#Outlined on My Finger Printed in My Heart

[naffeclipse]

Bloody Mess

Reader x Sebastian Solace

Commission Info

I'm rattling @o-cinnamonstickz so hard right now for requesting Sebastian with an injured reader! This is my jam, and I'm eating it up! The hot fish continues to plague us both. After an unfortunate turret encounter, the reader requires serious medical attention. It's a good thing Sebastian's shop isn't too far. A medkit or a helping hand could do the trick.

Content Warnings: Injury, blood, and stitches.

———

You hobble down the hallway with a hand pressed to your side. Sanguine oozes between your fingers, shining in the harsh light of the Hadal Blacksite. Every breath draws out a searing shot through your ribs. Every exhale teases your vision with blots of black. 

A mindless urge draws you forward. The room spins and dips as if rocked by waves. Another ribbon of agony cuts deep through your side, lacing through your rib cage and back to the bloody hole taking up your jumpsuit. Dark crimson freely soaks into the fabric. 

Turrets. Why did it have to be turrets in the other room?

You heard the mechanical whir as it trained its barrel on you, the red dot marking its target. The split moment you had to run and escape the line of sight was followed by several ear-drum-shattering discharges. 

The soft metallic fall of shell casings echoed like the drizzle of rain. 

Lacking a medkit on hand, you do, however, have dozens of flash drives and a few thick documents tucked into the pocket opposite your wound. What little good it does you now.

You stumble, almost dropping to your knees but you grit your teeth. A locker brushes your shoulder as you titter dangerously close to collapse. Your hand clenches over your slick and hot injury, wondering how much blood loss is too much. 

If you go down now, you’re not getting back up.

You attempt to push your hair out of your face but only succeed in smearing blood along your temple. Growling quietly, you endure another searing strike. It radiates through your torso as if the bullet had a fine time ping-ponging off of your internal organs.

The tremors working down your limbs spell an inevitable outcome. You force yourself to straighten. A dollop of blood falls to the floor by your feet and you stare down at the splatter for a moment too long.

You are not expected to return. The sharp and constant legal print pierces you with a narrow-straight tip.

A loud, high-pitched sound echoes distantly. Your heart stalls, caught between reserves of adrenaline and what pulsing fear assaults your waning consciousness. 

Pinkie.

The screaming grows. Surging with the last of your strength, you drop your hand from your bleeding side. One step after the other, you throw yourself into forward momentum, fueled only by the absolute terror locked in your veins. Your boot almost catches on your other in your dizzying dash.

Your eyes land upon a vent. The opening emits a light and muscle memory takes hold. 

The wail climbs until a ringing in your eardrums. The world whirls between red and gray and pink. Throwing yourself to the floor, you dive headfirst into the ventilation shaft. Knocking your injured side, a wretched gasp leaves you as stars burst across your vision. Pain roars and gouges at your bullet wound in time with Pinkie’s scream. The lockers lining the hall rattle with the angler fish's force before you scramble the last of the distance into Sebastian’s shop.

Dropping to the cold, gray floor, you sprawl out much in the way a chalk outline of a murder victim would be drawn. The pain rolls over you, pushing you deeper and deeper down. The heat of fresh blood spills over your side and onto the floor, freely flowing into a slowly expanding puddle. Your lungs heave to catch your breath. The darkness spreading around your vision threatens to take you completely under.

You can’t pay the ferryman again. There are only so many coins you can find in this abysmal place. Your life is worth only how much jingles in your pocket, and you’re starting to become dirt cheap. 

A deep snort echoes. Using the last of your strength, you turn your head to the one responsible for the sound, and glower.

Sebastian Solace stands tall in the corner of his shop. His anglerfish lure brightens the gray and gloom with a warm flare. His hands clasped together in front of him. His third waves his claws in a flippant greeting.

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not much safer here with me.” He surveys you, his teal eyes glowing sharp. They upturn with equal disgust and amusement. “Nice diving technique. Ten outta ten.”

If it were any other moment, you would be roiling with anger and offer a rebuttal of preparing him to be made into a fillet. Furious, you have no energy to give to his usual taunts and threats. 

The floor is the most gracious safe haven you have known. The hot spread of blood along your ribcage continues to grow. Deep gulps fill you, but every motion of taking in air tears at the pain digging between your ribs. Silently, you lie in your own crimson.

A mighty shift of Sebastian’s tail slips along the wall. He peers closer, his third eye crinkling while he regards you like a toad that happened to get run over in the street. Repulsion sweeps across his features.

“You’re bleeding in my shop,” he growls low in his throat. “Do you mind?”

Exhaustion clings heavy to your skull. The weight of your eyelids grows tenfold. The wound racks your body until a groan threatens to slip past your lips. 

A scoff of abhorrence leaves him. The heavy thump of a trail begins to drag over the floor. The light shifts, and you stare upwards. Sebastian looms over you, his hands pressing in on either side of you, carefully avoiding the pool of blood your body is making on the floor of his shop.

Good. If nothing else, he’ll remember you by the stains you left behind. You’ll win by being the final nuisance. Hah.

You tense with a tsunami-level crash of agony against your nerves. Everything burns every last sensation. The heat and sear go on endlessly through your bones and along your flesh. 

“Hey, are you going to buy a medkit and fix up the mess you’re making?” his voice comes from far away and all too close as if your head is submerged in water. The tip of a large finger prods at your jumpsuit. “You’re making me hungry.”

Your fuzzy brain finds it funny how the anglerfish lure upon his head douses him in a halo-like glow. As if he’s anything less than a devilish fish coming to torment you in your personal purgatory. 

Not that even angelic light could wash out his disgust with you. 

You try to speak. A faint moan trickles from your lips, “You’re… not gonna… eat me.”

A chuckle echoes, raspy and mischievous. The urge to smack him sends tingles down your hand, but no strength.

“You’re looking pretty tasty.” Sebastian, however, grunts a noise of aversion. 

If you had the strength to laugh derisively, you would.

Flukes swish just in the corner of your dark vision. 

“What happened?” Sebastians’ gaze turns downward. You become aware of more hands roaming your jumpsuit. A large, slick palm presses to your wound. The pressure ignites every pain factor you thought might have settled with rest, and you flail fruitlessly before weakness pins you in place.

“Turret,” you utter, barely coherent. 

“Idiot.” He rolls his tongue. “Should I put you out of your misery? I will charge you for the bullet.”

You groan again. Your hands, slick with red and cold, try reaching for the arms moving you from the floor. 

“Bite… me,” you utter. Your head grows heavy with fog. The fish merchant falls farther away from you as your vision becomes long tunnels.

Light touches you. Warm and yellow, then teal of an unnatural glow. 

“On second thought,” Sebastian declares mockingly, “shooting you would make a bigger mess. I have a well-reputed establishment to run.”

The gurgles of disagreement flowing from you are met with a dismissive wave of claws. His hands, however, fall underneath you. Keeping away from the gaping hole in your body, he secures you in his grasp. In a haze of agony, you float, lighter than air as Sebastian lifts you off the floor. 

“This costs extra,” he mutters.

Your fingers weakly slip off of his arms. The argument in your mouth stays behind your teeth as you watch the shop bleed into grays and slants of light. The blots of warm yellow grow bigger and bigger until darkness inflicts the center. Then, all you understand is a black hole eating all.

Consciousness is fickle. It visits you only to slip out the door just when you think you are now well acquainted.

You hear movement, heavy and slow. The briefest breaths. You even feel a sigh against your temple as someone rubs away dry blood from your face.

Occasionally, you hear yourself. Pained moans fill the room like the hauntings of a ghost. An answering voice shushes you gently. You’re being too loud. Someone thinks so, anyway.

The hands upon your body never leave. They shift, lifting away from the injury that has sent you on this downward spiral into a black nightmare or drawing over your rib cage to secure something tight around you.

Two small pills are pressed to your lips. A voice urges you to be good and take it. You struggle, your eyelids too heavy as if drizzled in sticky sap to open, but your defiance is useless. Claw-tipped fingers clamp your nostrils shut. The immediate need for air answers, and someone shoves the medicine into your open mouth. Despite your incoherent panic, you swallow and gasp.

In a blissful immersion of relief, whatever it was takes hold. You dream of blood and Pinkie’s screaming face, intermingling into one, brightly hued nightmare. Then a void takes its place, and you drift endlessly in a dark sea.

For one brief moment, you truly wake.

Your eyes hardly open. Peering between your eyelashes, you find the light. The warm glow of Sebastian’s anglerfish lure, and his eyes. The teal pierces the darkness beyond where he and you are. He’s bowed low, tucked close to your torso. You lie flat on a cool surface. 

In half-consciousness, you find where his hands touch your side, prodding delicately with a thread and needle at your torn-apart flesh. You don’t feel a thing. Most of the blood is cleared away with an ever-attentive third hand clutching a rag now smeared in crimson. His gaze locks onto your bullet wound. A few mutters fall from his mouth. Curses, you think, for you.

Why would he bother with this charade? He should have left you to die for the simple fact of bleeding all over his shop.

You can come back. You’ve done it before: died, that is. You have been torn apart and chewed up and drowned. Each time didn’t take anything less than a ferryman coin. But each time, you awoke with a dread deep in your chest and a heaviness in your middle.

Does death linger? Sebastian didn’t say either way, but he frowned when you did manage to reach his shop again, and you mentioned how wrong it feels to remember dying.

This must be another dream. Strange but not so horrifying, if not a touch too raw for your heart.

Whatever exhaustion holds you down is back once again, and you slip away without a sound.

The next time your eyelids flutter open, you’re strangely still in Sebastian’s shop. You are curled into the coil of his tail, leaning on your uninjured side. The smooth, blue-gray scales touch you with a warmth you didn’t think the experimented fish guy was capable of giving.

Groggy and slow, you come to in the soft light. You squint up at the shopkeeper. He casually flips through a document, but a flick of his finned ear gives away his awareness of you. A low hum rolls in his chest. The faintest vibrations slip down his serpentine body and touch you. 

A needy want infiltrates you. How long could you stay here, pretending to rest? Maybe it’s not safe here, but it’s safer. You could sleep for a few more minutes.

The dull ache in your side gradually sharpens to a piercing, acute point. Less so than before. It's more contained, and less frightening to feel the hole in your side.

Slowly, you draw your hand down to your jumpsuit. To your amazement, your jumpsuit is still bloody and torn through with a bullet, but through the hole in the fabric is a white bandage. Your fingers roam in a crawl. Bandages wrap over your chest, concentrating on a thick wad pressed directly against your wound. 

You turn a squinted gaze upon Sebastian. He lowers the document with a huff. Faintly, you can smell iron and a strange cleaner. A disinfectant maybe. A glance down to the floor where you previously laid and let your blood spill everywhere is now spotless. 

“Welcome back,” Sebastian cocks his head in your direction. Teal eyes search your expression in a lingering look. “I thought you would never wake up. The sweet sound of your insults was beginning to fade in my memory.”

Your answering groan is all you can give. Stretching your arms slowly and wiggling your toes, you realize you are, in fact, alive. 

And not one ferryman coin is lost from your pocket. A strange concoction of relief and confusion pools into your middle.

Sebastian’s third arm unfurls its claws. The bandages wrapped around the appendage are fresh and less bloody. You suppose he must know a thing or two about medical procedures.

“What did you do?” you ask, less accusatory than perhaps you intended, but all the same, curious. 

“Let’s not worry your pretty head about what I did,” Sebastian growls low. A warning sits in between his teeth. “Next time, don’t get shot.”

You glare up at him. “Not even gonna charge me, huh?”

A wicked grin crosses his mouth, set like a shark about to catch a minnow in its mouth. You stiffen, then cringe at the slight pain. You look down to find a medkit tucked into the waistband of your jumpsuit. Interesting. You haven’t bought one recently. There must be a painkiller or two in there, right? You’re starting to mercilessly spin with pain. 

Popping open the lid, you find just what you hoped for—worth far more than buried treasure. You quickly pop two pills into your mouth and swallow them dry. The weight of Sebastian’s eyes is inescapable. He follows the gulp down your throat.

“Unless you're going to buy anything else, you should get going, sweetheart. Shop’s closed.” His flukes slowly slip along the floor, unwinding his tail from where it keeps you secure in his grasp.

“Right.” A weariness clings to your edges, but your mind is aware. How long have you been resting?

Before you can truly pick yourself off the ground, Sebastian uses the flat of his flukes to scoot you across the floor and into the vent—all without aggravating your bandaged wound.

You don’t offer resistance, too bewildered by how he all but tosses you out. You scurry through the vent and out into the hallway. For one moment, almost breathlessly, you smile smugly.

What a soft-hearted bastard.

You straighten and take a step down the hallway, patting your pockets. Perhaps you’ll give him a few extra documents as a thank you—

But your pockets are empty, and your documents and every single last USB drive are gone.

[daisyvisions]

I Wanna Be Your Dog - (k.yh)

➺ Pairing: Rockstar!Younghoon x Assistant!Reader

➺ Summary: Your job as an assistant to the band is simple: handle their schedule, and do what they ask you to do. But how far are you willing to help one member out with a certain ask if it means keeping your job?

➺ Word Count: 3.8k

➺ Warnings: Smut (18+, minors DNI), fem!reader, unprotected sex, creampies, edging, male masturbation, guided masturbation, handjobs, slight fingering, riding, lots of making out, groping, sexual fantasies, mutual pining (?), younghoon is down bad for reader (sub!younghoon if you squint), marking, mentions of hookups, pet name used (baby)

➺ A/N: Finally, my birthday fic for Younghoon is up! I had planned to write for rockstar younghoon ever since this tiktok edit came out last year. This was not the original story I had in mind but I hated how the outline was going and decided to save it for another member and use this plot instead. Title is inspired from the song of the same name by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts because the lyrics fit so well with one particular scene of the fic (iykyk). Proofread once, enjoy 😉

➺ Network & Tag: @deoboyznet @snowflakewhispers @winterchimez @aimeecarreros (thank you for introducing me to the song 😈)

For as long as you could remember, you've always wanted to work in the music industry. There was something about that chaotic world that you thought was magical. You were so determined to become a part of that universe you didn't care where you would end up.

And that is how you became the assistant to one of the hottest acts to ever grace the stage.

At first, you were way too excited to be involved in the day-to-day of the band's schedule; you didn't even care if you had to run many blocks just to get the specific brand of coffee they wanted.

But soon enough, the rose-colored lenses you had on would crack. Not only did you have to take care of the band's schedule and be at their beck and call, but you were also in charge of cleaning up their mess.

Which is the reason you ended up sitting through a one-hour phone call with the band's manager as he practically yaps your ear off about the band's lead guitarist.

"Do you know how many NDAs I had to sign just so these groupies would keep their mouths shut about Younghoon?" Jacob exclaims.

"I know, I'm the one who prints and mails those documents for you." You sigh heavily.

"The board is getting pissed off. It's getting too much! He has a sex addiction at this point!"

"Well, it's not like we can make him wear a chastity belt or a purity ring to stop him! You know how he gets." You reply, trying to hold in your frustration from how long this call has been going.

"They are in the process of promoting their next album and going on tour. If Younghoon keeps this up and the press finally catches on, it will not be a good look for us all." Jacob takes a deep breath and pauses for a moment.

"I need you to keep him in line," Jacob says to you with a stern voice.

"What?! How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know, you're the assistant. It's your job to take care of those guys. Do something about it or you can say goodbye to your job."

Jacob puts the phone down immediately without even waiting for your reply. You throw your phone to the side, your heart racing as you feel the frustration consuming you, and it's not even eight in the morning.

You can't afford to lose your job. Not after you've worked so hard to get where you are already. And you will definitely not lose your job just because Younghoon can't keep it in his goddamn pants.

No, you're going to do something about this no matter what it takes.

As you insert the spare key in the lock of Younghoon's apartment, you're instantly startled as a figure appears before you. Her disheveled appearance already tells you who or rather, why she's in his apartment. Great, another day of running into a groupie.

"Oh, Lin, isn't it?" You try to give her a smile. You introduce yourself as the band's assistant.

"Oh—hi," she responds, but her eyes were looking elsewhere. "Excuse me, I gotta go, late for… an appointment," she mumbles.

"Of course, it was nice meeting you!" You put on that people-pleasing voice. Lin nods in return before stumbling out the door. You make a mental note to track her address and send her an NDA later in the day.

You walk further into Younghoon's apartment, already listing out in your head the mess you have to clean up later as you quickly scan different areas of the living room. You find him still dead asleep in his bed, probably unaware that his latest conquest has left the building as you walk closer to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Younghoon? You awake?" You gently shake his shoulder. As you continue to wake him up, you're caught by surprise as he grabs your arm and pulls you into his embrace.

"Hey baby, up so early?" His deep morning voice rings in your ear as his face buries into your neck.

You try to keep yourself composed as you wriggle yourself free, but your eyes widen at the sudden realization that doing so was a mistake as you feel something hard digging between your ass.

"Younghoon, I—"

"So eager for round two, huh? Don't worry, baby, I'll let you take the lead this time." He kisses a sensitive spot between your neck and shoulder as his hands start drifting near your hips. Before anything escalates, you pull his hands away and reach behind to flick him in the forehead.

"Younghoon, it's me!" You shout, sitting upright once more and shaking off that fluttering feeling growing inside your stomach.

"Ow. What the— oh. Oh hey!" He smiles at you. "Where's—"

"Already left. Witnessed her walk of shame just as I was going in," you smirk. "I brought you breakfast; better see you outside in ten minutes, alright?" You slap his shoulder to wake him up.

"Alright, alright, I'll get up," he groans as he turns to his side.

"Aw, all this for me? You shouldn't have." Younghoon slings his arm over your shoulder as he watches you set all the food on the counter.

"Just sit down and eat. We need to talk about something." You shrug his arm off.

"To talk… What did I do this time?" He sarcastically replies as he sits across from you.

"It's not what you did this time; it's what you keep on doing, Younghoon." You grab his plate and fill it up with the food on the table.

"Look, Jacob called me this morning, and he's not happy with your—" You pause, trying to come up with a proper way to address the problem.

"With my… what?" Younghoon takes a big bite from his plate, his eyes trained on yours as he waits for you to finish.

"Your sex addiction." You decide to get straight to the point. "You fuck nearly every girl that bats her pretty eyelashes at you or even gives you a decent amount of attention."

"Hey, I can't help myself, you know? This is the rockstar's life, after all." He shrugs as he takes a sip from his glass.

"Yeah, well, if you don't get that controlled and continue thinking with your dick, it's not gonna look good for the press," you reply.

"Since when have we cared about what the press thought?" Younghoon asks with slight irritation in his voice.

"Please, Younghoon, I need you to keep it together just until promotions and the tour are over. My job is on the line here." Your voice starts quivering. Younghoon sees your eyebrows scrunching and the tiny tear forming at the corner of your eye.

Oh, how he wishes he could kiss those worries away right now and keep you close to him. Seeing you like this whenever you're frustrated or upset makes his heart ache with a feeling he can't explain. It's probably because he has a soft spot for you, ever since you started working for them. And if he's the reason that you end up losing your job, he doesn't know how he'll be able to sleep at night.

"Please?" Your tiny voice calls him back to reality as your soft hands hold one of his. And how could he ever say no to you?

"Alright," Younghoon sighs out. "I'll do it. But it's not gonna look pretty." You chuckle at his response.

"I promise you can go back to doing whatever after the promotions. Deal?" You gently squeeze his hand for reassurance. Younghoon places his other hand on top of yours and squeezes in return.

"You got it, boss."

Much to your surprise, Younghoon does a fairly good job at keeping his word. At first, it was a bit difficult, but he somehow managed to pull through.

He couldn't forget that one time he was almost about to fuck the girl lying on his bed until he suddenly remembered your face and how upset you would've been if you found out what he was doing. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing you, so he just came up with a lousy excuse for the groupie to leave and fisted himself later in the night until he was satisfied enough.

And since then, that's what he had been doing to get by. He was either fucking his hand or fleshlight while imagining all the different one-night stands he had in the past. But as the days went by, it was getting harder for him to reach that sweet release. Not even watching porn would get him off the way it did before.

He needed to touch and be touched, a pair of lips kissing him everywhere, and moans of pleasure ringing in his ear… he couldn't wait till the tour was over until he could finally ravish someone and forget their name the next day. Sounds like a shitty way to live but hey, this is the kind of life he chose for himself.

Just two more months, Younghoon, what's the worst that can happen?

Sweat starts to form on Younghoon's forehead as he vigorously pumps his throbbing length. He had been trying to get off for a while now, but it seems nothing has been working. This was the worst case of blue balls he has ever had, and if he doesn't cum any second now, he might go insane.

Younghoon starts to dig deep into his memories of past hookups to see if there was one moment he can use to get himself off. There was one memory that seemed to pop into his mind, but not any of the hookups he had remembered. No, it was a memory of you. The day you came into the apartment to talk to him about his problem.

He recalls the smell of your perfume when he buried his face into your neck, the way your ass rubbed against his morning wood accidentally, and how soft your hands were when you held his hand during breakfast.

His cock throbbed in his hand remembering those small moments, playing an imaginary scenario in his mind wherein you didn't stop his hands from traveling to your hips. How he would've pressed himself into you further and continued kissing your neck. How his hands would’ve groped your breasts tenderly as he whispered filth into your ear and you would’ve moan his name in response.

"So pretty…" he murmurs to himself as he bucks his hips up, thinking how beautiful and kind you've always been to him even if he tends to be an asshole at times.

He moans at the thought of how soft your lips would feel against his own, remembering the time you drunkenly kissed him on the cheek during that one after-party a few days ago. He had to quickly turn away from you to hide his cheeks turning pink.

God, he knows his abstinence from sex has gotten so bad to the point that even the smallest gestures from you are enough to send the blood in his veins right down to his cock. He's never been this hard in his life, and he can't tell anymore if it's because he's blue-balled or because he's thinking about you.

