reappearing. Steve's jaw clenches as he reaches you, his arm circling your waist. “I’ll take my fiance back now, Munson.”

Eddie’s smirk sharpens as he hooks his jacket over one shoulder, “Just keeping an eye on her for you, buddy. Couldn’t leave the lady alone with all these musicians wandering around.” He leans closer, his free hand circling his mouth, “They tend to get a little handsy.”

"Thanks, pal," Steve replies, the last word stretched tight as he stands taller. “I’ll take it from here.”

Eddie’s gaze drops to his feet momentarily before his head lifts. Amusement widens his grin, reflecting a confidence that borders on smug. His feet shuffle as he adjusts his posture to match Steve’s. A twist of nerves tightens your stomach as a spark that you know all too well brightens Eddie’s eyes like an echo of the cocky teenager he once was.

“How about that dance you promised me, handsome?” you blurt, cutting Eddie off just as his mouth opens to respond. Stepping between them, you intertwine your fingers with Steve's and tug him toward the dance floor. As if on cue, the music mellows to a slower tempo.

Steve’s stare remains on Eddie as his arms circle your waist. “You know, it’s funny, I never realized what a dick Eddie is.”

Your head turns to see Eddie watching you with hands shoved in his pocket. “You barely spoke to him all night. What led you to that conclusion?”

Robin bops over to meet him, her blue eyes gleaming as she tugs at his arm, trying to coax him into a dance despite his shaking head.

“I don’t know. The guy is just rubbing me the wrong way,” Steve doesn’t hide the irritation in his voice as he turns you so you’re facing away from them.

A burst of protectiveness that has been dormant since high school wells up like a hot spring. The words escape before your better judgment can catch them. “Really. Are you sure it’s not because he’s my friend?”

The mossy green rings of his eyes burn into yours for only a moment before he blows out a soft breath. “Let’s not fight.” His big hand slides down to rest low on your back as he pulls you closer. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone all night,” he says into your ear before his mouth covers yours hotly, leaving you whirling with his quick change. “Where have you been all night, Ace?”

One side of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, but his confident mask slips. Behind his eyes, he’s lost—the familiarity tugs at you. Rising on your toes, you press your lips to his. “I’m right here.”

His expression softens, radiating a comforting warmth as his lips brush your temple. The rhythm of the song wraps around you both like a truce. Burying your cheek into Steve’s shoulder, your gaze follows Eddie as he turns his back and heads for the door.

Steve leans closer to the bathroom mirror, his fingertips shiny with the pomade he's using to piece out the strands of his chestnut hair.

“Don’t forget your glasses,” you remind him, turning away from the open doorway and entering your bedroom.

“Or the tickets,” you toss out, noticing the white envelope on his night table.

“What would I do without you, Ace?” His voice floats from the bathroom, light and teasing.

Settling at the end of your bed, you pick up the novel you started recently, the book's weight familiar in your lap. Seeing Steve so relaxed and happy broadens your smile. He deserves this night out to blow off a little steam. City Beats' launch exceeded every expectation. A success that's finally turned the heads of the old guard at Second City toward the efforts of their youngest executive. Of course, memories are short, and victories are fleeting.

Steve's workload hasn't lessened, and the prospect of taking the platform national is still on the horizon, but you've set aside any misgivings, at least for now. It’s been a week since you surprised him with the Bulls tickets during his birthday dinner at Maple and Ash, Steve’s favorite, surrounded by your closest friends–with one empty chair at the table when Eddie hadn’t shown.

“Sure you don’t want to come? I still have an extra ticket,” He asks, emerging through the pocket doors separating your bedroom from the closet. Securing his Jaeger-Lecoultre watch to his wrist, the scent of Dior Homme follows him.

You glance down at your cozy leggings and cream wrap sweater. “I’ve got big plans tonight, handsome.” You hold up the book against your chest. “Didn’t anyone from your pick-up game want the ticket? Or those guys you play racquetball with?”

“I didn't get a chance to ask until the last minute,” he explains. “Robin called my office about fifty times to harass me about inviting Eddie to the game. It took me all week to get the guy on the phone, and then he turned me down flat.” He shakes his head, walking over to his nightstand to retrieve the tickets.

“I don't think Eddie is much of a sports guy,” you muse, glancing down at your fingers, folding and unfolding a dog-eared page. “He used to say he didn't have time for throwing balls into laundry baskets. He’d go on and on about the unfairness of high school politics.” A quiet laugh escapes your mouth along with the memory. “He could be so dramatic back then.”

When you lift your eyes, Steve's standing frozen in place, the deep line between his brows wiping away his easy demeanor. He's looking at you like he's just found an uninvited stranger in his bed. It’s just a flash before he recovers, his features returning to the affectionate expression he usually carries for you, but it was enough. The parts of yourself you keep hidden loom like an iceberg–he’s just spotted the tip. You draw your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Yeah?” He pauses, the air between you thickening as a hint of challenge colors his voice. “That’s a little weird considering he got us seats at a Lakers game last time I was in LA.”

The silence stretches just a moment longer. “Guess he’s not the same guy you knew back in Hawkins. But then again, none of us are, right?” He lets the question hover, knowing an answer isn’t coming. “People change,” he shrugs, his gaze intense and probing. “Or maybe we just never really knew them at all.”

He steps closer and leans in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a kiss that punctuates the conversation. His tone, sharp and heavy like a dull knife, cuts deep as he turns to leave. “Enjoy your book.”

“Wait.” You slip off the bed, bridging the gap between you. Your fingers tangle in the material of his shirt, drawing him closer until your lips meet his, adding pressure until his arms circle your waist and he kisses you back. His embrace grows warmer as your tongue slides into his mouth, grazing his before pulling back, making him chase you, and he does. You break away but keep him close, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath a warm whisper as his nose runs along your cheek. “Have fun, okay?” you murmur against his lips as his hands slide up and down your back. “Knock back a few. Yell at the Ref. Get Jonathan drunk enough to annoy Nancy.”

He chuckles, a smile lifting his cheeks. “You got it, Ace.” His eyes close as his lips find yours again. “I love you.”

"I love you too, Steve," you whisper, your fingers uncurling from his shirt as you let him go. He takes your hand as you follow him downstairs. He opens the front door to a car waiting at the curb, the driver hoping out to open the backdoor.

“I’ll see you in a few hours.” He smiles, picking up his keys from the small table.

The cold air rushes in from outside, and you pull your sweater tighter around your neck. Watching him step through the door, you call out, “Happy Birthday, handsome.”

As you close the door, Steve pauses on the landing with a thoughtful look crossing his face. “You know, now that I think about it, Eddie didn’t stop yapping that entire game. Maybe you’re right after all. The guy just doesn’t like sports.”

You give a noncommittal shrug, your fingers tightening around the edge of the door. "What did you talk about?"

“Can’t remember,” he shakes his head, resuming his descent down the steps. You watch for a moment longer before closing the door and latching the deadbolt.

With a sigh, you turn back to the now quiet house. The soft pad of your fluffy socks muffles your footsteps as you drift through the rooms, dimming the overhead lights to let the warmer glow of lamps bathe the space in a comforting light. You head to the kitchen, grabbing the remote from the counter. At the press of a button, the scratch of a guitar and a gravelly voice fill the silence, as comforting as an old friend.

You mouth the lyrics as you reach for a wine glass from the cupboard. With a practiced motion, you uncork a bottle of red, filling your glass halfway, only to keep going until it's right to the brim. The song shifts as you leave the kitchen, glass in hand, taking a sip, the rich flavors of dark fruit and spice mingling perfectly, soothingly. Sinking into the couch, you tip your head back against the cushion, letting the music and the stillness envelop you. Your eyes close, the lyrics weaving a soothing spell, chasing dark thoughts away.