Either way, Younghoon was all up in his head that he didn't even hear his front door being unlocked as you let yourself in.

Your visit to Younghoon's tonight was unplanned. He had forgotten his lucky leather jacket in the studio a week ago, and you took it upon yourself to get it dry-cleaned for him.

As soon as you got the call from the dry cleaners, you thought it would be nice to drop by his place and surprise him with his newly cleaned jacket and bring his favorite food for a late night snack. After all, you wanted to show him how grateful you were for keeping his word.

"Younghoon?" You call out his name. You knew he was home after spotting his keys and wallet on the console table. You try to call his name again but still no response. He must be asleep. I should go check on him, you think to yourself.

Younghoon? He hears your sweet voice ringing in his ear. God, he must be down so bad if he can start hearing you call out his name, as if you're right close by. He can already feel himself closer to the edge as he hears his name once again, pumping himself to the point of no return until his door suddenly swings open.

"Younghoon, I— Oh my god!"

"Shit!"

You both catch each other by surprise.

You tried to look elsewhere, but the image of Younghoon jerking himself off is now burned into your memory, and you don't know what to do. Younghoon, on the other hand, whimpers from the loss of his orgasm.

Had you been delayed by a second or two, he would've released his load onto his stomach, relieving himself of stress. But now, he's on the verge of crying as he feels himself getting incredibly pent up.

"I'm so sorry, I'll just go—" You turn around quickly.

"No, wait!" Younghoon's voice stops you from closing the door. You couldn't help but turn around and face him once more. He looked like he was in pain, his eyes becoming watery as he deeply breathes in and out.

"Help me…" He cries out to you.

"W-what?" Your eyes widen. He can't be serious, right?

"Please! I can't— been trying. I can't do it." A tear falls down his pale cheek.

"Please, it hurts so bad…" He whimpers once again.

"Younghoon, I can't—"

"Please! Just this once. We'll never speak of it again—" He pleads like his life depends on it. And with the way he's looking at you like you're the only one that can help him get out of this sticky situation, how could you say no to him?

"A-alright." Your feet move towards him even before you replied, your body already deciding for you on what you need to do next.

You sit beside him, placing your hand on his thigh as you glance over his hand gripping his cock. You feel your core pulsate at his pink tip peeking out from his fist. But you try your best to completely ignore whatever intrusive thought you have and place your hand on top of his, gently holding it as you look into his eyes.

"Just this once, okay?" You hover above his cock enough for your spit to fall onto the tip and move his hand slowly up and down as you guide him through his orgasm.

This wouldn't be the first time you've seen his cock. The first two times were by pure accident and from afar too. But nothing could've prepared you from seeing his member up close.

The way the veins are protruding from how rock hard he is at the moment, wondering what it must feel like to fill you up to the hilt. You try to think of anything deemed unsexy as you stare at his manhood, but that ends up failing as you start to feel your underwear slowly getting wet by the second.

While you're too caught up in your own thoughts, Younghoon couldn't help but stare at the way you looked at his cock, all slack-jawed and dreamy-eyed. It was like you wanted to do more than guide him, like you were ready to devour him any moment from now. As if a dark cloud of lust is slowly taking over you right before his very own eyes. And that was turning him on a lot.

He subconsciously reaches out for you with his free hand, his fingers holding onto the back of your neck as he pulls you in for a kiss. Your lips are even sweeter than he had imagined, making his heart beat so fast from how soft they feel on his own. Younghoon knows this moment won't last forever, so he decides to just enjoy it while it lasts.

You instantly moan from the feeling of his lips on yours, holding his wrist as you lean forward to press yourself against him. You pull his hand away from his cock and replace it with yours instead, the softness of your palm wrapped around his length making him hiss in pleasure. You start to grip him harder, controlling the pace of your hand jerking him off.

Younghoon groans into your mouth as he slips his tongue inside. His hands grabbing onto your hips before pulling you closer to him to straddle his lap. You continue to jerk him off as his hands start caressing the sides of your body.

"Please…" he whines into your mouth.

"Tell me what you need, Younghoon—" You kiss his cheek before moving down to his neck.

"Wanna touch you— fuck— Can I touch you? Please let me touch you." His eyebrows knit in pleasure as your lips suck a particularly sensitive part of his throat.

Too busy with lightly sucking on his skin, you grab one of his hands and guide him to the front button of your pants, signaling him to remove the article of clothing from you for better access. He wastes no time helping you out of your jeans and having you back on his lap.

His fingers slowly sliding beneath your underwear, groaning at the sensation of how wet your folds are. He's honestly amazed at how you're able to get this wet without being touched; it motivates him to slide his fingers between before finally circling around your sensitive bud.

You let out a soft whine as you feel your knees turn into jelly. All you could think about right now is to sink yourself down onto his member and ride him into the sunset. Somehow it was like he could read your mind as you feel his hand pull your underwear to the side and the other pull you by the hip to align your entrance right above his tip.

"This okay?" You look down at him.

"Y-yeah, more than okay." He stutters.

"C'mere." You lean down to kiss him, slowly letting yourself sink down to the base of his cock.

Both of you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding until you finally sat on his lap. The feeling of Younghoon being fully sheathed inside you already has you seeing stars, and you haven't even moved yet. He swallows your moans as he starts bucking his hips up, holding you in a tight embrace as he fucks himself into your tight hole.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" He mumbles as he pulls his lips away from yours to get a good look at your face.

The way he looked at you as if you had a halo around you was making the butterflies in your stomach flutter like crazy. You knew the effect he had on you, especially when he would randomly flirt with you. But for some reason, the effect of his words felt different.

It was like he was confessing something he had locked up inside of him for a long time, making you blush like an idiot. Your eyebrows knit in pleasure as his thrusts start to become faster. Your walls are gripping him like a vice; he knows he's bound to reach his peak anytime soon.

"Let go for me, Younghoon, you can do it." You whisper in his ear.

As soon as you say these words, a sudden burst of warmth blooms inside you. His hips relax onto the mattress as he comes down from his high, but his hands guide your hips up and down his cock, helping you reach your own release.

He must've been so pent up, you think to yourself as you feel him still incredibly hard inside you. The tip of his manhood nudges that sweet spot deep inside you so good you feel yourself nearly falling over the edge.

"K-keep going, baby—" He breathes out. "Use me."

You take control of your own movement and bounce on him like there's no tomorrow. Your fingernails raking the sensitive skin on his chest as you chase your own high. Younghoon can feel himself reaching his own high too the more you keep this pace up.

Everything about this moment was making him absolutely dizzy. Your walls practically choke holding his dick, his first load already dripping out of you and coating his balls, and the way the squelching sounds echo in the room as you use him for your own pleasure?

He will never look at you the same way ever again. You've officially ruined him for anyone else after this.

"Younghoon, I'm gonna—"

"C'mon baby, cum on me. Fuck— make me yours." He mumbles as he feels close to the edge with you.

After a few more bounces, the rope inside you finally snaps, making you cum so hard you feel like you're going to faint. Younghoon's second release follows right after yours, but this time his load is more than the first. You both know for sure that as soon as he pulls out, a waterfall of your mixed juices is bound to rush out of your hole. So you just decide to keep him close longer as you both try to catch your breath.

You lay your head on his chest, listening to the sound of his breathing pattern slowly regulating as he rubs his hand up and down your back. You both bask in the silence a little longer, secretly savoring the moment before you have to part ways.

"Younghoon?" You lift your head to look up at him. He hums in response.

"If— if ever you need help with this at a different time…" You pause for a moment. "I'd be happy to volunteer." You feel your cheeks burn up at the thought of doing this with Younghoon again.

"Yeah? You wanna help me out?" His eyes widen, his heart beating faster again knowing this wouldn't be the last intimate moment with you.

"Yeah, just as long as you sign an NDA about it." You jokingly reply. He chuckles and kisses your forehead.

"Well, get ready to print a lot of those—" He grabs your ass and gives it a good slap, making you yelp in surprise.

"—because you have a lot of catching up to do."

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 30

part 1 | part 29 | ao3

cw: Steve Harrington committing unforgivable thought crimes (besmirching LotR)

"Uh," Steve stammers as Eddie tugs him off the couch, because he just propositioned the guy while covered in snot and tears and wearing a blanket as a cape, and now that guy is holding his hand.

Eddie doesn't let go after he gets him to his feet. Their fingers lace together, and his palm is soft and warm, his fingers slightly callused. Steve can feel his own pulse pounding in his wrist.

"Simmer down," Eddie teases, "I'm not having sex with you. Yet," he adds with a lewd waggle of his brows when Steve puppy-dog pouts at him. "This is better than sex, anyway."

"If you're having shit sex, maybe.” Steve rolls his eyes and lets himself be dragged past a messy counter, where Eddie stops to grab a black lunch box and a cassette tape, a tissue for Steve’s face, then down the hall to Eddie's bedroom.

"My kingdom," he grins as he shoves the door open and waves Steve through with a bow.

His room is amazing. Awesome and terrible all at once: awesome, because it looks like someone put Eddie’s essence in a blender and ran the blades without a lid, and terrible, because the place is a fucking pigsty. There’s a bag of bread on the floor.

Eddie tells him to make himself at home, so Steve plops down on the edge of his bed, takes in the explosion of artwork tacked to the walls while Eddie buzzes around the room — swoops and swoons like a drunken bee, kicking shit into messy piles, sticking a cig in his mouth and forgetting to find the lighter, turning on the stereo. He pops in the cassette, and Steve lets out a surprised laugh when he hears the upbeat strumming.

"Rumours? Really? That's your 'better than sex' cure?"

Eddie cranks the volume. "It's workin’, ain't it?" he mumbles around the unlit cig.

Steve tries to frown and fails. "…Shut up."

Eddie snickers at him; gives him the cutest smile he's ever seen, nose scrunched up, eyes crinkled at the corners, then he tucks the cigarette behind his ear and shakes his hair out with a grimace. “Christ, it’s hot in here." His hands move to the hem of his shirt. "Look away or don’t, baby, I’m changin’!”

Steve smiles and averts his gaze, falling back on Eddie’s bed and looking at the ceiling with his legs dangled over the edge. In his periphery he can see Eddie hopping gracelessly around the dresser, trying to tug his foot out of the end of his skinny jeans, cursing under his breath; dropping all the ‘g’s off the ends of his words.

"I like your Southern accent."

"Do ya now?" Eddie throws it on thick, really hamming it up, "Well then, I reckon it's plum near the most attractive dad-gum thing y’ever did hear 'round these here pawrts."

Steve honks a mortifyingly stupid laugh, which makes Eddie laugh like a chime in a windstorm, which just makes Steve laugh even more, and maybe Eddie was right.

Maybe this is better than sex.

He wipes at his eyes, misty for a good reason for the first time all night, and when he looks up again Eddie’s dressed in his pajamas. Dark gray gym shorts, a black cut-off tank, the arm holes deep and loose to expose his armpit hair, his ribs.

Steve’s mouth goes dry.

Eddie’s wiry and pale, firm muscle wrapped around his string-bean frame, and he's covered in tattoos — black line art and gray shading, fantastical beasts and staffs and swords, a crazily-detailed set of serpent scales snaking up his side. But it's his legs that catch Steve's eye.

His legs are covered in words. Words and doodles everywhere, from his calves to his thighs, the lines wobbly and thick like Eddie put them there himself. There are quotes in sloppy cursive, longer ones in blocky print; a few stylized to look like comic book dialog, the words POW! and DANGER outlined in spiky bubbles above his knee. Steve wants to trace the lines; rehearse him like a poem, learn each ink stroke with his fingers until he can recite them all by heart.

Eddie catches him staring and gives a small, pleased grin. “Like what you see?”

Steve’s tongue feels too big for his mouth. “Yeah. I really do.”

The smile widens. Eddie clambers onto the bed, stepping over Steve’s head and plopping down beside him with his back against the wall, one leg drawn up, the other stretched out long and loose.

Steve shifts to lay the same direction, and his shoulder brushes Eddie’s leg, his wrist ghosting against his ankle bone. He doesn’t pull away; likes the look of their skin tones side by side — the smooth desert landscape of his inner arm, accented only by a few veins and moles; the riot of ink and art all along Eddie’s shin. Eddie’s feet are bare, and they’re wide, a little hairy (reminds Steve of Dustin’s nerdy ring book, and he almost says as much, but he knows Eddie’s even more obsessed with that shit than the kids are. He really doesn’t want the dude to pop a brain boner and spend the next four hours lecturing Steve about jewelry lore.)

“What are you giggling at down there?” Eddie nudges at his elbow.

“Nothing,” Steve says, and Eddie responds “All right then, keep your secrets” in a silly character voice. He stretches to the side and grabs a joint off the bedside table.

“Now,” he says, voice slipping into that deep, slow sing-song thing he does — his sales pitch tone, Steve realizes. “This part is, of course, completely optional, but. In my humble, expert opinion—”

“So humble,” Steve teases under his breath.

“—It really enhances the whole experience.”

“The Stevie Nicks Therapeu- thera-” Oh, screw it. “Un-saddening Experience?”

“That is correct.” He holds it out over Steve’s face, wiggling it in offering, and Steve thinks about his conversation with Robin over brunch:

"I can't believe you did coke.” "I can't believe you smoked weed." "I know." "Was it okay?" He hasn't tried weed since... "Yeah," she answers seriously. "Yeah, it was okay. It was nice, actually."

“Okay,” he decides. I trust you. “Let’s do it.”

Eddie puts the joint between his lips and lights it up.

—

part 31

listen i know it’s a quote from a movie that will not exist for another 16 years just let me have this. tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[sweetsweetjellybean]

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

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

Masterlist Listen to Fake Plastic Trees Here

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

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lobby is in chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I’ve got time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My apartment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

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

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

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

"What group? The one for annoying assholes." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eddie Munson interview, part one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was surprised that you left it behind." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay-"

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

"Eddie-" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit."

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

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

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

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

"No peeking." He wags a finger.

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

"Okay. Open."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Done what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You made me hate myself."

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

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

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

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

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

"I made you up.”

“No.”

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

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

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

"Damn right, I do." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eddie—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No–” 

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

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

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

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song 5 coming this week! Follow @tornupdates for notifications

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

[tyunzonlystar]

Your sexy professor (K.T.H)

Warnings!!: Breeding, Age gap (22-31), reader is 22, Choking, dom!Taehyun, sub!Reader, Afab!Reader, humiliation? Making out, spit kink, hair pulling, degradation, hickeys/marking, orgasm denial, sir kink, spanking, pussy hitting/slapping, unprotected sex (pls use protection), talk of masturbation, overstimulation, dry humping, oral (F receiving), pet names (good girl, slut, princess, pretty girl, baby, sir, darling, naughty girl, my love, smart girl, honey), multiple orgasms? (2), fingering, slight size kink?? Basically just filth

Summary: You couldn’t stop staring. You know it’s wrong but you can’t help that your sexy professor shows up in those suits where the top is gonna rip from his muscles and the trousers show his print. He knows you’re staring. He likes it. Even he stares at your plush thighs in those short skirts. Word count: 2864

Smut under the cut! MDNI OR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

Everyone called Taehyun "sir" but the way you said it... it was different. It turned him on. Everything you wore, said, did... turned him on. Chewing your pen lids, the way your pen sat between your plush lips, your sexy crop tops, your thigh highs on a cold day, your mini skirts, your acrylic nails,the way you look up at him through your lashes, your soft makeup, the 'hello kitty' tattoo on your abdomen, your cute hairstyles, your decorated notebooks, your perfect handwriting. The way you said "sir", "sir can you help?", "thank you! It makes more sense now!", the way you mumble "what the fuck?" at a question

or even just cursing at classmates.

"OI YOU FUCKING PRICK!" you shout at on of your male classmates

“STOP RUNNING YOU PUSSY!”

Your classmate runs into Taehyuns class and you run in after him and chase him into his seat in the lecture hall.

“Why’d you run? There’s no way you’re scared of me” you laugh

“Y/N you’re a little scary… Like you just chased me into the lecture hall”

“You’re such a scaredy-cat C/N” you say and make your way to your new seat that Taehyun put you in so you’re infront on his desk. You pull out your notebook and pen and lay it on your desk as the room fills up with students. You decide to draw a heart with his initials in and hope he doesn’t notice.. “I mean he wouldn't… right? He has about 100-180 students in that one lecture hall so surely he won't notice” You snap out of your thoughts asoon as he walks in and taps on your desk.

“You’re listening right, Ms L/N?” He asks in his deep voice that you touch yourself to at night with all the recordings you got of him talking.

“Uhm yeah im listening…”

Taehyun  smiles down at you and leans down to your ear

“Good girl”

Your cheeks heat up as you give a small nod and he carries on talking. If you weren't listening before, you definitely weren't now. The only thing running through your mind were his words…

“Good girl” “good girl” “good girl” “good girl”

Once again you’re pulled out of  your thoughts with a tap on your desk causing you to flinch as you look up and your eyes are met with your sexy professor looking at you with a smirk.

“Y/N please stay after class. Count it as a detention for not listening.” He says sternly but only he knew it wasn’t a detention he was gonna give you. So once again you nod your head and start paying attention to what he was saying as your eyes wandered from the board to his broad shoulders, his muscles and obviously his outline…

“I  wonder what he looks like without that shirt on.. Or without any clothes at all.. What does he look like working out?” you think to yourself before copying the person behind you so it looks like you listened. And as you were about to start daydreaming the bell rang. A loud groan fell from your lips, annoyed that in 20 minutes you could be at your dorm in bed doing skincare or even touching yourself but no! Here you are sitting in the now empty classroom with Taehyun standing behind you.  He goes and locks all entries to his classroom so you have a few seconds to fantasize more and he comes back and clears his throat.

“S-sorry sir… How long is my detention?”

“Until I want you to leave so not for a while” He grabs a chair and sits next to you. “Why weren’t you listening to me today Y/N? You always listen. Always the top in my class. You always have the most notes and ask the most questions and even asking for help on harder topics. What’s happened today, hm? Got something or someone on your mind, pretty girl?”

You look down at your skirt and shrug as you sort your thigh highs out. Taehyun grabs you by your chin forcefully and makes you look at him.

“Use your fucking words. I know you’re not dumb.” He smirks

“I-uh.. I was just thinking about what i was gonna do when i uhm get home!” You lie.

“Strike 1 baby. No lies.” He says sternly and pulls you on his lap. “Lie again and i'll kick you from my class” He smiles and places his hands on your hips and grinds you down on him. That immediately made you talk.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I was thinking about you shirtless and what you look like without any clothes on!” you say fastly

“I see…” He smirks and grinds you down harder making you whimper. Taehyun wraps one of his hands around your neck and pulls you in for a messy kiss. His tongue ran against yours and his teeth collided against yours. The kiss was desperate. So desperate. You were clinging onto his tie, grinding down on him as you started chasing your high, salvia was on both of your lips, it was just so desperate and messy. Soon enough you felt your high coming closer and closer and you pulled away from the kiss.

“Close princess?” He said with a smug smile on his face. You whimpered in response as your hips stutter and you let out moans.

“Taehyun! Mmmh… Taehyun- sir! P-please!” You moaned right next to his ear.

“Cum for sir baby”

And with that you came. Just from dry humping him. Wait- his hands weren't slowing you down.. He was making you grind on him harder and faster!

“S-sir! T-too much please!”

“I’m sure I can get another one out of you, hm?” He chuckles.

Once again you were moaning out his name as your second orgasm crashed down on you. Taehyun finally stopped your hips from moving and pulled you by your hair so he could look at your already fucked out face. His thumb tapped your bottom lip and your lips parted. He gathered spit and a sparkly pearl of spit fell from his lips into your mouth.

“Swallow it”

You close your lips and swallow his spit as he smiles at you sweetly.

“Y/N i have some work to do.. So make your way back to your dorm and i'll see you tomorrow sexy girl” He says in a sad tone and he kisses you again.

6:15am

You put on one of your pink skirts that showed off maybe a little too much.. I mean it is just about covering your ass and the top of your thighs. You grab your pink thigh highs with a little white bow on the top and you put on your really cute hello kitty crop top to match the outfit. You then grab a pink jacket and lay it on your bed so you can go and braid 2 little plaits into your hair. Then you go and start doing your skincare routine and then adding some makeup (concealer, mascara, brows, ect.) and of course you have to put on your pretty pink lipgloss. You check the time.

7:30am     

That was just enough time to spray your best smelling body mist all over yourself and doing another outfit check before you left your dorm and took many elevators and stairs to your first class which was sadly not with your sexy professor. It was fine though.  You could just miss that class but you didn’t you went to all your lessons and finally Mr. Kangs class came around so you didn’t eat your lunch just so you could be the first person there. You walk in and you both greet eachother as if nothing happened. After all you couldn't act like you were just last night as everyone would suspect something going on. Some time passed and now he was halfway done with his lecture on whatever subject. You had no clue what was going on, you were daydreaming once again. Surprise surprise.  All it took was two taps on your shoulder and you quickly looked to your side and saw your classmate.

“What?” You say annoyed

“Pay attention.” She said.

“Shut up you freak. All you want is him in your pants for being “such a good girl”” you mock the last part. “He doesn’t want you hun. Sorry to burst your bubble C/N. And if his fine ass doesn’t want you then nobody does so shut the fuck up and leave me alone” You roll your eyes as she looked dumbfounded.

The class ended and she was the first to leave without looking back. Clearly you scared her off your man. Who does she think she is?

“Y/N” Taehyun spoke up.

“What?” You groan

“Excuse you? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“You clearly. Nobody else is here.”

“L/N drop your attitude or do you need me to fuck it out of you?”

“Shut up, that girl was being an annoying cunt.”

“Firstly, don’t tell me to shut up. Secondly, don't take your anger out on me.”

“Sorry sir..”

“Come here”

You get up from your desk and walk over to him and he pulls you onto his lap. Taehyun cups your face and kisses you passionately. His tongue danced along with yours before he pulled away.

“Bend over love”

You stood up and bent over his desk as he flipped your skirt upwards to get a perfect view of your plump ass. He rubbed the flesh then landed a harsh slap on your ass. Then another. And another. And another until there was a red handprint on your ass. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes but before you knew it your cute panties were around your ankles.

“You’re this wet from just spanking? Slut.” He swipes two fingers along your drenched pussy before getting on his knees and kisses your clit. He sucks harshly on your little bud as you let out a loud whimper. Taehyuns long, thick fingers find your tight hole and he inserts 2 and finger fucks you at a fast past and hits all th sweet spots your fingers could never reach.

“S-sir! Tyun ‘m c-close!”

He hums against your clit and it buzzes throughout your whole body as you clench around his fingers he pulls them out and his lips leave your now swollen bud.

“Tyunnnn why’d you do that?” You pout and turn your head to look at him. He shrugs with that same smirk on his face.

“Such a slut for thinking you just get to cum after speaking to me like that. If you think your cuming at all then please darling think again”

He gets off his knees and flips you around so he could sit you on his desk.

He moves your hair and he kisses your neck and sucks dark purple and red splotchy marks into your skin and with every hickey he makes a high pitched whimper left your throat.

“You’re moaning just from me kissing your neck? Oh honey… You’re dripping on my paperwork…”

Your face flushes in embarrassment as you look away.

“Open.” Taehyun commands so you comply and open your mouth a little as a droplet of his spit plops in your mouth and like a good girl you swallow. Taehyun lifts you up and bends you over his desk again. He unbuckles his belt and pulls his trousers and boxers down. He flips you around and your eyes widen at his length as you look up at him.

“You’re going to fucking break me!”

“Shut up. No I won't. Now be a good girl for sir and undo my top, hm?”

You do as he says and take his tie off and your small hands start fiddling with the buttons on his shirt slowly undoing them one by one as it falls off his shoulders and his chest and abs come on show. Your hands trace his abs and once again your flipped around and bent over as he smears his pre-cum around his length before pushing into you inch by inch.  

“Tyun ‘ts t-too big! W-won’t fit..”

“I'll make it fit princess.”

With one last push he was fully inside you and with no warning he was already gripping at your waist and hips slamming into you at an impossible pace. His hand leaves your waist and he slaps your ass earning a loud moan of his name from you. You grip at his desk to try and stabilize yourself so you don't shoot forward. Taehyuns hand finds your hair and tugs it so you’re looking up at him and he leans down and kisses your forehead as his hand leaves your hair and goes around your neck pulling you up to him. The only sounds were skin slapping, your moans and whimpers, his grunts and his whimpers when it felt way too good. Your back flushed against his chest as he sat down on his chair making you ride him, hand never leaving your neck.

“Sir ‘m gonna c-cum..” you whine as you clench around him.

“Oh i don't think so” He grips your hips and makes your movements stop, your orgasm slowly fading away.

“Whyyyyyy” you whine

He ignores you and starts bouncing you on his cock again but before you can do anything you’ve already came around him. Taehyun obviously isn't happy so he lifts you off his cock and pushes you onto his desk, your chest now pressed against the cold wood.

“You naughty fucking girl.” He says in a husky tone before he hits your pussy then pinches your clit making you moan over and over again.

“Count.” One harsh slap to your pussy.

“O-one”... “Two”... “Hnng t-three”... “Fuck! Four”... “Five”... “S-six!”... “Seven”... “E-eight”...

“Good girl”

If your clit was swollen before then it was to be numb by now.

“And just for this session i'll make you pass your quiz from last week”

“Don’t care ‘bout grades just call me your lady” 

“Y/N…”

“I know i'm young but my mind is well beyond my years”

You pick up your panties and kiss his lips.

“See you tomorrow sir!” you leave his class

You woke up and got ready like normal and went to all your classes impatiently waiting for Taehyuns class. Finally it was his class and you got there 20 minutes early.

“Taehyunnnn” You run up to him and he picks you up.

“I missed you Tyunnie” you pout and kiss him

“I missed you too, my love” he kissed you back

He spun you around in his arms and put you down.

“Go sit down okay? Remember to stay after class” He smiles as he greets other students filling the classroom

“Today we have a quiz!” his voice echoed the lecture hall as everyone groaned and he started handing out the tests. Taehyun walked over to you and placed the quiz on your desk and you grabbed his arm.

“You have a question L/N Y/N?”

“If I pass this quiz will you give me your babies?” You whisper in his ear as he gives you a stern look.

“We’ll talk after class” He says as he walks away and hands out the quiz to the other students.

“Silence from now please! This should take you the whole lesson if you get stuck, I'll come help you. But please don’t waste my time if you don't need it.” He projected as he sat at his desk. You tried your hardest on this quiz just so you could pass and you finished 10 minutes before the end of class so you went up to him and handed him your quiz.

“Finished or need help?”

“Finished…”

“I'll start marking it then” He smiles as you sit back down at your desk slowly falling asleep.

The bell awoke you from your little nap as everyone left once again you stayed.

“Pretty girl”

“Hm?”

Taehyun pats his thigh and you walk over to him and sit down on his thigh.

“You’re such a smart girl.. You passed.”

You smiled at his words as he moved your panties to the side and undone his trousers and pulled them down just so his cock could fall out. He lifts you up and slowly sinks you down onto him. Once he was halfway he slammed your hips down which made a scream of his name fall from your lips.

“Fuckkk.. You wanted m-my babies?I’ll give you my fucking babies yeah?” He groans as you nod eagerly. “Fuck N/N im so close. Cum with sir, yeah?”

You whimper at the nickname and nod your head as you clench around him and cum. After a few more bounces on his cock he painted your gummy walls white as your body went limp in his arms.

“Marked as mine now.”

DO NOT STEAL, COPY, TRANSLATE OR POST ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT GIVING CREDIT!!! feel free to reblog though🌸🌸

Tags: @smutnoullitheorem

[hectateovrhere]

Soul, Body, and all

Pairing: Neteyam x male Metkayina reader, eldest son of Tonowari ( the chief)

Summary: you, the aloof eldest son to the chief, do ( your unexpected friend) Neteyam’s ceremonial paint and things get intimate.

A/N: idk how to write summarys but hopeful the story makes up for it this is more first time posting so hope y’all enjoy :) also I added “lore” just to make it more meaningful. Idk-

There was a comfortable silence that hung over you two. Neteyam sat infront of you his eyes catching every detail of your face. You didn’t know what to say and neither did he. An unspoken bond between you two. You were evasive and slippery you were loved but no one really knew you. The chiefs son was what you were and a great warrior; that’s all the reason your tribe needed to love you. You were adamant on keeping everyone at arms length; you weren’t interested in relationships, even with your siblings. No connections meant no feelings getting in the way of what you believed in. no one could have gotten this close to you but somehow he did.

You traced the structure of his face with white paint sharp and delicate at the same time; he stared as you focused. You place your hand on his shoulder as you got closer you grabbed the yellow paint and outlined his eyes with dots.

“What is the ceremony for?” Neteyam broke the silence

“It’s very spiritual… it allows you to be placed under eywas protection and our protection.” You fingers glided down his neck Neteyam gulped at your touch. “The paint is very important each style is different- they have a unique meaning each of us learn a different technique.”

“What does mine mean?” You pause for a moment coating your hand in pale green paint.

“Kind-hearted. A protector and protected.” You place your hand on his chest you feel his heart beating. “A special soul.” Your painted hand print was left on his chest Neteyam refused to utter a word as if they were jammed in his throat. The wind rushed past you with a whistle and the waves crashed to the shore in a musical pattern.

“Turn around.” You ordered softly now it was your turn to break the silence. He obeyed silently his strong back faced you. Coating your hands once again you place them on his shoulders pushing inward to his shoulder blades replicating that of wings. Your hands halted at his braid.

“Can I?

Neteyam nodded slowly you moved it to the side he shivered as you dotted the outline of his spine.

“The back represents freedom and your choice to look after those around you. A leader. People will follow you anywhere.”

“Will you?” The words slipped through Neteyam’s lips. He cringed at the way it came out like his body reacted on its own ignoring the brain and following his heart. It yearned for you. He failed to figure out how to express it to you and the looming possibility that you didn’t feel the same way terrified him. He couldn’t bare the thought of you slipping through his fingers.

Neteyam’s ears twitched at the way your hands paused. He prepared for the worst. What could you possibly think of an outcast?

“You want me to follow you forever?” You reiterated with a light chuckle; Neteyam flushed he knew it came out wrong. Of course he knew you had your duties you were the chiefs son; you made a promise to your people. He knew all about that; it was him once upon a time. It sounded like he wanted you to run away with him to drop everything and leave.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Neteyam whipped around catching you by surprise you took notice to the distance between you. The short distance you watch his pleading eyes you could tell he was struggling to find the right words to say.

“I want you by my side and I want to stay by yours.” He explained “you’re the only person that makes me feel okay with never going back home. I want to stay with you.”

“What are you saying?”

In that moment time stopped all you could feel were his soft lips on yours. you weren’t sure what to do you’ve never kissed anyone before- you’ve never been this close to someone before. Neteyam was struggling as well both of you unsure about what to do and how to continue but doing it anyway; eventually you got the hang of it syncing with his movements. You could feel his energy enter you, careful not to touch him with your painted hands you attempted to deepen the kiss you wanted to be closer.

Neteyam understood what you wanted and did it for you basically grabbing your head and pulling you towards him. An unfamiliar feeling erupted in your stomach is this what it felt like? To be kissed? You never thought you would experience it. You seen your parents kiss and other people your age do it;but it never interested you. Now you could see why everyone liked to do it; it was nice you felt connected to him like you could feel what he felt, his senses were yours and the world seemed to melt away.

When you both pulled away everything felt cold by the way Neteyam was looking at you he felt the same way.

“Do you understand what I mean now?” He questioned his voice was gentle. you placed your forehead on his; your eyesight being filled with his deep yellow eyes only. You saw him for who he was and all he could be; you saw his heart and mind, his internal battles and his responsibilities. You unraveled before him he saw you, he knew you and you felt free knowing someone finally understood you.

“Neteyam..” you trailed “I see you.”

His eyes widened at your confession “I see you too.”

Your lips met again you held each other delicately disregarding the paint on your hands. this time there was less of a struggle both of you had somewhat of an idea on how to do it; all that mattered was the way it made both of you feel. He caressed every inch of your skin like he had been waiting an eternity to do so. Every inch he followed as if to memorize your body; your skin burned where ever Neteyams wandering fingertips grazed; every touch felt like fire and you savoured every second of it.

Neteyam embraced your warmth accepting it into his body, he could feel your soul. He silently thanked Eywa for guiding him to you this was her plan all along.

He was the only one for you. There was no one else. He was worth losing everything over and you would die before you gave your heart to another. Though you were young; in your heart you knew Neteyam was yours. Soul, body, and all.

[bellaramseysgf]

Home Late (E.M)

Warning(s); Smut 18+ only!, slight dub/noncon,controlling!eddie,spanking,mentions of his rings,praise kink,Eddie covers readers mouth with his hand,brief mention of drugging,insinuated to readers mom being a cougar,one threat of using a paddle.

Pairing(s); Stepdad!Eddie Munson x Afab!Stepdaughter!Reader.

Summary; You come home late and your stepdad take it upon himself to punish you.

A/n; this is the longest Fic I’ve wrote in awhile. It’s also very dear to my heart bc of how much effort I put into it. Please enjoy!!💕

You weren’t one to not follow rules. Whatever your mom said you did. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t eat ice cream for breakfast, make sure you do your chores. It was easy stuff to follow,really that was until he came along.

It was definitely weird seeing your mom date someone less then 5 years older then you. However,she was happy and that was the end of it you assumed. Until this dumbass asked her to marry him and decided to come in and reck your whole life.

He set new rules,changed your garage into some dnd meeting place,wouldn’t let your younger siblings watch tv past 7 and now you had a curfew of 11pm.

It pissed you off how your mom was just okay with it,she just let him come in a rule your world. Now,you were 21 and still living at home.

You still saw yourself as an adult, you work, you help pay for groceries or bills if need be,you were apart of this household. Yet he makes all the rules end of discussion.

You were doing this just to spite him really, just to see that stupid look on his face when he realizes you came home late.

Both Eddie and your mom always went to bed around 11:30, so you coming back at 1am should be just enough time that they’re both sound asleep.

You pushed your key in the lock and turned it as quietly as you could. You stopped to pull your heels off as well so that they wouldn’t clack on the floor.

The house was quiet,no lights on. You made your way to the stairs before a light flicked on and you jumped.

“Just where the hell were you?” You knew before you even turned around it wasn’t your mom who was waiting on you. “None ya.” You stated plainly turning to look at him. “2 hours past curfew, just what were you thinking?” You shrugged “I just lost track of time. I’ll clean something tomorrow to apologize.” “No, I think this needs to be handled a different way.” You raised your brow at him.

Eddie knew you were doing it to upset him, just because it took the man 3 years to finish highschool doesn’t make him stupid. You knew exactly what you were doing.

Eddie beckoned you over with his finger “what” you said annoyed and you walked to meet him in the living room.

You let out a gasp when you were thrown over his legs. “Eddie what the fuck” you were met with his hand pressing over your mouth. “Shut the fuck up. For once.” His open hand bunched your dress up until he saw your cute little cherry printed panties. “You’re so damn annoying.” He said and you gasped when a smack landed on your ass.

You mumbled curses into his hand and started to squirm. “Stay still before I get my paddle” his tone sent delicate shivers through your body. You stopped your squirming and were met with a “good girl” you choked back the whine that wanted to come out at his praise.

“You never want listen.” Smack. “Just so bitchy” smack. “You’re so disrespectful” smack. “You never listen to any rules” smack. “You think you can get away with it?” Smack. “No, you can’t.” Smack. “I’m so tired of your attitude” smack. “Someone needed to remind you of your place.” Smack.

You were in tears. The rings in his fingers leaving defined outlines more then likely. Your ass stung and you wanted to get up and run away before he could realize how wet you’d gotten.

“I bet I know something that’ll help with that attitude.” He said and used his open hand to undo his belt. “If I move my hand you be Fucking quiet.” He demanded and you nodded. He let you up as he worked his pants and boxers off. He wasn’t fully hard but he was almost there, the size of him made your pussy clinch around nothing.

“Panties, give them.” He held out his hand and waited patiently until you handed him the fabric. “You’re gonna sit still until I decide” he informed as he tugged you into his lap. “What..what about my mom?” Youvasked and he chuckled “don’t worry, I made sure she’d stay asleep.” You shivered.

Was he insane? Did he actually drug your mom? Why did that turn you on even more.

Eddie lifted your hips and lined himself up before bottoming out inside you. “Stay still and be a good girl.” He said and you nodded.

After long your eyes got heavy from the nights events. All the dancing you’d done catching up on you’re body,the aches sat in and your eyes became heavy. You let your body slump down into Eddie’s chest.”

“Sleepy?” He asked and you nodded “now you know why I’ve you come home.” He smarted off and you just nodded not having the brain capacity to snap back. “Wanna go to bed?” He asked and you shook your head. “No? Why not?” He asked and you answered with a roll of your hips which wasn’t a good idea, you were met with a slap on your ass afterwords.

“Use your words.” His tone was scolding and you let out a shaky breath “what about this?” You whispered and Eddie chuckled.

“Darling,when did I say I was gonna fuck you?”

[alaydabug2]

Tag list: @sparklenarniawizard @imobsessed123 @nowjumpinthewater @ilikebookssomuch

Broken heart/Broken mind

Chapter Seventy-four

(Human AU)

Sophie and Keefe met in the children's hospital when they were little. Because of how long they were confined to the four walls of the hospital, they became very close during their stay.

As the years pass, they wind up being in the same classroom together due to their physical conditions. This makes their bond deepen.

But are they able to handle when life gets tough, throwing problems and complications their way?

(Tweltfth grade)

"Just one more year, and we can get out of this prison," Marella mumbled, dropping her bag beside her desk.

"Or you could just skip class like I do," Keefe said, joining the science lab table.

Sophie sighed. "How do you have all honors classes.

He shrugged. "To be fair, I don't know either." He let out a laugh. "I barely even pay attention to the teacher. I just wing it on the tests."

Marella glared. "Ok, that's not even fair. I have to study my butt off to be in this class."

Dex took the last seat at the table. "You look rough," he commented.

"Yeah, well," Marella spat, "I've been surviving of energy drinks all summer. School had to come make me actually have a circadian rhythm. Not happy about it."

He held his hands in surrender. "Ok, ok. Jeez, I can tell."

She shot him the finger. Before he could retort, the teacher came in to introduce herself. Sophie pulled out her notebook to write down the information that she needed.

At the end of the day, Sophie went to the administrator's office. She paid her class dues and claimed her parking spot.

She located it in the parking lot. As a senior, she was able to paint her parking spot this year. She figured she'd paint her's as a black swan.

She jumped a little when unexpected arms wrapped around her from behind. She eased when she realized it was just Keefe. He nuzzled the top of her hair, making her giggle.

She turned around to greet him. He tightened his hold on her waist and leaned down to kiss her. Sophie tilted up on her tip toes and circled her arms around his neck. He lifted her up a couple of inches of the ground. That made her squeal a little bit.

When she was let down, she told him, "You should come to Lowe's with me. I'm going to get the stuff to paint my parking lot."

He grinned. "I'd love to. What are you going to paint."

"A black swan. You?"

"I'm thinking of doing the house from Up."

"Ooh, that sounds cool!"

With that, they went to get the paint from the store. Them and their friends decided to wait until Saturday to do it together.

Saturday came, and they all gathered together at the school. Sophie was currently struggling to get the basic silhouette of the swan. Maybe if she sweet talked Keefe.

"Hey, do you think you could help me, Bub," she asked in a sing-song voice.

He snorted. "Sure."

He took the paint brush from her, carefully making an outline of the swan. She kissed his cheek when he gave the brush back.

Sophie glanced at what he was doing she gasped when she saw his drawing. It was extremely detailed. Still, Keefe was looking funny at it.

"That's really good," she told him.

"It's missing something, though," he mumbled.

"The balloons?" Sophie asked.

"Yeah, but I want to do something different for them," he pondered. His face lit up. He passed Sophie a paint brush. "Here, pick a color and paint your hand."

Sophie picked the red up and did what she was asked. When she was finished, Keefe pressed her hand onto the pavement. He grinned when she lifted it up, revealing a handprint.

"Yesss! Here, sign your name on it." He turned around. "Hey guys, come over here. I want you to do something."

When everyone finished their hand prints, he drew the strings to attach them to the hand. They smiled at their work.

[dwoality2123]

Wait for Me?

A presence appears on his vulnerable side. He doesn't turn to look nor does he tense nor let his breath get caught in his throat. “Hi,” he whispers into the tranquil quiet.

“Hi,” he hears barely.

He hums. “Would you mind if you transfer to my other side? It's hard to hear you when your words are this gentle and quiet....and, I want to see you.”

It was quiet but he felt his companion move to his right side. Still, he does not turn to look at the tuft of brown hair better, or the ever-so-slightly blemished warm skin. He merely looks on, admiring the astonishing view that the high vantage point gives him. 

He sees hands fiddling, a rare sign of vulnerability that Zuko finds out of character—to give Zuko with trust he does not know he deserves. A long beat and Jet finally talks 

“Did it ever mean anything?”

“It always did, for me. My heart has always been printed on my sleeve and I am not dishonest enough to be able to fake such authenticity.”

Silence.

“I did lie to you. I have lied about my name, and my character. I have lied about my scar, and about a lot else. But my feelings were as true as the sky is blue. Please, do not doubt that aspect of me.”

Yet another meaningful silence, a moment for his words to settle in Jet's mind.

“It hurt.”

“I know.” And he did. To find that your lover is part of a nation that you so passionately hate. To find that your lover's people were the cause of your misery, the slaughterers of your family and of your friends and of your village. That is a pain pill hard to swallow. “And I'm sorry.”

But, at the same time, Zuko was a child younger than Jet when it happened. And Zuko's only part in that act of sin was his ignorance and complacency. He does not say these things, for he knows he cannot handle Jet's wrath right now. His bellowing voice and his words. 

“I hurt you too,” Jet mumbles almost too quietly for Zuko to pick up on, but he did. Mumbled with a cracking voice.

“You did.”

“I've hurt so many people.”

“You have.”

Jet bends over, forehead touching his hands from where they rest, clasped together, on the half wall before him. He takes a shaky breath and clenches his jaw. And then he straightens himself, moves his hands to grip the wall tightly instead, neck craned upwards and eyes blinking quickly. “What do I do?”

He turns to look at him—looks at the way his tanned skin glows warmly under the golden rays of the sun setting in the horizon, his straw-like hair that tells of a hardened life billowing with the gentle winds, and his brown eyes glinting with amber and hazel...yet dim and haunted. 

Reluctance outlines his hands as his pale fingers glows almost white in contrast to the gaunt cheek to caresses. A miniscule twitch in Jet's hands doesn't go unnoticed, the clench of his fists and the frightful and hesitant gulp of saliva. Yet, despite it all—the fears and the doubts and the distrust, he leans his cheek into Zuko's awaiting palm.

Zuko looks at him with soft and fond eyes, the gold of his eyes glowing brighter than ever with the concentration of the sun in them. Jet looks at him from under his dark lashes for a miniscule moment before looking to the colorful sky. 

Tentatively, Jet's calloused hands—and thin, thinner that it was before, thinner than it should have been, malnourishment highlighting the jutted bones of his knuckles—wraps itself around Zuko's, guiding it gently towards his chapped lips to press a kiss against his reddish knuckles that sends a message of a thousand unspoken words. 