The peace is predictably short-lived. A buzz jolts you. The phone tucked into your leggings vibrates with an incoming call. You try to ignore it, letting it ring to voicemail, but it buzzes again—this time a text. With a resigned huff, you pull it out and unlock the screen with a click.

Missed Call – Eddie

Eddie: Your neighbors don’t complain when you play music that loud?

You blink down at the screen and then lift your gaze to the room's dark corners.

Eddie: Don’t get freaked out. Just come to the door.

Pushing off the couch, you pad through the house to the front door and open it to the chilly November night. A brisk gust of wind blows down your street, swirling dried red and orange leaves around Eddie's black leather boots, where he stands at the base of your steps, bathed in the soft glow of the sconces flanking your door.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of dark-fitted jeans, a cozy half-zip sweater in deep charcoal hugging his broad chest. He looks up at you from under his long lashes, head slightly cocked to the side. “I tried the bell.” His head turns to the street as a passing car splashes water up from the wet pavement. “What kind of sound system is that? I thought Chris was in there with you for a second.”

Wrapping your arms around your chest, your fingers gently rub the fabric of your sweater as you ignore the surrealness of Eddie casually referring to Chris Cornell by his first name. “What are you doing here? Steve's not home.”

“I know. I thought the guy would never leave. How long does it take him to do his hair, anyway?”

“It’s not funny, Eddie. You can’t come in.” You glance down the street to see your neighbor, leash in hand, appear in the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.

“I don’t want to come in, doll. We’re going out. And we're late, so if you could light a fire under it.” Eddie’s lips press into a hard line as your neighbor passes him on the sidewalk, giving him the once-over, the poodle pausing to sniff his legs.

“Evening, Mr. Davis," you acknowledge with a wave as the man continues down the street, shaking his head. You turn back to Eddie, frustration evident in your tone. "I can't go anywhere. I'm not even dressed.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, assessing your attire. “Those look like clothes to me.”

Your head tilts to the side, your expression unwavering.

He glances at the sky and lets out a frustrated sigh before his gaze returns to you. “You look beautiful, doll. Now, please. Just grab your coat,” he implores, his hands pressing together in front of him. “ I promise to have you back before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Your eyes lower to where your toes are wiggling in your socks, “Eddie, I–”

“Well, I could always just hang out here,” he muses, scratching at the scruff on his chin. “Might get awkward when the game lets out.”

“You're not serious,” you challenge, skepticism evident in your tone.

“Oh, aren't I?” he asks, cocking a brow as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Friends hang out together, don’t they?”

“Fine,” you fume. “But I better be back in plenty of time.” You catch the way his smile broadens as you turn back into the house to slip on a pair of boots and grab an old woolen peacoat off the hook by the door. Stepping out onto the stone landing of your brownstone, you hesitate, shooting him another look of apprehension before turning to lock the door.

“Christ, woman, was that so difficult?” He throws his hands in the air as he crosses the street to a shiny black Audi Q7 parked at the curb. With a wave of his hand, he opens the passenger door, beckoning you to climb inside.

The bare branches of the trees sway with the wind, casting moving shadows against the shining asphalt painted with the last of the fallen leaves. You walk across the road to where he’s waiting and step into the SUV. You sink into the plush seat, the smell of leather, smoke, and his cologne assaulting your senses. It's the same scent that seemed to linger for days after your last visit to CursedSound, the one your guilt tried to erase.

Your hands worry themselves in your lap, twisting the diamond on your fourth finger while you wait for him to round the vehicle. The agreement about keeping the lines drawn is fresh in your mind as he climbs into the driver's seat.

Without warning, he leans over you, the warmth of his body invading your space, the pout of his full bottom lip hovering inches from yours. The sharp intake of your breath echoes loudly in the vehicle's quiet confines.

“Seatbelt,” he reminds you, his big brown eyes dancing with amusement as he drags the strap across your shoulder and clicks it into position at your hip.

Heat rises up your neck, burning your cheeks as he settles himself in his seat, strapping in before pressing the button that starts the ignition.

“Shit.” His face falls as he glares at the glowing numbers on his dash. He turns the wheel, lurching the Audi onto the roadway. Your neighborhood disappears in a blur as he turns and heads north. “And I thought LA traffic was bad,” he mutters, weaving in and out of stagnant lanes.

The congestion loosens as he turns onto Lakeshore Drive, heading uptown. The moon hangs low, presiding over the rippling waters of Lake Michigan that stretch out into the night. A vast, dark canvas that reflects the tapestry of light from the towering buildings across the roadway rises to pierce the skyline.

Music from Eddie’s phone plays at a low volume through the stereo. It serves to fill the quiet between you, but there’s something in the clash of the electric guitar and smooth bass that's an itch in your brain. Familiar like a half-remembered dream, but somehow still new.

Your eyes steal glances to your left. His profile fades in and out of shadow with the passing headlights. The sharp line of his jaw tightens with a clench when he’s forced to slow his speed. The baby softness he used to carry in high school has given way to solid angles and the perpetual growth of stubble. There’s no denying it– he’s only gotten more attractive.

His head turns suddenly, catching your stare. Your throat clears as you reach for the knob, turning up the volume and letting the song replace anything about to be said. His hand moves from the gear shift to his thigh, his elegant fingers flexing against his jeans. Your eyes stay fixed on the taillights ahead as the song moves into its final refrain.

"Wait." You reach out to punch the back button, restarting the song. "This is you."

His eyebrows lift in surprise, his mouth parting slightly. "How did you—"

"I’m right, aren’t I?" you interject, pointing at the dash, focusing on the distinct chord progression and the sound of fingers sliding over frets.

"Yeah, it's something I’ve been working on for a while,” he admits, looking at you with soft eyes. “Still trying to figure out a part that's missing."

"I didn’t realize you still played," you comment, adjusting the volume again.

“I don’t know why you're surprised,” he says, reaching back to place his hand on your headrest as he smoothly backs the SUV into a space, turning the wheel to align with the curb. “I don't give up on the things I care about.” He shifts into park and turns off the ignition. “Come on.” His hand lands on your knee in a gentle squeeze. “We’re here.”

Exiting the car, you step onto the empty side street. Ambient light filters down from the high windows of the brick buildings lining both sides of the street. A nondescript bus with blackened windows and a few other cars sit parked at the curb. This is exactly the kind of place you'd normally avoid after dark. Sighing, you round the car to where Eddie is waiting. His hand finds its way to the small of your back, guiding you across the street to a lone, unmarked steel door. With a closed fist, he raps out five quick knocks followed by two slower and turns to you with a grin.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, shoving your hands into your coat pockets and looking up and down the street.

“I’m apologizing.” His words are cut off by the scraping sound of locks, followed by the door swinging open. Bright light spills out, casting a silhouette of a very large, bald man holding a clipboard, nearly obscuring the doorway.

“Can I help you?” booms the man’s voice, reverberating off the surrounding brick.

“I’m on the list,” Eddie says, undeterred.

“Name?” the doorman asks, retrieving a pen from behind his ear.

“Munson,” Eddie responds, glancing at the clipboard. “Edward and guest.”

The man sizes up Eddie with a thorough once-over, his gaze flickers towards you briefly before allowing you both to enter.

Following Eddie, you step inside, the brightness of the overhead fluorescents bouncing off the cinder block walls, causing you to squint after the dimly lit street outside. Flight cases and amp stacks clutter the small vestibule of the venue's loading area. The muffled thrum of a bass line vibrates through the walls and high ceilings.