Jet lets his lips rest on the back of Zuko's hand, and in his humble ethereal glow, Zuko sees all the reasons his heart started fluttering for the man in front of him. Jet's eyes are closed and his hand squeezes his a bit tighter, as if he was daydreaming of a universe beyond their knowledge or maybe he was reminiscing of memories that feel out of reach—too good to be true but no less real. 

And Zuko can only watch and ingrain the image into his brain for his mind to see and remember for all the days to come, to dream about in the star-filled nights, to feel when his memories slowly leave him in his old age—if he survives long enough to reach that.

But nothing can stay in the beautiful stasis for long, no matter how much he wishes it to, for time is never on their side and time will continue to take if he lets it. So he turns his hand in Jet's grip and watches him sadly open his eyes with a knowing and resigned glint. He holds Jet's chin and lifts it upward, commanding Jet to look at him. 

Then he goes back to caressing Jet's cheek, letting the pads of his finger ink all of his wishes and desires on Jet's skin, hoping he is open enough for Jet to understand—and he does, if the shaky exhale was anything to go by. Zuko smiles affectionately.

“Let them learn, Jet, let them learn to forgive. And if they cannot, then you learn to let go, to move on and move forward, to heal.” He gently brushes away the fallen lash on Jet's cheek. “Heal, Jet. If not for yourself, then for anyone else. And if not for anyone else, then for yourself.”

Jet's eyes gained a teary sheen and he opened his mouth a bit then closed it with an exhale, pressing himself deeper into the soft touch of Zuko's. And he opens his mouth again to whisper, “I don't know how.”

He gazes into Jet's eyes, thoughts swirling behind the amber hue of his eyes. To say: you will figure it out, that is a promise and that is inevitable. Try and you will succeed. Open your mind and see yourself and see the world, see, Jet. Look and you're going to find what you seek. But for you to be able to move forward, you need to let go, Jet. 

To tell him: you are not alone, not as much as you seem to think. And you will never be alone because I will always be there, at your beck and call. No matter what, I'll figure out a way to get to you.

Instead he says only, “you need to stop focusing on every bad thing and you need to start accepting the good things, or else you'll forever be miserable.”

“I don't deserve to…” Jet trails off.

And Zuko understands what was left unsaid. Because he's felt it so passionately, and believed in it for so long. And he knows it's not true.

“You don't need to deserve happiness, you just need to be. You've done awful things, yes, so make amends. You can't take it all back, but you can't swallow in despair forever.”

Jet looks at him, trying so hard to keep the tears at bay. He understands, just as he understood all of the messages sent in Longshot's language, all the words spelled out in Jet's eyes. 

He presses a passionate kiss to Jet's other cheek and answers, “I will wait. For however long it will take you. For however long it takes you to find yourself and then find me.”

“And if I don't show up?”

He was silent, tasting words and sentences in his tongue, turning them on all sides to formulate something of an answer. “I’ll still love you.” 

Jet hiccups and his breath hitch and tears fall down and he sniffles.

“But I’ll learn to move on, even though I’ll never stop loving you or learn how to. I’ll move on. And maybe we both would find someone else, but you will still be someone I have loved and I will love.”

“Even if I'm like this?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

He presses a kiss to Jet's cheeks.

“I know, and I have never held it against you, but I have long since forgiven you.”

He presses their foreheads together.

“Say it and I will, Jet.”

Jet remains quiet but soon—”Wait for me, please....Zuko?”

He smiles as he feels Jet's breath against his lips. 

“Okay.”

[goldkirk]

Modesty rules I lived with

Note: This is from my experience only. There are many people in this world living with many different sets of modesty guidelines, and no two groups are necessarily the same. My experience is not meant to be representative of every purity culture/modesty/high control group situation.

Homeschool co-op rules

No pants, not even khakis

No shorts

Shirt must be no lower than three fingers from collarbone

No cap sleeves, tank tops, spaghetti straps, or any other kind of sleeveless shirt style

Shirt must not ride up and show any skin if you bend over

Shirt must not ride up and show and skin if you lift hands

Shirt must not show any cleavage if you bend over

Skirts must be at mid-kneecap or below OR Skirt must be below the knee (the rule changed once or twice while I was there, going back and forth between these two)

No prints, not even floral

Clothes cannot be clingy or form-fitting

Shoes can’t have logos

No patterned socks or socks with words or pictures on them

No leggings under skirts

No yoga pants under skirts

You MAY wear jeans under your skirts if it’s super cold, but absolutely no fitted or skinny jeans

No slits in skirts or dresses, even small ones

No skirt or dress should show the curve of your rear

No bras that emphasize the breast area or show nipple, even on accident

Nothing in general that will distract the boys in class, because it’s both disruptive to education and unfair to boys to cause them to stumble in their hearts/minds/etc.

Yes, we did have a giant baggy mens t-shirt of shame if one of the moms decided we broke the modesty guidelines.

Daily life rules

Shirt cannot show cleavage if you bend over

Shirt cannot show skin if you raise your arms

Shirt cannot show skin if you bend over

Pants have to be loose leg, INCLUDING through the thigh–so nothing like flare jeans, fitted bootcuts, or bell bottoms either.

No leggings

Shorts are allowed but must be at LEAST the length of your longest fingertip when your hands are at your sides, resting against your leg

Clothes can’t be tight or too form-fitting (exceptions apply to dresses that have a tastefully fitted bodice part as part of the style, like dresses from the 40s/50s)

Nothing that draws attention to the breasts

Nothing that draws attention to the rear

Nothing that becomes too tight and form-fitting if you bend over

Bottoms cannot show skin if you squat

Bottoms cannot show skin if you bend over

No sheer fabrics

No see through pieces

No bra or under-cami showing allowed, even on accident

No bra outlines allowed

No thin fabrics that show too much

No spaghetti straps or thinner tank top straps

Avoid most tank tops in the first place

No keyholes or other cut-out features

Back of dress or shirt should not be lower than upper-mid-back, and definitely no plunging v’s

No v-necks allowed

No bras that emphasize the chest area or show nipple, even on accident

Nothing in general that could distract or tempt the boys and men that I’m around in public/church/family parties/co-op/etc. because it’s unfair to men to cause them to stumble in their hearts/minds/etc.

I had to perform modesty checks each time I put on clothes (which involves using a full length mirror to check for cleavage and skin showing when you move and bend), to make sure it all went together without breaking rules. Whenever necessary, I’d have to do them for my mom as well, and if I was being particularly stubborn, she would sometimes call in the big guns (my dad) to come in, look me up and down, and back her up that it was inappropriate, because he’s a guy and knows how all guys think when they see xyz (insert modesty crime I’m currently doing/wearing here).

[revacholianpizzaagenda]

Six Sentence Su...Monday! I was kindly tagged by @brainrotdotorg and I didn't think I had a wip with actual words in it (plenty of unwritten outlines... the Ghost Trick crossover of my heart...), but it turns out I have one? This was meant to be a Valentine's Day thing for last year. then the company got me groaning forever with their ~forbidden fruity kisses crap and put me off kimharry for months, and then other things took precedence. I'd still like to finish it, though.

Under a row of chestnut trees, a dozen plastic tables with faded chessboard prints huddle forlornly around a defunct kiosk. “War orphans,” says Harry scratching his chin. “What war, detective? These can’t be older than the Thirties.” “Class war.” “Ah. Of course.” Kim runs a gloved finger along the edge of a board. “Too bad the kiosk must have locked up the pieces. Or they were stolen long ago.” Harry looks at the chessboard, at the pebbles under their feet, at the chessboard again. [...]

Tagging whoever wants to do this!

[helloescapist]

To See His Smile

Word Count: 5,598

Setting: slow burn oneshot, Amajki x GN!reader; SFW

Content Warning(s): none

Summary: From your first encounter with the seemingly stoic hero, Suneater to the aloof senpai of The Big 3, and all of the pieces in between, you adored the many sides of Amajiki Tamaki, but what you loved most of all was the smile he rarely shared.

[Not my art, credit goes to the artist!]

There were so many sides to him, more than just the stoic emerging hero the public knew and adored. More the embodiment of anxiety and social recluse U.A. students were familiar with. There were so many sides to him, layers wrapped delicately and protectively like a rosebud who dared not yet blossom. The first glimpse beneath the surface was enough to have you hooked, not that you had ever intended to meet that fated day.

The train set for the Kansai region bustled with energy having departed on a school excursion. The optimistic chatter amongst classmates. Assigned groups knitted closely together. Some compared brochure notes, dedicated themselves to sight-seeing, the thrill of exploring neighboring temples and aging castles claiming their attention; others simply swapped treats amongst themselves pocky for senbei, health snacks packed by doting parents lost amongst the bargaining, all too willing to subject themselves to a wayward tour. Although based off of the composed members, it was likely their bellies would be their guide. While one group discussed desired activities, hearts poured into escaping to the shopping districts and local fashions, another could be heard just as eagerly plotting buoyant romantic rendezvous, daring to sneak into co-ed hotel rooms. The distant views of sakura trees passing them by, Mount Yoshino’s beauty left astray. Gentle waves of white and pink blossoms framed against a sky outline before the inevitable drawing of the destined station. Your own group partners adored in their perspective uniform, having chattered away as you watched the flowers disappear from view. Of all the things you had considered would happen that day, hanging off the side of a building was not in mind.

                The arrival was swift and full of excitement to the prospect of independence. Quick to disburse luggage at the school-selected onsen, not having bothered to change out of uniforms, and barely having the time to snug a scarf around your neck to protect from the chill the region offered before your group ushered you forward. Your heart practically humming in your eardrums, beyond excited at the prospect of visiting the sky gardens in person. From the shopping opportunities, restaurants, cafes, adorable mascots, and so much more, you were thrilled at the opportunity to immerse yourself in the botanical gardens, and be swept away of the composition of traditional Japanese flora, the even more tempting opportunities to interact with rare species accumulated from other countries, alluring for someone of your particular quirk. And the very reason you had crossed your fingers, prayed to every shrine and every God you could surmise, hinted at your group peers in the hope that they would consider it a stopping place for your voyage—your opportunity mostly provided by Yuki’s enthusiasm for pudding peeked at the mention of a famous café that was hosted by the botanical garden. The hearts were practically shined in her eyes as her hands clasped your own tightly, yanking you forward impatiently and excitedly. Her sunshine yellow hair printed with orange pats, her grin brighter than the sun, and the red plaid of her skirt ruffled as she urged you to run, tossing all decorum to the side. Behind you, the opposite to her energy were your companions, Aoi being pushed forward. Uneasy, murmuring about heights, and Mizuki’s hands pressed firmly across his shoulders as he urged him forward, half bothered to share words of reassurance but not dedicated enough to hide their exhaustion from the train. Your group parting upon the entry of the premise. Yuki pudding bound, her gusto radiating causing her tail to tap eagerly against the ground. Aoi tucked closely behind her, doing his best to remind her of her manners much like a motherly hen. Mizuki having found a fondness for the building’s mascot, and you slipped off to the gardens.

                And it was worth it. So very worth it. The gardens were nothing short of breathtaking. Tiers of gardens coordinated and widespread amongst the indoor radius. Its extensive variety flora captivating viewers. Waves of colors, symphony of scents. The occasional delicate floral notes orchestrated from roses, a tropical hint from palms, spicy white dianthus caryophyllus, and citrus notes from lemon balm. The calming effects of nature at your beck and call, and the colors that graced the sites. Reds derived from ginger plants and celosia. Oranges tinted from fruit bearing trees, kalanchoe thrysiflora, and yellows painted with devil’s tongues, and marigolds. Greens gifted from various ivy types, and dusty hues from barberry, agave, and even Chinese Jujube. Blues of many varieties ranging from lavenders to hydrangeas, and then there were the purples. Mystical wisteria, magical foxglove, and masquerading nightshade. Peaceful, and opportunities you could ever dream of, as you breathed in the warmth. Acknowledged the passing by of viewers. Groups of students that frocked pass you, whispers of romantic proposals, lovers that dared to sneak kisses from prying eyes, and even families on an outing. The only real question was, were to start. Hours poured over studying the brochure and information pamphlets, there were so many wonderful beginnings, opportunities to dive into study. But where? Where? There. Perfuming the air as you inspected petal after petal, delicate to the plant as you leaned over on bent knees, tucking your heart intentionally behind your ear as your lashes grazed your cheeks. The current specimen at your fingertips, dracaena. Careful to avoid any pricks as you inspected its pores, examined soil textures, and took notes on its surrounding, and potential uses. How difficult it would be to manifest this particular plant, and how tasking it might be on your stamina, body, and potential side-affects it may have on the environment, targets, or even yourself. Biting your lips, you were too absorbed in the specimen to notice your surroundings. The rush of students and onlookers peering from windows. Distant noise of explosions that lightly vibrated the spikes upon the Dracaena causing you to glance up, but for later than you would like to admit. Intrigue had turned to terror, people fled from the windows, the shattering of glass, and crumbling of walkways beneath your feet. Stationed at the edge of the sky botanical, visitors flooded the exits, and your heart thrummed in your ears. Eyes locked on the busied exit. A familiar pump of adrenaline in your muscles, but the distant ebb of a wail tore your gaze from escape.

                A little girl dressed in overalls that hung loosely on her shoulders, hung desperately to the ground. Her fingers giving out beneath her as the building swayed with some unseen collision. Her eyes wide as tears rolled from her cheeks. Trembling as she screamed for her guardian, but amongst the growing tragedy, her voice was lost amongst the crumbling rubble. A bite of your lip, and quick calculations in your thoughts as you scanned every flora in your immediate knowledge before devising a half hazard plan drawn from necessity. Drawing yourself forward, you stretched your hands out, manifesting the strength of Chocolate Vines, its scent carried on the smoke as you wound it around a steel beam, the end coiled snug against your wrist as you dived for the child.

                Nope. Of all the possibilities the day offered, it had never occurred to you that you would be hanging from the side of a building, snagged against the side of the building with scratches marring your flesh. Shattered glass and crumbling concrete, and a child secured tightly at your side. Her sobs echoing your ear drums as she buried her nose into the flesh of your ribs. Given the circumstances, what with the life-threatening consequences one wrong move could provide, you hadn’t suspected that of all the whispers of romantic endeavors your classmates had dreamed of would star you. You.

                His mask, adorned in gold trim across his brow pass the bridge of his nose. Indigo tinted, his temple drawn, eyes squinted, and tentacles??? While the information is relatively unsurprising looking back on that fateful day, at the time, it was the quite the shock as he hoisted the combined weight of the child and you towards him before snagging onto your torso. Your vines beginning to wilt and snag, growing weak stressed from the demands. Around you, the building was unstable, the child anxious and trembling, and the boy who held you snug against his gaze followed a distant fight tumble about as he navigated his way to the ground. He seemed sure-footed, his bare feet delicate and adept at mobilizing his body in the quivering structure. It was in that time you etched his figure into your memory. The tips of his ears flushed against the changing winds. Hair the color of fresh blueberries, bangs that hung over baptisia australis eyes that threatened the shade of blue wild indigo blossoms as they refused to meet your own. Focused on the security and the safety of his passengers. What a cute misconception that was—the poor boy was horrified. His stomach had been in the pits, trembling at the close proximity to you, didn’t dare face the humiliation, and even worse, the situation and maneuvering had left him with little choice in positions to support your weight. He didn’t dare meet your eye, too stuck on calculating whether he should adjust his hold and risk dropping the child and you, or risk you believing that he, Suneater was a degenerate that had grasp on your chest, and the inevitable, deserved slap that would accompany it. What would Fat Gum do?

That had been the first of many encounters, and your first glimpse at the man behind the mask, adorned by the alias Suneater. Your initial introduction has been surprising; it wasn’t every day you get flung from a building, and are rescued by a cute elven boy. Let alone one so stoic. You hadn’t missed the gentle glimpse he had given you at the time, as you drew forth a small flower crown for the little one as you awaited the return of her guardians. The sight of its petals giving her a smile as you did your best to manifest other floral distractions. The gentle peek before tugging on his hood, shielding his face, and capturing your heart, but the second layer, the one that you tucked dearly to your heart was as much of a chanced opportunity as your introduction, and a rarity that you suspected only Togata Mirio.

The entrance exam for U.A. was… a lot. It was exhausting. Rounds of machinery hell bent on crushing you and your competitors. If the grueling exam wasn’t one thing, the practical was another. The point system had drawn out the fierce drive in everyone, not to mention the freak situation with that one kid with green hair—what on earth was that? The mere thought of it bore out a sigh from you as you drew yourself outside, searching out a water source and sunshine. Anything to recharge your battery. After all, the number of vines and ivies you had utilized to catapult yourself into the air, and how many rows of thorns you had weaponized itself—you honestly couldn’t count, but were well aware of the drain your body had endured. Your bones ached, and you felt fatigued as you stretched under the shade of a nearby tree, giving yourself a moment before preparing to drag yourself home. Sweat clung to your brow as you breathed in the soft day’s air, languidly wiping it away. You could feel the way your seat suit had clung to your form, not having considered how cutesy they appeared with the cat figure, and the other applicants hadn’t considered you a competent candidate, and admittedly, you felt a little embarrassed by the cat ears that adorned the hoodie, your cheeks burning at the thought. But how could you refuse to wear it? It had purchased with love, a symbol of good luck from your family, and sort of all the more reason why you had chosen a secluded area to cool off before the trek home.

                “Ahhh, that was GREAT!” A booming voice cheered. Deep and enthusiastic, stretched out over taunt muscles, and a wide smile far bigger than the sky above, and bright hair that dared to reach the clouds. Round eyes that squinted and heavily patted the back of his comrade as he heaved marked boxes for the U.A. faculty, “reminds me of our entrance exam! And that one kid! Man, the new first year class is going to be amazing. Don’t you think?”

                “There-there’s so many of them,” a weak voice mumbled. Struggling unlike his counterpart, standing shorter as well, the delicate boy had been roped into assisting the staff amongst the U.A. entrance. A doing of his friend’s own enthusiasm, who had often enjoyed watching the entrance exam, but this time, he had insisted, or rather dragged the timid boy. Volunteered him as well, and in doing so, exposed him to the upcoming class, and another reason to fret over his own capabilities. His soft complexion complicated as he gazed down at the contents of his luggage.

                A girl playfully responding to the blonde’s statement as she pushed forward, the smile on her face evident and humming. Her periwinkle blue hair long and buoyant. What she said, you hadn’t heard, and became increasingly realized that they were not aware of your existence. Their comradery drawing your attention as you watched both the bright boy, and beautiful girl speak to one another, heaving supplies towards the distance, and the boy strayed, dragging behind languidly. His movements stiff, full of worry. His face revealing his unease as his brow wrinkled. His thoughts claiming his attention, causing a thrum of chill down his spine and gloom over head. The stark difference from the hero who had rescued you. A complicated look etched across his features, his bangs looming over his face and high cheek bones. “I-I just want to go home,” he whispered.

                Adorned in the shade of the tree, you could make out the tense way he carried himself. Aware that his companions had led the way, perhaps unintentionally leaving him behind, or perhaps giving him a moment to breathe. You weren’t entirely sure, but having witnessed to his distress. You found yourself standing, considering whether or not to check in on him, you mean… was he okay? His eyes drawing swiftly up, wide. You could feel your heart slam into your throat, your stomach occupied in the place in which it used to rest as it threatened back flips. Shuffling you backwards, seeking further shade to hide as though you had done something so indecent as spying. Y-you could explain. It wasn’t that you were intentionally spying! You were here first! You were? Right? Yeah, of course, it was a simple explanation, and then when the group had passed you by, you didn’t want to be rude--- oh no, you were spying. Practically snooping, and preparing to apologize, and bend yourself down so far as to touch your knees with your own forehead. Forgiveness. You needed forgiveness, but would he give it? Oh no, no, no one wants to be seen at such a low, but it was the soft hum that caught you off guard. Encouraged you to stay tucked against the tree that offered a shield from sight. “ah, but Mirio asked this of me…. I should- I should do it.” His smile was as soft as his voice. Tender as the look in his eyes that traced the fluttering of wings. Its delicate hues danced playfully near him as if greeting his grace, and enjoying his equally pleasant aura. A pailo demetrius butterflied that dared to skim the ends of his hair, testing its landing spot. Undoubtedly having confused him for a wild flower, his hair having deceived the butterfly, or rather welcomed its attention. Not that the butterfly seemed to mind, greeted with a smile, nor did your rescuer. The most delicate smile creased his lips, met his soft eyes as he resolved himself to the task. “Thank you,” he whispered warmly to the butterfly before following after his companions. The setting of the sun basking in his soft glow.

Spying wasn’t right, and in part, maybe you had blossomed a questionable pass time hobby, but for all the luck in the world, you had witnessed something rare, unfathomably valuable, and equally breakable, and you would do everything in your power to witness it, if only for one more time.

The third time your paths had crossed was more conventional, orchestrated by Aizawa-sensei, and the first time you had officially heard his name, his true name rather than the one he had dubbed as a hero. It had been the demonstration provided by The Big 3, although it wasn’t intended to be so. It was simply supposed to be an explanation of the Hero Work-Studies that had escalated further than intended.

The class had been a murmur of excitement, curiousity, and drive. There were those who were star struck, like Midoriya, who was drawn into his own world, composed of strategy break down, quirk application, and overall… fanboyism. Others such as Bakugo and Kirishima were eager to hear about the opportunities the program offered, the prior setting himself bars above and eagerness, and confidence. Then, there were the skeptical, the ones with questions and considerations such as Asui and Tokoyami. The range of the classroom was wide, and diverse, each hero-to-be hanging on every word, and every action of The Big 3, and then there was you. Your eyes landed on him, the one dubbed the alias, Suneater, and introduced as Amajiki Tamaki. Just like that fated day, his eyes strayed. Shook underneath the gaze of others, quivered uneasily. His frown growing, and the quiet mumblings that from your seat, seemed incomprehensible. The soft of his skin revealing his anxiety, and trembles as he inevitably turned his back to the class once more. Miserable, and out of place, it was a side of him that U.A. as a whole had grown accustomed to, and perhaps familiarized themselves with, but the transition of anxiety to the sheer acknowledgement of his companion, Togata-senpai. The amount of pride in someone else’s accomplishments, and joy of the memories he shared to the class. Perhaps, it was the real him, a complex mixture of anxiety and pride in friends, and yet, it was that gentle smile of that fateful day that would not leave your heart, and whispered the reality to you. You were determined to see every side of Amajiki-senpai that you could.

And there it was, the mission. The determination and the drive to capture that smile once more, just to witness it again. You had left the Hero-Work program explanation with admittedly two goals in mind: the first to be accepted by a Hero, and the second… to see Amajiki-senpai’s smile once more! Lucky for you, this goal was thankfully intertwined in execution in skills.

The hours you subjected yourself to studying, poured yourself over tomes. Thumbed your fingers across spirals, exhausted your eyes into the late nights. Accidentally falling asleep at your desk. Worrying your family in more ways than you dared to admit, and missed out on a number of opportunities to engage in extra-curricular activities. The days felt almost like a blur of coursework, class hours and week days spent pouring yourself amongst the pages of botany pages. U.A.’s library offered so much valuable information, but your quirk required work. Knowledge, practice, and practical application… To be honest, going about blindly and testing out plant after flora, after specimen, and cacti would wreak havoc across Japan, and give rise to invasive species, that you suspected would endanger your potential hero licensure. Something you longed to avoid at all costs, after goal all, the first goal was to achieve a Hero-Work study, but that didn’t mean that you would be thorough in your investigation. After all, that’s what the practice fields were for, right? Principal Nezu, please forgive you for any future transposing’s your practice may inflict on the U.A. gardens. Thus, the library hadn’t been enough, drawing information from various internet sources, and on the weekends, daring yourself to outings dedicated to your research. Garden visit after garden visit, touring nursery after nursery, you were dedicated, and in time, your first goal had been achieved, but it wasn’t what you had hoped for. It wasn’t what any of you had hoped for.

It should have brought you joy, a sense of pride and recognition in your skills, and to some extent, it did. At least, initially. To have been selected for the Hero-Work program and to have been placed under Kesagiri Man’s care was one that desired praise, and an extra serving of tonkatsu at dinner. How you had beamed in your hero uniform, specially tailored to your form. Leaves that gathered and crawled up right your right leg, blossoming to cover your form naturally before trailing around your left shoulder until coiling at your wrist. Admittedly, to the few, it bordered risky, but remained modest. The intricately delicate head mask that had curved to the shape of your brow, slipping behind your ears into your hair as though fitted for royalty gave you the impression of having slipped from the pages of a fairytale, and how you had painstakingly thumbed through names, landing on the trial run of Danu. In addition to the praise, well, you really had felt excited for the weeks to come. After all, to have garnered a Pro-Hero’s attention wasn’t something to be easily dismissed, it was quite the accomplishment as well as noteworthy key point on any resume, and when it had been decided you would play a role in the Shie Hassaikai Raid, you were beaming at the opportunity to work alongside pro-heroes, and even better… the opportunity to see Amajiki-senpai adorn the alias Suneater. You were practically beam like a sunflower in summer, so much so you had even accidentally blossomed Indigoletta rose buds, rich in lavender petals and devoid of thorns, but now, all of that joy was nullified. The creeping sensation that crept up your neck, raised the hair on your forearms as fumes filled the air. The sound of rubble, and stone clashed in a chaos of elements. Gunfire that radiated amongst the surrounding area, breaths of wind and smoke. The stray attacks that grazed pass you. The numbing realization of how serious, and out of hand the situation had become. What had been a strategic plan, with intention and a clear route: those infiltrating had faced far dangerous circumstances than expected while you were left on the side lines. Charged with defending the injured, and supply those in need of immediate medical assistance—how you had stayed up hours expanding your knowledge into medical herbs. Rosemary, lavender, cloves, ginger, dandelion, eucalyptus—you named It, you had mentally filed it away, practiced manifesting it in your home (your home would smell of herbs and spices for months to come, not that your family had hinted any frustration, even going so far as to add leftovers in recent dishes). All the anticipation, and all captivated feelings of accomplishment had been diminished like a flame left in the rain as your fingers hesitantly traced his cheek, far paler than normal. How had this happened? The heroes…. You had pro-heroes. How had it become the Hassaikai Incident? Strained features, taunt lips that pursed and winced. The faintest of groan carried on dwindled sharp breaths, and eyelashes clasped between squeezed eye lids. A feeble warmth beginning to blossom across his features, as the color drained from his blanched complexion. Evidence littered across his cloak, carved into his features. His quirk beginning to mollify, octopus tentacles withdrawing, chicken feet and wings extracted, and the oddest traces of gemstones. Blood that stained, and rubble that threatened open wounds. The trembling in your fingertips undeniable as anxiety thrummed through your body, panicked heart beats that claimed your ear drums, and dulled your senses and response time. All you had wanted was to see him smile.

                The recovery had been better than expected, although truth be told, it was perhaps the anxiety that had convinced you it was worse than it truly was. You couldn’t bring yourself to admit how many trips you had made to the local hospital, peaking in on his progress. This is where you had witnessed, yet another side of the elven hero. The soft humility was commendable. The way he expressed concern for others involved in the incident from the loss of a mentor, inquired about Togata-senpa’s condition, and even yours—how that had sent your heart into fits. The sweet care for others, shifting attention to those who he deemed worthy even if it was at the cost of his own care—the way the tips of his ears would blush upon being fretted over by his attendant. The tender gazes out of the window when he achieved a moment, free of further probing. It was enough to elicit a soft sigh from you, and a bubbling of melancholy. Spying, when had you become such a snoop? You promise your parents hadn’t raised you this way, and imagined your siblings would chastise you if they had known, but for all the stolen glimpses between the hospital door, the shuffle of the occasional nurse, and even Recovery Girl’s reassurance that he was certainly recuperating just fine, and even awkwardly dodged your elder’s insistence that while he was a cumbersome boy, he wouldn’t reject a visit from a companion. Yet, you could never bring yourself to knock, merely leaving random visitation flowers with the nurse in the charge of him for the day, sputtering out some clumsy excuse to leave without greeting him. The last visit having been total humiliation that had you buried in your pillow. You really hadn’t mean to escalate from mere snoop to pervert. The adrenaline of the nurse having rejected your delivery request under Recovery Girl’s insistence you were amped up! You could do it! You could! Until the door popped open, the distinct giggle of Hado-senpai emitting from the room, and thin muscles that impacted your face. Your rush having dragged you straight into his chest, to both of your horror. “She-she didn’t see me,” he had stammered, yanking his bandaged form against the door frame, resting his forehead against it, and shielding his features. Failure. Complete and total failure, and even worse. Contact. The flowers in your hands smooshed against you. Hado-senpai’s periwinkle curls caught in the air, practically thrumming with the electric current personality radiated. Her bags practically bouncing with her, as her delicate blue topaz eyes found the bouquet caught in your fingers, a presumptuous grin spreading as she attempted to draw Amajiki-senpai’s attention. You noped out of there as fast as your legs could carry you, pushing the floral arrangement into her hands before disbursing down the hall, eliciting knowing giggles from medical staff.

Upon hearing that Amajiki-senpai had decided that the laughter was directed at him specifically, you had determined to keep your distance for the time being. Well, at least until the shame had dissipated. In that absence, you struggled, and remained vigilant. You really, just wanted to see his smile again, and while Vermilion’s had survived the onslaught despite the odds, Suneater’s had practically been banished into the shadows. More late hours dedicated over books, anything to see that captivating smile resurface. The determination to have that very same smile directed your way having taken root at the school festival.

Class 1-A had found themselves determine to win over the student body while the beauty pageant fostered growing tensions amongst competitors. The ever-boiling tension between Hado-senpai and Kenranzaki-senpai had ushered in wave after wave of stomach aches on your behalf. Having been allocated a sewing position in the costume creation for 1-A’s performance, you had definitely developed a whole new appreciation for the hero uniform department, and received a few private requests as well. That’s how you saw it, the growing crushing realization that if you didn’t land every stitch on Kenranzaki-senpai’s gown with a dedicated level that reached her expectations, you suspected you would be receiving end of her tank, or much worse given her talent as a member of U.A.’s Department of Support. The terror sending you reeling as you sat to the side, panicked, rushed, and wary of every scuffle between the two upper classmen. In this time frame, you had bore witness to a gentle reassurance. The warmth Amajiki-senpai in attempting to consul his friend’s feelings, and on the day of the pageant, as you wearily mended a snag on Kenranzaki-senpai’s dress (seriously though, a tank? In a DRESS?), there he was, front and center. Braving the crowd. A fond smile that graced his lips, one so warm you suspected it could thaw even the coldest winter day, perhaps could even still the ever-driven Kenzranzaki-senpai. Imagine, all of the students who had gathered, pressed against the stage in anticipation to see beauty. Blissfully unaware that a true vision of enchantment was not Hado-senpai that twirled in the air, but her supporter, Amajiki-senpai squished amongst viewers, happy to see her achieve her goal.

The burning desire to have that smile, that mythical smile directed your way had led you here. Fingers covered in dirt; the soil wedged between your nails. Your hands delicately cupping the earth between your digits. All the hours of being Hatsume Mei’s test subject had come to bare fruits, and to the gods above, it had been trying. How Midoriya had endured her assertive personality, and well, risky decision-making skills were beyond you—you suspected it would be weeks before all of your bruises and scrapes healed, but here it was. The full soil report across the school grounds, targeted to more secluded areas. Each region mapped consistently. Hatsume may be a bit fanatical in her own unique way, but she was extremely thorough. Your smile expanding as you examined your surroundings. From Hatsume’s report, you were able to determine the soil type was a match, from the drainage needs, the pH balance, and even the sun exposure. “it’s perfect,” you whispered to yourself as you yanked out your water bottle, chugging it as quickly as you could before threading your hands deeper into the ground, making sure to clear the topsoil. “I can do this.” With closed, tight eyes, you dedicated your all to envisioning the roots strong and sturdy. Its shrub structure encompassing the area, healthy, dark green leaves, and felted form. Lance like stems that gave way to various shades of purple, deep violets, and light and delicate lilac. Grow. Grow. Grooooow. Spreading across the opening, tucked away on U.A. grounds were only students who wished to have a moment alone would wander, out of sight, and out of mind. The perfect escape. Murmuring praise to encourage its growth, after all, everything grows with kindness. Its blooms reaching towards the sky, enjoying the high sky, and stretching slowly, but surely before maturing at ten feet tall, wide spread and the heavenly sweet scent of honey beckoning the environment. Your grin spread, a soft shade of scarlet spread across cheeks.

You had done it. Buddleja japonica. A native variety of butterfly bush. The delicate flutter of wings, emerging colors drawn from all surrounding areas, enticed by the promise of nectar. Exhaustion weaved on your features, and admittedly, you knew that latter, you would need to provide another round of foliage to entice the butterflies to remain, but for now, you could only bask in the scenic view of your makeshift butterfly garden, and approaching figure. Thin, and taller than yourself, long fingers that grasped the note you had slid into his genkan cubby at school, the telling shade of the envelope and cute sticker you had attached. The surprise on his face, admittedly because he had steeled himself to facing a challenge head-on, some part of him believing someone hated him enough to call him out to a secluded area of the school—not that anything in the note had suggested as such, although you had to confess that the vague request to meet you here regardless of the daring heart addition may have sent the wrong impression, and had the poor boy reeling into a variety of panic attacks before he had worked up the nerve to appear.

His deep-set amethyst hair catching the glimmer of sunlight, his eyes deeper than the sweetest Murasaki tart now wide as the glow of a blush spread from the tips of his ears, danced across his cheeks, and landed on the tip of his nose. His mouth opening in wonder, and awe as the butterflies danced across flower petals. The occasional one straying to greet his arrival before his eyes found you, knelt on the ground. The exhaustion as evident as the dirt that marred your hands with the level of dedication your quirk and feelings had nurtured, your hair falling just right in the iridescent of the day creating the faintest of halo glows. The coy expression you bared, gazing ever so affectionately at… him? The realization causing his form to shake and him to advert his eyes, the blossoming of warmth in his heart and smile that threatened to break. His wrist drawn up to hide himself from view. Doing the best to conceal the growing blush that had claimed his delicate features, his almond eyes widened as they traced your silhouette. “B-beautiful,” whispered shyly across the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #14: Telling

Locke stumbled at the top of the hill and decided that was enough effort for the day. He removed the Doman sword from his belt and shrugged his bag and gunblade away, set all three to the side, and fell onto his back to catch his breath. The sky overhead was a bright blue, the clouds dispelled by the storm a couple days prior, and the midday sun was shining bright, chasing away the autumn chill. Locke basked in the warmth and let his eyes drift shut. “Come on, delivery boy,” Odranne said. He heard her step around him and continue toward her workshop. “No time for a nap. I’ve got a job for you to do.” “Been on my feet too long,” Locke grumbled. “Nap first.”

“I won’t mix our friend’s medicine otherwise.” Locke cracked an eye open to stare at her. She waited by the front door, a covered basket dangling from one arm. “He didn’t tell me I’d have to do anything for you. Neither did you, not until now.” “I apologize, I couldn’t speak of it in the market. Regardless, it’s important, and I won’t work until you hear me out,” she insisted. Her tone was firm, leaving little room for argument. Locke sighed but didn’t move. “Won’t work for free.” “You won’t have to. I’ll pay you.” He considered that for a moment. He did need the money. Both for the boss’ rent and to fix his arm. “Food too,” he said, imitating her tone. “I want a meal first. I’ll do your job. You pay me. Then you give me the old man’s medicine. In that order.” Odranne made a show of considering the offer, tapping her chin with one slender finger. “Very well. Though you’re being a little too bossy, I agree to your terms.” Locke stifled a yawn and closed his eyes again. “Great. Wake me when the food’s done.” “I can’t explain the job while you’re sleeping,” she pointed out. “You need to be awake for that. Awake and preferably inside, it’s of a…” she trailed off, searching for the right word. “A sensitive nature.” “Tell me over dinner.” Whatever face Odranne made, Locke was pleasantly unaware. He heard the door open and then shut behind her, leaving him free to fall into sleep’s waiting arms, cradled by soft grass and caressed by sunlight. Like that, he dreamed. A trail wound its way through the woods, gray branches and green leaves reaching up through the snow underfoot to carve the outline of a path. It was well-trodden, made smooth by the footfalls of those who came before. Reynir led the way, the kit trailing behind. Long strings of meaningless noise drifted through the air as the kit chattered away. Engrossed in the one-sided conversation, he strayed from the path, prints fresh against the untouched snow. Reynir called him back. He spoke softly, more meaningless noise, but the kit hung on every muted word. When he finished his brief speech, Reynir ruffled the kit’s hair and ordered him onward. His chest swelled with pride as the kit followed the trail unerringly this time. The forest gave way to a clearing of white and gray. A two-headed wolf with the body of a man waited at its heart, seated upon a throne. Too many teeth filled its grinning mouths. It rose to its feet, armor clanking and chains rattling. Swathes of starlight fell into its outstretched hands. The beast threw its heads back and howled at a red sky streaked with blue. The kit answered with a shrieking war cry. “Delivery boy? Delivery boy, are you alright?” Locke opened his eyes. A tan face with sharp features stared down at him, mouth twisted into a frown, eyebrows knitted together. He had enough time to rub the sleep from his eyes and look past the face, up to a red and orange sky, before he remembered he was visiting a potionmaker in Gridania. Without answering, he sat up, forcing Odranne to take a step back in doing so. He got to his feet and collected his things, returning his swords to his back and hip and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Starving. Food ready yet?” he asked, forcing a chipper note into his voice. He studied the houses below the hill, looked toward the gate in the distance, checked the claws of his right hand for dirt. Whatever expression Odranne was wearing, he didn’t want to see it. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Yeah, it is. But what—” “Good.” Locke trudged past on uncertain legs and pushed the door to Odranne’s workshop open. The smell of something rich and savory met him at the threshold, and his stomach growled, urging him to step inside. “Come on. Tell me about this important job.”

[sweetsweetjellybean]

A crush that was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened.

Masterlist WC: 12399

TW: 2012 AU, Older!Eddie, Older!Steve, Femreader, Second Chance Romance (not a slow burn), Love Triangle, Smut, 18+ No minors beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees that surround  Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away. Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

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

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

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

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black of his jeans that cling to his narrow hips. With a sigh of impatience escaping him, the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt pulls tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame underneath. 

"You in or out?" He snaps his fingers near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on the silver rings that adorn his fingers, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

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

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk and a casual flick of his fingers. He teases the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum for a heartbeat. Dan’s hand hovers, eyes darting for prying eyes, but before he can grasp it, Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground. 

"Oops," Eddie says, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. He pivots on his heel, walking away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering curses under his breath.

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

"Ladies." He casually extends an arm, waving them past, his voice a smooth melody that never fails to draw attention. They flutter past with whispers and longing glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all seem to vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van, to be the subject of rumors they'd later deny.

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

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud that sends vibrations through the timeworn wood, eyes lingering on the girls retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, your eyes following as Dan stalks off, his annoyance like a dark cloud.

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

He nods at your leg."What’s this?" His eyes drop to your thigh, dark lashes making a half-moon shadow on his cheek. His thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses over the darker denim patch on your jeans, and a trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you yearn to lean into his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, strangely aware of the warmth of his skin, the ghost of his touch lingering with an unfamiliar tingle. "The art of visible mending." 

"Looks cool," he says, his gaze meeting yours, a little too intense, a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

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

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

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

"I can keep you company," you offer, the words casual but your heart isn't in it. You can't help the way your gaze lingers on him, hopeful despite yourself.

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

You frown, frustration knitting your brows. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, your voice lower, "We smoke together all the time."

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

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings that are threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds onto you for a heavy beat before breaking away, stirring a current of unease within you. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm leaving a trail of goosebumps on your arms and a warmth low in your belly as you part ways at the door. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts. 

As you make your way to class, the feeling clings, like an overplayed song on the radio — a sense that the simplicity of life is about to fracture. The ache is new and confusing. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the gnawing, persistent sting that seems to spread through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

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

It's safer this way–safer for your heart, for his, and for the delicate balance you've maintained for so long. The stakes are too high. You’ll keep your cards close to your chest. It’s a dangerous game you're playing, one you’re determined to win.

Cold grey days have been giving way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier each day. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

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

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

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” His arm extends, making space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side. 

“You’re so warm,” you comment, your cheeks nuzzling into his chest as his lips find the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” you coax, tilting your head to lock eyes with him and taking one of his hands between yours, your heart aching with the tension you know he’s carrying. “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

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

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

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

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

"Hi," Eddie greets you from the other side of the threshold, the softness of his tone mirroring the gentleness in his eyes.

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

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

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider to welcome you inside. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the dimly lit hall, now familiar with the layout. 

The lobby is in utter chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips as he watches you take in the sight before you. 

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

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

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you. "I thought it was a dump."

His breath, a warm whisper against your ear, spins you around. "Well, what can I say? It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens. 

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

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain tee with Lollapalooza written across the front. None of the trendy fashions you usually wore to interviews seemed to fit right today. Causing you to tug at necklines and fidget with the hems of three different outfits before settling on something casual. There’s nothing to hide behind – the armor is off. It’s time to hear him out. 

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

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. The shield of anger you’ve held between you is battered and worn thin, leaving uncertainty behind. 

"It’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

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

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

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

"Eddie." His name comes out with an almost breathless sigh as you look away. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat before prompting. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

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

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

"Where is everyone?" You ask as you step inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck to hold the mixing board has been completed, the glass installed, and the wiring is underway.

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

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

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

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

"I’ve got time."

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

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

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

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

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him. His mother. His childhood. The opportunities that came so easily to everyone else. 

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall, "The rules seemed to have treated you well."

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

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

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

He expels a sigh in a short, almost defeated breath, shaking his head. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient diversion. "Where does this go?" You wonder out loud as your hand closes over the knob. 

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You release the doorknob as if it was hot.

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

A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that he's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he moves to face you, seeking your reaction.

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

Eddie reaches up and scratches the side of his head as his forehead wrinkles. "Who?" 

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

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

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

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

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

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

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

"What group? The one for annoying assholes." 

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

A splash of frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The carpet of your closet is soft under your fingers as wet splashes of tears rain down on the glossy pages, Steve's voice getting closer as he calls out your name. Glancing down at your feet, your voice diminishes, barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

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

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

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

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

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

Signs of careful refinement have touched every corner of this studio. Gray triangles of acoustic foam now completely adorn the walls of the live room in contrasting patterns, adding both practical functionality and visual interest. The mixing room's mural stands as a completed masterpiece, and a deep-seated leather sofa, designed to look comfortably aged, takes its place in front.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." The strap of your bag slides down your shoulder as you sink down onto the couch, taking in the details that have been added since your last visit. 

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

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you say, shifting to tuck a leg under you as he joins you on the couch. 

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

With an eye roll, you reach into your bag, your smile never fading as you retrieve your phone and open the recording app with a deft touch, placing it between the two of you.

"How does this work?" Eddie inquires, his eyes fixed on your phone, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." As you set the pages on your lap, your gaze lifts to meet his, a small, reassuring smile on your lips. The faint strains of songs from the past echo behind the locked door in front of you – one that might be best left closed and forgotten. But he’s in front of you, handing you the key. You draw in a steadying breath, your chest rising and falling with it. "Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You exchange warm smiles, like kids pretending to be grownups. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I remember you’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school," you muse.