“You’re cutting it close,” the man grunts, his staff shirt stamped with the Riviera Theater’s logo pulling tight across his chest as he hands Eddie two lanyards with plastic tags.

The sweet sound of a cascade of delicate strings drifts through the air from down the hall opposite you, drawing your attention like a moth to a porch light.

“Is that violins?” Turning toward the sound, tiny sparks ignite in your chest as Eddie slips the lanyard over your head.

“You know the way?” The doorman snaps his clipboard, ignoring your question.

“We’ll find it,” Eddie assures him, his fingers closing around your elbow as he tugs you toward the hallway.

The smile stretching your lips is automatic. Tingles of energy zip through your veins as anticipation builds, like being a kid at Christmas. As the stark fluorescents give way to dimmer bulbs, a murkier haze settles around you, mirroring the anticipation building in your chest. Their soft glow catches the shine of the dark curls resting on Eddie's collar as you trail after him down the maze of narrowing corridors.

Passing by closed doors and bulletin boards tacked with production notes and schedules, you step lightly to avoid the cords snaking across your path. The worn wooden floorboards creak with each step like they are responding to the growing clarity of the strings that now reach your ears, no longer muffled but rich and full.

The baseline of Dreams smooths into its final notes, and applause thunders from the audience. Eddie pauses, his hand resting lightly on your back, guiding you to a halt. You step between him and the canopy of curtains gathered at the stage’s edge, the sounds of the crowd's approval dissipating into the cavernous space. The polished instruments rest in the orchestra’s hands, poised for their next cue. Your hand flies to your mouth as the sight of The Cranberries at center stage fully registers. Dolores O’Riordan’s head turns, catching Eddie’s gaze. With an exasperated look, she taps the watch strapped to her wrist. He mouths a “Sorry,” his head tilting slightly towards you. At that moment, her brown eyes connect with yours. A hint of a smile graces her face before she turns back to the audience, her voice resonating in the stillness, "I was saving this one."

The first sigh of the violin expands with your breath, an arrow soaring through the air, piercing the center of your chest. A thrum of a calloused thumb brushing over the strings of an acoustic guitar accompanies the “Ahhs” of her lilting voice. The harmony is echoed by a cello, then a viola, and another violin, each repetition weaving into the next like a ripple of raindrops on calm water until it all fades into a hush, leaving your stomach swooping in its wake.

The silence shatters with the bold strum of the guitar. The air leaves your lungs in unison with the crashing bassline, the full swell of the strings washing over you like an ocean wave.

If you, if you could return

Don't let it burn

Don't let it fade

In the auditorium's darkness, the audience vanishes until only you and he exist. Eddie stands close, his warmth seeping into you as he presses into you with his shoulder. Clove and tobacco mix with the tang of iron and polished wood. The back of his hand grazes the soft skin of your own, but it’s the stage that holds your attention, pulling you in deeper.

Is that the way we stand?

Were you lying all the time?

Was it just a game to you?

The accompanying musicians close their eyes, becoming extensions of their instruments. Dolores tilts her head, her voice clear and strong, pouring from her slight frame. The music rises through the aged floorboards, tremors of notes climbing your legs and bursting within your chest. Stirring emotions so immense it threatens to spill over as tears sting behind your eyes.

Oh, I thought the world of you

I thought nothing could go wrong

Your head turns and you find Eddie has been watching you the entire time. His throat bobs as he swallows, the bright lights reflecting the shine in his eyes, and now it's you who can't look away. The soft expression he wears is tender and novel. The black lines that have always connected you pull taut, tugging at your heart. Lines that you thought were severed by anger and loneliness.

But I was wrong, I was wrong

But somehow, they’ve remained. Tattered and a little frayed but enduring all the same. At his core, he is who he’s always been, and so are you.

Things wouldn't be so confused

And I wouldn't feel so used

But you always really knew

I just want to be with you

Two souls found each other in the darkness, singing the same song. He brought you here for a reason—he's telling you he's sorry without words, reaching for you through the melody in a way you can't ignore—in a way that matters.

And I'm in so deep

You know I'm such a fool for you

Everything falls away, but the music and your shared heartbeats. Memories flicker, like pages of a faded scrapbook caught in the wind—sunlit and shadowed. The heavy musk of aged velvet curtains shifts into the fresh scent of cut grass and summer nights, the cool touch of lakewater, and the honeyed warmth of sunshine lingering on his skin. Hummed lyrics, shared laughter, the comfort of being by his side. You liked the version of yourself reflected in his eyes.

Recollections you locked away come back in a deluge. Past moments, both sweet and sharp, weave together, softening the edges of old wounds. Each verse, each look from him, peels back layers of hurt you’d clung to. The bitter shell around your heart begins to crack, dislodging the shards within. Lighter now, your wounds can start to mend. The remaining scars are reminders, but a warmth begins to unfurl in their place, reluctant and bewildering. It’s not forgiveness yet, but the possibility is closer for him and for yourself.

You got me wrapped around your finger

Notes spiral upwards, threading through the shadow-laden lattice of ropes and rigging until they dissipate into the darkness above. Under the glare of the stage lights, the harmonies that once defined you rekindle, sparking to life. Your fingers find his with intention, intertwining with deliberate grace, palm to palm, sliding, locked together. Warmth spreads through the both of you. It's unexpected the way lyrics unravel you, making room for something new. Your gaze leaves his, returning to the performance, but you lean into Eddie, your head tipping to rest on his shoulder. The breath releases from his chest in a shuddering sigh. And he feels an awful lot like home.

Do you have to let it linger?

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?

Listen to the acoustic version of Linger here Rest in peace, Delores. Ni bheidh a leitheid ann aris.

Big, huge, giant, hugs and sloppy wet kisses for sticking with me. I know the wait was long. Your encouragement got me through it. Especially Leighanne and Taylor who had to put up with me whining.

All your song suggestions have made this fic so fun to write. Please keep 'em coming.

We are about halfway through, kittens. It's about to get bumpy.

For updates follow @tornupdates

#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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heavenlyraindrops · 1 month ago

Text

The Devil Made Me Do It | Arcane | Silco x Reader | Chapter Seven

available on AO3 and Quotev | visit the first tag to find other chapters | warnings: cuts, mentions of blood, alcohol, brief mentions of blades, profanity, flashback (in italics), smoking, being drunk

summary:

In the midst of an unfortunate run-in with the enforcers, you meet the young revolutionary Silco, and by extension, his friends Vander and Felicia. Growing close friends, you get through life in the undercity together, determined to make Zaun a better place. Until tragedy strikes, and betrayal and carelessness stabs hard enough to turn you bitter. Years later as time solidifies the scars, Silco proves to be a thorn in your side. You, in his. Hatred festers. And your world cracks further open.

Chapter Seven:

The Lanes were in an uproar. Clients talked, of course, and the odd conversation with a newcomer gave you the opportunity to milk every last drop of information that had been withheld from you.

“Silco’s taking over. No one knows what to do.” The man’s shifty eyes followed a worker as they strolled past you both. You grinned and grabbed him.

“Well, sir, this is the best place to forget your troubles,” you purred, and nodded your head at the worker. Clearing your throat, you turned around to leave.

“Wait.” The client hissed. You turned, raising an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “I’ve got friends who I owe a favour. They’re in trouble with someone, and need to lay low for a while.” The worker wrapped his hands around the man’s arm, promptly being ignored as the man took out a pouch, holding it out to you. “Money,” he said gruffly. “To let them hide here.”

You stared at the money, surprised, then narrowed your eyes. “Who exactly are they in trouble with?” Your voice had a sharp, venomous edge to it. The other boy, the worker, upon seeing your sharp expression dropped the man’s arm and scurried away.