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

"I was surprised that you left it behind." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Max Navarro?" You question, shuffling through the pages of your notes.

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

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

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

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

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

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?" 

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

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

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

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in, a wry grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

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

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

The thinly veiled jabs you’ve been sending his way were hitting the target. Something like pain or regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–" 

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

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

Like the haunting echoes back in Hawkins, the ones that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring of the past, the shame emphasizing the pitiable acts of a girl lovesick and foolish. Robin had seen it, and so did the entire town. Yet, you're no longer that vulnerable soul. She lies in solitude now, resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city's symphony drowning out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, your fingers flipping through the pages of your notes, making sure every point from your outline has been covered.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful," he shrugs, his voice carrying a hint of noncommitment, "But I really stayed for the music. Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I’m always talking about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he’s always talking about but hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" You ask, your gaze rising from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve, mostly for work."

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

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending like a song without a crescendo. A stone of disappointment sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lacked the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

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

"Okay-"

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

"Eddie-" 

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

Sighing, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet. Your steps carry you through to the live room, where the area rug underfoot is a clever imitation of age — its colors muted, its pattern artfully faded, though there's no doubt it's brand new. Your nails lightly tap the high hat as you pass the drum kit, and you smile at the shimmering sound that reverberates through the room, giving you the same pleasure as the sound of glass breaking. 

With a heavy drape in hand, you pull it aside and peer down onto the busy street below. The dim clamor of the city filters into the room, a steady rhythm of life. A question escapes your lips, almost a whisper, as you survey the world beyond the studio's walls, "What am I doing?"

The thought lingers as you spin the band of gold on your finger as your eyes trace the movements of the people and vehicles outside. You're caught in a moment, anxiety a lump in your throat you can’t seem to swallow. The street's hustle and bustle continues, indifferent. 

The sound of the floor creaking with footsteps echoes through the hall. He enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half. You recognize Wayne's shaky handwriting peeking out from behind Eddie's fingers, his name written boldly with a black marker.

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

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

Your hands slide over the denim covering your thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there." 

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you shift from behind the glass wall, taking a seat on the floor. Your legs cross casually as you face him from the opposite side of the box. One side of his mouth lifts as he waits for you to settle in. In a graceful stretch, he leans to the side, retrieving a box cutter from atop the soundboard, where it sits next to a pile of plastic straps. His shirt rises, revealing a teasing glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape. 

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

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

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

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

"Alright, Alright," he concedes, folding it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches in the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comics, handing them to you.

"Still in good shape," you comment, thumbing through Tank Girl and Witchblade comics. Opening one of your favorites, the art greets you like an old friend.

"My campaigns!" Eddie exclaims, pulling out a pile of notebooks and setting them aside before reaching back in. "Some Cds." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye. 

"My Cranberries Cd!" You cry, your fingers digging into the plush carpet as you tip forward onto your knees, taking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

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

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

"It was the accent," he admits with a grin, his dimples on full display as his hand closes around your finger, warding off your attack. 

"I’m keeping it," you declare, dropping back into your seat and picking up the case to examine the inside.

"Holy shit."

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

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

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

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

"No peeking," he scolds. Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal — plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Yyou squeal, your hands flying to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

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

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at the way her hat droops over ears too large for her head, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine, turned-up nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her crooked buck teeth and the yellow and white flowered dress that barely conceals her lumpy body. 

"She's beautiful," you tut, cradling the statue in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

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

"I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard." Heat takes over your cheeks as you smile unrestrained.

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

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

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar, while his fingers find their way into his curls. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson said he was going to shoot you in the ass."

Eddie wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

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

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

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

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "Only if you want me to have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, a rhapsodic melody that dances and twirls through the room. His eyes ignite with a warm, genuine light, and he smiles like he’s savoring every note, as if your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for. 

The shattered remnants of life you once shared press against the scar tissue encasing your heart. They're persistent specters, trying to dislodge themselves and reform into your present. You can feel their sharpness pulling trying to come together like a puzzle. 

Your hand instinctively finds its way to your chest, where your heart resides beneath the layers of history. Pressing gently on that tender spot at the center, you push away the complications of the past and the future and just are, in this moment with him. 

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

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you, "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He tosses them aside. "Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes." He pulls out some folded band tees. "Want any of these?"

"Maybe," you shrug, "I could have them recut."

"Oh, this is yours," he tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" He asks, his voice brimming with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, creating a sharp sound as something shifts inside the metal container.

"Yes," he says, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth as he attempts to pry off the lid. Your focus turns to what you're holding, and you clutch the vest's hems, watching as your Musicland uniform unfurls before you.

His voice fades into the background as the gold name tag pinned to the front catches the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns, threatening to bring bile to the surface as breath comes hard, each inhale a battle.

"Polaroids," Eddie declares in triumph as he pries off the lid.

"Stop it," you manage to utter, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough could somehow make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he remarks, unaware. 

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

"Wait a minute." He gets to his feet, following you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. You sling your bag onto your shoulder, stepping around him towards the door.

"Just hold on a minute." He steps in front of you again, raising his hands with open palms, lines forming on his forehead. His eyes search yours, trying to find answers. "Tell me what's going on." 

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

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

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

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest and he hesitates, speaking softly, "I missed my friend."

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

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

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

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

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

"Done what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I cried for days after you left. Then I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid to miss your call."

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

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

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence, as his gentle hand cradles your jaw.

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside you’re stone. "You kissed me, and then you left me. You knew how I felt." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Damn right, I do." His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses, the space between charged with past promises, until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his commanding lips moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a flame that seems to spread with each touch. His scruff is a rasp against your skin, a pleasant roughness that contrasts with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. The scent of clove and cedar envelopes your senses, leaving you lightheaded as fire licks through your body. This kiss is the culmination of years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestral finale. Instruments unite in a tumultuous crescendo, echoing the mighty crash of a wave against the shore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face falls, and he tries to argue, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here, kid?”

The gruff voice cuts through your introspection, startling you for a second time. "Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

Hopper's dry remark floats from behind you, hands buried in his pockets. "Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest."

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, a note of surprise in your voice as he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No–” 

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “Everyone knows you’re my favorite, but right now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

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

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

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle, drawing the cardigan tighter around you like a shield. "I got caught in the storm." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the sting of regret. Sliding down the slick tiles, you draw your knees to your chest, allowing your tears to meld with the streams of water spiraling towards the drain. 

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

AN: Thanks for sticking with this series. I know it's a long one and I took a while to update. To be honest, I lost a little confidence in my writing but I still feel like this a story worth telling. This is my love letter to Eddie. My way of giving him an ending he never had a shot at. I'm going to see it through. Do me a solid and leave a comment & reblog. My asks are always open. Your song suggestions continue to bring this story to life. XOXO - Jelly

Song 5 - Coming soon! For notifications follow @tornupdates

Listen to Fake Plastic Trees here.

[writermask-0807]

FORBIDDEN FRUIT PART TWO - TEACHER GAKUHO ASANO X STUDENT READER

A/n: Heyyy, I'm baaackkkk. How long's it been? A month? Two?? Before u come at me with the pitchforks and knives, just know that I'm already dead. So, as you can see, I did a terribly horrible job in fulfilling the request of a dear, beloved follower, even tho I did try my best. And my sincerest of apologies for finally updating it so late. I tried so many versions before i finally settled on this one. And this isn't perfect either, but I drove all of my efforts in it, so hope u like! But before u read, just know that multiple words will be reused cus my vocabulary is painfully short, and English is my second language, sorry 😭. Also, this is jot finished yet, cuz I broke it into parts, p cus it was wayyy too long. And I'm already working on the next part, and hopefully, I'll update soon. And someone, please, PLEASE, TELL ME HOW TO GET ITA,ICS BCUS FOR THE LIFE OF ME I CANNOT FIND ANY!!!!

Warnings: teacher/student relationship, OOC Gakuho, mentions of violence, and lots and lootsss of things here that don't make no sense. You'll understand once u read.

Edit: also, I did try my best to make the reader as innocent as I could.

Hope you enjoy!!!

THE tentative graze of his smooth, alabaster skin was warm and comforting against your blanching flesh, slim, slender digits coiling delicately around your (admittedly much smaller) wrist in a cautious hold, the soft pad of his thumb unconsciously stroking your sallow flesh as he studied the darkening bruise, and his thumb came to innocently rest at your racing pulse, veiled by the ghostly sheet of white that was your paling skin.

Gaunt, pale fingertips were feather-light and delicate as they splayed across your wrist, feeling the goose-flesh hum across your sensitive skin at his soft, probing touch, a ghosting kiss of marble against porcelain, as the tips of his searching fingers fluttered and brushed fleetingly, cautiously, against your blemished skin, gently tracing the outline of the purpling bruise garlanding your wrist, and snaking up your arm in dark, painful whorls of unhealthy, mottled blue. The print of harsh hands against the fragile, tainted porcelain of your flesh was still fresh with the remnant of the searing agony that'd accompanied it, the irritated flesh raw and sore and aching, even under the ginger curl of his careful fingers.

You lowered your head, ashamed, and unable to meet the smouldering garnet of his questioning gaze, your free hand clenching into a whitening fist as you clutched the flimsy fabric of your skirt, a desperate prayer for courage on your laboring breath and quivering lips, as your throat clenched, and heart stuttered in protest within your tightening chest. You absolutely could not cry in front of him, could not show any signs of weakness, not when you were sure he was also suffering the same cruel fate you'd been subjected to. Not now, not ever. But even as you repeatedly chanted this mantra again and again in your mind, your vision blurred with the prickles of the pearlescent liquid. You willed the accursed tears to stop, but they didn't, only accumulating in a hazy fog misting your glittering e/c orbs.

{You were suddenly thankful that the tousled, unkempt strands of your h/c-shaded hair fell down with your stooping chin and hunched shoulders, veiling the misery and the hurt, and the bright glimmer of unshed tears in your regretful eyes.}

Gakuho was silent as he regarded your petite, trembling form coolly, rich magenta optics glittering with a cold fury, and swirling with an explosion of scarlet that held an uncanny resemblance to freshly spilt blood, but his will hung thick and heavy in the gloom of the darkening atmosphere, and the delicate, tangled strings of unsaid questions and words threaded unspoken, tangible in the palpable tension that clouded the air. Your heart lodged in your throat, strangling the breath out of you, your rapid heartbeat and erratic breathing thundering a chaotic din in your ears, deafening you with its consistent, roaring hammer, as your heart rattled against your ribcage, threatening to break the bones, and escape its domain.

And although you couldn't meet the hot burn of his crimson gaze, you could feel it. The violet glare of his deceptively calm, amethyst orbs scorched your flesh with a white-hot intensity, and the bizarre sensation of those celestial hues peering deep into the depths of your very soul grew more and more prominent with the bleeding second, those smouldering, unfathomable orbs sifting with a luminescent galaxy of dying stars as he fixed you with a hollow, expressionless stare.

You felt naked underneath the weight of his fierce, cosmic gaze, every secret and every lie laid bare and untouched for him to toy with, almost as though the cool hyacinth of his eyes melted your flesh and peeled away what was left of the taut sinews, revealing the concealed, polished core, the very fibers that threaded the fabric of your existence, latching onto your flesh like a tight second skin, unbearably heavy and unwavering, drilling holes into the bone of your skull, unrelenting.

And yet still, he did not speak.

The silence was suffocating, torturous, as it tormented you with dark thoughts and withering whispers. Each and every doubt that'd ever crossed your thoughts were overlapping now, distorted and satanic as they wormed their way into your head, a whirl of dark emotions pulsing through your blood like a frigid poison, freezing you from the inside out, and swarming your mind with nothing but white noise and unprecedented fear. And though you couldn't bear to meet the dark mauve of his eyes, you knew Gakuho's sharp features had been smoothed out to present a glacial expression, sharp, sloping features harsh with a cold indifference, bereft of any emotion, and it scared you. Was he angry at you? Was he disappointed? Was he -

Each of these negative thoughts only served to worsen your anxiety as it rippled and contorted restlessly through your consciousness, shifting what felt like shards of broken glass in the empty cavity that was your chest, a pain pulsating and writhing and aching like a thing alive, something raw and vulnerable and distraught, something terribly, awfully human.

And it hurt. God, it hurt more than you were able to convey, this feeling of overpowering helplessness, this wild desperation to cherish, and be cherished, to protect, and be protected, to love and be loved…

You tried to quell the bitter sting of uncontrollable tears that followed this train of thought, obstinately willing them to stop as they dampened the corners of your eyes, and clouded your wavering, unsteady vision with a storm of unshed tears, your lustrous e/c hues boiling with the burning heat of your scalding tears, and failed miserably, as the pearlescent liquid carved a hot, salty stream of tears down your flushed cheeks, dripping down your nose as you lowered your head, desperately trying to hide them.

You stifled the sob that threatened to tear through your throat and shake your quivering frame, feeling your throat burn and heart contrict within your squeezing chest, the agonizing sensation of your lungs feeling as though they'd been doused in liquid fire accompanied by the stuttering beats of your heart, as you did so.

itwasallyourfaultallyOuRFaUltYOURFAULTYOURFAULT - !

All your fault that you had been willing to offer your naive, childish heart to a man who could easily crush it, but who instead cradled it lovingly in the broad cusp of his palms, your fault that you'd allowed him to steal your first kiss, your first love, your fault that you welcomed him with open arms despite the strong command of darkness that followed in its wake. Your fault, that you chose to bear the brunt of the chaos you'd known would be inevitable to follow next, your fault for bearing the harsh words and devious whispers, your fault for hiding the bruises that they scarred you with. Your fault for muddying his name and reputation, for staining what'd once been pristine white, your fault for being selfish, your fault for letting the rumors spark and remaining ignorant of how fast they spread. Your fault for thinking that you would've been able to remain strong, and yet here you were, crumbling into little pieces in front of your partner, when he hadn't even spoken.

You were barely able to register the dull ache throbbing in your clenched fist, as you crumpled fistfuls of your skirt in your tightening grasp, the thin, sharp edges of your nails digging deep into the flesh of your palm as you did so, ignoring the burning sting of your bruise as it rekindled back to life with a vicious vengeance.

You felt out of touch with reality, detached from the plane of existence, suspended in a world of frozen time that you'd somehow fabricated inside your mind, far away from the reaches of those who'd hurt you, but the imaginative safe haven was delicate and fragile enough that you felt the pain you were inflicting upon yourself. The vivid intensity of the painful shifting inside your chest, the spreading ache in your whitening knuckles, the delicate weight of each ragged breath escaping your lungs in greedy gulps for burning air, and heaving your chest, shallow and desperate, the steady trickles of hot, salty tears soaking the porcelain of your cheeks.

And then, the flutter of your tear-bejewelled lashes retreated the white of your skin as your eyes flew open, widening in surprise, -(you hadn't even realized that you'd squeezed them shut, hadn't realized that you'd failed to keep those damn tears at bay)- as the familiar warmth of his gentle embrace cocooned your petite frame, welcoming and comforting, placing an abrupt halt to your tearful blabbering -(that you'd unknowingly cried out loud)-.

The broad flat of his palm coming to rest at your rigid spine coaxed you into that familiar comfort of his soft hug, as he lifted you with ease, settling you comfortably between his splayed thighs, a gentle tug drawing you closer to him, the older male's slender, broad frame dwarfing your much smaller form as he pressed himself against you, exchanging slow, deep breaths that mingled with your own wistful half-sighs, his calming inhales a delicate weight of warmth ghosting the sallow flesh of your collarbone, the brushes of his ember-colored hair tickling your supple flesh in a teasing graze as he leaned down, mouth pressing a tender, chaste kiss to the base of your neck, hoping to heal the hurt, soft lips silky and tender against your flesh. Your breath hitched, catching in your throat wetly, heart stuttering, dimming e/c hues widening, heat blooming across your cheeks despite the shimmer of tears and relief glistening in your eyes.

His grasp was gentle as he held your hand in his own, much larger one, cautious of your wound even in that moment of innocent intimacy, as his gaunt fingers intertwined with your own in a meaningful embrace. His lips were ginger and gentle, softer than sin as he worked his way, trailing a set of butterfly-kisses down your inner wrist, and you whimpered - not at the sharp sting of the purpling bruise that bristled defiantly under his healing touch, but at the care and love he showered you with - knowing you didn't deserve something so fickle and good as this, when all you'd done was cry and ruin everything.

Your bruise lying forgotten, and unshed tears ceasing their crystalline flow, the remnants heavy on your fluttering lashes, you curled into the tenderness of his gentle touch as he cupped your face, thumb brushing away the glistening trail of tears against the pale white of your flesh, catching a few of the glittering ice-crystals as he soothed them away.

"It isn't your fault. It was never your fault." Gakuho finally spoke, and his voice was nothing more than a smooth, sultry caress of thin, whispering satin and rich, dark velvet as it tumbled past his lips in a soft, private voice, trailing a velvety kiss down your spine, warming you from the inside out as it chased away the forever-present chill in your bones, honeyed tones thick and raw with genuine emotion - emotion he usually guarded and never bothered to show, and suddenly, this quiet, simple affirmation from him was enough, enough to satiate the hunger twisting and boiling your insides, enough to ease the ache plaguing your mind and the world-weariness clinging to your bones, enough for you to finally feel lighter, freer.

Large, gentle fingertips cupped your jaw tenderly, urging your gaze upwards, fingers delicate against the pulse that hammered violrntly in your neck as your eyes met. And his eyes, those vivid, luminous orbs that bled garnet with the glitter of stardust, aglow with the fervent gleam of suppressed, quiet rage and the dusty brilliance of the cosmos, softened with unadulterated sincerity as your hot gazes collided, darkening cosmic hues glimmering with a tide of stars as the rich magenta of his eyes glistened warmly, both affectionate and fond as he regarded your petite frame with the stirrings of guilt, and a gentle, small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The amethyst of his luminescent, galactic orbs conveyed more than words ever would, as the rich hyacinth of his eyes melted into a soft, revering look, raw and thick with a nebulous swirl of abstract emotion - emotion you normally would've thought he wasn't capable of expressing- the heavy weight of gnawing regret and worry, and the honest sincerity, and the forbidden, tender love that you both shared with each and every exchanged breath and stolen kiss, all held simultaneously in his smouldering gaze, and all of them, reserved for you, and only. The sheer gravity and power and the belief he held within his emotions stifled you, sending your mind reeling and eyes brimming with tears that had no right to be there.

You felt the familiar flutter return to your chest and soaring heart, buzzing restlessly like a hummingbird and alive with pure, unfiltered ecstasy - though from the sheer amount of relief or joy that overwhelmed you, you couldn't tell.

Your shoulders sagging in resigned defeat and relief, you wordlessly slumped against him, your frame melting against him, as you threw an arm around the nape of his neck to anchor yourself deeper against him, feeling thoroughly drained, as if all the energy had been sucked out of you, limbs hanging limp as you burrowed deeper into the warmth of his embrace, supporting your weight against his sturdy, lithe frame, and Gakuho snaked a protective arm around your waist, pressing your bodies together in response. He brought a gentle palm to caress the back of your head, gaunt digits weaving a calming rhythm through the rich locks of e/c hair, washing your worries away, strong arms cradling you delicately, almost as though he feared you'd shatter at the slightest of touches, like the porcelain doll you appeared to be, fragile. And you felt just that, a marionette with cut strings, no longer forcing you to dance to the tune of your nearing doom, but now you laid in a broken, sorry heap, unable to draw strength nor courage, almost as though you were slowly crumbling from within, withering like a rose crushed beneath the first frost.

Now that all the tension and pressure had fled its unbearably heavy perch on your drooping shoulders, you felt the fatigue plaguing your bones and twisting your heavy soul in a hollow, bitter ache return with full force, slamming you with the stifling force of a white-hot rod, wrestling the breath out of you, the stress of all the previous weeks' torture finally taking its toll on you. Your body suddenly felt heavier than it had ever had as you slouched against the older male, a sharp jolt of pain splitting the arch of your spine apart as the stuttering of your bones got replaced by something much darker, much heavier. The world-weariness that'd strung itself into the fabric of your existence seemed to weigh more prominently than before, a searing brand claiming mark on you once more, and you breathed a tired sigh, eyelids slowly fluttering, exhaustion seeping a lethargic sensation into the very pores of your existence.

And there, nestled in the arms of your lover, and cocooned in the firm safety of his loving embrace, you were suddenly plunged into a state of quiet, a world of weary calm where you could feel the delicate weight of every shallow, exchanged breath, heat and warmth and scent mingling, the soft caress of flesh against flesh, the delicate brushes of lips against lips, the steady beating of your heart echoing with his, the twine of his nimble fingers laced with yours, the rush of red flowing beneath your flesh…

And suddenly, something else shifted inside your chest, a different emotion pulling at your heartstrings, a slow-burning flame of determination that had you burrowing further into him in the sudden upsurge of courage, and adrenaline pumping wildly through your veins.

"Gakuho…"

You'd spoken up before you realized what you were doing, and for some unfathomable reason, you felt more bolder than you'd ever been, reckless, even, when you would've usually shriveled underneath his gaze, too timid to voice out your thoughts. His name was foreign on your lips, an exotic word tasting rich and ambrosial on your tongue, as you whispered his name in utterance for perhaps the very first time, (you really needed to stop calling him 'Sensei'), and you felt your partner hum in reply as he hastened to mask his surprise, a throaty and rich rumble that vibrated within his chest, tickling your own skin with goosebumps until you felt a silly smile bloom at the sheer absurdity of it all, -(because here you where, crying your heart out one moment and dazed by his very presence the next)- intoxicated by the overwhelmingly delicious fragrance of spice and crushed hyacinths he naturally secreted, and drunk on the sudden boldness your move had prompted, the sunny grin highlighting your cheekbones, as your lips glossed into your signature bright, carefree beam, despite the ache forming in your shoulder blades, and the tiredness that made your eyes flutter with drowsiness.

You must've looked quite the sight, with eyes heavy with undeterred sleep, arms limp with lack of energy haphazardly thrown around his torso for support, and that stupid, fathomlessly happy smile tugging at your mouth, because there was that warm, playful glint in his plum optics again as they bled carmine, illuminated by the dying light of the weeping dusk beyond the window. It only made you smile wider, knowing that all the torment you'd suffered, all the harsh words and violating touches, they were all worth it. Worth this, worth him.

Gakuho tipped your head back, fingers once again grazing your pulse as he took your chin in his forefinger and thumb, allowing you to lock gazes as your tearless, gentle opals of swirling e/c collided with the dusty hues of star-strewn dusk, amusement and wicked mirth dancing in the pools of rich hyacinth and darkening muave, cosmic-lidded and exotic in their magnificent, violet glory as his lips curved into a foxy smirk.

"Oh? And what has my dearest so pleased?" The honeyed tones were back, spilling from his lips like the richest of wines and the most luxurious of dark velvets and silks, his amusement so tangible that you could taste it, light voice shifting the undercurrents of the tense atmosphere from before.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks at the endearment, and you faltered, throat suddenly dry as he prompted you to speak, feeling that surge of boldness in which you'd spoken his name ebb away, leaving you to fend for yourself. "I-..." The words withered on your tongue, meek voice wilting at the back of your throat, and you felt as though your mind was swept clean, blank and unthinking. You swallowed thickly, unconsciously crumpling fistfuls of his suit in your tightening grasp as you averted your gaze from his own curious one, cheeks flaming crimson in embarrassment at both your own stupidity and what you were about to do.

You could practically feel the arch of his sleek, perfectly manicured brow furrow with question, even with your eyes focused on the lavish shade of deep wine colouring his attire, and you knew him well enough to know that that wicked, silver smirk did not leave those irresistibly plump lips, only broadening until it was all sharp teeth with not-really-nice intentions, showing you that he had caught onto something. Him and his perceptiveness was going to be the death of you…

"Hm? I didn't quite catch that…"

Gakuho crooned softly, sultry, honeyed voice dripping like silk butter and bewitched, molten glass from cold lips, dark velvet falling in a soft, reverent murmur, alluring magenta hues painted crimson by rich, liquid sangria, blood-drenched, and moon-kissed, and sparkling with wicked mischief and stardust as he leaned in closer, the warm heat of his breath fanning gently across your porcelain skin, and you drew in a sharp intake of breath, heart swelling and thumping loudly underneath your ribs, as the careful flutter of his curled lips brushed delicately past your ear, skimming teasingly light across your skin, slowly, oh so achingly slow, deliberately fooling you into thinking he was about about capture your lips, as your eyes fluttered shut in eager compliance, before he finally pressed a tender, dove's kiss to your throbbing temple, as though to alleviate the ache he somehow knew was plaguing there.

The look on his face was frustratingly smug as he pulled back, the corners of his mouth drawing upwards in a show of amusement as he assessed your shy, embarrassed state; the wobble in your irresistibly soft, pink, dewy lips, the eruption of scarlet dusting your rosy cheeks darkening, the shudder tickling your supple, tender flesh, the hunch of your arched, stiff spine, the bite of your fingers tightening into the taut muscle of his shoulder in its vice-like grip as you held onto him for support, the innocent yearning simmering rich and hot in your averted, meek gaze…

And all for a chaste, teasing kiss, and not even graced on the lips…

And this time, he couldn't cloak the shimmer of molten delight that twinkled garnet and delicious in the amethyst of his eyes. You were simply too adorable for him him not tease, too innocent, and too gullible to be stained by the horrors of the world, the harsh truths of reality, and he'd be damned if he would let some rumors spoil your purity. The coil of anger he'd carefully hidden from you clenched tightly within his chest at this dark thought, a kindling flame of rage slowly forming, threatening to consume him to his very roots, surging like molten lava through his veins, scalding rage flooding the very essence of his being, the hot simmer of his boiling wrath pulsing like poison beneath his unblemished flesh, the steady and rapid flow of undiluted, raw power. He was ready to unleash all hell loose upon that filthy creature, when he would be able to lay his hands on it.

But first, he needed to attend to you first. Poor, innocent, naive, sweet you. After all, you came first before anything else. Smoothing out his scathing expression into that teasing smile once more, he turned his attention on you. He didn't have to try hard for the false smirk to appear genuine, one glance at your heavy blush and trembling form and the hidden, secret pout you stole away from him, and knowing that he was the cause for it, he didn't have to fake the twist of the smirk dancing on his lips.

You felt color rush to your cheeks, heat exploding in a burst of blooming crimson, as you lowered your flustered gaze to the broad, lean flat of his chest, -(that somehow rippled with the swell of concealed, defined muscles)-, unable to meet the rich, bleeding hyacinth of his eyes, and the victoriously sly, twisting smirk perched prettily on his lips, your racing heart and ringing pulse thudding a symphony in your skull as you worried your lip, biting back the childish pout that'd threatened to tilt your lips.

Rekindled shudders licked at your creamy flesh with a renewed vehemence, as the tips of his gaunt, slender fingers gently pressed into the taut muscle of your shoulder blade, easing the knots of tension that had formed there, trailing slowly, deliberately, down the shuddering arch of your spine, tender touches spilling like raw silk over glass, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your uniform and mingling with yours as he perched his broad palm at the cusp of your stiff, rigid spine, and you could feel the warmth of his skin all too well, along with his body heat with how closely you were pressed together, and it made your head feel fuzzy and light, as he drew you closer, closer still, that maddeningly, stupidly smug smirk curling his lips in pure delight, looking utterly satisfied as a cat with a bowl of cream, and you knew, despite all your futile attempts, he'd managed to catch a glimpse of your expression, making you redden in embarrassment, your fingers digging into the lush, rich fabric of his shirt.

You felt the rumble of his chuckle before you heard it, a pleasantly rich and deep timbre bubbling up in his chest, a mirthful breath of quiet laughter that shook the sturdy broadness of his shoulders, and tickled your supple flesh, making your cheeks ignite in a violent blush and punch the air from your lungs, and you vaguely wondered if you were going mad, sanity slipping from you just as easily words did in his presence.

"Honestly, you're so adorable, Y/N. I simply can't help myself." Gakuho cooed, tone thick and colored with warm amusement, violet hues glittering with an impossibly soft, tender emotion that made your chest squeeze, and heart flutter, for electricity to ripple through your veins, and for the brittle diamonds of tears to once again to gather in the lids of your eyes, though this time, these tears were not of anguish or even despair. These tears, shimmering bright and pearlescent in the waning sun's light, were of happiness, of relief. Of unadulterated, unconditional love, that his eyes mirrored.

Seeing him like this, so carefree and gentle and uncaring, the very picture of domesticity despite you both being worlds apart, and knowing that it was a privilege that only you got to see, made you wonder if it was going to last forever. If all the pain and chaos you suffered was worth it this- whatever this was, whatever the both of you shared right now, if this relationship was going to be as fickle, as ephemeral as it felt to you, and the realization made something painful shift inside your chest, feeling as though shards of broken glass were sifting a writhing, roiling mass beneath your flesh.

But as bittersweet as this dawning realization was, forbidden fruit perhaps always did taste the best, despite the sour aftertaste that accompanied it, burning bitter on the tip of your tongue. Despite the hurt that came, the bitter consequences of indulging in the forbidden, in the end, you wouldn't have traded it for the world.

And for once, it didn't feel wrong, this precious intimacy, this togetherness, even though it should have, and the niggling sense of guilt worming its way into your head was immediately forgotten, as you relished in the warmth of his hug, the feel of his marble flesh against the fragile porcelain of yours, the steady protection of his presence, and the sense of belonging that the press of your bodies intertwined in a soft embrace elicited from you, the silky caress of his voice breathing along your skin, the heat of his minty, fresh breath licking your flesh, the brushes of his ember-colored hair tickling you as he leaned down, foreheads nearly touching in a gesture of gentle affection, even though this- this relationship that you both shared was illegitimate, wrong by social standards.

The ripple of surprise and worry cross his pale, flawless features et your unexpected reaction was almost imperceptible, but you managed to catch a glimpse of the shock painting his plum hues with the rich shade of dripping sangria, through the haze of your tears clouding your vision, before he managed to regain his composure, concealing the cracks in the fragile glass of his mask, but the playful smirk had fled the full, sensous velvet of his lips.

"What's wrong?" A soft, velvety murmur ripe with worry fell from honeyed lips, his broad palm coming to tenderly caress your cheek as he lifted your watery gaze to meet his own, and the genuine, guarded concern marring the milky, uncut marble of his sharp features, and stitching his eyebrows together in a frown had you hastening to assure him, a wobbly smile shaping your plump lips, despite the onslaught of tears draining hot and salty down your flushed cheeks.

"I-it's nothing! I'm just… I'm just happy. Really, really happy." You finally admitted, sniffling a little as your fists unconsciously curled tighter around his torso, and though your heart stuttered uncertainly underneath your ribcage, your words were genuine. The whirl of kaleidoscopic, abstract emotions surging through your veins felt real, genuine enough for you to finally confess to him, voice quiet and gaze timid, although the sheer impact the feelings of insecurity and embarrassment that followed had the uncontrollable, white-hot liquid sting your eyes bitterly again, as you gnawed at your bottom lip, cheeks dusted by a delicate shade primrose.

God, you hated feeling like this. You hated the pour of tears spilling down your cheeks, the hurt in your chest and the ache plaguing your very bones, the fatigue weighing on you, the vulnerability that he unknowingly exposed you to, and you hated the agonizing pain that loving him brought on you, and yet you couldn't stop. You didn't want to stop. You had fallen in too deep for you to wade back up.

And then, there it was again, that beautiful, gentle smile tugging at his mouth again, the one that had your heart malfunctioning in your chest, not the usual teasing, mischievous smirk, but a ghost of a tender, genuine smile playing on his lips, the one that spoke volumes despite being nothing more than a soft upturn, an imperceptible twitch of lips. The one that pulled at your heartstrings, filled with understanding, and consoling you with words that remained unspoken, hovering slight and unsaid on his tongue, and it only made you cry harder, moisture bubbling angry and wet on the edge of your vision, streaking down in thick rivulets down your cheeks, and his molten gaze softened as he peered down at your lustrous e/c hues, doe eyes enlarged by the glaze of tears pooling in them.

Gakuho leaned down, -(even in this position, his height still towered over your own, an unfair advantage)- until your foreheads were pressed together, arms coiling tighter around your petite form as he pressed himself closer to you to steady your trembling, and without warning, his lips descended on yours.

And not unlike your first kiss shared with him, his mouth captured yours, guiding your lips with a maturity that you were beginning to grasp, dripping with honey and the rich taste of ripe, thick wine that intoxicated you, mixing with the salt of your forlorn tears, as his lips moved against yours in a perfected synchrony, an effortless dance without practice, leaving you feeling dazed as you gripped his shoulder for support, as his mouth shifted and moulded against yours in a perfect, sculpted fit, the silken, rich velvet of his full lips brushing against yours in a tender, chaste kiss, slow and blissful as it melted all your worries away. And although it wasn't nearly as passionate as your previous, secret endeavors, and rather a fleeting, soft brushing of lips meant as a comforting consolation, a dove's kiss and the flutter of powdery wings, it left you feeling as though you'd been blessed by summer's warm kiss, leaving your heart soaring, as it swelled and thumped wildly underneath your ribs, warming in an explosion of happiness and relief.

Warmth blossomed in your chest, unfurling like a thousand blooms still fresh with the remnants of Winter's presence, as he gently pulled away, thumb grazing your jaw affectionately, brushing fleetingly, tenderly across the plump swell of your bottom lip, before leaning in again and pressing a delicate, gentle peck on your quivering lips, shifting your marred arm in his ginger grasp before rewarding you with your scarred skin with a soft, careful kiss.

"I'm happy, as well. More than you could ever imagine." He murmured against your flesh, voice soft, gently so as you breathed a shaky sigh, shuddering against him, as you burrowed deeper into his warmth, your body flush against his, arms wound around each other in a meaningful embrace, slow, calm breaths exchanged with the rise and fall of your shoulders, and scents mingling, moulding into one.

Perhaps he didn't know how much the effect his steadying words had on you, but you felt it more intimately than his sharp perception ever would. The quake in your shoulders, the radiant smile sunnily carving your lips, the misty sheen of unshed tears lurking in the lids of your eyes, clinging onto your lashes, the heavy fatigue that suddenly seemed to ease, taut muscles relaxing into his touch, as you blew out a soft breath, burying your face in the crook of his neck, and the sharp jut of his chin came to rest on the crown of your head, palm pressed against the column of your spine as he eased you into his towering form, hearts fluttering in unison, as he drew sensous circles on your back with the gaunt tips of his fingers.

And as ethereal and fragile as your tilted world appeared to be, there, nestled comfortably in the welcoming warmth of his consoling embrace, cocooned in the strong, steady arms of your partner, you finally felt content, all the worries and doubts that'd ever plagued you simply melting away, and for once, nothing mattered in those precious, treasured moments. There was just you and him, and the harsh, embittered truth of reality faded away, all the pain and the hurt ceasing to exist, his status as your teacher and you his student no longer looming over you like dark clouds, heavy with the threat of pouring rain.

Even if this wouldn't last, you would treasure every precious, bleeding second, because nothing tasted sweeter than forbidden fruit, despite the bittersweet aftertaste it left in your mouth.

[blinkaftermidnight]

S3 Fic Chapter Two

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[Chapter Two]

Now

Leah forgets where she is at first, because there’s a body beneath her, a chest steadily rising and falling beneath her head, and Leah is warm and safe and surrounded by a familiar, comforting scent, and –

It’s Fatin. They’re in the bunker, not at home. And they are not anything, so this is – it feels weird. Very weird. Too intimate for friends. Leah extracts herself carefully, but Fatin doesn’t wake up, thank fuck. Leah’s face burns red even without Fatin making fun of her, even though Fatin probably doesn’t even know how they ended up sleeping.

Leah stands beside her bed for a moment, lets her eyes linger on Fatin until it starts to feel creepy. Leah’s not quite sure what she intends to do. Maybe go shower. At least change into fresh clothes – clothes that don’t smell vaguely like Fatin. She doesn’t get far, though, because there’s a knock at her door, and that’s enough to cause Fatin to stir, inhaling sharply.

“Guys,” Dot shouts. “We gotta get going! Kirin’s already got the boys together, so hurry up!”

Leah falters, watching Fatin slowly sit up and rub at her neck, then Leah calls, “We’ll be ready in a minute!”

“I won’t,” Fatin grumbles. “I’ll meet you out there, okay? I’m gonna get changed.”

Leah nods. Her mouth’s too dry for her to trust herself to speak. Fatin smiles at her, and Fatin looks Leah over, quickly, but Leah still catches it. It makes Leah nervous for a reason Leah can’t quite identify. Fatin closes the door behind her, and Leah hears Fatin and Dot’s muffled conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Fatin says. “Leah will be out in a minute. Just chill, Dorothy.”

“Don’t tell me to chill.”

“You’re just freaking out because you feel like you have to supervise four boys, too.”

And that’s all Leah hears before she turns her attention to getting ready. No point in showering if she’s gonna sweat on an island all day, but she brushes her teeth before she turns her attention to her box of belongings. It’ll be hot. She doesn’t overthink wearing her cutoffs and blue T-shirt, definitely doesn’t overthink wearing her own shoes. She’s tying her hair up when someone pounds on her door.

“Leah! C’mon,” Dot whines. “What’re you doing – oh shit.”

Leah stands in the doorway, watches Dot check her out, and she decides not to call Dot on it. “What?” Leah says flatly.

“Nothing, I just didn’t think you’d – nothing. Forget it.”

“Is Fatin ready?” Leah asks.

“Of course she’s not, but Rachel and all the guys are.”

Leah inhales deeply, glances over at Fatin’s room, then volunteers, “I’ll go get her.”

“You’re braver than me,” Dot chuckles.

“And you don’t get to judge my outfit when you’re literally wearing your cargo pants,” Leah says, and it takes Dot a moment before she grins.

“You’re making a joke,” Dot says, pointing a finger at Leah. “Your sense of humor’s a little too dry for my taste.”

Leah smirks, doesn’t feel the need to respond before she heads to Fatin’s room and knocks. "Fatin?”

“Yeah, what’s up?” Fatin calls.

Leah takes that as permission to enter, which is her mistake, honestly. Fatin doesn’t seem to care that she’s standing in front of Leah in her bra and underwear as she’s working on putting her hoops in, even smiles at Leah.

Leah’s eyes widen, and she blurts, “Sorry,” as Fatin rolls her eyes and waves her hand dismissively.

“Look, I’m gonna be done in two minutes,” Fatin swears. “Get over here. Help me with this.”

Fatin holds out her ZERO FUCKS necklace, and Leah can’t exactly say no, can she? Fatin gathers her hair out of the way, waits while Leah fumbles to get the necklace secured around Fatin’s neck. Fatin thanks her, and Leah barely hears it over the sound of her heart pounding. Fatin doesn’t seem to notice, just ties her hair up and slides into her pink leopard print jacket. Doesn’t zip it.

“Fatin.”

“Hmm?”

“Pants,” Leah says.

Fatin laughs. “Oh, right.”

“What? Trying to impress the boys?” Leah teases.

Fatin rolls her eyes, shakes her head, says, “Not even funny. I just forgot I’m not allowed to wear whatever the fuck I want anymore unless I want someone to stare at me.” Fatin digs up a pair of shorts, makes unnecessary eye contact with Leah while putting them on, then motions to the door. “Lead the way.”

*

It’s apparent the boys haven’t exactly settled who’s on the island exploration group, because there are five of them, and Josh and Kirin are still arguing when Leah arrives alongside Dot and Fatin. Ivan and Henry hang behind Kirin, Ivan with his arms crossed over his chest and Henry with a set of headphones around his neck. So the boys went and retrieved their stuff, too.

“I should go,” Josh insists. The look Rachel sends Dot definitely reads as save me, but Dot shrugs.

“Are we ready?” Dot asks.

“One sec,” Kirin says. “Dude, you should stay. Help Scotty hold down the fort. See what you can find here. We’ll be back.” Kirin claps Josh on the shoulder, and Josh finally backs down. “We’re ready,” Kirin says.

“Cool,” Dot says. “You’ve got the –”

Kirin takes the backpack from where it’s slung over his shoulder and holds it out, says, “You can carry one if it’ll make you feel better.”

Leah notices the second backpack is on Raf’s back, and Raf smiles when Leah’s eyes wander over to him. Leah feels Fatin’s eyes on her, but Leah looks to Dot next, waits to see what Dot’s gonna do.

“It’s fine,” Dot says. “As long as you aren’t gonna screw us over.”

Kirin smiles, says, “Promise,” and slaps a green hat on his head, backwards. Leah can tell Dot wants to say something about it, but she holds off. He pushes past Raf to lead the way out of the bunker, and Leah thinks she hears Fatin whisper something to Dot about letting a fuckboy take charge, but Dot waves her off.

“I’m not worried,” Dot says, and Leah feels Fatin’s eyes on her again, but Leah’s more than happy to defer to Dot.

Especially once they set foot outside. The island is both completely unfamiliar and vaguely familiar at the same time, somehow. The temperature and landscape are similar, but everything is laid out differently. There’s no doubt they’re in brand new territory – at least, the girls are.

“This isn’t your island by any chance, is it?” Rachel calls out, before Leah can get that far.

“No,” Ivan answers.

“It isn’t yours?” Henry questions.

“No,” Dot says. “So we’re all in new territory, on a completely different island. Awesome.”

“So, um, what exactly are we out here to look for?” Raf asks.

“Water, dipshit,” Fatin replies, but she backs off when Dot holds her hand up.

“Water,” Dot says. “Food sources. That bitch left us in the wilderness for fifty days. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here? Eventually, we’ll start to run out of supplies in the bunker, so we need to make note of anything useful.”

“What do you think the chances are that we’ll just stumble onto a fucking boat?” Ivan asks.

“Probably zero,” Leah mutters. “There’s no point in chasing pipe dreams, so just keep an eye out for something useful.”

*

They aren’t getting anywhere. Well, actually, they are. They’re quite far from where they started, though the bunker remains in sight; they just haven’t found anything. This island is fucking huge. That becomes apparent very quickly as they trek through the forest, sweating their asses off and grumbling about the bugs. It isn’t long before Kirin strips off his shirt and stuffs it into the backpack on Raf’s back, ignoring the annoyed look Raf shoots him.

Leah understands the desire to remove layers, and if she was still on her original island, she’d be taking her shirt off, too, but for now, she just sweats through it. Just like everyone except Kirin, who possibly just has no shame. Kirin comes to a stop, roughly an hour after they first set out into the wilderness, and turns to face the group.

“We aren’t covering nearly as much ground as we need to if we want to get anything done before we run out of daylight,” Kirin says. He seems to address Dot directly, as if he’s determined conclusively that Dot is going to make all the decisions for the girls.

“So what’s your idea?” Dot asks.

To Leah’s left, Fatin stiffens. Leah has a pretty good guess at what Kirin will suggest, and she has a pretty good guess at what Dot will think they should do. Judging by Fatin’s reaction, Leah thinks Fatin knows, too.

“We need to split up,” Kirin says. “We’ll cover more ground. We can regroup in a few hours back at the bunker.”

“I agree,” Dot says, but before Kirin can get too cocky, before his grin stretches too wide, Dot adds, “but we need to blend together.”