“…Can’t say that,” he muttered, eyes downcast. You pouted.

“Oh, but I think you can.”

He looked up. A group of masked women had surrounded him. Sharp blades glinted in the honeyed, rose coloured light.

You stepped towards him slowly and dangerously. He didn’t move, not when you dragged a sharp, metal fingertip down the side of his face, or plucked the money from his trembling hand.

“Is it Silco?” Your voice was soft, apologetic. “You know I can’t make an enemy out of him.”

He didn’t say anything, and you pulled away, and nodded at the girls. One stepped forward to place a cigarette between your teeth and another held a lighter beneath the end. You took a slow drag, eyes unmoving from the man’s nervous face.

Smoke coiled into the thick air as you spoke. “Fine. But I want this-“ you weight the pouch of coins in your flat palm “-in double, and whoever boards here must be at my every disposal.”

The man looked at you, mind turning over the options. You knew he didn’t have much of a choice; he’d looked desperate the moment he set his foot in the building.

“Fine. I’ll bring them and the money tomorrow.”

You didn’t have time to reply before he raced out, pushing past the tinkling beads into the street. You took another smoke-filled breath, and blew it out. The masked girls looked at you expectantly.

“Open the windows,” you said flatly, “before I smoke the place up again.”

A hushed “yes, Madam,” before their footsteps receded down the hallway.

Back in your office, you opened the pouch.

Gold coins spilled out over the table next to the rose. You crouched, turning one over in your finger. It was legitimate. You bit down, a metallic tang flooding your tastebuds. Music played from one of the rooms further down the hall, the sounds of hushed giggles travelling across the carpet. Other than that, it was calm.

Heavy footsteps you’d recognise anywhere sounded from the entrance, and the beaded curtain swept to the side to reveal Sevika’s tall frame standing in the doorway. You looked up from your position on the floor.

“Sevika,” you said flatly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Her eyes flicked to her muddied boots. “Take your shoes off.”

She did as you said, wrenching the footwear off. You smiled coyly and flicked your head at the sofa opposite your own. “Glad you decided to finally pay a visit,” you drawled, blowing smoke as you talked. She eyed the half-open pouch on the rich, dark wood table, gold spilling from it.

You noticed her staring. “Payment,” you said simply. You took a slow drag, crossing your arms as you did so. Still standing, you looked down at her.

“You here for a client.”

“Yes and no.” She knotted her fingers together. “Tell me why someone I’ve been ordered to take out just ran out of here like you’d burned him?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been staking out my place, have you?”

She scoffed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re not that special.”

You smiled. “But I’m definitely on the map.”

“On the map, but not on my boss’ radar, if that’s what you’re so hopeful for.”

At this your cheerful facade fell, settling into disdain. “What do you want, Sevika?”

She shrugged. “I came in here for a good fuck. Just happened to see something else along the way.”

You scoffed, leaning down and stabbing the cigarette into the ashtray with an unusual aggression, different to your usual flowy movements.

“Well, he must have been intimidated.” You flicked your head at the curtains. “Go on. You want me to find you someone myself?”

“No need.” She stood up slowly, dusting herself off. She looked down at you.

“You ever look normal?”

“Huh?”

“You know. Without all the shiny bits and flashiness.”

You sat back. “Of course I do. This,” you waved a hand down your body, “Is just for work. Being eye-catching helps.”

She snorted, then nodded, not bothering to reply as she disappeared behind the beads.

You frowned. Maybe housing someone that Silco wanted was a bad idea.

But maybe you did want the attention from him. Sooner or later, he’d have to face you. Face the fact he left you without a word, when you needed him most. You rolled a coin between your fingers thoughtfully, lounging on the velvet. Your eyes fluttered shut.

Bass made the floor thump beneath your feet as you jostled through the crowd, Vander and Felicia were conversing idly while waiting for patrons to order, and your eyes flew to the figure sitting next to them. Silco was too engrossed in his journal to notice you press yourself to his back, hands covering his eyes.

“Nose buried in a book in the middle of a bar,” you slurred, resting your chin on his shoulder. He tensed, relaxed, melted into the touch. “You’re no fun.”

He gave a low chuckle, one that you felt vibrate against your own chest as he flicked a page. Vander and Felicia side-eyed you both.

“You’re wasted,” he muttered, flicking a page. You shook your head, voice muffled by his shoulder.

“No.” Your hands had fallen to rest around his neck. “Yet.”

“No yet?” He sounded amused. You threw your head back and groaned. “You’re drunk, [name].”

“I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” you said, sliding off of him to flop into a barstool. You watched as he brought a spoon of soup to his mouth, eyes following his tongue which darted out to lick his lips. “Drunk as you think,” you corrected yourself, looking away. “Vander, pour me a glass.”

Vander hummed, amused, as he got up to pour you a non-alcoholic drink. Of course you didn’t know it wasn’t alcoholic, downing it in one go. You wiped your mouth with your sleeve.

“Why are you even writing right now anyways?” You complained. You leaned over and snapped the book shut. He frowned, opening it again, and your palm slammed down on it again. Much to his chagrin.

“Drink with me, Silky.” You pushed your glass towards him, not knowing it was non-alcoholic, and he scoffed, unable to hold on to his annoyance at the hilarity of your actions.

“Don’t call me Silky.”

“Drink with me, Silky.”

“I’m not in the mood.” He pushed your cup away, and you grabbed his hand.

“Dance with me.”

‘Silky’ sighed, frown deepening. “Janna, [name]. Stop pestering me.” His tone had either come out harsher than it was meant to be, or maybe in your drunken state you’d heard it wrong, but your face immediately fell with hurt. He didn’t notice, turning back to his journal.

“Seriously?” Your voice wobbled. He sighed, pushing a strand of his hair out of his eyes.

“Seriously,” he said firmly, not sparing you another glance. A hand went to your shoulder.

“[name], are you okay?” Felicia looked concerned. Your eyes were glassy, face turning red. Silco finally looked up.

But not in time to catch you as you fell off of your stool, hitting the floor with a harsh thud.

A few collective gasps sounded around you. You groaned, hand flying to your forehead as your skull thrummed, head pounding. “Fuckkk.” Your glass which was once in your hand had shattered, a single shard of glass digging into your skin.

Silco dropped his pen, leaning down. He was frowning again, but now out of concern, hovering and unsure what to do with the drunk mess that you were as you sat up and pressed your back to the bottom wall of the bar counter, drawing your knees to your chest.

Or when you burst into tears.

“Oh, [name]-“ he dropped to his knees, looking over you for any bruises. “Are you seriously crying? The fall was that bad?” And then he noticed your bleeding hand and grabbed your wrist. “Oh, Janna.”

You sniffled, wiping your nose. “No,” you mumbled, shoulders still shaking.

“No?” His eyes flicked up to try and catch your gaze, to no avail. “Then what is it?” He muttered, gently plucking out the small shard.

“You don’t want me around!” You wailed, then covered your face with your hands. He stared at you.

“What?”

You didn’t respond, continuing to pathetically sob. He shared a look with Vander, and hauled you up by the shoulder.

“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” He huffed, breath skimming across your hair as your head lolled on his shoulder. You nodded absently.

“Mmmmyeah. M’sorry I lied.” The words that came out of your mouth were nothing short of a jumbled mess as he dragged you across the bar, taking you to the back.

“It’s fine, dear,” he murmured. The door shut and he let you collapse onto a wooden crate. You blinked, vision wavering with tears, around the dusty storage unit. Glasses, crates, even old chairs. You watched as he rummaged around the shelves, items clattering, before he drew out a first aid box.

“Are we on a ship?” You mumbled as he gently took your wrist, thumb smoothing over your skin. He began to dab at the wound. You hissed in pain.

“Oh, stop moving, will you?” He complained, grabbing your wrist again and tugging it forward, back to its original place. “You big baby.” He worked in silence, listening to your sniffles. “We aren’t on a ship. We’re in the Last Drop.” His voice had softened.

“Then why is everything moving?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“Makes sense,” you said, looking up at him, wide-eyed. “I believe you.”

Something in his chest jumped a little as he cast his eyes down, continuing to clean your cut.

By the time he’d patched you up you were sliding off of the crate onto the floor. He stared at the pathetic heap of your body sprawled on the flooring and sighed, nudging you with his foot ever-so-gently.

“Get up, [name].”

“M’sleepy.”

“You can’t sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t wanna go back out there.”

He sat down on the crate, and you looked up at him. He held his hand out. “Come here.”

You pushed yourself to the foot of the crate, laying your head on his lap. He tensed beneath you, relaxed, melted, before letting out a short exhale.

“I meant, get up, [name].”

“No,” you mumbled. His fingers played with a strand of your hair. “Not enough space for the both of us.”

“Which is why we should go outside.”

You groaned. “S’too loud out there.”

Silco was miffed. “You want me to stay holed up in this storage cupboard with you while my legs go numb? Thanks.”

You looked up at him, eyes shiny with tears again. He quickly withdrew his words.

“I’m joking. I’m sorry. You know I’d do that any day.” He thought for a moment. “What’s all this about me not wanting you around?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, the enunciation suddenly clear instead of sloppy. He looked at you. “I’m such a bother. I pissed you off and messed with your journal.” You sniffled. “And now I’m forcing you to stay here with me.”

“You could just let us go outside,” he muttered under his breath, but one look at your face had him melting. “You’re not forcing me,” he said firmly. “And you didn’t annoy me.” He carded his fingers through your locks, pausing as he carefully mulled over his next words. “I’d never not want you around.”

“I just want your attention,” you hiccuped. “I’m so pathetic.”

He tensed again, not that you noticed. “You want my attention?” His heart was thrumming against his ribcage.

You exhaled, eyes only half-open. “More than anything.”

He didn’t know what to say to this, other than drag you to your feet. “You’re drunk,” he said shortly. “We’re going home.”

“Okay, Silky,” you said contentedly. With you on his arm Silco brought you back out to the front of the bar.

“I’m taking her home,” he curtly told Felicia and Vander, who both looked at him, bemused.

“I can go alone,” you protested, but not before he threw your coat around your shoulders.

“You’re drunk out of your mind. It’s not safe.” And with that he promptly led you from the bar.

You stared at him, stumbling a little as the cold air bit at your face. Grabbed his arm tighter, and nodded.

“Thanks.”

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writingjourney · 3 months ago

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cut // terzo // 430 words, gn, sfw, tw minor injury

for @leezlelatch <3

The straight razor moves across his cheek with confident fluidity, muscle memory and the sharp blade allowing for the closest shave possible. Terzo, despite the occasional slip in spatial awareness, has steady hands.

Steady, yes, and practiced in the art of putting on his face, the flawless face, a face that is more of a mask he is only too used to wearing. A face unlike the one that stares back at him now – aging, tired, worn-out, the cracked shell underneath. He meets his eyes in the mirror and slips, the blade's angle altered just enough to slice through his skin.

"Cazzo," he spits, voice sharp as the knife.

The pain has already ceased but the blood runs fast and warm down his neck, painting his foam-covered jaw pink. He is too slow to grab a towel, the fabric of his collar soaking up the blood like a needy sponge.

"Porca puttana, not on my white shirt."

He loses his composure, fragile on any given day as of late, and wipes roughly at his face until the foam comes off. Half-shaved and blood-soiled, his hands curl into angry fists. Pain leaks through the wound, not from the cut but from somewhere deeper.

Then, soft hands, cradling his face with a gentleness that hurts. He has half a mind to pull away but after a moment his lungs deflate and the wound inside closes. You uncurl his stiff fingers, take the towel and throw it aside.

"Sit."

He looks up to meet your eyes and wants to weep. You are beautiful, he thinks, while stubbornly deciding that he did not truly need any help. But how can he complain when those soft fingers now tilt his head back, cleaning the cut with such tenderness that he feels almost like a little boy who basks in even the slightest attention he can get?

"I keep saying this strange razor of yours is too dangerous," you whisper.

"It is more skin-friendly," he says. "And–"

"And it was a gift from your brother, I know."

You finish with a kiss to his unharmed cheek. Before you can move away his hands slide up your backside, pulling you into him against the edge of the tub. He enjoys your hands on him, on his bare face especially, when between kisses you whisper words like handsome and beautiful. On good days he is inclined to believe them.

"Grazie," he breathes into your hair, damp cheek nestled against yours with the barest hint of a scratch.

You press a kiss to his head and hold him a little tighter.

short fic collection

#shock yes i wrote terzo #i did it for my wife #i think this might be the last short for a while now though #terzo x reader #papa emeritus iii x reader #papa emeritus iii fanfiction #terzo fanfiction #short fic collection #scheduled

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potatoesandsunshine · 4 months ago

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I'M LOOKING OUT FOR YOU BUT I DON'T THINK YOU WANNA BE FOUND!!!! OUT!!!!

#I CUT MY HANDS ON A SHARP EDGED CRACK AS I RUN MY FINGERS DOWN YOUR RAZORBACK #I BLEED THE MOST FOR SOMETHING THAT I CAN'T HAVE AS I RUN MY FINGERS DOWN YOUR RAZORBACK

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suzukiblu · 2 months ago

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WIP excerpt for yesdangerpls behind the cut; "mirror mirror". relevant tags: clonecest, gender play, roleplay, daddy kink (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Language,” he says, and gives the other’s ass a sharp swat–a sharp slap, more like, or maybe more like a sharp spank, hard enough half the fucking hall probably hears the impact, and hard enough to make Match jerk again–and then, soothing and reassuring, says, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know it's so hard to be good, but you don't need to act like a brat right now. Daddy’s here. You don't gotta worry about getting my attention when you've already got it. You can just be my sweet baby girl and let me spoil you.”

Match trembles, just once, and his fingers pierce straight through the top of the dresser. Shitty behavior or not, the bastard still hasn't let a fucking drop of his come leak out of him.

Kon is feeling really, really good about himself right now, yeah.

“I know you wanna be good for me,” he breathes, and kneads Match’s ass tight right where he spanked him. Match trembles again. “I'm gonna take care of you so you can be. My special little princess. You like knowing you're special to me, don't you?”

“I–I don’t–” Match tries, his voice all choked and hoarse, and Kon rubs his prostate in sweet, steady little circles and tightens his grip on his ass enough to tug the other up onto the balls of his feet. Match cuts himself off with a tight little whine and arches his back, and Kon slots his rock-hard cock in between his cheeks. “I–I–Daddy, please–”

“There you go, baby girl,” Kon purrs, and grips Match’s hips to squeeze encouragingly. Match’s tone is still a little too rough for the game, a little too deep, but Kon, personally, believes in positive reinforcement. “You’re being so good. You can grind your pussy on Daddy’s dick all you want. Go on. You deserve it.”

Match stutters out a cracked little moan, and it pitches up higher halfway through, so it almost sounds like a question. Kon doesn't grind into him himself; just keeps his hands on his hips, stable and strong and steadying. And Match–hesitates, just barely, and tenses up a little more again, and–

“Do it for me, princess,” Kon murmurs, and then leans down to press the softest, sweetest little kiss he's ever given anyone against the back of Match’s neck, and digs his fingers into his hips hard enough to bruise even a telekinetic half-Kryptonian body.