Confusion flickers on Kirin’s face, but Fatin jumps in before Dot can explain herself, says, “Dorothy, I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

“What? Don’t trust us?” Kirin questions.

“Not at all, actually,” Fatin replies. “Just because we all had a similar fucked up experience doesn’t make us anything more than strangers.”

“Look, I trust Leah,” Raf says diplomatically, “and I trust that we all want what’s best for ourselves –”

“Yeah, you would,” Kirin scoffs. “The same way you trusted Seth.”

“Who the fuck is Seth?” Rachel asks.

“It’s not important,” Henry says, “right now, at least. Dot is right. If we’re going to split up, we need to blend together.”

“Thank you,” Dot says cautiously. “That way, we all have a stake in it. So let’s pair up, split in half, and head in different directions. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something.”

Tense silence falls over the eight of them, and Leah finally looks at Fatin. Fatin’s jaw clenches, and she’s staring at Kirin. He’s staring right back, doesn’t look particularly thrilled about the whole situation, either.

“I’m going with Leah,” Fatin announces, reaching over to grab onto Leah’s forearm.

“Then I’m with Rachel,” Dot agrees.

After a long moment, Kirin calls, “Raf! You’re with me. We’ll go with Leah.” Before he’s asked, he takes the backpack off his back and holds it out to Dot. “Look after them,” Kirin tells her, and Dot nods and accepts the backpack.

“Take it easy,” Dot says, mostly to Fatin. “Don’t forget to mark a path if you find something –”

“I learned from the best,” Fatin interrupts, gently. “We’ll be fine. And we’ll see you back at the bunker later.”

“Good luck,” Dot says.

“To all of us,” Ivan adds. “We’re gonna fucking need it.”

*

Fatin charges ahead of Kirin to lead the way into the unknown, and Leah hangs back, not quite walking alongside Raf, but there’s almost no denying it. Leah can’t easily keep up with the pace that Fatin sets, though Kirin sure tries to. He’s got something to prove, if Leah had to guess.

“So,” Raf says quietly, waiting until Leah looks over at him, “she’s a little intense?”

Leah blinks, nods her head toward Kirin’s back. “So is he.”

“Yeah, he’s been worse. Trust me.” Raf pauses, must realize Leah doesn’t intend to carry a conversation, and tries again. “You think they’re competing for something? Got something to prove?”

Before Leah can respond, Fatin abruptly stops walking and turns back to snap at Kirin, “Can you stop walking right up my ass? Jesus.”

“Maybe the heat’s getting to us,” Leah mutters, and she pushes forward, past Kirin, to grab onto Fatin’s arm. Fatin relaxes, slightly, when she looks up at Leah. “Can we just keep walking? Please,” Leah says, to all of them.

“That’s what I was doing,” Kirin says defensively. “Sorry if I got all up in your space.”

Fatin rolls her eyes, and Leah squeezes Fatin’s arm before she can bite Kirin’s head off for his fake-ass apology. “I know it’s frustrating that there’s fucking nothing out here so far, but let’s at least try to work together so we can find something.”

“I know it’s hot,” Raf says, “but let’s try to keep our heads cool?” He pauses. “That sounded totally lame. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck me,” Kirin groans, shaking his head. He sets his eyes on Fatin, says, “I’ll walk in front of you, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Fatin says. She pulls her arm free of Leah’s grasp and swiftly removes her jacket, ties it around her waist, and now Fatin bares almost as much skin as Kirin. The more sweat that drips down the back of Leah’s neck and causes her shirt to stick to her skin, the more tempting the idea becomes, boys be damned.

Leah and Fatin walk behind Kirin, side by side, and Raf walks carefully off to the side of Leah, probably not willing to risk Fatin going off on him, too. Leah glances at Raf every so often, notes the way his blue shirt is soaked with sweat. It feels disgusting, Leah knows, because she’s in the same boat, and she finally caves, pulls it over her head and slings her shirt over her shoulder.

“Look at you,” Fatin teases, bumping her hip into Leah’s.

“Please don’t,” Leah says, but she has to fight the urge to smile while Fatin grins at her, while Fatin’s eyes shamelessly rake down her body. “Don’t check me out,” Leah says.

Fatin laughs, which gets Kirin to glance back at them, and Fatin says, “Well, what else am I supposed to do out here?”

It almost slips, the first thought Leah has. Look at Kirin. Fatin’s eyebrows raise, so Leah might’ve made a face, and she weakly says, “Keep an eye out for water?”

“Please,” Fatin scoffs. “But, you know, actually, I want to hear about that Seth kid. Why isn’t he here with you?”

It gets uncomfortably silent, even as Kirin pushes forward, and Raf seems to hang a little farther back.

“Are you gonna tell her, or am I?” Leah asks, twisting to stare at Raf.

Raf falters, and Kirin stops walking. He converges on Raf fast, and he’s got a fistful of the front of Raf’s shirt in his hand before Leah or Fatin can think to do something – and once they can think, they simply watch.

“What did you tell her about Seth?” Kirin hisses.

“I – nothing! Just that, you know, we had to exile him because all he did was lie, and I – I beat the shit out of him.”

After a second, during which Leah doesn’t breathe and Fatin’s hand grasps onto Leah’s shoulder, Kirin releases Raf and steps back.

“Well, shit,” Fatin says.

“He’s dead,” Leah says flatly. Kirin’s staring at her, but she stares at Raf. “You told me you beat him to death.”

“That’s what I was told,” Raf mumbles. He smooths out his shirt, runs his fingers through his damp hair, pushes it back from his forehead. “They had me handcuffed when they first interviewed me.”

“So we’re out here with a murderer?” Fatin asks sharply.

“He deserved it,” Kirin dismisses. “Seth doesn’t deserve any of your fucking sympathy.”

Kirin starts walking again, and Raf follows, but Leah and Fatin stay frozen for a moment. Fatin leans in, fingers digging into Leah’s shoulder as she whispers, “What did that Seth guy do?”

“I don’t know,” Leah says. “Raf wouldn’t say, and I don’t think even Gretchen knows. But whatever it was, it was really bad.”

“I guess it’s good you’ve got the murderer on your side,” Fatin says, and Leah can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

“You coming?” Kirin shouts. Fatin rolls her eyes, smiles at Leah, nudges her forward. “So we had nine people,” Kirin informs, before the silence can become awkward. “Why are there only seven of you?”

“What happened to your ninth person?” Fatin retorts.

“Died on the first day,” Kirin says nonchalantly.

Fatin hesitates. “Yeah. Same.”

“You don’t think – I mean, Gretchen wouldn’t have killed them on purpose, right?” Leah says.

“Maybe she did,” Kirin answers, though Leah was kind of asking Fatin. “And then Seth was a piece of shit who got what he deserved. He was a threat. Violent and mentally unstable.” Leah feels Fatin’s fingertips press into her bare waist, but Leah just swallows hard, refuses to look at Fatin. “Who was your other person?” Kirin asks.

“She was working with Gretchen,” Leah says. “Watching us. We thought she died, too, but…”

“But?” Fatin prompts. “Leah. You didn’t –”

“I couldn’t drop that on Rachel in front of everyone,” Leah admits. “Just – I’m going to tell her when we can get a minute alone. Please, Fatin, just don’t. Don’t.”

Leah doesn’t miss the way Kirin and Raf exchange a look. A look that clearly says what if one of us is in on it?

“That’s fucked up,” Kirin finally says.

“Maybe Seth was – you don’t think he knew about all of this?” Raf asks.

“Bro, I have no fucking clue, but if he knew and still – whatever. There’s no point in speculating, right?” Kirin says.

“Unless it wasn’t him,” Fatin points out. Smiles. “Unless it’s someone with us, right now.”

“Don’t even start with that,” Kirin warns.

“Or what?” Fatin challenges. She stands her ground in front of him, though he’s significantly taller than Fatin – taller than Leah, too.

“Fatin,” Leah says quietly, and Fatin swats Leah’s hand away from her. Fatin glares up at Kirin, waits for him to do something.

“I’m just saying, there’s no point in worrying about it, is all,” Kirin says. He flashes Fatin a smile. “Maybe you should let your girlfriend hold you off. I don’t fight chicks.”

“You’re disgusting,” Fatin replies.

“What’s so disgusting about not wanting to hit a girl?” Kirin questions.

“Seriously, can we just – stop this?” Leah cuts in. “None of this is helpful, and finding nothing is stressful enough without you two arguing.”

“So, what? You’re the fiery one, and your girlfriend’s the levelheaded one?” Kirin quips.

“She’s not my fucking girlfriend,” Fatin snaps. She shoves at Kirin’s shoulder. “Keep walking.”

Leah would probably overthink what Fatin says, if she was given the opportunity to. In theory, she should have plenty of time to think about it. Should be agonizing over it – and analyzing why exactly she’s agonizing over it – as they continue to walk aimlessly through the trees. But their aimless walking comes to a quick end, literally minutes later, when Kirin grinds to a stop.

“Oh, shit,” he says, and Fatin pushes forward to see what he’s looking at.

“Oh my God,” Fatin blurts.

Leah rushes to catch up with them, swipes at the sweat on her forehead as she skids to a halt between Fatin and Kirin. Her eyes drop to the forest floor, to the body, lying motionless in front of them, beside a backpack. She’s on her side, hair concealing her face, but Leah’s stomach drops out of her ass. Because holy shit –

It’s Nora.

*

Then

It’s the most unhinged laughter Fatin has heard in all of her admittedly limited years of life. Then Leah explains Top Ramen, and Fatin lets herself relax, tells herself she doesn’t need to spend her time constantly worrying about Leah. Besides, Leah’s been spending a lot more time with Rachel, and Leah seems better. Scarily better. The too good to be true type of better.

Fatin will drive herself crazy if she spends too much time thinking about if Leah’s actually better or if she’s just pretending to be better. If Leah didn’t need some time and space from Fatin, if Leah needed help, then Fatin trusts that Leah would seek her out. Sort of. Sort of trusts that Leah would seek her out, because maybe Fatin made Leah rethink who’s really on her side after Fatin shoved her into the rocks and got up in her face and threatened to kill her. Maybe Fatin isn’t Leah’s go-to anymore. Maybe Rachel has taken that position.

Which is fine. Like, whatever. Fatin doesn’t even care. As long as Leah has someone. As long as Leah doesn’t try to die again. As long as Leah doesn’t completely lose every last shred of her sanity. As long as Leah can be okay. Leah doesn’t have to choose Fatin as her confidant or what the fuck ever. Leah just has to fucking make it off this island in one piece.

“You doing okay?”

Fatin jumps, exclaims, “Jesus, Shelby! Warn a bitch.”

Shelby smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. Thought you heard me. You must’ve, uh, really been thinking about something?”

Thinking about something while staring off in Leah’s direction. That’s what Shelby wanted to say, Fatin knows. Sure, Fatin’s thinking about something. And she’s staring at exactly what she’s thinking about.

“Who knew you would finally tear yourself away from your girlfriend’s side just to come pry into my inner thoughts,” Fatin jokes. When Shelby doesn’t laugh, Fatin drops the act. “I’m fine,” Fatin assures her. “You don’t need to check me out from a distance.”

“Like you’re doing with Leah?”

“What – no,” Fatin sputters. “That is – I’m not doing that.”

Shelby shrugs. “Okay.”

“Don’t go spreading that around.”

“Since when do you care if you get caught checking someone out?” Shelby teases, and Fatin mentally tells herself that she needs to loosen the fuck up, and she needs to do it now. She’s just gonna make herself look fucking stupid.

“Does she seem okay to you?” Fatin asks abruptly, nodding toward Leah.

Shelby blinks, says, “I – uh, yeah? She seems like she’s doing better.”

Better. Right.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t seem, I don’t know…too good to be true?” Fatin questions.

“It’s cute, that you’re worried,” Shelby says. Before Fatin can pointedly tell Shelby that it is not cute, actually, Shelby continues, “You could just go ask her, you know.”

Fatin still feels like she’s on thin ice with Leah, but Shelby doesn’t need to know that. Or at least, Shelby doesn’t need to hear that from Fatin. “I think I’ll pass,” Fatin replies. “Kinda surprised Rachel hasn’t killed her yet, though.”

“I can’t say I saw that match coming,” Shelby agrees. “They seem to make it work, though.”

“More like they’re having a collective manic episode.” Shelby chokes in surprise, and Fatin grins. “What? It’s true,” Fatin insists.

“Can I offer you some friendly advice?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe don’t share that thought with anyone else.”

Fatin shrugs, and she’s just glad that it seems to do the trick. Shelby walks away without grilling Fatin on how she feels, especially about Leah. Fatin doesn’t want to talk about her feelings. Barely wants to think about her feelings, actually. Feelings are, like, so not her thing, but she can’t even convince herself of that anymore. Not after thirty something days out here. See, this is why Fatin doesn’t surround herself with women. It inevitably leads to obnoxious and inconvenient fucking feelings.

Leah turns back, and their eyes lock, accidentally, and Fatin finds a smile flickering on her face before she can stop it. Leah, though, smiles back widely, and there’s a familiar fluttering deep in Fatin’s gut, but she hasn’t felt it in over a month, because she’s been trapped on an island with seven – now six, RIP – girls, and Fatin’s taste in women is very particular, and –

Damn it.

*

Acknowledging that she’s physically attracted to Leah is practically nothing. Maybe if Fatin tells that to herself over and over, she’ll start to believe it. Fatin returns her attention to Martha’s book, but it’s just not doing it for Fatin anymore. Her mind wanders too much, wanders too far away from the novel’s plot and into dangerous territory. But maybe Fatin should allow herself to indulge in an outlandish fantasy. Or she would, if it didn’t feel creepy while Leah’s sitting with Rachel literally ten feet away.

“How’s the book?” Rachel calls.

“You want an honest opinion?” Fatin asks.

There’s a pause. “Maybe not,” Rachel says.

“It’s just so…vanilla,” Fatin complains. “I don’t know. I want something spicier.” Actually, the plot’s moving away from the wedding planners just fucking into the wedding planners having feelings, and it’s kind of annoying. Fatin snaps the book shut and rolls onto her side so she can stare over at Leah and Rachel, asks, “What are you up to?”

“Rachel’s thinking about a career in carpentry,” Leah says.

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to know,” Fatin says. She picks the book up, says, “I’ll go back to agonizing over my dry spell, I guess.”

“Oh, poor you,” Rachel teases. “You still haven’t figured out how to do it with your hands?”

“No!” Fatin exclaims. “I have not. Maybe I need to start trying, though.” Fatin smirks at the laugh she draws out of Leah. “Unless someone’s willing to help?”

“Keep it in your pants, Fatin,” Rachel heckles. “Maybe when Dot gets back –”

“No,” Dot says as she steps into camp. “I don’t know what you’re volunteering me for, but no.”

“Getting Fatin off,” Leah informs.

“Definitely no,” Dot laughs. “I’m sorry, Fatin, but that’s something you gotta work out for yourself.”

Fatin rolls her eyes. “You’re all such prudes.”

“Or we’re all straight?” Rachel supplies.

Fatin huffs a laugh. “I highly doubt that, but okay.”

Fatin risks a glance at Leah, but Leah’s attention is back on the carpentry project she’s sharing with Rachel. Damn. Fatin really thought that would work. Well, whatever. Fatin’s eyes return to the book. There’s no way she’ll focus enough to read it, and if someone calls her on how she’s not turning pages, she’ll just say that this particular sex scene is very well written, and Fatin is appreciating it and obviously letting her mind run with it.

Fatin’s mind is running, alright. Running in the wrong fucking direction. She should be thinking about having hot, dirty sex with some sleazy groom who’s willing to cheat on his bride on the day of his wedding, not about fucking Leah.

Leah. Leah Rilke. Leah, who can’t hold onto most of her marbles even on a good day. She’s over there building a fucking birdhouse out of bamboo and laughing with Rachel. So what the fuck? Fatin usually has better taste than this.

Fatin shouldn’t insult Leah – even just to herself – because Fatin happens to be attracted to her, in some way or another. Fatin really hopes to fuck that it’s purely physical. Fatin has no choice but to concede at least that.

“Is it really taking you that long to read one page?” Dot snickers.

“Obviously I’m not reading anymore,” Fatin replies, easily. She drops the book onto her chest, exhales. “Obviously I’ve moved onto –”

“Please, don’t,” Rachel interrupts.

“Fine,” Fatin sighs. “I won’t share my personal fantasy with you all.”

“Wait, maybe I want to know,” Dot says.

“Don’t make this worse,” Rachel warns, pointing the axe at Dot.

“Look at our birdhouse,” Leah says, beaming proudly as she holds it up, and Fatin could smack herself for wanting a piece of Leah. Clearly thirty something days on an island has caused Fatin’s standards to severely plummet.

*

It’s a pretty damn good birdhouse, all things considered. Fatin hums to herself as she crouches beside it, and Rachel smiles at her.

“Pretty good, right?” Rachel says.

“Surprisingly good,” Fatin replies. “I’m legit impressed.”

“It was mostly Leah,” Rachel informs.

Fatin lifts the birdhouse and peers through the opening. “Sturdy,” Fatin says. “How’d you get this shit to stick together?”

“Some sort of sap from a tree.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Fatin says. She isn’t here to talk about their birdhouse, though it is pretty damn impressive. “How is she, would you say?” Fatin asks, and yeah, that was so not a smooth transition at all, but Rachel doesn’t seem to notice.

“Leah?”

“Yeah.”

Rachel shrugs. “She seems better.”

Fatin suppresses a frustrated sigh. That’s what everyone says. Better. Excuse Fatin for not believing it. “She built a fucking birdhouse,” Fatin says. “Do you not find that a little concerning?”

“She’s staying busy,” Rachel says defensively. “We both are.”

Fatin hesitates. “Yeah, why is that?” she asks cautiously. “I mean, you see how I spend my days. You could do the same.”

“Lying around, dreaming about sex?” Rachel says doubtfully. “I’d rather build birdhouses than think up a sex fantasy while I’m at camp with everyone else.”

“We don’t have to know that’s what you’re doing,” Fatin replies, smiling.

“I can handle my dry spell,” Rachel says, smiling back.

“Okay, that was sorta rude.” Fatin pauses, takes a breath. “And here I was, thinking we were about to have a moment.”

“We don’t have to have a moment,” Rachel mutters. “I’m doing better.”

“Yeah,” Fatin scoffs. “Better in the same way that Leah’s doing better. Excuse me, but I do not buy it. Not for a second.”

“Since when do you even care?” Rachel says.

“What do you mean? I pushed Leah’s ass into some rocks for you.”

Fatin flinches. Maybe that wasn’t the way to go. Not to mention everything that followed that particular event. Rachel doesn’t react though, just stares down at the stupid little birdhouse.

“I’m figuring it out,” Rachel finally says. She sticks her right elbow out, lets it fall back to her side, readjusts her sling. “All of it. Slowly. I don’t know, maybe it’s easier to ignore it as much as possible and build shit.”

“You mean you and Leah aren’t out there crying your eyes out?” Maybe that’s supposed to be a joke, but Fatin realizes that could come across as a bit of a low blow. She intends to backtrack, maybe even to apologize, but Rachel exhales heavily.

“No. We’re just staying busy.”

“Does that help?”

“Actually, yeah,” Rachel says. “I mean, it won’t bring my hand or my sister back, but at least I can feel…useful.”

“You’re useful whether you build birdhouses or not,” Fatin replies. Then winces. Who is she becoming? Jesus.

Rachel just shrugs and picks the birdhouse back up, holds it out to Fatin. When Fatin just stares at Rachel like she’s crazy, Rachel says, “It’s for you.”

“What? No, it’s not. It’s yours.”

“Actually, it’s Leah’s, and I think it’s for you. So take the stupid birdhouse.”

Rachel deposits the birdhouse into Fatin’s hands, and Fatin exhales in defeat. She takes the stupid birdhouse. Fatin assumes that’s the end of the conversation, and she starts to get to her feet, but Rachel tugs on her jacket, and Fatin stops.

“I’m keeping an eye on her,” Rachel tells Fatin quietly. “Don’t worry.”

Fatin doesn’t know what to say. Just presses her lips together. “And who’s keeping an eye on you?” Fatin asks.

“Leah.”

Fatin snorts, stifles it with her hand and manages to say, “Sorry. That was – sorry.”

“No, it’s pretty funny,” Rachel chuckles. “But you shouldn’t worry. Somehow, I guess our kinds of crazy balance out.”

Fatin nods but says, “I don’t understand what that fucking means, but okay.” Rachel releases her hold on Fatin’s jacket, and Fatin gets to her feet, holding the birdhouse carefully. “Well, great chat,” Fatin says. “Let’s do it again in another thirty days or so.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

*

She picks it up on a whim. The journal. Nora’s journal. No one else is doing jack shit with it, and there’s a pen, so Fatin figures she might as well. Plus, Fatin’s never pretended that she isn’t nosy as shit, and she wants to see what the others might’ve written in here. Maybe there’s a love confession. There are lots of drawings. Nora was actually sort of an artist. Fatin lingers on a drawing of Dot, trails her fingertips over the page, feels indents where the pen pushed into the paper as parts of the drawing was shaded in.

Hmm. Could be interesting. Fatin adds it to her bed with her growing collection of other people’s belongings, including Martha’s book and Leah’s birdhouse. Besides, holding onto Nora’s journal and monopolizing it really has nothing to do with Leah. Definitely has nothing to do with Leah’s theories about Nora. Fatin is just…bored. She might as well snoop through the journal when she finds the time and see if there’s anything juicy hidden in it.

“Fatin! You coming?” Dot calls.

“Yeah,” Fatin replies. She sets Martha’s book on top of the journal near the end of her bed, tosses the orange track jacket over them, and carefully places the birdhouse on top of the stack. “Be right there.”