And Match just fucking melts, and finally rolls his hips back again.

“Daddy,” he moans, and it's all breathy sweetness, and it's also all Kon can do not to shove his dick in him to the root and fuck the bastard so full of his fucking jizz that the other fucking creams himself over it. Match rubs his ass back against his cock all stuttery-sweet and shy, and Kon barely keeps himself from blowing his load right across the small of his back.

That's a way he'd rather see Match marked up, he thinks, and licks the back of his teeth again. The idea of his come all up the other’s back would be better than any fucking brand.

. . . though he wouldn't complain about a pretty little tramp stamp either, now that he's thinking about it.

An S-shield, maybe.

Kon runs a hand up the small of Match’s back as the other keeps up that shy, stuttery grinding; rubs his fingertips into the dip of his spine and traces the sharp-edged diamond shape he’s picturing there. Match’s breath hitches, and hitches harder when Kon rubs his TTK in a little tighter against his prostate; traces the shape of an “S” into that.

Match moans so cute for that “S” that Kon wants to fucking punch a fucking tank about it. And also and even more than that, wants to milk this fucking prick's balls ‘til he's coming fucking dry.

“Bet you'd look so cute in a lacy little thong to match that cami,” he says musingly, tracing the imagined lines of one over Match’s hips and still doing his damnedest to hold himself back from losing control. He's gotta be patient here. It'll pay off better, if he does it right. Or he's pretty sure it will, at least. “Would you pierce your clit for me too, baby? You'd look so sweet all dressed up in lace with your tits and clit all pierced and pretty. Pretty as a princess.”

“‘P-pretty’?” Match half-rasps, his hole trying to clench down on his TTK again, and Kon's gut burns and his dick throbs.

If this isn’t Match encouraging him, then he cannot even fucking imagine what would be.

“So pretty,” he swears roughly, gripping the other's hips bruise-tight again and stroking slow and steady back and forth across his prostate–like he's fucking him, but without his fingers or cock actually opening him up. Without him doing anything that’d make it any harder for Match to keep his come inside him, more like. “Prettiest girl, with the prettiest little pussy. Always so tight and greedy for me, and so sweet whenever you get my dick in you.”

“Can I–have it, Daddy?” Match half-stutters, and rubs his ass back against said dick again as he half-drops his head. He doesn't drop it far enough to keep himself from being able to see them both in the dresser mirror, though, and Kon would already be pretty damn turned on by that fact alone if the bastard didn't decide to keep talking and say–“Can–can my pussy have it, Daddy? So–so I can be–pretty.”

Kon nearly swallows his own tongue, and also nearly comes without his dick getting any more attention than that.

“Fuck,” Kon says.

“Please, Daddy,” Match says, and it comes out very, very soft and quiet. “Wanna be sweet for you.”

“Fuck,” Kon says, and nearly falls off the fucking floor.

“Make me pretty, Daddy,” Match says, his voice this close to fucking tremulous, of all the goddamn things. “Make me–I just–I–please–” Match's voice cracks, and Kon buries a groan against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he just barely manages, gripping the other's hips roughly. “Yeah, baby, I'll make you so pretty. Prettiest you've ever been.”

“Please,” Match chokes, and Kon presses the head of his dick in against the other's hole, rubbing it across it. Match lets out a heated little gasp, Kon pushes in very literally just the tip, and Match immediately comes all over the front of the dresser with a shocked, strangled whimper.

#clonecest #kon el #conner kent #dc match #superboy #wip: mirror mirror #gender play #roleplay #yesdangerpls

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acute-crashout-jeyuso · 6 days ago

Text

Sacrifices (Book 2 of 3 BTR Series) a Jhea Fanfic.

Chapter 28: Mamba.. why?

Jey led Morris through the quiet halls of his and Rhea’s home, his jaw tight as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He could still hear the faint sounds of the party outside—the laughter, the music, the sense of family and celebration—but it felt distant, like a memory slipping away as the tension in the house thickened.

As they neared the stairs, Jey came to an abrupt stop, noticing Morris lingering behind. He turned to see the man standing in front of a photo on the wall—a framed picture of Jey and Rhea. In the image, Jey stood behind Rhea, his arms wrapped protectively around her, his hands resting on her stomach, a symbol of their future together: their first child.

Morris’s lips curled into a faint smile as he reached out, his fingers hovering near the glass. “My Mamba,” he murmured softly, the words laced with a kind of wistful possession that made Jey’s blood boil.

“Don’t,” Jey snapped, stepping between Morris and the photo. His glare was sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get to call her that. Not here. Not ever.”

Morris raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk widening. “Relax, Joshua,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “It’s just a memory. Nothing more.”

Jey’s patience was hanging by a thread. “This ain’t about memories,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now move. My office is this way.”

Morris lingered for a moment longer, his gaze flicking back to the photo as if he were burning it into his memory. Then, with a slow nod, he followed Jey down the hall and into the office.

The room was quiet, the weight of the conversation to come pressing down like a storm cloud. Jey took a seat behind his desk, his posture rigid, while Morris remained standing, his demeanor calm but unsettlingly confident.

For a moment, neither man spoke. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, until Morris finally cleared his throat. “I took care of Mamba’s problem,” he said, his voice steady, almost casual.

Jey’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, you took care of it?”

Morris leaned slightly against the edge of the desk, his hands resting casually at his sides. “My snakes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “They’re gone. I made sure of it.”

Jey’s stomach churned. He didn’t need clarification to know what Morris was implying. Still, his voice was sharp as he responded. “We didn’t ask you to do that.”

Morris shrugged, as if the decision had been obvious. “You didn’t have to,” he said simply. “I would do anything for Mamba. You know that.”

Jey’s hands curled into fists on the desk, his knuckles whitening. “So why are you here, Morris?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “If you’ve already done what you came to do, what’s the point of this visit?”

Morris’s smirk faltered, his expression shifting to something more serious. He straightened, his gaze locking with Jey’s. “Because there’s a snake that isn’t mine,” he said, his tone grave. “And I can’t find him.”

Jey felt a cold chill run down his spine. The weight of Morris’s words hung heavy in the air, their meaning clear but their implications even darker.

“And what exactly does that mean?” Jey asked, his voice steady despite the unease growing in his chest.

Morris’s eyes hardened, his calm demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the intensity beneath. “It means you’ve got a problem of your own,” he said. “And if you’re not careful, that problem’s gonna strike when you least expect it.”

Jey’s mind raced, but his face remained unreadable. “You know something I don’t, Morris?”

Morris smiled faintly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, pushing off the desk, “Or maybe I’m just giving you a friendly warning. Either way, watch your step, Joshua. Not all snakes hiss.”

Jey’s eyes followed Morris, his movements calculated, his expression betraying nothing. “This isn’t a game,” Jey said firmly, masking the unease bubbling beneath his calm demeanor.

Morris tilted his head slightly, the faintest of smirks tugging at the corner of his lips. “But it is, Joshua,” he replied, his voice cool and deliberate. “A game of chess. Only our pieces are snakes, and the stakes… well, they’re everything.”

Jey’s jaw tightened, his hands resting on the edge of his desk. “What are you trying to say? Speak plain.”

Morris moved closer to the bookshelf, idly trailing a finger along its edge, his tone measured. “Someone had whispered to my snakes. Told them lies. Told them that Mamba… could be touched.”

Jey froze, his breath catching for a split second before he regained his composure. “Touched?”

Morris turned, his expression dark. “Yes. Someone planted that idea, Joshua. They wanted my snakes to test the waters, to see if they could reach her. They wanted to see how far they could push before the beast woke up.” He chuckled bitterly. “And they found out the hard way.”

Jey’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room. “Who whispered to them? Who told them that?”

Morris let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “That’s the thing—I don’t know. But whoever it was, they knew exactly what they were doing. They didn’t just want to rattle the cage. They wanted to set it on fire.”

Jey’s fists clenched, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the implications. “So, what? You’re here to tell me you’ve got no answers? You’re supposed to be the guy who knows everything, Morris.”

Morris raised an eyebrow, his expression cold and calculated. “I know this much: whoever it is, they’ve moved their piece. They’re gambling everything on the idea that I’ll clean up their mess. But this isn’t just only about Mamba anymore, Joshua. This is about you and Mamba.”

Jey narrowed his eyes. “Me?”

Morris nodded slowly. “You’re the knight. The piece that protects the queen. And as long as you’re standing, the game stays alive. That makes you a target.”

Jey’s voice dropped, calm but dangerous. “And what about you? What’s your role in all this?”

Morris smiled faintly, the kind of smile that sent a chill down your spine. “I’m just a player who knows how to read the board. But whoever’s pulling these strings isn’t here to win. They’re here to destroy the game entirely. You think they’re after Mamba, but they’re aiming for the king.”

Jey took a step forward, his tone sharp. “What’s their next move?”

Morris shrugged lightly, his demeanor maddeningly relaxed. “That’s for you to figure out. The best chess players don’t just react, Joshua. They anticipate. Know your enemy’s next move before they make it—or this whole thing collapses.”

Jey stared at him, weighing every word, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Protect your queen, Joshua. But don’t forget about the king. Without him, there’s no game left to play.”

“Jey, baby, are you in—” Rhea’s voice trailed off as she opened the door and her eyes landed on Morris. The shift in her demeanor was immediate; she stood still, her gaze locking on him with an intensity that only deepened as Morris’s familiar smile spread across his face.

“The Black Mamba,” Morris said softly, his tone reverent as his eyes settled on her. His attention lingered on the curve of her stomach, his expression flickering with something almost tender. Slowly, he reached out his hand toward her.

Jey, still seated, stiffened, his sharp gaze darting between the two. “Morris—”

But before Jey could intervene, Morris spoke in Polish, his voice smooth, carrying an air of familiarity. “I trust he has taken care of you.”

Rhea’s brows furrowed slightly, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she placed her hands gently over Morris’s, guiding them away from her stomach. Her response, spoken in fluent Polish, was calm and measured. “He has.”

Jey stood, his presence commanding, as he stepped beside Rhea. “What the hell is this?” he asked, his voice low but laced with authority. “You speak Polish now?”

Rhea glanced up at Jey, her eyes soft but steady. “It’s from… a long time ago,” she said, her tone holding a weight that Jey immediately recognized as something she wasn’t ready to explain fully.

Morris, unbothered by Jey’s rising tension, chuckled lightly. “She is full of surprises, isn’t she, Joshua?” He stepped back, folding his hands behind him. “Mamba always had a way of commanding a room.”

Jey’s jaw clenched, his protective instincts flaring. “Enough of the cryptic talk. Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here, Morris? Because this sure as hell isn’t a social call.”

Morris tilted his head, his eyes flickering between Jey and Rhea before he finally took a step back toward the door. “I’ve said what I needed to say. The snakes are quiet—for now. But remember what I told you, Joshua. This game of chess isn’t over.”

He turned to Rhea, bowing his head slightly as if she were royalty. “Mamba,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of finality before he exited the room, leaving the tension behind him like a coiled spring.

The door clicked shut, and Jey immediately turned to Rhea, his eyes searching hers. “What the hell was that about, Rhea? Polish? Morris acting like he knows you better than I do?”

Rhea sighed, stepping away and placing a hand on her stomach, her expression troubled. “Jey, it’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it,” Jey said firmly, his tone softening as he moved closer. “I need to know, Rhea. Especially now.”

She looked up at him, the conflict evident in her eyes. “It’s not something I can explain in just a few words. But… I’ll tell you. Just not tonight. Tonight’s about Jaciyah. Let’s not ruin it.”

Jey exhaled heavily, clearly unsatisfied but respecting her request. He pulled her into his arms, placing a protective hand over hers on her stomach. “Fine. But when Jaciyah and Daya leave for their movie date, we’re talking. No more secrets, Rhea. Not now. Not ever. I’m getting sick of it.”

She nodded, leaning into his chest, her mind spinning with thoughts she wasn’t ready to face. But deep down, she knew the truth wouldn’t stay buried for long.

—

12:11 AM

Jey, Trinity, and Jon sat in the living room on the couches, their expressions unreadable as Rhea stood at the center. Her hands fidgeted nervously at her sides, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Jey’s piercing gaze didn’t leave her face, his silence urging her to speak.

“What I say here tonight,” Rhea began, her voice steady but heavy with emotion, “could get me thrown in jail for life.”

The room remained silent, the tension thick.

Rhea inhaled deeply before continuing, her eyes flicking between the three of them. “When I met Demetri, he was just a small-time drug dealer. He started taking me along on his runs, introducing me to his world. That’s when I first met Charles—his supplier.”

She paused, her voice faltering slightly. “At first, Charles was just a name to me. But he started noticing me, talking about how I could ‘tap into the wrestling world’ to expand their operations. I didn’t know what he meant at the time.”

Trinity interrupted, her voice sharp. “Wait—are you the reason we had to take drug tests every month from 2018 to 2022?”

Rhea’s face fell, and she nodded reluctantly. “Yes. I only dealt to Tegan and Bayley at first. They started sharing it with others on the roster, and it spread.”

Trinity leaned back, crossing her arms in disbelief. “Unreal…”

Rhea sighed, forcing herself to continue. “Once Charles realized how much money I was making, he had Demetri ‘train’ me.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Define ‘train.’”

“Let me finish,” Rhea said, holding up a hand. “Demetri taught me how to shoot—precisely. He called it ‘preparation,’ but I didn’t understand why at first. Then he talked to Morris about my aim, and Morris brought me on. That’s when I became The Black Mamba.”

Jon exchanged a wary glance with Jey, but neither interrupted.

“Demetri was Viper,” Rhea continued, her voice growing steadier. “His friends—Thomas was Cottonmouth, Adam was Copperhead, and Brent was Ball Python. Morris… Morris was our King Cobra.”

Trinity gasped softly, but Rhea pressed on.

“Me and Demetri would make monthly runs to Phoenix, moving product and completing jobs. We always got paid when we came back. It was good money, but…”

Trinity raised her hand again, this time more gently. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but why did Demetri start hitting you?”

Rhea’s expression darkened, her voice softening. “I made a pass at Dustin,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. “From that moment on, every time I tried to stand up for myself, Demetri would ‘correct’ me.”

Jon’s voice broke through the tension, his tone laced with anger and confusion. “Why would you even do this, Rhea? NXT pays well. I don’t see why you’d need to get involved in this kind of mess.”

Rhea hesitated, pain flashing in her eyes. “Because my mom got diagnosed with breast cancer,” she said, her voice breaking. “At first, I sent my salary to help with her treatment, but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t getting by, so I kept doing it.”

Trinity’s face softened, but her voice remained firm. “So you did this… for four years? From 2018 to 2022?”

Rhea nodded, her shoulders slumping. “Yes. It’s what you do when you want to keep your mom alive.”

The group fell silent, the weight of her confession settling over them like a storm cloud.

After a moment, Jon urged her softly, “Go on.”

Rhea swallowed hard, her voice trembling slightly. “In 2021, Morris and I…” She paused, the words catching in her throat.

Jey’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Finish it, Rhea.”

Rhea exhaled shakily, her gaze locking with his. “In 2021, Morris and I made a pact. He promised to protect me from Charles and Demetri, but in return… I had to make sure certain shipments got through. Clean and untouched.”

Trinity’s eyes widened. “What kind of shipments?”

Rhea’s hands fidgeted again, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Weapons. High-grade ones.”

The tension in the room thickened as Rhea's words hung in the air.

Jey's voice broke through the silence. "Anything other than weapons?"

Rhea exhaled heavily, her hands gripping the edge of the table, her fingers trembling. "Morris' personal shipments of his money," she said, each word weighed down with the gravity of the confession. "I had to make deposits in Switzerland. In total, I moved around... 800 million."

The room went still, the weight of what Rhea had just revealed sinking in. Jon's eyes widened.

Trinity blinked, her mouth slightly agape. Jey, however, stayed quiet, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the numbers.

"800 million?" Jon repeated, voice barely a whisper.

Rhea nodded, her gaze flickering around the room. "It wasn't just money. It was the logistics of it. I was a runner. But then, something went wrong."

She paused, gathering her thoughts.

"Morris was raided by the feds. I didn't know it at the time, but Demetri told me-and everyone else-that he had been named King Cobra," Rhea continued, her voice faltering. "But the truth is... I was actually supposed to be in charge. I never knew. I never got the chance."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean you were supposed to be in charge?"

"Demetri stole from Charles," Rhea went on, her eyes flickering to the ground. "He killed him during one of our runs in Phoenix. Demetri took over everything. And then..." She looked up, her voice breaking. "You know what happened after that. I ended Demetri's life in May."

Jon leaned forward, pressing. "But you ended his lite because he sold you as a sex slave, right?"

Rhea's lips parted, but no words came out. The silence stretched painfully.

Jey, unable to hold his emotions any longer, shot up from his seat. "That's why those Polaroids said YOU LIED!" he snapped, his voice raw with fury.

Rhea struggled to find the words, her body tense as she shook her head. But before she could speak, Trinity stepped forward, her hand held out to Jey in a gesture of calm.

"Jey," Trinity said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You need to let her speak."

Jey stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving as his anger simmered just below the surface. He shot a glance at Rhea, his eyes filled with frustration, before finally sitting back down.

“I didn’t lie… I just saw a way out.” Rhea said.

Trinity looked at Rhea, her eyes soft but determined. "I know you have your brain injury, Rhea, but... what do you remember? What happened?"

Rhea exhaled slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ever since Titusville..." She paused, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I remember everything."

Jey's heart clenched at her words, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

"The three men," Rhea continued, her voice cracking, "they were the ones that raped me. Thomas—he was the one that broke into the house in Titusville. But there's one thing I don't know..." Her voice trailed off, as if even speaking the words pained her. "I don't know who put them together. I thought it was Matt, but it wasn't."

Jon's expression hardened. "What do you mean, it wasn't Matt?"

Rhea's face twisted with confusion, her brow furrowed. "I don't know. I thought it was him. But the way everything happened... the way they were put together? It wasn't Matt. I don't know who it was. But they had been planned, had been brought to me... to us."

The room was eerily quiet, everyone processing the enormity of what Rhea had just revealed.

Jey's fists clenched at his sides as the implications of her words washed over him. His heart twisted at the thought of her pain-of all that she had endured without him knowing.

Rhea wiped her face with her sleeve, tears freely falling now. "I never wanted to bring this up. I thought I could protect you. I didn't want you to see me like this... broken. But I don't know who to trust anymore. I don't know who I'm dealing with."

Jey's voice softened, a mixture of concern and pain. "We'll find out, Rhea. We'll find out who's behind all of this. And we'll take care of it."

Rhea looked at Jey, a mix of uncertainty and relief in her eyes. “You’re not mad?” she asked, her voice emitting worry.

Jey studied her for a long moment before responding, his tone even but serious. “Is this the last time? No more surprises?” He paused, looking at her closely. “Cause you speaking Polish threw me off.”

Jon and Trinity, who had been silent until now, exchanged confused glances. “Polish?” they both asked in unison, their eyebrows raised in surprise.

Rhea sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. She glanced at them before answering, her voice carrying the weight of years of hidden truths. “I speak it fluently,” she said, a hint of frustration in her voice as if the revelation had somehow exhausted her.

Jey, still processing everything, leaned in and kissed her gently, his hands cupping her face. “Whatever happens, we will stay together,” he said, his words firm but full of emotion. “Jeremiah, Jesse, and Jeremy will stay here as long as they need to.”

Rhea nodded, her breath catching as she held him tighter, grateful for his reassurance. Their hug lingered, a moment of comfort in the midst of the chaos.

Trinity, breaking the silence, spoke up, her voice casual yet probing. “I mean… what happened to Demetri’s brother, Dustin?”

Rhea’s gaze shifted to Trinity, her expression hardening slightly as the memories flooded back. “He went with his girlfriend, Valerie, to Texas after everything,” she explained, her voice cold and distant.

Trinity nodded, her face thoughtful. “Well, that crosses him off the list,” she said, as if putting a mental mark on Dustin’s name.

Rhea exhaled, the weight of everything she had been carrying now more apparent. “Yeah, but there’s still so much left to figure out,” she murmured, her mind racing through the tangled web of lies and betrayal.

Jey rubbed her back comfortingly. “We’ll figure it out,” he said with quiet determination, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice too.

Trinity raised an eyebrow, looking between the two. “I think we need to keep a closer eye on things. We can’t let anyone slip through the cracks.”

Rhea nodded slowly, her resolve hardening. “We can’t afford to trust anyone anymore.” She looked at Jey, her eyes softening. “But with you… with all of you… I think we stand a chance.”

—

8:11 AM March 8th, 2025

Somewhere outside of Raleigh, NC, Morris sat in the back of his SUV, his mind racing with thoughts of the past and present. The world that he had carefully crafted around him, the empire built on fear and bloodshed, was suddenly feeling fragile.

The hum of the engine and the quiet of the morning did little to settle the unease gnawing at him.

Instead of his trusted bodyguard, Ken, it was Brandon, another bodyguard that use protect Charles. Brandon's eyes flickered nervously in the rearview mirror, his grip on the steering wheel tighter than usual. The silence in the car felt heavy, like something was about to break.

Brandon suddenly pulled over into the agreed upon gas station. The engine cut off, and the headlights cast long shadows across the empty parking lot despite the sun gleaming. Brandon unlocked the doors to the SUV.

He turned to Morris with a look of guilt in his eyes.

Morris raised an eyebrow, his irritation rising.

"Why'd you pull over?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Brandon hesitated, swallowing hard before responding. "I'm sorry, boss."

Before Morris could react, the door on the opposite side of the SUV opened silently. A figure in dark clothing stepped inside, moving with calculated precision. In one fluid motion, the figure produced a cheese slicer, its blade glinting under the dim light.

Morris' eyes widened in shock, but there was no time to react. The blade was pressed to his throat, cutting deep, swift, and lethal. His body went limp, blood pooling beneath him. The once-feared drug lord of Orlando, FL, was now nothing more than a lifeless corpse.

The figure stood over Morris' body, their eyes cold and unreadable. They turned their gaze to Brandon, who was frozen in shock, his face pale.

"Let's start, shall we?" the figure said, their voice calm, almost detached. The words carried a chilling finality.

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